Crazy LittleWorld

Hello my name is Lola. ;p 22

[daddy-issues-galore]

The Yellowstone's Healer of the Heart. Chapter 1/? - The History of Y/n Thorne.

John Dutton x female reader (Y/n Thorne/Y/n L/n)

(Photo not mine)

Series/Chapter warnings: 18+ readers, grief, death, toxic father, abusive father, abusive brothers, old fashioned views, description of medical procedures (may not be accurate), violence, blood, sexism, protective John Dutton, protective reader, talks of arranged marriage, swearing, smut, pining, longing, older man/younger woman, age gap - 15 years

Growing up on the Silver Thistle, a ranch that shared a jagged thirty-mile fence line with the Yellowstone, meant your life was dictated by the same unforgiving geography as the Duttons. You were the youngest of four, a girl born into a house of men who viewed you as something to be protected, polished, and eventually married off. Your father, Silas Thorne, forbade you from the brutality of the chutes and the branding pens. He'd often mumble, "It's a man's job, girl," before sending you next door to "play" with the Dutton boy. He didn't realise in doing so, he was handing you over to the very life he tried to deny you.

From the moment you were old enough to climb a fence, you and Lee were inseparable. To your parents and grandparents, you were a charming pastoral romance in the making, John Dutton Sr (Lee's grandfather) and your father already spoke of your eventual union as a way to consolidate grazing rights and bloodlines. To you and Lee, however, neither of you saw marriage (at least not with each other), you were just two friends living your life by each other's side. Your bond was forged in sweat and rebellion. You were Lee's sanctuary and his greatest competitor while both John Sr. and John Jr. (Lee's father) were often hard on Lee, grooming him to be the stoic soldier of the Yellowstone.

You weren't just "playing"; you were becoming the finest ranch hand the Yellowstone never officially hired. Under the watchful, often amused eyes of the Yellowstone veterans, you developed a seat on a horse that was more fluid than any of your brothers' or even Lee. You didn't break horses; you negotiated with them. You possessed an innate "cow sense", that rare ability to predict where a heifer would bolt before she even twitched. By twelve, you could move a hundred head through a narrow gate better than men twice your age. John Dutton saw it. He watched you from the porch, a quiet observer of the way you commanded the dirt. He saw that you had the "mean" required to survive Montana, a grit your father tried to smother under sundresses and piano lessons.

While Silas spoke of your future in terms of "settling down", John spoke to you like a partner in the making. He knew that while your brothers loved the status of the ranch, you loved the beast itself. He saw that your hands were meant for more than just holding a bridal bouquet; they were meant for the messy, vital work of keeping a kingdom alive. He'd seen the way your hands didn't shake when it came time to stitch a barbwire cut or reset a foal's leg.

John (like his father and his son) had always been a man of few words, but his observations were surgical. He had watched you kneel in the freezing muck of a March blizzard to tube feed a weak calf that your own brothers had given up on.

On the days when the wind whipped off the peaks with enough bite to draw blood, and your own father was inside nursing a bourbon by the fire, John would find you in the Yellowstone barns. John would often walk up behind you while you were checking a mare's pulse or treating a hoof abscess. He wouldn't offer to help, he knew you didn't need it. Instead, he'd just nod and watch you work (silent, clinical, and efficient) and he'd see a reflection of the same fire that kept him upright.

There were only two people in the whole world who knew what you really wanted to do with your future: Lee and John. Lee knew because the two of you told each other your deepest, darkest secrets – and John knew because he saw it in your eyes, he saw it in the way you cared for the livestock, the horses, even the predators that stalked the ranch – you didn't want them to suffer.

It was a particularly brutal spring in 1992 when there was a shift. Everyone in the valley was struggling with the cold. A respiratory infection was ripping through the calves, the local vet was three towns over, buried in his own crisis, but you had spent forty-eight hours straight in the Yellowstone sick-pen, calculating fluid replacements and monitoring temperatures with a notebook tucked into your belt, refusing to give up and let a single calf die. This was what prompted the conversation between you and John.

John walked in at 3:00 AM, smelling of tobacco and cold air. He watched you skilfully navigate the math of a complicated dosage, no calculator, just raw focus and a pencil nub.

"Lee said you and your father had words again," John said, leaning against the stall door, his shadow stretching long and jagged over the straw in the dim yellow light of the barn. He wasn't looking at the sick calf; he was looking at the way you didn't flinch when the animal kicked, the way your fingers moved with a surgeon's precision even though they were stained with dirt and medicine.

"He wants me to go to finishing school in Switzerland, John," you said, your voice raspy from lack of sleep and the dry Montana dust. You didn't look up from your notebook as you scribbled the dosage. "Says it'll 'round out' my education. As if being able to identify Mozart is going to help when a heifer is breech in a blizzard."

John let out a short, dry huff that might have been a laugh if the man ever actually laughed. "Switzerland. Lot of mountains. Not enough cows."

"He told me I'm wasting my life playing 'ranch hand' for a family that isn't mine," you continued, finally capping the needle and standing up. Your back popped, a sharp sound in the quiet barn. "He says the Thistle doesn't need a vet; it needs a hostess. He told me if I want to look at blood and guts all day, I should marry a butcher." You huffed.

John pushed off the door, stepping into the pen. He reached out, taking the notebook from your hand. He didn't look at the math; he looked at the notes you'd made in the margins, observations on the calf's breathing, the clarity of its eyes, the subtle shift in its gait.

"Your father is looking at the fence line, Y/n," John said, his voice low and gravelly. "He sees a daughter he can trade for a legacy. But he's blind to what's standing right in front of him." He handed the notebook back, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the cold air feel heavier. "You go to vet school. Not because you need a degree to prove you're smart, I already know you're the smartest person in this valley but because the Yellowstone is going to need a doctor who loves the land as much as the animals. Someone who doesn't look at a ledger when a life is on the line."

"He won't pay for it," you whispered, the admission stinging. "He said if I leave for a 'man's trade,' I leave with nothing but the clothes on my back."

John adjusted his hat, the brim casting a shadow over his face, but his gaze never wavered.

"Silas Thorne might own your name, but he doesn't own your hands. And he sure as hell doesn't own your future." He paused, looking out toward the dark horizon where the Yellowstone met the sky. "You get your applications ready. You go where you need to go. I'll handle your father."

He turned to leave, but stopped at the edge of the stall, looking back over his shoulder.

"And don't worry about Lee. He'll be grumpy for a month, then he'll realize he's just glad he's got someone to call when the world starts dying around him. Now, finish that dose and go get some sleep. You've got a long way to go before you're a doctor."

You don't know when John spoke to your father or what he said to him, but by the following evening when you returned to the Silver Thistle, your father agreed to let you go and pay for your intuition. After his chat with John, Silas viewed your departure for veterinary school as a sophisticated way for a "ranch daughter" to pass the time before marriage, John Dutton saw it for exactly what it was: the sharpening of a blade.

By supporting your career, John was quietly validating your rebellion against your father's traditionalism. He gave you the permission Silas withheld.

When the time came for you to leave for veterinarian school in September of '92, your father believed it was just a faze, but when you looked at John, you saw the truth. And John made it clear: "The Yellowstone will always have a clinic waiting for you. I don't care what your father says about 'hobbies.' You get that degree, and you come home. You'll be the one who keeps this legacy standing when the rest of us are too old to climb a horse."

The transition from the wild, high-altitude freedom of the Yellowstone to the sterile, fluorescent-lit lecture halls of Colorado State University was a physical shock. You arrived in Fort Collins with calloused hands and a wardrobe that smelled faintly of wood smoke and dirt, a stark contrast to the city kids who grew up in suburban clinics smelling sterile.

The first two years were an exercise in biting your tongue. While other students recoiled at the smell of the anatomy lab or struggled to memorize the complex chambers of a ruminant stomach, you moved through the work with a grim, practiced efficiency. Your "cow sense" translated into a terrifyingly accurate diagnostic instinct. Where others saw a list of symptoms, you saw the animal's posture, the subtle tuck of a tail or the glazed look you'd seen a thousand times in a Montana blizzard. You were 500 miles away, but the Yellowstone never left you.

Every Friday night, while your peers were at the local bars, you were at the payphone.

Lee would talk for an hour about the new colts, his voice a tether to the dirt. He was your anchor even if his letters were mostly short notes about fence repairs and weather patterns. Any time you felt homesick, you'd read his letters and you'd be right back there in the dirt of Yellowstone.

John called once a month. He didn't ask about your grades. He'd describe a specific lameness in one of his prize bulls and wait. He'd always say he wasn't checking on you; he was just consulting you. When you gave the right answer, the silence on the other end felt like a coronation. He'd then say the Yellowstone was missing you.

On the rare occasion when you did call the Silver Thistle, if it wasn't your mother who answered the phone, the call would be over within five minutes. Your father asked the same question, "When will you be home?" before he handed the phone to the next person and the line went dead.

As you moved into your clinical years, the "delicate" daughter Silas Thorne tried to cultivate was buried under layers of surgical scrubs and the hardened skin of a surgeon. While your classmates specialized in small animal internal medicine, aiming for clean, suburban practices, you spent your rotations in the mud of the university's large animal clinic.

You became a legend among the professors for your "mountain hands." You could palpate a mare in a freezing barn without flinching, and your sutures were as tight and functional as a well-thrown diamond hitch.

At the Silver Thistle, the silence grew colder. Your brothers were now running the day-to-day operations under Silas, but the ranch was stagnating. They managed the land like a business ledger, not a living thing. Whenever you came home for the briefest of holidays, your father would look at your scarred knuckles and the smell of antiseptic that clung to your skin with visible distaste.

"You've proven your point, Y/n," he'd say over Christmas dinner in 1996. "You've had your fun. Come home, marry Lee, and let's put this 'doctoring' nonsense behind us."

You would roll your eyes and look across the table at your brothers, men who couldn't see a storm coming until the snow hit their hats and then you'd look out the window toward the Yellowstone lights. You weren't a mistress. You were the damn cavalry. And Lee certainly wasn't the man you were dreaming of.

1998

Late spring brought the smell of wood smoke, crisp mornings, the start of life and stagnant grief. It had been a year since Evelyn's horse went down, leaving a hole in the Yellowstone that felt like a canyon. Now, returning from your clinical rotations, you were met with a second blow: your mother's confession that her own time was measured in months, not years.

At twenty-three, you were no longer the "pea in a pod" with Lee. The girl who ran through the dirt had sharpened into a woman with a doctor's hands and a gaze that held too much understanding. When you walked into the Yellowstone main barn, John Dutton didn't see a neighbour's kid. He saw a woman who looked like the future (vibrant, capable, and devastatingly alive) while he felt like a man being erased by the past.

The guilt gnawed at him. To look at you and feel a stir of hunger, especially with Evelyn's ghost still pacing the halls and your mother's life fading next door, felt like a betrayal of the highest order.

"I need to get out of this house," John muttered, tossing a saddle blanket over his big sorrel. "You coming?"

You didn't hesitate. You rode out toward the high ridges, the silence between you heavy with the things neither of you could fix. But the sky turned bruised and purple within the hour. A "black tail" blizzard swept off the peaks, erasing the horizon in a curtain of blinding white.

"The old line shack!" John shouted over the wind. "Lean into the wind, stay on my tail!"

By the time you reached the small, cedar-plank cabin, the world was a void.

Inside, the air was lung-shakingly cold. John moved with a frantic, restless energy, grabbing an old axe to split the seasoned wood stacked in the corner. He was swinging too hard, venting a year's worth of rage on the timber. The blade glanced off a knot, slicing a jagged line across his forearm.

"Dammit," he hissed, dropping the axe as blood blossomed through his heavy coat.

"Sit down, John. Before you bleed out on the only dry floor we've got," you commanded. Your voice was steady, the vet in you taking over.

You didn't have your medical kit but you, you were able to use what you had around you. You tore a strip of clean linen from your shirt, your fingers working with a practiced, clinical grace. You had to peel back his layers, feeling the heat of his skin against the freezing air. As you cleaned the wound with a splash of high-proof whiskey from his flask, the proximity became a physical weight.

You were kneeling between his knees, your face inches from his. The fire he'd managed to start began to crackle, casting a low, amber glow over the room. The smell of cedar, wet wool, and copper blood filled the small space.

John looked down at you, his jaw tight. He saw the way your hair was damp with melted snow and the way your eyes held a grief that mirrored his own. He felt ashamed of how much he wanted to reach out, and yet, the ache of being alone was suddenly louder than the storm outside.

"You're supposed to be at school," he rasped, his voice breaking. "You're supposed to be far away from all this dying."

"I'm exactly where I need to be," you whispered.

He reached out with his uninjured hand, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. It wasn't a gentle gesture; it was desperate. You didn't pull away. You leaned into it, seeking the heat of someone who understood that the land takes as much as it gives.

The whiskey was passed between you, burning and numbing the grief that swam in your veins. When he finally leaned forward and pressed his mouth to yours, it wasn't a cinematic kiss. It was a collision. It tasted of salt and wood smoke.

Everything happened with a frantic, rough urgency. There was no grace in the way you stripped away the heavy layers of denim and wool in front of the growing fire. It was a physical exorcism. On the floorboards, with the storm howling against the logs, it was fast and punishing. It wasn't about love or the "marriage" your parents had planned for you and Lee. It was about proving you were still alive in a year that had been defined by death.

John's hands were calloused and heavy, pinning you to the moment, while you matched his intensity, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. For those frantic minutes, the grief for Evelyn and the fear for your mother were drowned out by the raw, rhythmic heat of the fire and the man holding you.

The fire in the hearth became the only sun in your world that night. Every time the embers began to fade and the Montana chill crept through the chinks in the cabin logs, another swallow of whiskey passed between you - sharp, burning, and blurring the lines of the life you were supposed to lead.

There was no tenderness in the way you moved together; it was a desperate, rhythmic combat against the silence of the valley and the ghosts of the women you were both losing. John's hands were heavy, anchoring you to the present, while you met his intensity with a ferocity that surprised even him. Every time you came together, it was an attempt to sweat out the grief. Under the flickering amber light, you weren't the "neighbour's daughter" or the "future vet" and he wasn't the patriarch. You were just two heart-sore predators hunting for heat in a frozen wasteland.

By the third time, the whiskey had done its work. The urgency slowed into something deeper, a heavy, wordless physical dialogue. You fell into a fitful, shallow sleep wrapped in a moth-eaten wool blanket, the smell of wood smoke and John's skin marking you more permanently than any degree ever could.

When the sun finally broke over the jagged white peaks of the Gallatin Range, the world was blindingly bright and terrifyingly quiet. The storm had passed, leaving three feet of untouched powder and a sky so blue it looked artificial.

Inside the cabin, the fire was cold ash. The intimacy of the night before didn't survive the dawn. As you pulled on your stiff, cold denim and laced your boots, the weight of the Yellowstone—and the Silver Thistle—settled back onto your shoulders.

John stood by the window, his silhouette dark against the snow. He looked older than he had by the firelight, the lines around his eyes etched deep by a decade of hard winters and the fresh trauma of the last year.

"We were freezing," John said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that didn't quite meet your eyes. "The whiskey and the cold... a person does what they have to do to keep their blood moving."

"I know, John," you replied, your voice steady, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "It was survival. Nothing more."

It was a lie, and you both knew it, but it was the only bridge back to the world where you were supposed to marry his son.

The trek back to the main house was a slog through deep drifts. You rode in single file, the only sound the rhythmic crunch of the horses' hooves and their heavy, steaming breath. As the ranch chimneys came into view, the reality of Lee and your dying mother hit you like a physical blow.

You stopped your horse at the tree line, just before the clearing where the bunkhouse and the main house sat.

John pulled his horse alongside yours. He didn't touch you. "You head straight to your truck," he commanded. "If anyone asks, the storm caught us at the line shack, and we spent the night keeping the horses from freezing. That's the truth of it."

You nodded; your face flushed from the wind and the secret. You didn't say goodbye to Lee. You didn't face your father's scrutiny or your mother's fading eyes. You threw your bags into your truck, the engine groaning in the cold, and drove out of the valley before the mud could even dry on your tires.

As you watched the Yellowstone gates disappear in your rear-view mirror, you felt the sharp sting of the whiskey still on your tongue. You were heading back to the sterile, predictable world of medicine, but you were carrying the heat of John Dutton under your skin, a secret that felt like a slow-acting poison, or perhaps the only thing keeping you warm.

[feel-likeflying]

So excited you asked for prompts! How about: AU where reader is the governor’s assistant and she gets teased by her co-workers because she’s so at ease with the Dutton men when they come over. They all assume she’s dating Lee, since he’s only 10 years her junior. But all the while she’s been dating John in secret. One day she comes in with a wedding ring on her finger and they all find out she has eloped. Her co-workers are in the middle of pestering her about who she married, when Lee and his father walk in. She looks up and goes ‘Hi, husband.’ everyone freaks out, because she really married Lee! But she walks rights past him, into Johns embrace.

omg I was so excited to see your request! <3

I tried to write 500 words a day AND I MADE IT. I hope it can live up to your expectations. I'm pretty happy with the result and I might just upload it onto AO3. Let me know if you have any other requests. Cheers!

for: @smallqueery words: 1597 relationship: John Dutton x reader | John Dutton x you

xxx

As you walk into the room with a fresh batch of mediocre coffee in a to-go cup and the vague resentment that always came with forgetting lunch, you notice two things. 

One, there’s a Dutton sitting at your desk. 

Two, it isn't the one you were expecting.

‘’Mornin’,’’ you say, pausing in the doorway. ‘’What brings you to the madhouse today?’’ 

‘’I heard there was this pretty lady who was handin’ out free coffee.’’ Lee replied, boots propped comfortably on your desk, grin already in place.

‘’Really, Lee?’’ You lift an eyebrow in a silent spill it.

He quickly removes his feet from the desk and stands, hands raised in surrender. “I just came by to drop off your lunch. The one you forgot this morning. ’Cause you might’ve been busy doing… different activities.” He finished with a wink and a grin that deserved violence.

Heat crawls up your neck. Somewhere behind you, someone audibly gasps. You file that away for later and cross the room, swatting him with the stack of files in your hand.

“Thank you, Lee. Please be gone before I—”

“Before you what—”

‘’I’d hate to finish that sentence out loud,” you warn.

He laughed, grabbing his jacket. ‘’Alright, alright, I get it. Well, guess that’s the last time I do you a favour. Enjoy your day.’’

“Sure it is,” you said. “See you later.”

He tips his head and disappears down the hall.

You haven’t even reached your desk before you heard a soft knock on the door. 

‘’Was that Lee Dutton?’’ 

You sigh. ‘’Why are you surprised?’’ 

“Honestly, I don’t know,” your coworker says brightly. “But good for you.”

You stare at the door for a moment, unsure what just happened, before deciding to accept whatever strange reality you’re living in. You take another sip of your disappointing coffee and finally sit down, straightening the mess Lee left behind.

It was less than a minute later that the phone rang and simply continued your work day, secretly happy that Lee had been nice enough to drop off your lunch. You’d never tell him that though. 

After you hang up, your co-worker slips back into your office and casually perches on the edge of your desk, looking down at you with a grin.

‘’I’d like to circle back to the fact that you are dating Lee Dutton and you haven’t even mentioned it once in the past few months.’’

‘’I think I’m allowed to keep things for myself.’’ you bite back sarcastically, not confirming nor denying her accusation. 

‘’You’re way too comfortable with the Dutton men.’’ she says, ‘’Don’t think we haven’t noticed. Do you have any idea what kind of rumors are tied to that name?’’

Tell me about it, you think.

“Last week it was Kayce,” she added. “And I swear Jamie was here too.”

You don’t look up from the papers you’re straightening. ‘’Jamie has ties to this office and you know it, same goes for Lee.’’

‘’That doesn’t explain Kayce.’’

‘’Maybe he likes you.’’

‘’Kayce is married! You know that!’’

‘’Everything can be broken.’’

‘’I can’t believe you just said that.’’

‘’Jamie, then. He’s intense, but I’d jump his bones. He looks like a sad husky. It’s working for him.’’

‘’How about you date him then?’’ you fire back.

Your co-worker raised her eyebrow. ‘’He single?’’

‘’How should I know?’’

Her grin turns sly as she leans forward, lowering her voice. ‘’Oh, I think you know.’’

You shift in your seat, heat creeping back up your neck. ‘’Stop it!’’

Another co-worker, you nicknamed the gossip queen, enters the room. Both of you shut up the second she stepped her foot over the threshold. 

‘’Am I missing something?’’

“No,” you say.

“Absolutely,” your coworker says at the same time.

The queen squints. “You’re acting weird. I’m getting coffee.”

‘’You do that, honey,’’ your coworker chirps.

‘’Now, leave me alone.’’ 

‘’Love you too.’’ 

The rest of the day passes without incident.

It isn’t until the following Monday morning that everything changes.

And it all comes down to a ring.

‘’You got married?’’

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “I mentioned that earlier, right?” knowing damn well you didn’t tell anyone a damn thing. 

“Girl. Apparently you don’t tell us—” she glances down the hall “—shit.”

Only seconds later, Lynelle Perry rounds the corner.

‘’What’s going on?’’

‘’Absolutely nothing.’’ you said at the same time as your co-worker said ‘’She got married.’’

Lynelle looks between the two of you, then clocks the blush creeping up your neck.

‘’Congratulations are in order, I suppose?’’ she gave you a quick-one over, a curious look on her face as to why you would hide such a happy occasion. 

‘’Thank you, Lynell.’’ you managed to get out, hoping that the floor would swallow you whole. 

‘’You don’t seem too happy about it?’’

“Oh, I am,” you insist. “I just wasn’t prepared for it to get out so fast.’’ you say, throwing a dirty look to your co-worker. Traitor.

‘’I didn’t even know you were dating.’’ Lynell offered, hoping for you to spill the tea. 

‘’That makes two of us.’’ her co-worker mutters, but you quickly narrowed your eyes at her hoping that she would shut her mouth. Then her eyes widen. ‘’Wait no, I thought you- are you married to Lee?’’

‘’Dutton?!’’ Lynell echoes, shocked

“Honestly,” you say, “I don’t know how to answer that.”

Lynell laughs. ‘’It’s a yes or no question, honey.’’ 

All three looked up when they heard a knock on the door. There stood Lee Dutton, grin on his face as if the cat ate the canary. 

‘’There you are.’’ 

“Lee!” Lynelle beams. “Congratulations are in order, I hear.”

“I guess they are?” he says, glancing at you, amused.

‘’Why are you here?’’ you quipped.

‘’And twice in one week, he must really love you.’’ your co-worker adds. You file it away for the next time she decides to tell you something that isn’t supposed to be general knowledge.

‘’Love?’’ he scoffed. ‘’Where did you hear that?’’

As his laughter fills the room, you glance over his shoulder.

John is leaning against a desk, arms crossed, watching you. Waiting.

“What’s so funny?” he asks calmly.

‘’Me,’’ you reply.

‘’What’d you do?’’

‘’Honestly, I rather not to tell you.’’ 

‘’That bad, huh?’’ you nod your head in agreement. ‘’Alright, let’s get you home.’’

‘’Hold on a second.’’

You move back to your desk, grab your things, and ignore the rapid-fire questions being aimed at Lee. Then you walk straight past him and stop in front of John. Eyes locked.

‘’I think I forgot something.’’

‘’What’s that?’’

You smile, soft and certain.

‘’Hi, husband.’’ 

You kiss him slowly.

John’s hand settles at your hips, pulling you closer.

“You do realize,” he murmurs, amused, “that you just made quite the statement. I thought you wanted to keep this quiet.”

“You’re mine,” you say simply. “Why would I hide that?”

The office does not recover.

Not immediately. Possibly not ever.

There’s a full three seconds of silence after you pull away from John, the kind so thick it hums. Somewhere down the hall, a printer whirs like it’s trying to mind its own business.

Your coworker blinks. Once. Twice.

“…That’s John Dutton.”

“Yes,” you say, adjusting your bag on your shoulder.

The gossip queen appears in the doorway again, coffee forgotten, eyes wide. “Why is John Dutton holding you like that?”

John, unbothered, tightens his arm around your waist. Possessive without trying. Casual as breathing.

“We’re married,” he says.

The room explodes.

“What do you mean married?”

“Since when?”

“Were you seeing Lee this whole time?!”

Lee, still standing near your desk, lifts his hands. “I don’t understand how I’m the suspect here.’’

“You brought her lunch,” your coworker accuses.

“I bring everyone lunch,” Lee shoots back. “I’m generous!”

“You flirted.”

“I flirt with plants.”

John clears his throat. The room shuts up instantly.

“She’s my wife,” he says evenly.

Your coworker’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “So all this time—”

“All this time,” you nod, “you were wrong.”

The gossip queen looks like she’s going to vibrate out of her skin. “You mean to tell me you’ve been married to him and still come in here every day like a normal person?”

You shrug. “I like the pension.”

Lee exhales. “I am never speaking in this office again.”

John nods once. “Smart.”

Lynelle, who has watched this entire circus with the calm of someone who has survived worse, finally speaks. “Well,” she says, smoothing her jacket, “this explains a great deal.”

“Does it?” your coworker asks weakly.

“No,” Lynelle admits. “But I’m choosing peace.”

You tug John gently toward the door. “We should go before someone asks for a wedding slideshow.”

Too late.

“Was it romantic?” the gossip queen blurts.

John pauses, glances down at you, something warm and unreadable flickering across his face.

“Yes.”

You smile.

Outside the office, John stops you with a hand at your wrist. He leans in slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring the moment.

The kiss is unhurried.

His mouth fits to yours with the ease of habit, soft at first, then deepening as his thumb traces the edge of your jaw. There’s warmth in it, a quiet claim. Just the kind of kiss that says this is real and this is home all at once.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“You enjoy stirring things up,” he murmurs.

“You married me,” you reply. “This is on you.”

He smiles. The kind he saves for you.

Behind the door, the office loses its collective mind.

[feel-likeflying]

Could you do John Dutton x wife reader? They've been married for a while and she had been bothering John about him teaching her how to ride a horse. You know the saying goes,   "you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy". Kisses, suggestive, hot, cowboy. Do whatever you want to do. Thanks!!! :))

Hey there anon! Here's your story. I hope you enjoy it. This one was a bit tougher for me, since it's been at least 20 years since I've last ridden a horse and damn there's a lot of slang.

I'm working on the next prompt as we speak! Save a horse (AO3 link here)

words: 2175 relationship: John Dutton x reader | John Dutton x you

xxx

“I don’t like the tone you’re using.”

“I gotta be honest with you, honey, that sounds like a trap,” he says with a chuckle, dismounting the horse with surprising ease. “What’s the matter?”

You hear a cough behind you.

“Evening, boss.” There’s a note of good luck buried in the tone.

John grunts in acknowledgment, pretending not to see the grin on Rip’s face. Rip leaves the barn faster than usual.

John refuses to make eye contact, focusing instead on unbuckling the girth. He does it on muscle memory alone.

“Are you gonna tell me what I did wrong, or are you itching for a fight?”

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Yeah, well, I did.” He removes the saddle and walks it over to the rack, settling it into place. When he turns back, the annoyance on his face has softened into amusement. “Listen, sweetheart, I can’t talk about it if you don’t tell me what I did wrong. And you know I love to talk.”

“John Dutton, did you just use sarcasm on me?”

“So you did notice.”

You cross your arms. “I thought we were going to spend some time together today, and yet I find you here after another fence check that could’ve been done by any of the ranch hands on your payroll.”

“That’s why you’re picking a fight?”

“I’m not.”

“Oh no, that part’s not up for discussion. You’re mad at me. You are picking a fight. I’m just trying to figure out why you’re doing it like this.” He gestures once, impatient, like he’s motioning at the whole situation. 

“You chose this.” You mirror the motion right back at him.

He chuckles. “Don’t remind me.”

“John!”

He says your name the same way, low and steady.

“Since when are you the funny one?”

“Since you decided I was the villain for doing my job.”

You echo him, sharp. “So you did notice.”

He steps closer, crowding you without touching, the way he does when he wants your attention and nothing else.

“You really think I don’t want to be with you?”

You don’t answer. The quiet says enough.

“Honey,” he says, softer now, “this ranch doesn’t stop. It never has. It never will.”

“I know.”

He closes the space, hands settling at your waist, like he’s anchoring you in place. It’s instinctive, protective. 

“You don’t sound like it.”

“I just wish—”

He lifts one hand, rough thumb brushing your cheek, tilting your face toward his. “Then say it.”

“It’s going to sound stupid.”

“Try me.”

You hesitate. “I want to learn how to ride. Properly. So I can help you out here.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

He lets out a breath, shaking his head. “Jesus. All that over a horse.”

You lift your chin. “Where’s the fun in asking nicely?”

A corner of his mouth twitches. He pulls you in just a little closer. “You’re gonna run me into the ground one of these days.”

You don’t pull away. Neither does he.

The kiss that follows is deep from the second his mouth meets yours. There’s nothing tentative about it. He backs you up against the stall door, one solid hand at your waist, the wood cool through your shirt.

‘’You drive me crazy,’’ he says, punctuating every word with another kiss.

You gently bite his lower lip. ‘’Right back at ya.’’

‘’Barn.’’

‘’I know,’’ you say, ‘’You started this.’’

That earns a quiet huff of a laugh. His thumb brushes along your jaw, not gentle, not rough. Familiar. Possessive.

“You always say that,” he murmurs, then kisses you again, slower this time. Like he’s proving a point.

Your hands fist in his jacket. He crowds your space without fully pinning you, leaving just enough room to remind you that he could if he wanted to. The stall door creaks softly behind you.

Somewhere nearby, a horse snorts.

John stills instantly, breath steadying. He doesn’t move away, just eases back an inch, eyes dark.

“Later,” he says quietly, brushing one last kiss to your mouth.

You nod, pulse still racing.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You sure about this?” he asks, taking another sip of his coffee.

You nod, lifting your own cup. John has reminded you more than once that what you drink barely qualifies as coffee, but your past as a non-cowgirl ruined you on that front, and therefore he’s learned to live with it.

“Alright then. Let’s go.”

He dumps the rest of his coffee over the porch rail and motions for you to follow.

By the time you reach the barn, doubt starts creeping in. John notices immediately but doesn’t call it out.

“I wish I’d learned this earlier in life.”

“Come here.”

You do. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation. You tuck your face into his neck, tension bleeding out of you all at once. John presses a kiss into your hair before letting you go again.

“There’s no use in wishing,” he says quietly. “You gotta live in the now. Otherwise none of it makes sense.”

Feeling steadier, you step back and watch as John saddles one of the older horses, his hands sure. 

It’s mesmerizing to watch.

It isn’t until a few minutes later that you’re on the horse. Oh, crap. 

The horse shifts beneath you like it knows you’re nervous.

“Easy,” John says, one hand on the reins, the other braced at your thigh. “He feels it when you tense up.”

“I’m not tense.”

He hums, unimpressed. “You’re gripping him like he owes you money.”

You exhale, loosening your legs just a little. The saddle creaks.

“That better?” you ask.

“Marginally.” He adjusts the stirrup, gives it a firm tug, then looks up at you. “You trust me?”

You don’t answer. You just nod.

“That’s your first mistake,” he says, stepping closer. There’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You should always think twice before trusting me.”

“Coming from the man who married me?”

“That’s your mistake.”

You snort despite yourself.

The horse starts moving and John clocks you tensing up.

He comes back to your side, places his hand flat against your lower back. “Relax here.”

You shift, instinctively following the pressure of his palm.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You listen better than you think.”

You glance down at him. “You enjoying this?”

‘’Immensely.’’ A pause. “I enjoy anything where I get to tell you what you’re doing wrong.”

You laughed wholeheartedly. He instantly looks eyes with you, softening his look. 

‘’Ready?’’ He asks. You nod. 

He moved the horse out of the barn, escorting it to the grass. 

“Alright,” John says. “We’re moving.”

The horse steps forward before you’re ready. Not fast. Just enough to remind you you’re not in control.

Your breath catches.

“John—”

“Sit,” he says, firm. “Don’t lean. You lean, he feels it.”

You straighten, heart thudding. The reins feel heavier in your hands now.

“Look where you’re going,” he adds. “Not at the ground. Horses don’t care about the ground.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I know.” He walks at your shoulder, close enough that you can feel his presence without seeing him. “That’s why I’m here.”

The horse shifts again, testing you.

Your grip tightens.

“Easy,” John says. “You fight him, he’ll fight back. You want control, you earn it.”

“How?”

“You breathe. You sit deep. You decide.” He glances up at you. “Same way you’ve done everything else in your life.”

The comparison lands harder than you expect.

The horse settles, the pace evening out.

“There,” John murmurs. “That’s better.”

A few more steps. Then another.

You start to relax. Just a little.

John notices.

“Don’t get comfortable,” he warns. “Comfort makes people sloppy.”

“You always this encouraging?”

“When it matters.”

The horse picks up speed. Not a trot, but close.

You stiffen.

John’s hand comes up, steady at your calf. Not holding. Just there.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “But I won’t ride for you.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.” His voice lowers. “That’s why I’m pushing.”

The barn feels farther away now. Open land ahead. Nowhere to hide.

“Reins,” he says. “Shorten them. Don’t ask. Tell him.”

You do. The horse responds.

Your eyes widen.

John nods once. Approval, earned. “Good.”

The horse tosses its head, testing again.

Your balance wavers.

John’s hand closes briefly at your thigh, grounding you. “Stay with him.”

“I am.”

“Stay with yourself first.”

The words cut sharp and true.

The horse slows.

You swallow. “You always teach like this?”

“Only when I care whether you learn.”

Silence stretches between steps.

Then, quieter: “You fall, I’ll be there.”

You glance down at him.

“But don’t expect me to catch you every time,” he adds. “You’re stronger than that.”

The tension doesn’t ease.

It settles.

And you ride on.

He stays with you, getting you comfortable. You can hear a couple of ranch hands laughing in the background, but you ignore the prickle of suspicion that it might be about you. 

For a while the three of you walk around. Nothing serious. Just slow and steady. 

You raise your hand to shield your eyes from the sun. 

‘’You’re going to regret that.’’

‘’What?’’

‘’Not seeing where you’re going.’’ 

You want to be a wiseass and tell him off, but he’s right. 

John stops the horse and removes his hat. The air hits his hair, silver at the temples. 

He studies you for a second, then settles the hat onto your head instead.

It’s too big.

He smiles, full, and for a second you forget that is a rare thing. Then, it shifts into something smug.

‘’You know what this means, right?’’

‘’That I’ll finally let you buy me a real cowboy hat, as you call it?’’

He chuckles, but then his eyes darken. ‘’No. It means you’re mine.’’

You laugh. “‘I think we already established that fact.’’

He lowers his voice. ‘’I think you might need a reminder.’’

You swallow. His hand is still on your thigh, and it’s starting to burn. He knows. You can see it in his smile. This man knows exactly what he’s doing.

‘’Let’s call this a day.’’

He nods and squeezes your thigh once before letting go. ‘’Read my mind.’’

‘’Now what?’’

‘’Now you ride back to the barn.’’ 

‘’Without my training wheels?’’

‘’What did you just call me?’’

‘’Nothing.’’ you say quietly, focusing on getting back to the barn instead.

He can’t quite hide the beginning of a smile.

You make it back successfully, dismounting a little less smoothly than you’d hoped. Thankfully, John is right there, steadying you. The look he gives you is reason enough to marry him again.

The walk back to the house is quiet. 

You learned early on that quiet didn’t mean he didn’t care. 

Quiet is a gift.

Something that you both enjoy.

Everyone needs someone we can be quiet with. No expectations. 

He opens the door for you, his hand settling at your lower back, guiding you smoothly toward the couch. You flop down, exhausted from the tension that’s been living in your body all day.

John stands near the fireplace, one arm resting against the mantle.

‘’You sore?’’

You raise your brow at him. ‘’Yeah.’’

He huffs. ‘’It’s gonna be worse tomorrow.’’ 

‘’I look forward to it.’’

He lets out a short laugh, then comes over and sits beside you. His elbow rests along the back cushion, his broad shoulder solid at your side.

You shift, just slightly.

He notices.

“Don’t start something you don’t plan on finishing,” he says, voice low.

You glance at him. “Wasn’t planning anything.”

“Bullshit.” A corner of his mouth curves. “You always plan.” 

You lean back, the brim of his hat dipping low over your eyes. 

‘’What if I am?’’ you tease. 

Suddenly his hand is on you. Firm. He pulls you straight into his lap like it’s been on his mind the whole damn time.

You gasp softly as you settle there, instinctively rolling your hips once before you even think about it.

John’s breath leaves him slow and sharp. “Fuck.”

His hands clamp at your hips, holding you still. Not stopping you. Just controlling the pace.

“Easy,” he warns. “You keep moving like that, I’m not responsible.”

You lean in, mouth brushing his ear. “You ever been?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, dark and rough. “Married you, didn’t I?”

You shift again, subtle but intentional. His head tips back against the couch for a heartbeat, jaw tight, eyes dark.

Your fingers reach for the brim of the hat.

His hand snaps up, catching your wrist.

“No,” he says.

You pause. “No?”

He adjusts the hat himself, tugging it down just right, thumb lifting your chin so you’re looking at him. 

“Keep it on.”

[feel-likeflying]

First rodeo

Fandom: Yellowstone

Character: John Dutton x you (reader)

word count: 2,244

All chapters are available here!

“You look like someone who just realized they don’t belong here.’’ You hear him say as he slides onto the barstool next to you. You had expected it to be a question, but his voice carries it like a statement. Not in the mood for another lowlife trying to get your attention, you surprise yourself by looking up at him anyway. His low, rough voice intrigues you in a way you’re not accustomed to. 

You put down your phone, the website through which you were trying to book a flight home open and forgotten on the screen. 

You swirl the amber liquid in your glass and take another sip, grimacing as it slowly slides down your throat. “And it looks like you’re not used to drinking whiskey either.” From the way his eyes slowly track your face, you can tell he’s not going to leave you alone.

“Observant, are we not?” Still refusing to look at him, you down the glass in one gulp. He mirrors your move, then raises a hand to the bartender. The bartender nods and swiftly places two new glasses in front of you. Only then do you dare to really look at him. The sight isn’t unpleasant.

“Are you drinking to forget or drinking to survive?” he asks, taking a slow sip of his drink.

“I feel like it could be a combination of the two at this point, but sometimes—” You lean in slightly, lowering your voice as though you’re telling him a secret. “I drink just to enjoy myself.”

He watches you, his expression unreadable. Then, the corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smile, but close. “Is that right? You don’t look like it.”

“How about you? What are you doing here?”

For a split second, he looks away, swirling his drink around in his glass. “I’m drinking to make it to another day.”

You gently sip your drink, feeling the weight of the previous one you just downed. “That bad, huh?”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.” The sound of his voice feels like a melody to your ears—smooth and familiar. “So, what is a beautiful woman like you doing in a place like this?”

You want to tell him everything—how your friends left you after you decided to stay in Montana instead of continuing the trip, how you had only agreed to come in the first place because you were too miserable to function after your now ex-boyfriend knocked up your best friend. The betrayal had changed you in ways you never would have allowed if you had been thinking straight. And so, after falling out with your friends, you grabbed your bags without considering the consequences. But you can’t bear to answer his question. He seems to understand.

The two of you sit in silence for a while, both a little lost in your own thoughts.

“You ever wonder what it’d be like to just disappear?” he asks, his voice low. “To walk away from everything and never look back?” The question lingers in the air between you, thick as the whiskey on your tongue. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, you tell yourself.

“Only every single day.”

He raises his glass slightly, as if testing the honesty in your words, then downs the rest of his whiskey in one slow pull. “You hungry?”

“Why, cowboy, you asking me out on a date?” you tease. You catch the corner of his lips twitch into something resembling a smile, but it’s gone before you can see it fully take shape.

“We’ve all got to eat at some point. Might as well have some company.”

“That we do.” You turn your barstool to face him, only now taking him in fully. You’re struck by his piercing blue eyes, though you’re sure that if the light hit them right, you’d see some green in there as well. Or maybe that was just your imagination playing you. You swallow as you slowly take in the man before you. His body language screams authority, all while maintaining a calm aura around him.

“And why would I go with you, stranger?” You hear yourself say.

He raises a brow, unsure if you really don’t know who he is or if you’re just playing with him. You quickly realize he’s not the kind of guy who enjoys mind games. Giving you the benefit of the doubt, he holds out his hand. “John Dutton. I own the Yellowstone ranch.”

John Dutton.

You swallow quickly. One of your friends had mentioned his name once or twice when you first arrived in Montana—how he was some sort of legend that wasn’t openly spoken of in public if you wanted to live a long and happy life.

He chuckles softly, untouched by the reaction your body unknowingly gives away. “So, you have heard of my name.”

You glance around the bar but find yourself in a protective bubble. It’s almost as if people don’t dare come too close to him. “It’s hard not to around here.”

“Only the good things, I hope.”

You laugh, a nervous energy running through you. “Honestly, I don’t know what to believe, Mister Dutton.”

“John.” His expression is unreadable as he repeats his first name, as if not many people actually call him that.

You test the name on your tongue. “John.”

He looks away and nods his head as if he’s made up his mind about you. 

“Listen, sweetheart, I don’t do fancy, but I know a good steak place.” He says, his eyes focused on yours. 

You realize you have a choice to make. You could stay here, drinking until you throw up and then stumble back to your motel in a strange town at 4 a.m., or you could take him up on his offer and get to know a little more about the man in front of you. Come on, live a little. You push away the thought that you don’t actually know this man, in this town, in this bar that you’ve never been to before, and silence the part of you whispers that you should run.

“That sounds lovely.”

He nods, his expression unreadable as he stands up, tossing a couple of bills onto the bar before helping you out of your chair. You follow him as he makes his way through the crowd to his truck. As he opens the door for you, his hand barely brushes the small of your back for a millisecond before pulling away.

The drive to the restaurant is short and silent, only the soft strumming of a guitar playing on the radio.

As the truck stops, you reach for the door handle, but he beats you to it. Maybe men from around here really are different. You’ve only ever dated city boys, if you remember the term correctly.

John Dutton walks into the establishment as if he owns the place, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. He shakes hands with the owner and nods toward a booth in the back. The man quickly acknowledges the unspoken request and sends one of his waitresses to guide you to your table.

“You’re certainly a man who gets what he wants.”

For a moment, he drops the mask, and he actually smiles at you—for the first time. Dear God, he’s handsome. You can feel yourself getting lost in his presence, or maybe it’s just the alcohol. Let’s keep telling yourself that, honey.

“Something like that.”

The waitress interrupts, handing you both menus before rattling off the day’s specials. He surprises you by listening attentively before ordering himself a coffee and a 12 ounce piece of steak. You decide to order the same, earning an amused glance from him.

The coffee arrives almost instantly, and you lean forward on the table, holding the cup between your hands. He mirrors your movement.

‘’Do you always talk as if you’re on a Hallmark card?’’

He huffs at your audacity, shaking his head just slightly. “I like to weigh my words, yes. Can’t have people talking…”

You arch a brow, waiting for him to finish, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a slow sip of his coffee, his expression unreadable once again.

“Talking about what?” you press.

A ghost of a smirk plays at his lips, but it’s gone just as quickly. “About things that ain’t their business.”

You scoff. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” He exhales, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. “But necessary.”

There’s a moment of silence between you, thick with the weight of unsaid things. Finally, you lean back, tilting your head as you watch him.

“Must be lonely, though.”

This time, he doesn’t look away. “Some things, you just live with.”

You both take your time eating, sharing stories about everything and nothing. Conversation with him feels natural, though you know John isn’t even close to opening up to you. He guards himself in his answers, his words measured, his stories carefully chosen. You get the feeling that earning his trust would take time—that he’d only reveal more of himself if you stuck around long enough.

Still, as you sit across from him, watching the way his gaze lingers on you just a second longer than necessary, you know there’s more beneath the surface.

By the end of dinner the tension is thick, unspoken but heavy in the air. But, of course, reality intrudes as John’s phone rings. He apologizes and gets up to answer it. You signal the waitress for the check, and it arrives just as he returns. Pulling some money from your pocket, you count it and set it down for your share of the meal. You’d pay for both of you if you could, but you’re already running low on money for this month and you have to pay the motel for a few more nights.

John looks irritated at whatever conversation just took place. “I have to go.” He says as he sits down opposite to you again.

You nod, disappointment settling in your chest. “Alright, cowboy.”

His eyebrow raises, and he looks at you with an amused glare. “Did you put the money there?”

You nod.

“Damn city girls,” he mutters.

You can’t help but laugh at his reaction. He grabs your hand, opens it, and places the money back where it belongs. “This one’s on me, sweetheart.”

Not wanting to seem too eager to accept, you counter, “Thank you. Next time is on me.”

John leans back in his chair, watching you like he’s still trying to figure you out. “How long will you be staying in Montana?”

There’s the question you’ve been waiting for.

“Guess that depends on whether Montana has anything worth sticking around for.” You toss the words at him, unsure where this sudden confidence comes from. Just two hours ago, you were staring at plane tickets home, ready to leave without a second thought.

His eyes flicker—just a flicker, almost imperceptible—but you catch it. Something about that answer gets to him. He takes his time before responding, fingers tapping idly against his cup.

But John Dutton isn’t the kind of man to chase. Not yet.

Instead, he gives you a slow nod and stands up, stepping back just enough to put distance between you. Not rejection. Just control.

He tosses some money on the table before leading you outside, his hand grazing yours more than once. The contact lingers—intentional or not, you’re not sure.

“Do you need a ride to your hotel?”

“No, sir. I’m good. I like to walk anyway.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you see his expression darken. He exhales sharply, his jaw tightening.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters.

You smirk. “What, a man like you can’t handle a little trouble?”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable. “You have no idea what you’re starting, sweetheart.”

You narrow your eyes, amusement dancing in your gaze. “Pretty sure you were the one who talked to me first.”

“I remember-” His voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. “It's not something I do often.”

“Me neither.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “I find that hard to believe.” His gaze drifts over you once more, slow and deliberate, leaving you feeling bare under his scrutiny.

Before you can respond, his phone rings, breaking the moment. He glances at the screen, sighs, then takes a step back.

“Get in the car. I’m taking you back to your hotel.”

There it is—that commanding tone people whisper about. The one that dares you to argue.

“That’s really unnecessary,” you protest, even as your feet betray you, already moving toward the passenger seat. “Like I said, I enjoy walking.”

His expression hardens. “Do you have any idea what kind of men roam these streets at night?” His voice is firm, unwavering. “You stick with me, you’ll be safe.”

You tilt your head. “You don’t think I can take care of myself?”

A smirk tugs at his lips, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “Honey, I’m pretty sure you could handle yourself just fine. But you don’t have to—not when I’m here.”

A promise. One he has no business making. And yet, you can see in his expression that he means every word.

True to his word, he drops you off at the motel. He barely spares a glance before pulling away, but the regret etched across his face is impossible to miss.

You fall into a deep sleep, a single thought lingering in your mind.

What have you gotten yourself into?

[lovebugism]

✶ — YOUR MIND'S WALKING OUT !

summary: no one at the pitt knows you and jack are separated when you show up to the emergency room during a particularly chaotic shift, with a number of dubious symptoms that force you and jack to reconcile. (4k)

characters: jack abbot / wife!reader, jack abbot, dana evans, the pittlings

contents: established relationship, grumpy!jack, protective!jack, angst, hurt/comfort, not proofread cw for mentions of divorce, medical procedures, and pregnancy

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

You make a reluctant trip to the PTMC with a two-week-old headache and the remnants of last night’s argument with Jack.

You don’t see the man when you first walk in, which you’re slightly grateful for, even though you know that a crowded E.R. is hardly ever a good sign. You feel the swelling noise and bustling bodies pressing hard on either side of you as you freeze in place by the entrance, trapped within a sea of rushing doctors and transporting patients. Dana, who had spotted you the second you walked in, rushes to your side to keep you from drowning in it entirely.

“Hey, hun,” the older woman greets in her usual gritty deadpan, wearing the weight of the long day all over her face as she rounds the work station to meet you.

“Hey, D— Lupe sent me through,” you murmur, just barely audible over the noisy emergency department. You point behind you to the double doors towards the waiting room, but don’t take your eyes off the surrounding chaos as Dana ushers you the short distance to the front desk. “Jeez, you guys are busy today, huh?”

“You don’t know the half of it, honey,” Santos huffs distantly, from where she stands before the overhead monitor with a few other residents. It takes her a second too long to realize her slip-up, and her half-up ponytail sways behind her as she flashes you an apologetic grimace. “Shit. Sorry. I just— I hear Jack calling you that all the time, and it just slipped.”

You burn at the mention of his name. You hope it doesn’t show on your face.

“It’s okay,” you assure her with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Trust me— I’m used to it.”

“We’re never too busy for you, hun. C’mon. Let’s find you a room,” Dana assures with a gentle pat on your arm. She cranes her neck and shouts across the work station, “We got anything open, Princess?”

The woman bends at the waist to check her computer, then calls over her shoulder, “Psych 1 should be.”

“One of you find Abbot, will ya?” Dana asks the younger residents, peering at them over the top of the glasses sitting low on her nose as she escorts you down the hall. “Tell him his wife is here.”

You tense instinctively under her touch at the turn of phrase — a bitter reminder of the stack of divorce papers on the coffee table back home, which says that pretty soon you won’t be Jack’s wife anymore, or his honey. You dread telling his coworkers almost as much as you dread signing the wretched thing.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” you assure her with a wavering grin. “It’s nothing, D, really.”

“That’s what they all say, hun,” the woman rolls her eyes.

The remaining residents share weary looks once the two of you have disappeared into the crowd — because telling Abbot his wife is in is one thing, but telling him in the middle of the unforgiving chaos of a rather brutal shift is entirely another.

“Well, I have a patient to check on, so…” Santos trails off, ambling backward with her thumb cocked over her shoulder. She spins on her sneaker and dismisses herself with a curt wave. “Later, losers.”

“Look at this place, we all have patients to check on,” Whitaker scoffs, then cowers at the expectant looks he gets from the two women at his side. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “But, yeah, I… I have to go, too…”

Samira laughs as she watches the blonde scurry off behind Santos.

“What’s his deal?” she scoffs and turns over her shoulder to look at Mel. Her dark brows furrow when she finds the girl backing slowly away. “Dr. King?”

“Oh, I’ve already completed all my rounds, I just… don’t wanna do it,” Mel confesses, forgetting to lie. She grimaces and turns away. “Sorry…”

Samira watches them go with a confused look twisting her features. She doesn’t understand their apprehension, or their subtle looks of sympathy — as if she’d just gotten stuck diffusing a ticking time bomb.

“O-kay, I guess I’ll do it then…” she mumbles under her breath and turns on the heel of her sneaker, starting the hunt for Dr. Abbot.

Dana stashes you in a small room on the farthest end of the E.R., away from all the chaos on the opposite side, which has since been reduced to a muted droning behind the shut door. She leaves the curtains drawn and the lights dim to ease the unwavering migraine she knows you’ve been sporting for some days now — which inevitably means it’s been plaguing you for at least a week or more before you told anyone about it.

You lie back against the angled exam table with your knees bent and your arms crossed over your eyes, feeling the pounding in your skull down into your bones. You struggle to even out your breathing and harder to relax — you tense on instinct when the door clicks open, and not just because every noise feels like a knife right to your temple.

Your stomach twists with the anticipation of seeing Jack, a sick sort of feeling at potentially having to confront the night before and the uncertain future ahead. You exhale a breath of relief when Robby slides in instead, letting in a sliver of white-blue light and a trickle of noise.

“Dana told me you were in,” he says in lieu of any real greeting, shutting the door behind him with his elbow as he reaches for the hand sanitizer on the wall at his side. He rubs it between his palms and wonders aloud, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure him despite the faint grimace that twists your features when you struggle to sit up straighter on the bed. “Don’t worry about me— What the hell’s going on out there?”

Robby exhales hard through his mouth, bearded cheeks puffing. “Huge wreck, right off the highway— You didn’t see it on the way here?”

“No,” you shake your head.

“Good…” he nods. “I damn near had a heart attack when Dana told me you were in— I’m sure Abbot’s head is gonna cave in when he finds out.”

He exhales a quiet laugh and waits for you to make another stupid joke in response, just like you always do. But you avert your gaze instead and shift uncomfortably on the thin mattress, like the mention of Jack’s name is enough to make you nervous.

“What’s going on?” the man wonders with furrowed brows. You give him a shocked sort of look in response, half-confused that he’d even know you and Jack were on the outs in the first place. He elaborates soon after, “Dana said you’ve been having headaches for a while now— so that means it’s been a week, at most.”

“You guys know me so well…” you deadpan with a pair of squinted eyes. “It’s nothing, Robby. Really. I just… Had another fainting spell. And usually I wouldn’t even come in for them, but Jack said if it happened again that he’d drag me down here himself, so… I figured I’d save him the trip.”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow at the cynical smile you give him.

“Well, I’m gonna save you the lecture about waiting this long to come in… Since I’m pretty sure you’re gonna hear it from Abbot anyway, so…”

“Thank you,” you sigh.

“You sure you don’t want me to tell him you’re in?” Robby presses tentatively. “He’s with another patient right now, but he’d drop it in a second if you—”

“No,” you shake your heavy head almost instantly, ‘cause you’re not so sure how true that is anymore — Jack hasn’t exactly been too keen on dropping his work these days, which is essentially the entire reason you’re in this mess to begin with. “I don’t wanna… worry him over nothing, you know?”

Robby has a sneaking suspicion that this isn’t nothing, and that there’s something you and Abbot aren’t exactly telling him, but he doesn’t press the issue now.

“Yes, ma’am…” he nods with a huff and drops down in the cushioned stool at your bedside, silently preparing himself for the hell Abbot’s gonna raise when he inevitably finds out you’re here.

Samira finds Dr. Abbot in Trauma 2, performing an emergency surgery on a patient whose pelvis was crushed in the crash, with Dr. Garcia and a crowd of other residents at his side. The younger girl slinks through the glass door into the windowless room, and doesn’t flinch at the overwhelming scent of blood and bitter antiseptic heavying the air inside.

She plucks a surgical mask from the dispenser beside the door and holds it over her mouth as she calls out a hesitant, “Dr. Abbot?”

“Little busy here, Mohan,” Jack answers without looking at her, elbows deep in the unconscious man’s open pelvis as he readjusts the metal clamps there. Bright crimson blood stains his gloves and the stomach of his blue PPE gown as he works with expert hands.

“It’s sort of important, sir…”

Jack says nothing in response; just gives the girl a silent, expectant look from behind the safety glasses sitting low on his nose.

“Your wife is here,” she tells him, dark eyes wild from behind the mask she holds over her mouth. “She’s totally fine, she’s in psych 1 with Dana, but she—”

“Since when?” Jack snaps before she can properly get the words out, flaring red-hot with an immediate worry and a suffocating tinge of regret despite Samira’s reassurances.

Flashes of the crash plague his anxious mind. He can’t help but picture you lying as limp and as bloody as the man before him now. The brutal image hits him as hard as the memory of the last thing he said to you the night before, right before you slept in separate bedrooms.

“Well, if my work schedule makes you so damn miserable, then why don’t you just sign the goddamn papers—?”

“Um… I’m not sure,” Samira answers with a waver in her voice. “About ten minutes ago, I think? I did a few rounds before I came in here, so—”

Jack stills suddenly in place. His head snaps in the younger girl’s direction, and Samira cowers at the hardened glare in his eyes.

“Is there a reason you didn’t come to me directly?”

Samira flinches at his unusually harsh tone. Her wide eyes flit between his stern ones and the anxious looks from the residents just behind him. “Well, she said not to… But then Dana said that I should, so I wasn’t exactly sure who to listen to—”

“Me,” Jack snaps. “You listen to the attending, who told everyone to come get him if his wife came in—”

He doesn’t have time to notice his slip-up, or otherwise correct it, when Garcia steps in.

“I’ll take over here,” the older woman says in her usual deadpan. “If you guys wanna argue like children somewhere else.”

Jack doesn’t argue as he steps back from the patient, peeling off his bloodied gown and gloves with suddenly anxious hands. He chucks the PPE in the biohazard bin with an obvious fire in his touch. The sudden shift in his usually calm disposition makes Samira’s chest ache, while Garcia grins behind her mask.

“Tell your wife I said hi, Dr. Rabbit,” the woman croons with a teasing lilt and a mischievous look behind her glasses.

“She’s still not interested, Garcia,” Abbot calls over his shoulder as he storms towards the door.

“Dammit…”

Samira cowers when Jack slides past her in the doorway, not looking at her once, like he barely recognizes that she’s there at all. She watches through the glass door as he disappears into the bustling crowd outside, hands balled into trembling fists at his sides.

“Don’t worry about him, kid,” Garcia sighs, half-distracted, as she fishes her bloodied hands in the unconscious man’s open pelvis. “He’s been on his period for about a week now, and we’re all paying the price for it…”

Samira’s chest deflates with a huff. “So, that’s why no one else wanted to do it…”

The two-minute trek across the E.R. feels nothing short of two years.

The entire walk there, Jack’s anxious mind struggles to discern what Mohan could’ve meant by totally fine. Were you just a little scraped up? Were you terribly injured, but at the very least alive? Was Samira trying to soften the blow, or did she truly mean totally fine?

Jack can’t help but picture the worst-case scenario, and he expects to find you hurt.

“No, I just kinda have this headache that comes and goes, you know?” he hears you say, right before he storms inside.

“Oh— And there it is,” Jack jokes when Abbot appears suddenly in the doorway, bringing in a wave of light and noise and unadulterated panic in with him.

Jack’s tight chest relaxes slightly when he finds you totally fine — lounging in a dim room with Robby at your side, laughing at his stupid joke as he draws dark red blood from the inside of your arm.

He’s relieved that you’re okay, of course, but the sight of you smiling — when Jack hasn’t quite been able to keep food down for days with the worry that you might be leaving him — hurts him in a completely different (and only slightly jealous) way.

“Oh, fuck…” you hear yourself say when Jack storms in like a white-hot flame. Because, sure, you’ve sort of made it a point to avoid the man at every turn, but you didn’t want him finding you like this.

You know what this looks like. You know it looks like you’re going behind his back and purposefully taunting him by going to his friends instead of straight to him. You know it hurts his feelings. And you may not like him so much right now, but you never want to see him sad.

“Yeah, 'oh fuck' is right,” Jack nods as he closes the door behind him, muffling the noise as the room goes dim again.

Robby inhales sharply through his nose. He can feel the sudden tension between the two of you pressing hard on either side of him. “Little pinch,” he murmurs to you, right before sliding the needle from your vein.

“Why didn’t you come get me?” Jack asks.

“Because you were busy,” you sigh, then mumble more quietly under your breath. “Go figure…”

“Why didn’t you call before you came—”

You fight the urge to rehash the fight from the night before and roll your eyes instead. “Because it’s not a big deal, Jack—”

“Yeah, I think I’ll be the judge of that,” the man concludes with narrowed eyes and biceps that strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest.

Robby’s dark eyes flit between the two of you behind the glasses perched on his broad nose. When he’s sure the arguing has ceased, he looks over his shoulder at Abbot and begins to explain. “I’m doing an electrolyte panel to check for any imbalances— It’ll also help us rule out anemia and hypoglycemia.”

Jack nods, brows lowered in concentration. “Okay… What about—?”

“I was gonna do an ECG when the results came back,” Robby finishes for him. “Her heart sounds fine, but I’ll have to wait for a room to open up if the bloodwork comes back abnormal, and… Who knows how long that’s gonna be?”

“Alright,” Jack nods again. “Sounds good.”

Robby turns to you, brows raised expectantly. “Sound good?”

“You’re the boss, Robinavitch,” you shrug.

“Hear that, brother?” Robby scoffs as he rises from his stool, taking the vials of blood work with him as he heads for the door. He elbows Jack on the arm when he walks by and flashes the frowning man a smug grin. “I’m the boss.”

Robby opens and shuts the door behind him, and all the playful energy leaves with him. The subsequent silence feels borderline suffocating. You and Jack, barely breathing, try to break it at the same time.

“I’m fine, Jack—”

“I can’t believe this—”

You huff and tip your aching head back. “I’m fine. So you can go back and do whatever it is you were doing before. I’m sure it’s more important.”

Jack’s light eyes narrow into thin slits. His firm stature never wavers — arms crossed tight, sneakers spread shoulder-length apart — like he’s interrogating an enemy on the battlefield.

“What happened? Did you faint again?”

“Yeah…” you answer suddenly sheepishly, averting your gaze to a faded stain on the knee of your jeans. “It was in your shower chair this time. I think I had the water too hot.”

“I told you about the hot water—”

“I know,” you huff like a stubborn child. “And you also told me that if I passed out again that I needed to come in so… I came in.”

“I still wish you would’ve called me first,” he tells you — not angry this time, not truly, but still obviously hurt. “When Mohan told me you were here, I thought something bad happened to you.”

“Well, considering you told me to leave last night, I honestly didn’t think you really gave a shit anymore, Jack...” you confess with a smile you hardly mean.

“I told you to leave because you said you wanted to,” Jack argues through gritted teeth. “You act like I pulled that shit out of thin air— Like you haven’t been looking for an out for weeks.”

“An out?” you echo, a little louder than you mean to, as your face screws in offense. “You’re the one who’s never home, Jack. So if anyone’s been looking for a fucking out, it’s you— Fuck…”

You whimper when a white-hot flare surges suddenly across your skull, from temple to temple and down the base of your neck. You wince and close your eyes, tentatively tipping your head back against the bed once more.

Jack forgets to be angry in an instant. His chest stings at the pained look that etches across your features. His legs carry him to you before his brain has decided whether or not he should.

“What?” he presses, eyes wild. “What’s wrong?”

“My head…” you squeak out.

Jack huffs. “Here…”

You know he’s towering over you without having to open your eyes. You can feel him there, warm like a heater, and smelling of cologne and a long shift at the E.R. He braces himself with one hand on the mattress beside your head and covers your eyes with his free one. You don’t flinch when his gently calloused palm splays suddenly over the length of your forehead, pinky curving in the bend of your closed eyelids.

He couldn’t possibly count the number of times he’s done this over the years — hundreds, at least. It’s the only way he knew how to soothe your headaches when the medicine was taking its sweet time kicking in. It’s the pressure that helps, though you’ve always argued that Jack must have some secret healing superpowers that he isn’t telling you about.

You’re only able take your first good breath in two weeks when he’s finally touching you so gently.

“Better?” he wonders, half-detached but still strikingly soft.

You nod once beneath his palm and fight back the urge to cry when his thumb rubs softly over your temple.

“Contrary to popular belief, honey,” the older man murmurs. “I didn’t come in here to fight with you.”

“It always ends in a fight with us, Jack,” you sigh. “You know that.”

“I thought you were hurt,” he confesses, in a voice so soft it makes you feel like crying. “Bad hurt. When Mohan came and got me, I thought for sure you were involved with all the shit going on out there.”

“Well, I’m not… So you can go now…” you tell him in a trembling voice, which you’d rather blame on the lingering ache in your skull and not the fact that you don’t truly want him to leave — that you never really wanted him to leave.

You miss the quiet smile Jack gives you in response, because he can see right through you.

“Yeah, I’m not going anywhere, honey…” he says on a gentle exhale. “And I’m not signing those stupid papers.”

Your heart drops at the mention of them, at the bitter reminder of their existence, even though it’s been plaguing your every waking thought for some weeks now.

Your trembling hands reach for the one he holds over your eyes. You wrap your fingers around his wrist and knuckles, peeling his palm away to peer up at him with a glassy gaze.

“What do you mean?” you ask on bated breath.

Jack meets your weary look with a softer, sadder smile.

“Well, I just got about a… three-minute glimpse of what my life was gonna look like without you,” Jack sighs, in lieu of confessing all the gory worst-case scenarios he couldn’t quite get out of his head. “And, turns out, I’m not strong enough for that, so… I’m officially declining your divorce, honey.”

“Jack…” you protest feebly, features crumpling at his poor excuse for a joke, while his calloused palm slips from your forehead and cups gently over your warm cheek.

He ducks down to meet your gaze when you try to turn away, bending slightly at the waist and bracing himself with his free hand curled around the top of the mattress. His nose is mere inches from yours — you can feel each of his exhales fan across your chin. You couldn’t shy away from him if you tried.

“I’m serious, honey,” he says with a stern but no less sincere look swimming in his light eyes. “You were right— I’m working too much—”

“No, don’t…” you protest with a shake of your head, because the affirmation doesn’t feel as rewarding as you’d expected it to. Instead, it makes you feel a little sick. Your gaze falls to the dog tags slipping from the inside of his scrubs, glimmering in the darkness as they sway just ahead of you. Your fingers reach to fidget with the chain on muscle memory. “It’s your job, Jack. I shouldn’t dictate how much you work—”

“You’re my wife, honey. You shouldn’t feel second to my job, because you’re not,” he tells you, brows raised to his hairline. “So, I’ll— cut down on my hours, I’ll stop picking up so many shifts, I’ll… I’ll do whatever the hell you want me to do, baby, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere, alright?”

You feel his words physically, like a white-hot knife lodged in the center of your sternum and twisting.

You struggle to find the words to respond, just as you struggle to find the air in the room to breathe. Because you’ve spent weeks thinking you’d failed at your marriage, and now you’ve failed at failing your marriage. It’s a stupid tug of war that makes you hate yourself all the more.

“Well, maybe we should wait for Robby to get back…” you murmur quietly, shifting on the mattress beneath him. “You know, before we have this conversation or whatever…”

Jack ducks his head to chase your averted gaze, brows furrowing in confusion. “What the hell does Robby have to do with this?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I might have, like, a super rare blood cancer or something—”

“Jesus,” Jack grimaces before you can properly get the words out, flinching away from you when you shatter the sincere moment. “Why would you say something like that?”

“I might only have a week left to live or something,” you retort with wide eyes, only partially playful. “So we might not even have to worry about any of this, you know? …Who knows?”

Jack meets your sparkling, half-crazed look with a firm scowl. “You’re real morbid, honey. You know that?”

“Well, what can I say?” you shrug and fight the urge to smile. “Your cynicism’s rubbing off on me, Abbot.”

Robby returns about a half hour later, to a room considerably less tense than it was when he left. He forgets to comment or otherwise pry about it when he slips inside, gaze averted to the glowing iPad resting on his palm. His free hand scratches at the grey patch in his beard — an anxious tic you’ve come to know well.

“Hey, uh—” he clears his throat behind his fist when the words get stuck there.

“Oh, shit…” you waver when the door clicks shuts behind him. “I was just kidding about the whole blood cancer thing, I swear—”

Robby’s brows lower in confusion. “…What?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Jack huffs, rising from the stool at your side for the first time in thirty minutes as he rushes to Robby in long strides — ‘cause he can feel the man’s trepidation like heat off a bonfire. “What did the blood work say?”

Robby inhales sharply through his nose as he passes the man the tablet. He crosses his arms over his chest and splays his right hand over the lower half of his bearded face. His wide eyes dart between the lit-up iPad and the edge of Jack’s profile, eagerly awaiting the man’s reaction.

You watch with your heart in your throat as Jack’s eyes flit wildly back and forth across the screen. His scruffy jaw slackens slightly in shock, and Robby nods slowly in a quiet concurrence.

“Okay, what the hell?” You shatter the heavy silence. “Are you guys just gonna communicate telepathically the whole time, or is someone gonna tell me what’s going on with me?”

“You’re fine— You’re totally fine,” Robby reassures you, gesturing wildly with his right hand. “Your bloodwork came back normal, but… There’s a high level of hCG in your bloodstream. And I think that’s what’s been causing your dizziness and fainting spells.”

“HCG?” you echo, eyes darting wildly between the two men in front of you. “What the hell is hCG?”

“Human chorionic gonadotropin,” Jack answers on instinct, half-strangled, and never once taking his eyes off the screen in his hands. “Means you’re pregnant, honey…”

You feel the world fall out from under you for the second or third or hundredth time that day. You hide your crumpling features behind your hands as your head falls back against the exam table. Your following words come out muffled.

“You have got to be shitting me…”

[lovebugism]

✶ — OFF-DAY !

summary: in the middle of the worst e.r. shift of your whole career, you catch your not-quite boyfriend, shirtless, in an empty room with another resident. (6.4k)

characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, mentor!michael robinavitch, samira mohan, melangdon crumbs

contents: established relationship/friends with benefits, jealousy (mohabbot take five real quick), angst, hurt/comfort, kinda canon divergent 'cause i wrote this when the spoilers dropped a few weeks ago cw for s2 spoilers, physical assault (a la dana in s1), panic attacks, mentions of blood and medical procedures, mentions of patient death, brief mentions of grief, brief mentions of not eating due to stress n sadness, allusions to smut 18+ (MDNI)

title inspo:

Visit Original Link

The lamplit room is filled with Jack’s exclusion from it.

You writhe beneath the mussed blankets, still buzzing from the remnants of your orgasm, and watch his shadow move beneath the crack of the bathroom door. You’re still filled by him, still leaking a mixture of him onto the stained sheets below, and yet you find yourself missing him, anyway.

He does not seem as grieved by the distance as you are. He sobered almost instantly from his own orgasm and promptly slid off your body, without another word or a kiss of reassurance shared between you. He’d slipped his prosthetic back on and made a beeline for the adjoining bathroom — where he has been for some minutes now, just pacing, and leaving you to stew in the worry of what you had obviously done so wrong.

“Do you wanna order food?” you call into the quiet, reaching for your phone on the nightstand beside you. You miss once, then twice, with hands still tingling from a soul-ascending pleasure. The screen fills the dim room with a blue-white light that makes you squint until your tired eyes adjust.

“What?!” Jack shouts back, muffled from behind the door. The hissing faucet shuts off to a slow drip.

“I said, do you—” You cut off your yelling when the bathroom door squeaks open. Jack appears in the doorway, now dressed in the t-shirt and jeans he’d arrived in. He’s shadowed momentarily by the light behind him until he switches it off again — then he’s painted a dim golden color as he walks back into the bedroom for his shoe.

You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.

He never does.

More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”

Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.

“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.

“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”

You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”

“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”

Your frown deepens at his joke.

“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.

“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”

“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.

“I just gotta go now. Okay?”

At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”

Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.

You stew in his absence and forget to eat.

Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.

You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.

Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.

You don’t move for six minutes straight.

He timed it.

“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.

You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.

“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.

Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”

“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.

He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.

“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”

You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.

“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.

It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.

“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.

You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”

“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.

“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”

“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”

Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.

The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.

“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”

“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.

Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.

“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”

The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”

“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.

“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.

“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”

It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.

It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.

Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”

“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”

“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”

By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.

If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.

So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.

Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.

Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.

You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.

“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.

“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.

You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.

“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”

“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”

Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”

“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.

Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”

“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”

“He’s gone, kid…” Robby tells you, voice taut. “It’s okay.”

You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.

“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.

“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”

“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.

“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”

You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.

“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.

“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.

“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”

Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.

Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.

Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.

The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.

You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.

“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.

Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.

“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.

Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.

“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”

“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.

It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”

You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.

With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.

Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.

“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.

“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.

You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.

“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”

You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.

You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.

The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.

“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”

You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.

“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”

“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”

“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.

“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”

Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.

“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”

“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”

“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.

You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.

“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.

“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.

“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.

“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”

“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”

“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”

“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.

“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”

You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.

“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.

You nod once.

“What about a headache?”

“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”

“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”

You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.

“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.

Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.

“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.

“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.

“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.

You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.

“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”

“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”

He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”

“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.

“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”

You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.

“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”

Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”

“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”

Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.

His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.

You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.

“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.

“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”

“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”

“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”

“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”

“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.

“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”

“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.

He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.

You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.

Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.

“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.

“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.

“I’m sorry about, Louie—”

“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.

His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.

“Do what?” he asks.

“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”

(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)

“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”

Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.

“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”

“I didn’t bail on you—”

“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”

“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”

“It wasn’t.”

“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.

“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”

“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”

You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.

Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.

“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”

“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”

“Because you aren’t acting like it—”

“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”

“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”

“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”

You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.

“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.

Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.

“What?”

“Honey.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”

“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.

You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.

“Ow,” you whimper.

“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”

“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.

“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.

“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.

[inkydelusions]

jack’s little secret

based on this request wc: 1.2k pairing: jack abbot x wife!reader summary: jack has always liked privacy, but one of his biggest secrets is revealed one random afternoon. c.warning: established relationship (married); mentions of minor injury and minor car accident; reader is a mother; no other warnings i think but if i missed something let me know! a/n: gooooood it's been so long since i last wrote for jack. i missed him so much! i hope you liked this!

masterlist | requests

for years, jack’s personal life has been locked inside a vault. of course he’d mention you, his wife, from time to time. but always in passing and never waiting too long for his coworkers to asks any personal questions. and it’s not because he doesn’t love you, god knows he’s obsessed with you. but a small, overprotective part of him thinks that by distancing himself from you and your kids when he’s at work he manages to keep you away from the hospital.

he has spent a decade building a wall between his grueling work and the life he cherishes waiting for him back home.

but tonight, the universe has different plans for him.

you sit on the edge of the crinkling paper of the examination table in exam room 4, a dull, throbbing ache radiating down the left side of your neck. every time you try to tilt your head, a sharp reminder of the sudden impact flashes through your muscles. a minor fender-bender on the way home from your daughter's hockey practice left you with a stiff, aching neck, but thankfully, nothing more. next to you, your twelve-year-old daughter is swinging her legs off a plastic chair, her hockey gear bag resting by her feet. she’s still wearing her team jersey and, next to her, your five-year-old son is entirely unbothered by the clinical surroundings, happily coloring on a piece of scrap paper. the minor accident had sent your heart into your throat, but as you look at your children, the overwhelming wave of maternal relief keeps you grounded.

"it seems to be nothing more than a little muscle strain," dr shen says softly, his gloved hands expertly palpating the base of your skull, his expression a soothing balm to the lingering adrenaline in your veins. shen steps back, charting something on his tablet with a soft, reassuring smile. "the kids are completely clear, not a single mark or tender spot on either of them. i’m going to order a mild anti-inflammatory for you and then you are free to go home and rest."

"thank goodness," you sigh, reaching down to ruffle your son's hair. "i just wanted to be absolutely sure they were okay."

outside the glass doors of the exam room, jack is walking fast, clipboard in hand, listening to an intern rattle off a patient's vitals. 

“send for dr. fitz, he’ll know what to do. and call me when you get the results. what’s the state of the girl in bay one?”

jack turns then towards the intern as she starts listing the latest lab results on the young patient that just arrived a few minutes ago. he is in full doctor mode. focused, distant, and professional. 

that is, until he passes the curtain of your bay, a sudden movement catching his eye. it’s a high, dark auburn ponytail swinging back and forth. a very specific, familiar ponytail.

the same one he usually fights with on his days off as he helps his daughter get ready for practice, earnestly trying to avoid any bumps or stay hairs hanging from the ponytail. jack stops dead in his tracks, causing the intern to almost crash into his back.

jack looks through the pale curtain, eyes widening. the clipboard in his hand feels suddenly too heavy. and it only gets worse once he notices a second head poking though the curtain, this time his baby boy. his entire world is sitting right now in exam room 4. 

he abandons the intern mid-sentence, pulling the curtain aside, his usual collected demeanor completely evaporating.

"jack?" shen looks up, surprised by his sudden entrance.

but jack isn't looking at him. he rushes straight to the side of the table, his eyes scanning you from head to toe, wide with a rare, raw panic. "what happened? are you okay? are the kids okay?"

"hey, breathe," you say instantly, reaching out to catch his hand. your fingers lace into his, and the grounding touch immediately lowers his shoulders, though his chest is still heaving. "we're okay. i promise. just a stupid little bumper-to-bumper on the way home from the rink. someone short-braked ahead of us."

your daughter rolls her eyes playfully. "mom took the hit like a champ, dad. you should be proud."

"daddy!" your five-year-old chirps, abandoning his coloring page to scramble off the chair and throw his arms around jack’s leg.

jack immediately drops to one knee, wrapping his strong arms around your son, burying his face in the boy's hair for a brief, fiercely protective second. he looks up at your daughter, reaching out to squeeze her knee. "you're sure you're both okay? nothing hurts?"

"we're totally fine, dad," she reassures him, giving him a warm smile.

only then does jack stand back up, turning his attention fully to you, eyes glowing with adoration and relief. his hand cups your cheek, his thumb gently brushing across your cheekbone.  "and you? your neck?"

"just a little stiff," you murmur, leaning into his touch, completely accustomed to how deeply he cares for his family, even if he keeps it hidden from the rest of the world. "dr. shen was just checking me out. he says we’re good to go."

speaking of which… the room is entirely silent as four sets of eyes turn to the doctor.

you look past jack’s shoulder and notice that dr shen is standing there, his jaw slightly slack. on the other side of the curtain, the intern who had been following jack is staring open-mouthed, and a bunch of other nurses, including lena, have paused in the hallway, completely transfixed by the scene.

the great private dr. abbot is currently looking at you with a softness none of them knew he possessed, his hand resting tenderly on your waist while a local little league hockey player calls him dad.

jack blinks, finally realizing the audience he has gathered. he straightens up, but he doesn't let go of your hand, the other one resting on top of your son’s head. he clears his throat, the faint trace of a rare, boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he looks at his stunned colleague.

"john," jack says, his voice regaining its usual steady cadence, though it's much warmer now. "i believe you've met my wife. and these are our kids."

shen blinks, a massive grin suddenly breaking across her face. "your kids? jack, you have a whole family!”

“i do,” he says, smiling softly.

“and you didn’t think of sharing that information with the group.”

"i like my privacy," jack defends himself. he looks down at his kids, then back to you, the sheer relief of knowing you are all safe overtaking any awkwardness about his secret being out. he leans down, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to your lips right in front of the entire observation window. " i'm glad you're all safe."

"we are," you whisper, smiling against his lips. "now, can you sign our discharge papers, dr. abbot? we want to go home."

"consider it done," jack says softly. he turns to the staring interns outside with a mock-stern raise of his eyebrows, and they instantly scramble back to work, whispering excitedly among themselves.

as jack helps you down from the table and gathers your son into his arms, you know his quiet, mysterious reputation at the hospital is officially over, but seeing the proud, contented smile on his face as he walks his family out, it’s clear he doesn't mind one bit.

[redsakura101]

Before You Ask...It Was A Shark

As Part of The Shiver Collection

Jack Abbot x Reader, Brendon Park x Sister!Reader

Find My Pitt Masterlist here Jack could be relentless when it came to stirring up trouble. Especially when it came to poking a little fun at PTMC's Shark. What no one could quite understand was why? Or how Jack managed to get away with it. Not until you, Jack's fearless firefighter of a wife, comes rushing into the ER. Turns out your presence worries more than just Jack.

Notes: strong language. established relationship. medical inaccuracies. injuries. Jack being relentless when it comes to teasing his brother-in-law. overprotective Shark.

Word Count: ~4.5k

Jack was known to poke a little fun here and there. 

Known to keep a steady head, a calm resolve.

Keeping things light hearted despite the weight of the work. Whatever troubles he had he buried them deep inside, something very few people knew.. 

It was a trait most carried whilst working the night shift. 

An air of indifference, so polarising from the dayshift’s tightly wound energy, it could give someone whiplash. 

But one thing remained the same between the day and night shift. 

Was its need to feed on gossip.  

Gossip was what made the ER spur on. Or at least, simply helped maintain a little sanity for those who worked there. 

He loved stirring up a little humour. 

His therapist had told him more than once that it was a coping mechanism – but he countered that comment by asking what harm could a little laugh here and there really do?

Whenever someone new came aboard. 

One of the inevitable questions that came to their mind was – How did you lose your leg? 

Now it wasn’t like everyone outright asked him, most skirting around the topic, too afraid to ask, too timid to broach such a personal topic. 

But there were times where some intern or student let their curiosity get the better of them. 

Had let the question pass by their filter. 

And that such time was now. 

As Ogilvie raised a brow, pointed at Jack’s leg and straight up asked, “How’d you lose it?” 

A hush falling over those nearby, a huff of annoyance at his blunt question. The insensitivity of it all. 

But in Jack’s eyes, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. 

As Jack catches sight of PTMC’s Shark. The chilling orthopedic surgeon that made everyone’s blood freeze at the sight of him. 

That made people part and duck their heads, averting their gaze. 

Only a select few found the ability to stand toe-to-toe with him. To not waver in his presence. 

And one of those few, was Jack Abbot.  

A grin slipping onto Jack’s face as he answers dryly in response to Ogilvie's question, “Bitten off by a shark" 

Jutting a finger over towards Park, "That one, that one took my leg,” the words were so blatant, and dry. 

An expression of complete seriousness taking over Jack’s features as he spoke. 

One that Ogilvie honestly couldn’t decipher from being real or false. His mind knew it was a joke, and yet Jack’s delivery couldn’t have sounded more honest. 

Catching word of the joke, Park merely scoffed with the slightest shake of his head, concealing the faintest chuckle beneath his breath. 

It wasn’t the first time Jack had made that joke. 

And both knew it certainly wouldn’t be the last. The joke never once got old, for either of them. 

Jack often brushed off questions about his leg with a simple, before you ask…it was a shark. It was one of Jack’s favourite jokes when avoiding the topic. 

Jack shot a look back at Ogilvie, “Now shouldn’t you be helping with hand-offs?”

“Uh–yeah, course,” His eyes widened, stammering slightly with a nod of his head, ducking away. 

Jack clicks his tongue, turning to face Park, “I swear that kid is going to make a fight break out in here if he doesn’t learn to bite his tongue” 

An air of mutual respect hangs between them. A silent understanding between the two. 

“And this is why I chose to go into surgery and not emergency med”

“Hm, and why’s that?”

“The patients tend to be less chatty,” Brendon’s eyes glance up at the clock, eyes furrowing as he simply nods towards Jack. “Makes it easier to talk shit” 

Jack merely chuckles from his response, patting his back before Park disappears back upstairs. 

It was rare. 

But not an uncommon sight to see Jack and Brendon get along.  

Whenever they passed each other, every one could tell that there was a friendliness between their interactions. 

No one could quite pinpoint why. 

Or how. 

But it was clear that Brendon tolerated Jack. 

But this mutual respect didn’t mean Jack didn’t divulge himself in a little gossip here and then about the Shark. 

Whether he’d be passing by as his colleagues spoke, catching wind that the topic was about Park.

He’d add certain little things, “I heard he only ever listens to the soundtrack of Jaws whilst he operates” True or not, he liked to poke fun at the man. 

“And how do you know that?” Santos would raise a brow in question. 

Jack would simply shrug, “Heard it from someone I know”

It’d be simple things, small things that amused Jack. 

Slipping in little truths here and there. 

The information always chalked up to having heard it from someone he knew. 

Now this someone as far as anyone knew could’ve been anyone, from admin, to a scrub nurse to a fellow doctor in the hospital that Jack was friends with. 

No one any wiser to the fact that he was, in fact, referring to his wife.

Brendon Park’s sister. 

You. 

It was no secret to the staff of PTMC’s emergency department that Jack was happily married. 

He proudly wore his wedding ring for all to see. 

Speaking highly of you, a clear pride and deep devotion in his tone as he spoke of you. 

He kept a photo of you in his wallet, and his camera roll was filled with photos of you and him, simply happy. Just waiting to be pulled out and scrolled through. 

The sight of you never failed to bring a smile to Jack’s face.  

Slipping you into the conversation with ease. Without even realising it, he could easily spend minutes talking about you to anyone that would listen.

On occasion even doting about you to his patients whilst he worked. 

Going on and on about how strong and courageous you were. Fearless. Compassionate.

…

From the moment Jack had laid eyes on you. 

His first thought was that you were smoking hot. 

Literally smoking as you brushed away at the ashes from your suit, smoke curling from behind you. 

Whilst you walked out of the building you and your team had just wrangled with, containing the burning embers until they were out. 

He was on the scene assisting the SWAT team as a medic. 

And he simply couldn’t take his eyes off of you as you carried yourself with confidence. Words firm as you made the next orders for your team. You were captivating. As you took control of the chaos around you. 

How you had taken the time to crouch down and console one of a young boy who had gotten caught up in this mess. 

It was that little boy that had brought you over to him. 

Having tugged off your glove, your hand was wrapped with his, as you stopped before Jack. The slight dusting of embers on your cheek. 

“Do you mind checking up on him? Just want to make sure he didn’t inhale too much of the smoke,” you had asked. “I’d go to the EMTs, but they’re all a bit preoccupied at the moment” 

Jack nodded, “Of course,” his eyes moving down to the boy, whilst he crouched before him, to appear a little more friendly. 

“What’s your name, kid?” 

“George” 

“Well George, I’m Dr Abbot, but you can call me Jack. Do you mind if I take a look at you, make sure everything’s ok?” 

George nods, “Ok,” his hand never lets go of yours. Clutching it tightly. 

“You were pretty brave in there,” Jack said whilst glancing up at you. 

You shrugged slightly, “All part of the job, isn’t it?” 

Eyes drifting down to the little boy by your side, “Though I think you were braver than me George, maybe you’ll be a firefighter one day huh?”

“Or you could be a doctor?” Jack added. 

While George’s nose scrunched up laughing at the two of you. His mind drifted away from the stressful events, as he focused on you both. 

“Saving lives, and helping people,” Jack continues to say. 

While you twist your mouth, debating his words, “Firefighters do all that too, and we get to ride in a pretty cool truck, what do you say George?” 

Whilst George tilts his head in thought. 

Jack chuckles, feigning defeat, “When you say it like that, being a firefighter does sound pretty cool” 

“Then I’ll count on seeing you at the sign ups,” you remark jokingly. 

Jack’s hands moved swiftly, announcing anytime he did something, and what he was checking for. From checking his pupils, to listening to his heartbeat, Jack was thorough.

“Can you take a deep breath in for me George?” Jack asks, while George agrees, “One, two, three, and out, that’s it.”

Your eyes watch as Jack continues to be gentle, humorous as he makes the young boy laugh. 

There was something soothing about Jack. 

Something that made the adrenaline coursing through you begin to rest and settle. Heart steadying. 

“Seems like everything is in order, George, I’d offer you a lollipop but it seems like one of the only things I don’t have in my pockets,” Jack jokes. 

“Hey Park! We’ve located the kid’s mom,” one of your colleagues called over. Whilst you nodded in acknowledgement, before looking back at Jack. 

“Thanks again for the help, doc”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Jack nodded. 

You both hesitate for a moment, not yet wanting to part. “I don’t know what it is about you Abbot, but something tells me you’re trouble” 

“Hopefully the good kind,” he replies, with a small quirk of his lip. 

“–Park, c’mon!” you’re urged once more. 

“I’m coming,” You hum, with a small nod of your head as you wave at Jack. “I’ll see you around” 

“See ya” 

One of his colleagues comes up to his side, as Jack’s eyes follow you. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know, but I’d like to,” he replied. 

Clapping his shoulder, Jack’s attention snapped to the side, “Maybe next time Romeo,” and with that Jack is pulled away to attend to another injury. 

From that moment on. 

It felt like each time Jack saw a fire truck or a cluster of firefighters, he always, without meaning to, searched for your face in the crowd. Had kept an eye out just to see you once more. 

Until eventually it had faded.

His hope had begun to dissipate. Pittsburgh was a big city afterall. The chance of seeing you again was slim to none. 

Days turned into weeks, which had turned into months. 

Until you had become a distant memory, simply a nice idea. 

Well. 

That was until you had tapped on his shoulder. Whilst standing in line at a coffee shop one late afternoon, smiling as he met your eye. 

You would be lying to say your mind didn’t drift to the memory of the medic you had met all those months ago. 

The image of him flitting into the forefront of your mind. How his eyes held a depth to them, unwavering, calculating. The way he held eye contact with you. Softening ever so slightly. 

There was a story behind those hazel eyes. 

A story you wanted to know. 

Eyes tracing his features, as you took in his appearance. No longer wearing the camo tactile suit of a SWAT medic, instead simply in a black t-shirt and cargo pants. 

Upon meeting your eyes, they blinked in surprise, before a smile graced his features. 

“Well if it isn’t Pittsburgh’s finest firefighter,” he tilts his head, “It’s good seeing you again”

“I see I made quite an impression,” you grinned. With this look in your eye that had him enthralled. 

“As if I could forget, Park wasn’t it?” he said. 

With a smile you nodded in confirmation, “But you can call me Y/N” 

“Well if you’re not busy, how about you join me for some coffee?” 

You pause for a moment, letting the offer stand in the air. Before you eventually nod, “I’d love to”

“Great,” a twinkle sparked in his eyes. 

Intrigue developing. 

Laughter and smiles shared over coffee. Swapping stories from your own funny moments as a firefighter to Jack’s own mishaps in the ER. 

A friendship gained, with the feeling that something more could develop. 

When schedules aligned. You’d share a coffee or tea, or whatever you felt like, maybe even breakfast before your shift started and after his shift ended. 

You had grown closer until soon, the line between friendship and something more had become blurred. 

As Jack leaned in, hand caressing your cheek gently. Waiting, tentative, longing to cross that line. Until you tugged him down, crashing your lips against his, melting into his embrace with a sigh. 

It was messy at first, clumsy and new. 

Trying to find your rhythm together. But once you did. It was absolute bliss. A peace harbouring between you both. 

Understanding one another, even in the silences when words felt too difficult to say. 

That wasn’t to say it was all perfect. 

That there weren’t times you wanted to pull your hair out in frustration as he’d shut you out. Or times where you would be reckless coming home worn out from a shift as Jack would incessantly worry over you. 

But you both pulled through. 

You learned to grow, to be better. For yourselves. And for each other. 

Jack should’ve known that a life with you would always be full of surprises. 

Especially when you insisted he meet your brother. 

The brother you had mentioned a handful of times, how he was scary but a real softy once you got to know him. 

Imagine Jack’s surprise when he opened the door to your home, only to be confronted by the sight of Brendon Park. 

The orthopedic surgeon known as the Shark of the very hospital that Jack worked at. 

It definitely started out as a tense meeting. 

Whilst you tried your best to melt the tension. It didn’t go past you to see how Brendon’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing at Jack. How Jack held his gaze. Cool. Unflinching. 

Both simply, polite. But nothing more. 

A stale mate. 

Only once you slapped him in the arm did his cold facade begin to fracture. “Cool it,” you muttered to Brendon with a pointed look.  

Jack watched as Brendon relaxed, how it was clear he cared for you. The way you both interacted with ease. A clear bond. 

A side to Brendon he never thought he would get to see. 

Jack followed your lead as you teased Brendon, whilst Jack would add his own quips, growing bolder with each passing meeting. 

And though Brendon was never one to reveal the cards closest to his chest. 

He was glad to see you so happy with Jack. 

And even happier when he watched as you and Jack had exchanged your, I Dos, words of cherished promises and love. Brendon couldn’t believe it, the little girl he once grew up with was now grown and married. 

Hell, Brendon still couldn’t believe the risks you put yourself through day in and day out as a firefighter. 

Even if at times all Brendon wanted to do was wrap you up in bubble wrap and ensure you were ok. He knew that wasn’t a solution. 

But no matter what, no matter how much time would pass he would always worry over you. It was part of his job as your brother.

Even if you were confident and able. 

Fearless. Bold. 

When you walked into a room it was as though you would gain control of it. Eyes would look to you. Your shoulders pushed back, a keen look in your eye. 

You and Jack made quite the pair. 

That was the you that those in the ER had grown to know. In the fleeting moments when you’d drop by, You’d always take a moment to say hello to everyone whenever time allowed. 

Even sometimes bringing in a little something for everyone to eat – knowing all too well the negative impact an empty stomach can have on morale. 

You were always a welcomed sight.  

Unfortunately. 

Tonight was one of those nights they wished they didn’t see you. On the cusp of changeover, just as the night shifters had begun to filter in as those from the day began to file out. 

A trauma had been called through. 

Another trauma. 

Nothing out of the ordinary, especially for those in the Pitt. Barely batted an eye at the information, simply going through the motions as they prepared for it. 

Female, a firefighter that had simply got caught in a bad accident. 

What no one had expected however. 

Was you. 

The moment the gurney rolled through the doors it felt like everyone had their breaths caught in their throat. 

Snapping back into motion as they hear your muffled groans. 

Jack felt like he couldn’t move. 

It felt like his heart had stopped. 

You were lying there. 

Covered in soot. Your gear, partially cut away. A cervical collar wrapped around your neck. One of your legs securely stabalised in an inflated splint. 

Bruises already blooming across your jaw. 

Yet somehow. 

Somehow. 

You still managed a grin, running high on adrenaline or on the medications, that was something you couldn’t decipher. 

“Hey–” you managed to choke out, voice strained. 

“Jesus Christ," Jack had muttered, feet moving fast as he moved beside you. Eyes flickering to everything and everyone as they work around you. 

You pull his attention back to you, as you grasp his hand. “Look at me,” you said firmly. 

His brows knitted. Worry plastered all over his face. 

“Don’t do that”

“Do what?” 

“That face, that terrified look doesn’t suit you,” you mumble out, breathing short between your words. “Especially on your handsome face”

A few of the others in the room stifle a laugh. 

Jack bites his lip, before sucking in a harsh breath, “I’m sorry love,” his hand clasps yours tighter. Unable to shake the worry from his features. 

“I’m going to be fine” 

No matter how many times you might say that to him. Jack’s shoulders remained tense. On edge. His attention flickers between you and your vitals. Doing his best to keep you alert. 

To keep you talking.

To keep you breathing. 

To keep you smiling. 

Because smiling meant that you were okay. At least, okay by your standards.  

Robby moved fluidly, quick and efficient, doing his very best to ensure you were going to make it through this. He was not going to be the reason Jack lost another wife…

“Page ortho,” he had directed, eyes assessing your leg. No signs of broken skin tissue, which was good, less risk of infection. But there was clearly something wrong with your leg. 

Ordering scans as they assess the damage. 

Shit.

That was the thought that had crossed Jack’s mind once the word ortho filled the air. Eyes glancing down to his watch.  

There was no way Park would still be here.

No way that he would be the surgeon called down. 

A wave of relief had washed over him as the orthopede that had appeared, was instead one of the residents. 

Watching intently as they worked upon you, feeling the weight of Jack’s eyes. 

It seems. 

That Jack’s slight relief was short lived. 

“What’s the verdict?” Park’s deep voice echoed in the room. 

The universe has a strange sense of humour. 

The room stilled. 

As Brendon appeared at the door. Eyes stern, cold, calculating as he glances at those around the room. 

But once his eyes land on you. 

He freezes. 

Eyes widening, a lump forming in his throat. Dana might have called him down here. 

But this was not what he had expected to see. 

Not who he had expected to see. 

When she had said the words urgently. He imagined a lot of different scenarios. But he never once expected to see you here. 

“It appears to be a fractured tibia,” the resident reported. 

You snorted, “Think it’d be okay if I borrow your crutches?” you teased Jack. 

“Do you really think this is the time to be joking?” 

“You could teach me how to use ‘em,” you continued. 

Those around you laugh lightly from your jokes.

All except for Brendon and Jack. 

“What happened?” Brendon’s face hardened. 

Just as the resident was about to speak up, about to explain the details of your fractured tibia. They stopped short, noticing that his attention was directed at you. 

“I’m fine,” you replied.

Brendon shook his head, moving to assess the imaging himself, “Fine people don’t get wheeled into the ER” 

“Everyone has a bad day,” you shrug, wincing slightly from the movement. Jack’s hand grips yours tighter. 

“And what did your bad day include?” he asks, words clipped. 

“Building collapsed, that’s all,” you murmured. Your other hand waved lazily, trying to decrease the situation. 

“Y/N?” he asked once more. 

You simply complained, “Oh my god, you’re hovering”

His brows knit at your words, “I’m not hovering, just worried. Right Jack?”

“Right,” Jack nodded. 

Brendon crosses his arms over his chest, lips pulled taut. 

"I am making sure you're okay."

But there was this glint in your eye, one that Jack had seen far too many times to count. One he had recognised immediately. 

Oh no.

Robby arching a brow at the sight. 

Whilst the others watch in confusion, completely left in the dark as to what was happening. Never had Park shown such interest in a patient. 

Before Jack could stop you, your arm had reached up. 

Your finger pressing against Brendon’s nose.

As you booped him. 

You had fucking booped Shark’s nose. 

Everyone held their breaths, waiting for his reaction, waiting to see what would happen. 

The look on Brendon’s face was one of blinking shock. 

Whilst you bore a delighted grin. 

“What the fu–” he had grumbled out. 

Until you had booped his nose again, his hand catching your wrist. Firm but not harshly. 

“What are you doing?” he raises a brow as he looks to you, eyes narrowed. 

Whilst Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I read somewhere that sharks back down if you bump them on the nose,” you had explained, a small laugh escaping you before forming into a harsh cough.  

Instead of a growling rage. Instead of a harsh retort. 

The whole room watched as Shark, PTMC’s fiercest orthopedic surgeon. The very man that could make medical students and interns cry with a simple click of his tongue. 

Any harshness had been bitten back, as he instead crouched by your side, grasping your free hand. 

Here he was. 

Softening. 

“Are you ok?” he asks you, softly. 

“I will be if you let anyone here do their job,” you squeeze both of their hands, eyes moving to glance between them both. 

“It’s not my first broken leg, and you know it,” you looked at Brendon.  

He remarks, “Don’t blame me for worrying over you”

Your hand slipped from his, as you pinched his cheek, “I know you’re just being a good brother” 

Brother.

The word travelled through to the ears of those nearby. Eyes widening in shock. As if today couldn’t have brought any more surprises. 

“As the break is clean and transverse, surgery isn't necessary,” someone had announced. “It’ll likely be a cast for several months to allow it to heal”  

You sigh. 

Whilst you had been putting on a brave face you had a genuine feeling of relief rush through you. No surgery was a good sign.  

Even if you were feeling good now. Anything could happen. 

“I love you both, a lot–” you had begun to say. 

Jack clenched his jaw, shaking his head, “Don’t speak like that” 

You send him a look, “I’m just saying I love you”

“That tone says something else,” his words hang between you. 

“I love you too,” he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your head. 

Robby lets out a chuckle as he catches a glimpse of outside the trauma room. Knowing that this incident had added fuel to the flames, gossip spread like wildfire. 

Just outside of the trauma room, where you laid, Brendon on one side, as Jack stood on the opposite. 

The second it became clear that you weren’t dying. 

That you were in the clear. 

The second everyone realized your injuries amounted to a cast, a handful of bruises, and a mandatory period of sitting still that would undoubtedly drive you insane—

The gossip began.

Dana bit back a grin as she overheard the murmurs that passed through. This was something that was definitely going to stick around. 

“Well this explains it.” Santos said arms folded over her chest. 

Whitaker raised a brow, “Explains what?” 

She elbows him as though it were obvious, “Explains why Abbot and Shark get along”

“They’re obviously playing civil for her sake,” Princess comments, nodding in agreement. “Seems like Mrs Abbot was once Miss Park” 

“They’re always acting like this” Ellis stated as she came up to check up on charts. 

“Did you know?” 

Ellis stared at them confused. “You didn’t?” her eyes scanning those before her. The dayshifters who had gotten caught up once more with overtime. 

And those who simply didn’t want to leave until they knew you were ok. 

“No,” Santos exclaimed. 

Javadi shook her head, “Had no idea” 

“Why would we know that?” 

Their shock had only worsened once Mel joined the conversation. “What’s everyone talking about?” 

“Y/N, Abbot’s wife, the firefighter” Mohan began to explain.

“Yeah?” 

“She’s Park’s sister”

“Oh,” Mel said. 

“Oh?” Santos raised her brow. 

She tilted her head, brows furrowing, “I thought everyone knew that?” her eyes glanced around at those standing there. Meeting Ellis’ eye who nods, believing the same thing. 

“How did you know this?” 

“Dr Abbot mentioned it,” Mel explained. It was in passing and so small, to the point that Mel didn’t think anything more of it. 

“Of course he did,” Javadi sighed. 

Questions brewing in their mind. Their thoughts run wild. 

Questions about what it was like having Park as a brother? 

What was it like having Park as a brother in law? 

How did Abbot not cower when he realised? 

Did Park give an overprotective brother talk? 

Everything and anything that came to mind. 

They would simply have to wait for their questions to be answered just until you were feeling better. 

Your hand not once leaving Jack’s as he stood by your side. Soothing you and consoling you. 

The worry that had pent up within him now finally was able to settle. 

You were safe. 

That was all that mattered to him, and to Brendon. 

At least now everyone could say that one thing was for sure. 

While a shark might not have taken Jack’s leg. 

It was true. 

That a shark’s sister had taken his heart.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. I just loved the idea of Jack using the excuse of a shark biting his leg off, only to tease his brother in law Brendon. Both finding a middle ground when it came to joking about the other. and I totally picture most of the night are already in the know about your relation to Shark as well as Mel!! catching everyone else off guard about it. Just know that no one can look at Abbot or Park the same after this interaction haha Let me know what you thought ✨

There will be more to come for the Shiver Collection!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist ♥️

Next up will feature Mateo Diaz x Reader: Tricky Fish

Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 For more Jack Abbot Works check out my series below! Such as my Dr Jack Abbot x Reader Who Would've Thought series here💖 Or my fic Based on Waitress the Musical, Dr Jack Abbot x Waitress!Reader Sugar, Butter, Flour series 🥧 Or for a lil bit of hurt with eventual comfort check out Jack and the reader create a bond through being widowers, I Know You're Hurting series Or check out my overall Masterlist here

Taglist: @the-sassy-one @ilocuras24 @may-machin @hazydespair @antisirkbitch @thehockeynerd30 

[redsakura101]

Natural Habitat

As Part of The Shiver Collection

Dr Robby x Reader, Brendon Park x Sister!Reader

Find My Pitt Masterlist here Quick witted, level headed and calm. Your favourite past times include; loving your husband (and making sure everyone was aware of this). Making people laugh. And of course, relentlessly teasing PTMC's Shark until he cracks a smile.

Notes: strong language. established relationship. you simply being relentlessly annoying with your teasings towards Park.

Word Count: ~2.0k

Dr Brendon Park. 

Orthopedic surgeon. 

PTMC’s Shark of the OR. 

Stone cold facade. Unshakable resolve. Almost impossible to read. 

And then there was you. 

Dr Y/N Robinavitch. 

Quick witted, kindly and sharp. 

The calm to Robby’s storm. Robinavitch’s better half, as Jack would say. 

With a single glance you could calm the chaos in his mind. 

Professional and measured actions. As you moved with ease, practically predicting each other’s movements and thoughts. Moving fluidly. 

Knowing that no matter how shit the day was, how hard, or difficult it was. Even when it felt like you couldn’t breathe. You both knew that at the end of the day. 

You would go home together, side by side. 

In the ER you were a steady presence. 

With a sharp tongue that appeared whenever the opportunity presented itself, you were quick witted there was no doubt about that.

It was a common sight to see you swapping jokes, stifling laughs beside Dana or even making Michael chuckle. It was simply the effect you had. Softening the heavy weight of the work by just a little. 

With a guiding hand and calm resolve, there was never a mess you couldn’t clean up. 

Med students and interns alike would flock to you for advice, for your guidance. 

But there was one thing none of them could quite grasp. 

Was, how the hell did you manage to get away with all the shit you said to Park?

It was bizarre. 

A strange sight to watch unfold. 

With each consult that brought the infamous Shark down into the Pitt. 

You’d be there with a wide grin. A glint in your eye. Amusement forming upon your features. Not a single trace of fear or trepidation. 

Merely finding any reason possible to join the case, only to stand there and make little witty remarks. Elbowing him as you’d tease the man. An air of familiarity brewed between you. 

And yet. 

There seemed to be nothing connecting you both. 

Sure. Shark could be friendly civil at times. It was rare. But it happened on occasion. 

But not in the way that you were friendly with him. Not in the same way you seemed to carry yourself around the intimidating ortho. The way you challenged him. 

You were also one of the few who told him off. 

If ever Park was being overly brutish or cold. You would be quick to intercept. A harsh glare of your own sent his way as you clicked your tongue. 

And for some reason. 

You were the only one that Park ever seemed to listen to. 

And each and every time. 

Robby would simply roll his eyes and sigh. Exchange a brief greeting with Park, an understanding shared between them both. Whilst Park would offer a nod, a small hello. 

An exchange that seemed so small. So fleeting. Holding almost no meaning. 

And yet. It held the weight of a thousand words. 

Whilst Robby would bite back a grin at each of your attempts to break Park. 

How you’d casually swan up beside him, leaning over to mock his movements as he conducted a consult. 

One of your absolute favourite moves, your favourite way to tease him. Was to provide a commentary of his actions. 

As though he were the subject of a David Attenborough documentary. 

“Ah, yes. And here we see the lone Shark in his natural habitat,” you muttered. “A fascinating creature” 

He huffs lightly from your murmurings. Whilst you do your best to attempt the perfect Attenborough accent. Chipping away at his resolve with each little murmur. 

“Notice, how he approaches the X-ray with great caution” 

It doesn’t matter how many times you do it. It never fails to amuse your colleagues. As Whitaker chews the inside of his cheek, holding back a smile. Shrinking slightly, a little afraid of how Park would react. 

And yet. 

Each and every time. 

Park never yells, never tells you off, nothing. 

If anyone else were to pull the stunts you pulled, they would’ve had their heads bitten off. 

But not you. 

No. 

You simply continued. 

"The orthopedic surgeon survives primarily on hospital coffee, stubbornness, and an alarming amount of bone-related knowledge.”

Park shrugs you off, concentrating once more, eyes observing the scans. 

Professional.

Unwavering.

"We'll place a rod inside the bone to stabilize—" He starts to explain. 

"Observe the surgeon identifying his favorite prey."

A few of the nurses in the room let out a chuckle. Jesse stifles a snort with a small shake of his head from your antics. While Perlah lets a grin form on her face.   

"The fractured femur," You stated. Hoping he’d take the bait. Hoping he’d catch your mistake. 

"Tibia," Park corrects automatically. Without thinking.

A wide grin splitting across your face, smug with triumphance, "And the Shark answers."

Park sighs. Realizing his mistake.

"A remarkable response." You nod thoughtfully. "The orthopedic surgeon cannot resist correcting inaccurate bone information."

And at your words. He shoots you a look. One that had existed since you were kids. The look of an older brother contemplating whether prison would be worth it. 

Your grin shifts into a sickeningly sweet smile. As you deliver the final blow. 

“Observe the Shark’s warning display – as he contemplates whether he should swim away or bite back”

Noticing Park’s armour begin to crack. 

The faintest of smiles quirk at his lips. 

“There,” you point out, “and there it is. The rare pearly whites of the Shark. A smile”

Park scoffs, a scowl taking shape. 

“I did not smile,” he said firmly.

“Oh yes you did”

“No I didn’t”

“Yeah huh”

“No”

“Agree to disagree”

“Fucking disagree,” no bite to his words, simply unbridled annoyance. As you grinned with smugness. Satisfaction creeping into you. Whilst Michael rolled his eyes, biting his lip. 

And there it was. The way it always ended. With you pressing Park’s buttons until he cracked. 

You could somehow manage to elicit the faintest glimmer that made Park appear more…human. 

As his cold facade would fracture ever so slightly, cracking the faintest of smiles, the smallest of chuckles. 

A shake of his head, “Just shut up”

“Never,” you’d remark. 

And with each interaction. A new round of murmurs would rumble in the ER. 

“How do you think she manages to get him to crack?” Santos asked aloud. Park barely tolerated people on a good day, and yet. You managed to slip past his defences. 

Mohan sighed, “Not this again” 

Santos raised a brow before directing her eyeline to you once more. “Maybe she dated Park?” 

Whitaker practically sputters out the water he’s drinking. Shocked by her suggestion. 

As she continues, “Maybe she’s in the midst of an illicit affair?”

Whilst Whitaker panicked, eyes wide darting around them to make sure no one else heard. 

Mohan looks at Santos, unimpressed, “Do you really think they’d be so obvious. Besides we’ve all seen the way she is around Robby, there’s no way she’s cheating on him–I can’t believe I’m talking about this”

Mohan had a point. 

You were certainly making no point to hide your marriage with Michael. Shooting him a smile every time you caught his eye. 

How you’d both look out for one another. Handing him a granola bar whenever you knew he needed one. How he’d have a coffee ready for you as though he could read your mind. 

It was honestly at times. Overly sweet. As they watched you both dote on one another. 

You had a picture perfect relationship. 

And yet. 

Santos’ mind couldn’t help wondering otherwise.

“Well,” Santos simply grins, “It’s not completely out there”

Unfortunately for you. 

These rumours were simply made worse by your husband and brother. 

As every time the two would end up in the room together. Even as they’d greet each other with mutual respect. With an air of familiarity. 

There were at times, an undercurrent of something else. 

Of mild annoyance. As Park would shoot Robby a look that couldn’t quite be deciphered clearly. 

But to everyone else.

It appeared to resemble jealousy?

But truly. Park simply sought amusement from bothering his brother-in-law. Not that anyone knew this. 

It was only once at the tail end of another one of your squabbles did the ER finally learn the truth. 

“Give it back,” Park had demanded, lips pulled taut from annoyance. Trying to grasp at the pen you had nicked from him. 

“No”

“You’re impossible,” he sighed. The sigh of a man who had suffered decades of your nonsense. 

Only for you to retort back, “You love me” 

“Regretably,” he huffed. 

The words make the ER break. Whitaker’s mouth hung open, as Santos shook Javadi. Princess and Perlah murmur with raised brows, eyes flickering over to you both. 

Robby and Dana holding back their laughter. 

“What the–” 

“I knew he loved her!” Santos claimed. 

Park only shoots them a look. Cold. Freezing them in place. 

You furrow your brows, looking at her confusedly. “Of course he does, why wouldn’t he?” 

This was not the reaction they were expecting from you at all. 

What did you mean by that?

Why would Park love you? 

What–

“He’s stuck with me for life,” you added. 

Their brows furrow further from your words until Park finally speaks up. 

“She’s my deeply annoying sister” 

You shove his shoulder, “Like you can talk–with the shit you’ve pulled”

“I don’t bring it into the workplace,” he retorts. 

“Sure you don’t,” you agree as sarcasm drips from your words. 

He clicks his tongue at your words. 

At this exchange, everyone sees it all fit into place. 

The banter, the jokes, the way you could get on Park’s nerves and leave unscathed…

Of course you were his sister. 

It all made sense now. 

“Hah,” Mateo said, “I knew it”

Whilst others groaned. Ahmad appeared with a little notebook, filled with the bets that were made.

All with varying theories, and yet. Only Mateo was the one to hit the nail on the head. 

At the resounding outbursts, Park huffs. Folding his arms over his chest, “I blame you for this mess,” he says, whilst walking to the lift. 

“Observe,” you announced to the room, “The Shark returning to his natural habitat after being discovered by researchers.”

“Shut up.”

“Never.”

“I'm serious.”

“Never,” you teased. 

Whilst Park shakes his head, flipping you off as he disappears into the lift. 

As you wave with a cheeky smile, Michael’s arm slips around your waist. A small grin upon his face. Murmuring softly in your ear. “You really love riling him up, don’t you”

“He just makes it so easy,” you laugh, whilst Michael chuckles with you. 

“He still coming over for dinner?” he asks. 

“Oh, yeah. And I made him promise to pick up a chocolate cake on the way over”

Michael presses a kiss to your cheek. “Sounds good”

You sigh, happily in his arms.  

Whilst the ER fussed over the recent news. Whilst they prodded you with questions, probing you for answers about your youth and childhood with Shark. 

Asking Michael what it was like to have him as a brother-in-law. 

Why neither of you thought to even mention your relation. Why you had never once stated who your brother was.

Only to be left unsatisfied by your response.

Stating simply that, It just never came up…

It was a fixated topic for your colleagues. 

Raising brows whenever Park came down. 

They simply couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t understand how it was possible. 

How you were related to the Shark of PTMC. 

But in the strangest of ways, they could see it all so clearly. It explained so much. Explained why Robby and Park managed to get along. Explained why Park would soften ever so slightly around you. 

And why, you.   

Dr Y/N Robinavitch. 

Were the only one able to make Dr Brendon Park, the Shark, crack a smile. 

It was that very same wit. That teasing glint in your eye that had caught Michael’s attention all those years ago. 

Passing through Pittsburgh you had dropped by to visit your brother. While you may or may not have been interviewing for a job opportunity in the area. 

And in turn. 

He had dragged you to keep him company at some gala he was dreading to attend. It certainly wasn’t the first time you’d gone to a gala, and it wouldn’t be the last. 

As you brushed shoulders with potential donors, playing nice and offering smiles. All while hiding your lips move behind champagne glasses as you mutter out jokes about the other attendees. 

Brendon had to hide the grin on his face behind his hand – holding back his laughter. 

Whilst you stifled your own snickers from his jokes. 

It was whilst you were pulling faces at him from across the room while Brendon tried his best to keep a straight face. It was while you were distracted that Michael had come up beside you. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Oh.” you almost jumped out of your skin, clutching at your chest in surprise. Eyes flick to the person beside you. 

Michael’s brow raised in amusement. He begins to apologise for startling you, “Sorry–”

You hold a hand out at him, stopping him short. “Wait–and–” your eyes drift over back to Brendon who had been cornered by a crowd of people. You had caught that look in his eye, the one that spelled trouble. 

A gleam in his eye, a smirk on his lips, as he said with an air of nonchalance, a story from the operating room that made anyone who listened begin to grow woozy, practically growing green in the face. 

You laugh as you watch it unfold from afar. 

Before turning back to the man that had startled you. 

He didn’t appear to be any of the donors. 

Suit a little crinkled, hair simply brushed through. Bags dipped beneath his eyes, crinkling slightly at the edges, as a smile forms on his face. 

“Is this a common pastime of yours?” He asks as he gestures between you and Brendon. 

“Hm?”

“You know, joking about the patrons at a gala?” 

Shrugging slightly, you turn to face him fully, “It’s the only way I can survive one of these events, that and the free booze,” you grin cheekily. 

Whilst he lets out a chuckle from your words. 

“Now the question is, do you normally startle the guests of a gala?” you ask pointedly. 

“Only the ones who I don’t need to schmooze for money,” he says. 

Biting your lip as you look at him with a deadpan glance, “You didn’t really just say that”

He smiles a little. Testing his luck. “You just seemed to be the only one not pulling a fake smile”

“I’m sure you tell all the women that,” you quirk a brow, taking a sip of your drink. However much you teased him. He did intrigue you. 

Shaking his head at your comment. Michael could probably count on his hands the amount of women had truly liked. 

Besides, working in the ER had consumed most of his time, leading to all his relationships to eventually fade.

“What was your name again?” you asked, extending a hand to shake his. Hand slipping into his grasp, a firmness to his hold, hands that knew all too well what it meant to be quick and efficient. 

“Michael Robinavitch” 

“And what do you do for work, surely you’re not some investor if you’re spending all this time talking with me”

“I’m a doctor”

“What department?”

“The ED”

Clicking your tongue in realisation, you remark, “So you know all about shit hitting the fan”

And there you go again, bringing a smile to his face, a laugh spilling from his lips. “You could say that”

Then all too soon your eyes catch Brendon’s who juts his head, a silent motion saying he was ready to leave. 

“It’s been nice chatting with you, but I have got to go,” you say, downing the rest of your drink, flashing him a smile. 

“Wait, I didn’t catch your name”

You turn back to look at him, “Y/N Park,” before adding with a little wink, “It was nice meeting you Dr Robby”

His eyes follow your retreating figure as you leave the room. 

Little did either of you realise. 

Your brother, Brendon, had caught sight of the whole interaction. He glanced at Michael, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. 

Walking out in the cool evening air, as you walk side by side. 

Brendon arches a brow, a knowing look in his eyes, whilst he elbowed you lightly. 

“You looked pretty chummy in there”

“And what if I was?” 

“Thought you were looking for a job in Pittsburgh, not a relationship,” he retorted. 

You teased, “I can multitask, which is more than I can say for you” 

Letting out a snort, “Sure, multitasking that’s what that was”

“What’s it to you?” you questioned. 

He shrugs, “Nothing. Be cagey then. I was going to offer to give him your number next time I saw him at work–but if you don’t want that–”

“You’d do that for me?”

“He’d be an improvement from your last boyfriend,” he muttered. 

You pull him into a side hug, a wide smile on your face. 

“Thanks”

“Anytime” 

And just like that. Come Monday morning, Park had waded through into the ER, tugging Robby aside. 

Handing him a note, penned by your handwriting. 

A clipped word of advice from Park. 

“Don’t go breaking her heart, otherwise I’ll break you” 

Who could’ve known that that would’ve been the beginnings to your life now. 

A sweet husband. That you were fortunate enough to work alongside. 

And a supportive brother.

Who despite his harsh cold resolve, had a heart of gold when it came to you.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. I just loved the idea of you annoying Brendon by literally treating him as the subject of a nature documentary a habit you picked up since he gained is Shark nickname (inspired by me and my sister's own habit of slipping into mimicking his voice for fun). This one was definitely more focused on you and Brendon being siblings, but I hoped you enjoyed the little part about how you and Robby met (as Brendon acted as a wingman). Let me know what you thought ✨

There will be more to come for the Shiver Collection!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist ♥️

Next up will feature Jack Abbot x firefighter!Reader: Before You Ask...It Was A Shark

Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Feel free to find my Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader Rinse & Repeat Series Masterlist here 🩺 Or check out my overall Masterlist here

Taglist: @the-sassy-one @ilocuras24 @may-machin @hazydespair @antisirkbitch

[xreader1989]

The Captain takes care of his Doctor

Sidney Crosby x fem!pitt!resident!reader

Word count: 2.1k Masterlist

Part One (can be read alone) Based on this & this!

Summary: the Pitt’s favorite ED resident’s emergency contact arrives to take care of her in the sweetest way possible.

TW: fainting and illness, but nothing too specific!

Three months after the entire ER found out you were secretly dating Sidney Crosby, absolutely nothing had gone back to normal. If anything, it had gotten worse.

Sidney had fully recovered from his concussion, and was back on the ice just as quickly as he had hoped, but everything else remained insane.

“Morning, Mrs. Crosby,” Dana called across the nurses’ station.

You didn’t even look up from your coffee. “I’m blocking your number.” She smirked. K

Whitaker grinned as he walked by. “Sid drop you off today?”

“Can all of you please do your jobs?” You asked in bewilderment.

“We are literally all working right now” Javadi deadpanned.

Unfortunately for you, the entire Pitt had become deeply invested in your relationship.

If flowers arrived? Not just the nurses noticed, everyone noticed.

If Sidney dropped food off during night shift? Half the ER somehow appeared nearby.

If you took a phone call and smiled even slightly afterward? Dana acted like TMZ.

Today, though, you barely had the energy to threaten any of them.

You felt awful. And not in a dramatic way. In a way that meant you should’ve stayed in bed. Your head pounded. Your stomach turned every time you smelled food. Your body felt heavy and you could feel the thin layer of sweat you were sporting even though it was a perfectly comfortable temperature.

“You look pale,” Robby said immediately when he walked past you.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly.

“You say that like every patient does right before they pass out,” he quipped back, looking at you over his glasses like a disappointed dad.

You didn’t justify him with a response, simply moving to grab a chart.

You took another sip of coffee and instantly regretted it. Your face scrunched in disgust, even your coffee didn’t taste right.

Dana narrowed her eyes at you from across the desk. “Okay, wait. You really do look terrible.”

“Thank you.” You said sarcastically.

“No, like you should not be here terrible,” she said back.

You waved them off. “I’m okay. I probably just caught something.”

“From your hockey player?” Whitaker asked.

You rolled your eyes, but honestly you were too tired to properly argue.

The morning stayed busy enough that nobody hovered for long. The patients piled in, charts stacked up, and ambulances came and went as they always do. You managed to keep moving mostly through stubbornness alone, and for that you were proud.

Until about noon. The mask you had been sporting all morning suddenly felt a little too tight and your lungs along with it.

You were explaining discharge instructions to a patient when the room suddenly tilted sideways. Your sentence stopped mid-word and you tried to blink the dizziness away.

The patient frowned. “Doctor?”

Your vision blurred, “just excuse me for a second, sorry.”

You pulled the curtain back and tried to make your way to the nurses station to sit down, leaving Javadi and your patient utterly confused. You had just barely made it when you reached for the counter, missing by a centimeter and falling straight to the ground.

The next thing you heard was shouting.

“Hey!”

“Get Robby!”

“She’s down!”

Everything sounded far away and underwater. When your eyes finally opened again, fluorescent lights glared overhead. You groaned softly.

“There she is,” Robby said immediately.

You blinked slowly and realized you were in one of the trauma beds now.

Dana stood nearby looking stressed.

Whitaker looked horrified.

“…Did I pass out?”

“Yes,” four people answered at once.

You sighed and covered your eyes with one arm. “That’s embarrassing.”

“EMBARRASSING? You scared the hell out of everyone,” Dana snapped.

Robby was already checking your vitals. “How long have you felt sick?”

“A few days,” you mumbled quietly.

“And you said nothing because?” He asked, exhausted with your stubbornness already.

“I thought it’d go away,” you said softly.

Whitaker looked deeply offended. “We scold patients for doing that.”

You tried sitting up.

Immediately dizziness slammed into you again. A firm hand pushed gently against your shoulder.

“Nope,” Robby said. “Lie back down.”

“I have patients,” you whined.

“You had a syncopal episode in the middle of my ER,” Robby responded sternly.

“I’m still working,” you said back, shifting on the thin mattress, “we really make patients lay on these, god they’re awful.”

“No, you are absolutely not working,” he said back firmly, ignoring your complaints and leaving no room for arguments.

You glared at him weakly. Robby ignored you completely and looked toward Dana instead. “Did someone call her emergency contact?”

Dana’s expression changed instantly into something dangerously interested. “…Yes.”

“Dana,” you said softly.

“He’s already on his way,” she said apologetically.

“Oh my God,” you groaned.

Whitaker looked thrilled. “Sidney Crosby is coming here?”

“You people are vultures,” you put your arm back over your eyes.

Dana pointed accusingly. “You cannot deny us this. We never get to see you guys together outside of him being concussed.”

The ER doors slid open down the hall, normally you wouldn’t even notice… but something in you knew that he had arrived.

Dana grabbed Whitaker’s arm, her Pittsburgh pride outweighing her professionalism, “oh my God, hockey boyfriend incoming.”

You wanted to disappear, you could practically feel the heads turning all throughout the ER as he glided through with that easy, humble confidence he always wore. The one change was the look of concern on his face.

Sidney walked in wearing a black hoodie and baseball cap, clearly having come straight from home. Perlman spotted him and pointed to the trauma room where you were currently laying.

The second he spotted you in the bed, his expression changed completely.

Every trace of casual calm vanished.

“Hey,” he said quickly, crossing into the room. “What happened?”

The entire nurses’ station was openly staring now. You could literally see people pretending to chart while watching.

“I’m okay,” you said immediately.

Sidney stopped beside the bed and rested one hand carefully against your forehead. “You passed out.”

“Traitor,” you glared weakly at Robby.

Robby shrugged. “He asked.”

Sidney’s eyes stayed fixed on you, worried and soft all at once. “How long’ve you felt bad?”

You shrugged, trying to avoid the question, but he gave you a look that you knew you would’ve be able to overpower. “A few days.”

His expression immediately tightened. “And you didn’t tell me?”

You avoided eye contact.

“That’s what I thought,” he muttered gently.

Whitaker whispered from across the hall, “Oh my God, he’s doing the voice.”

Dana smacked his shoulder without taking her eyes off Sidney.

Robby looked entirely too entertained. “Vitals are okay now. Probably exhaustion, dehydration, maybe a virus. We’re running labs.”

Sidney nodded once, but his attention never left you, he placed the back of his hand on your forehead softly, then your cheek, “you’re burning up.”

“I’m fine,” you said with heavy lidded eyes, unable to keep the stubborn facade up now that he was there.

“You fainted at work,” he said softly, trying to reason with you.

“Everybody keeps reminding me of that,” you quipped back.

You tried sitting up again, but two hands gently but firmly held your shoulders. Sidney had moved to quickly you hadn’t even realized he was up, “easy.”

“I can walk,” you argued.

“You literally hit the floor last time you tried,” his hands hadn't left your shoulders.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help how your heart fluttered because of how concerned he was.

Dana whispered to Santos loudly, “This is the best day of my life.”

Sidney glanced over finally, noticing the entire department staring.

“…Why is everyone looking at us?”

Whitaker answered immediately. “Because this is extremely cute and you’re the King of Pittsburgh.”

You dropped your face into your hands. Sidney laughed softly under his breath, but turned his attention back to you.

“Oh my God.”

“He laughed.”

“He actually exists.”

“You guys are so annoying,” you muttered.

Robby finally stepped in before the crowd could get more ridiculous. “Alright, enough. She’s going home.”

“I have seven more hours in my shift,” you argued again.

“No.” Robby stated simply.

You looked at Sidney. “Tell him I can stay.”

Sidney blinked at you like you’d lost your mind, “absolutely not.”

“Sid—”

“Nope.” His hand settled carefully against the back of your neck, thumb brushing lightly beneath your ear, “you’re sick. You scared everybody. You’re going home.” You could practically hear everyone cooing because of how he was looking at you, “you’re really gonna fight me on this?”

“Yes,” you said it as firmly as you could, but you were quickly running out of steam.

“You’re too tired to fight me, and you know it.”

The exhaustion sitting in your bones suddenly felt crushing now that the adrenaline had worn off. Your eyes burned.

Sidney noticed instantly and his expression softened even more somehow, “c’mere,” he said quietly.

Before you could protest, he carefully pulled you against his chest while still bending towards you beside the bed. Sidney just held you there, one hand rubbing slowly up and down your back.

“You don’t gotta do everything yourself,” he murmured against your hair.

Your eyes stung unexpectedly. Being taken care of felt strange. “I know,” you mumbled tiredly.

Robby watched the two of you for a second before pointing toward the exit. “Take her home. She’s off for at least two days.”

“I don’t need two days—” you started.

“You fainted,” multiple voices said at the same time, interrupting you.

“You guys are never letting that go, huh?”

“Nope,” Dana said instantly.

Sidney thanked Robby quietly before helping you off the bed.

Robby nodded at Dana who moved toward the door.

“Robby. I swear to god if you try to wheel me out of here I’ll punch you in the throat with the last of my remaining strength.” You said it firmly enough that Dana stopped moving and Robby looked a little frightened.

“I would listen to her,” Sidney said softly, helping pull you off the bed.

The second you swayed slightly, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist.

“I’m okay,” you insisted again.

Frank stepped in with your bag from your locker, “Mr. Crosby sir,” he coughed nervously, “your lady’s things.” He Presented the bag, your jaw went slack.

“Reaaal smooth, Langdon,” Dana said, biting back a laugh/.

”Frank… you did not just say ‘your lady’ in 2026,” Santos teased from behind him.

Sidney took your stuff with the arm that wasn’t holding you up, “Sid is fine, thanks man.”

Frank beamed in response and moved to the side so you could leave. You glared at him as you walked by, but he was still admiring your boyfriend with heart eyes.

The entire department watched shamelessly as he guided you toward the doors.

“You better update us!” Dana yelled after you.

You grunted in response, making Sidney huff a laugh, “we will.”

Sidney opened the passenger door for you once you reached his car.

“You know they’re gonna talk about this for months,” you muttered.

“They’ve already been talking about us for months,” he responded.

By the time you got home, exhaustion had completely won. Sidney barely let your feet touch the floor.

“Nope,” he said, steering you gently toward the couch. “Sit.”

He disappeared briefly before returning with water, medicine, and three blankets like he was preparing for war.

“You know I’m not dying, right?” You asked, already over being taken care of.

“Humor me,” he placed everything in front of you.

You took the medicine obediently this time. Then, like your true knight in shining armor, he pulled his hoodie off and handed it to you, leaving his chest bare. Your lips twitched up as you took your scrub top off and slipped it on. He knew it was your favorite, a hoodie right after he wore it, perfectly warm and smelling just like him.

He sat beside you immediately, pulling you carefully against his chest, “get some sleep.”

“What about you?” You asked, but your eyes were already betraying you.

“I’m staying right here,” he kissed the top of your head.

“Sid?” You said sleepily.

He hummed in response.

“I don’t feel good,” you admitted softly, suddenly feeling extremely vulnerable in your current state.

He sighed, “I know my love.”

Your eyes were already drifting shut. One of his hands moved slowly through your hair while the other stayed wrapped securely around your waist.

You mumbled sleepily against his chest, “Love you.”

Sidney kissed the top of your head instantly, “love you too, baby.”

Then he held you there quietly until you finally fell asleep in the arms of the most beautiful hockey captain the NHL had ever seen. And you thought to yourself, maybe being taken care of isn’t so bad.

Tags (all): @ilocuras24 @nyxmoretti @kmc1989 @destinyg237

Tags (the Pitt): @sexychickenmagnet @thehockeynerd30

[xreader1989]

The Captain’s in love with a Doctor!

Sidney Crosby x fem!pitt!resident!reader

Word count: 2.5k Masterlist

Summary: the mystery of your secret admirer is finally resolved, just not in the way you had hoped.

“Another bouquet at the nurses station for ya…” Dana said looking at you over her glasses, “better run before Perlah and Princess pay off the delivery guy for a name.”

You laughed, turning to leave the break room where she stood with you, “thanks, Dana.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, “you and those damn flowers,” she said shaking her head, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone is trying to woo you.”

You laughed, looking over your shoulder, “who’s to say I’m not already wooed.”

You heard her laugh as you made your way to the hub. And just as you expected, Perlah and Princess were interrogating the delivery guy.

“Listen ladies I just need a signature from a Dr.—” he looked down at the clipboard before saying your name.

“That’s me,” you said with a smile before walking up to them.

Perlah put the cash she was trying to bribe him with back into her scrub pocket as Princess rolled her eyes.

You scribbled your signature before thanking the man. He happily left the ED and you turned to the flowers, plucking the note off the side.

Wish me Luck -S

You tucked the note into your pocket after reading it, making Perlah and Princess groan.

“You’ve gotten flowers, 24 red roses to be exact, at least once a week for the last two months.” Perlah said matter of factly.

“And you won’t even give us a hint to who this mystery guy is,” Princess said, throwing her hands up in defeat.

You shrugged, leaving the roses and walking over to grab a chart. The truth is, it’s a rather private situation.

You have been dating Sidney Crosby, captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins for well over a year (more like two) and you had managed to keep it from everyone you worked with… as well as the entire world.

He sent you flowers before an away game two months ago simply because he missed you and you couldn’t be there. After they won that game, your extremely superstitious boyfriend decided to keep it up. Just over two months later now and they haven’t lost an away game since, so he’s sticking with the routine.

It was getting harder to explain to your coworkers though. And you did worry a certain Pens fan you worked with was starting to catch on to the timing of the flowers. Said coworker being Frank Langdon, who hasn’t washed his Penguins hoodie… well ever.

Every morning after a game he updated everyone on the stats. And you had to pretend you didn’t already know, or like you weren’t sitting in section 108 Row C Seat 7 of PPG.

—

You were able to keep the gossip under wraps recently since there was a solid string of on and off home games the next few days.

But then something you definitely didn’t have on your 2026 bingo card happened.

The Pitt was already feeling extra loud today. The monitors beeped nonstop. Somebody in hallway beds was yelling about pudding cups. Dana was arguing with radiology on the phone. It just felt like more than usual.

Then, a paramedic pushed through the trauma bay doors beside a stretcher and everything changed.

“Trauma two,” Robby called out to them.

“Male, thirty-eight, hockey injury, possible concussion. Head first into the boards, apparently not wearing his helmet at the time.” The paramedic presented more discreetly than he usually would, but you didn’t think anything of it.

You barely looked up from your computer at first. Then Whitaker said, “Holy shit, that’s Sidney Crosby.”

Every head at the nursing station snapped toward the stretcher.

“Oh my God.”

“No way.”

“Are you serious?”

“Move,” Dana barked immediately, shoving people aside. “He’s our patient people. Act like it.”

Your stomach dropped so hard it hurt and your heart rate immediately increased. Because unfortunately for you, Sidney Crosby was not just a patient.

He was your boyfriend.

Your very secret boyfriend.

For almost two years, somehow, you’d managed to keep the relationship completely private. No media leaks. No gossip. No teammates talking. And you prayed to some higher power that your relationship was not about to be exposed in the Pitt

The betting board didn’t even have one right guess on it as to who your “secret admirer was”. Nobody knew you occasionally spent your nights curled against Sidney Crosby watching terrible reality TV while he complained about practice.

Now he was being wheeled directly into your trauma bay with a concussion.

Fantastic.

Robby stepped forward first. “Mr. Crosby, look at me.”

Sid blinked slowly up at the ceiling lights. “Mm. Too bright.”

“Good sign,” Robby muttered under his breath sarcastically. “Can you tell me your name?”

Sidney looked offended. “You know my name.”

A couple nurses laughed.

The paramedic took his clipboard and smirked, “he’s been like this the whole ride. Coach said he was a little loopy.”

You stayed near the back of the room, arms crossed tightly, trying desperately to look normal.

Sidney’s gaze wandered lazily around the room.

Then landed on you and immediately his entire face softened.

“There she is,” he said quietly. His eyes were drooping slightly and his voice was shaky. It wasn’t the typical, stoic and professional Captain Sidney persona he portrayed in public.

Dana looked between the two of you instantly. You gave Sidney the sharpest warning glare of your life.

Apparently concussed Sidney Crosby feared neither death nor consequences.

“There’s my girl,” he now wore a lopsided grin, “I thought I was going to have to put in some sort of special request. Use my captain power, but here you are!”

The room went dead silent. Whitaker actually slapped a hand over his mouth.

Robby stopped mid-chart. “Excuse me?”

Your face burned alive.

Sidney smiled sleepily at you from the stretcher. “Hi, baby.”

“Oh my God,” Javadi whispered.

Dana’s eyes widened so much you thought they might fall out. “NO.”

You stepped forward immediately. “Okay, let’s get him to CT.”

Sidney reached for your wrist the second you got close enough.

“Sid,” you hissed under your breath.

His brow furrowed. “Why do you look scared?”

“Because you’re telling everyone our business.” Your tone was harsher than you meant, he was concussed after all.

Robby slowly looked between you both. “Hold on.”

The entire ER had somehow started migrating closer.

Nurses. Residents. Med students.

“Is this happening right now?” Whitaker whispered to no one.

“You’re dating Sidney Crosby?” Dana asked.

Sidney answered before you could.he basically puffed out his chest like a male bird. “She’s my girlfriend.” He said it as confidently as he could for his current state.

The Pitt erupted.

“WHAT?”

“No freaking way.”

“How long?!”

“I KNEW she was seeing someone!”

“You owe me twenty bucks,” Javadi told Whitaker immediately.

Whitaker looked devastated. “I thought it was a surgeon.”

Sidney squinted suspiciously at him from the bed. “Why would she date a surgeon?”

“Focus,” you muttered.

Robby pinched the bridge of his nose like he already had a migraine. “Okay. Great. Wonderful. Pittsburgh royalty is concussed and apparently dating one of my residents.”

“Secretly dating,” Dana corrected.

“That part’s over now,” Santos said helpfully.

You wanted to disappear. Sidney still had your wrist loosely trapped in his hand. “She’s really pretty,” he informed Robby.

Your face got even hotter. “Sidney.”

“What?” he asked innocently. “You are.”

Robby looked genuinely entertained now. “How long has this been going on?”

You sighed in defeat. “Almost two years.”

The reactions somehow got louder.

“TWO YEARS?”

“You kept that secret for TWO YEARS?”

“Do you know how insane that is?”

“Wait,” Frank interrupted suddenly, you’re not even sure when he got there. “Is that why she leaves exactly at seven on game days?”

He extended his hand towards Sidney, “Frank, by the way huge fan.”

You closed your eyes. Sidney shook his hand.

Dana pointed aggressively. “OH MY GOD THE ‘APPOINTMENTS.’”

Javadi gasped. “The mystery flowers!”

“The private car service!”

“The playoffs!” Frank shouted. “She requested off during playoffs last year!”

You buried your face in your hands, but Sidney looked delighted watching everyone solve the puzzle in real time.

“She’s smart,” he told them proudly. “Nobody figured it out.”

“We literally thought she a secret child or something.” Whitaker said.

Sidney blinked. “What?”

Dana was crying laughing now. “You disappeared constantly!”

“You always looked exhausted!”

“You never answered texts on game nights!” Frank added, unrelated but his way of processing nonetheless.

Robby pointed at you. “And you once got mad at me because I scheduled you during a Penguins game.”

“That could’ve been for normal… Pittsburgh reasons!” You said trying to defend your habits.

“No one cares that much about preseason hockey!” Robby said with a smile on his face.

Sidney raised a weak hand from the stretcher. “I do.”

“You are not helping.” You said with a groan.

Sidney ignored that completely, eyes finding yours again. Even concussed, the look on his face softened immediately when he looked at you.

It was embarrassingly obvious.

“Oh my God,” Dana whispered dramatically. “They’re in love.”

“We get it,” you muttered.

“No, seriously,” Javadi said. “That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Sidney nodded once, still wearing his goofy little grin. “I do.”

You stared at your boyfriend in horror. “You are never living this down.”

“Worth it,” Sidney said instantly. Then he winced and touched the back of his head. “Ow.”

Your irritation disappeared immediately.

You moved closer without thinking, checking his pupils again gently. “Head hurting worse?”

“A little.” His voice got quieter, “can you stay with me?”

You sighed softly and brushed your fingers carefully through Sidney’s messy hair.

“Yeah, honey,” you said quietly. “I’m staying.”

Sidney smiled lazily up at you like he’d already won.

“Alright everyone,” Robby clapped his hands together, “shows over.”

He waved everyone out of the room, to which most of them obliged, Frank had to be physically removed, but left nonetheless.

“I’ll make sure he’s next in line for CT,” Robby closed the curtains, shut the light, and closed the door behind him.

The noise of the ER became muffled and you finally felt like you could breathe again.

You grabbed his hand and moved your thumb over his knuckles, “no helmet?”

His smile faded, “Geno and I were just playing around okay? Please don’t be mad. It was an accident.”

You kissed his forehead, “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried. But we’ve had the helmet talk, babe.”

“I know I know, I’m sorry,” he said softly.

There was a knock at the door, breaking the moment between you two, “CT is ready,” Robby said, making his way over to Sidney.

“I’ll be right here when you get back,” you said releasing his hand.

“Love you,” he said sweetly, in a way that is usually reserved for home.

You smiled at him, “I love you too.”

You could see Robby biting back a laugh as he wheeled Sidney away.

Javadi, Whitaker, Santos, and Langdon all popped back into the room the second he was wheeled out of ear shot.

“You know this would make an amazing romance novel,” Victoria said happily, making you laugh.

You shook your head, “he’s so gonna regret this when the entire world knows we’re dating come tomorrow. I’m pretty sure Princess and Perlah already called TMZ.”

“It’s pretty impressive you know, keeping a secret like that for two years,” Langdon said, leaning against the door frame.

You shrugged, “I like that it was just ours.”

Santos made a gagging noise, “that’s my queue to go back to work.”

You laughed at her and they all filed out of the room.

—

Sidney was rolled back into the room about thirty minutes later, his smile faded and had been replaced with exhaustion.

Yup. Definitely not playing for a while.

“You okay?” You asked cautiously.

He nodded, “think it just hit me I can’t play.”

“I know.” You said understandably. You knew he wasn’t looking for a solution, because there wasn’t one. This man lives and breaths hockey. You understood that about him— you live and breathe saving lives. You both put your careers first and that’s why your relationship seems to work.

You have a deep understanding of the sense of determination you each have for your respective jobs.

He sighed, breaking you from your thoughts, “you gonna nurse me back to health?”

The smirk he wore made you giggle.

“Yes, Captain Crosby it would be my honor. I believe it’s my literal duty to Pittsburgh to make sure you’re up and moving for the playoffs.”

He smiled, it didn’t quite reach his eyes but you took it as a small win.

“So, I seemed to have really outed us, huh?” He asked.

You nodded slowly, “you came in here, guns a blazing honey.”

“Well, at least now you don’t have to lie,” he said, taking your hand in his and squeezing, “I just couldn’t help it. You look too good in your scrubs.”

“Yeah,” you squeezed back, “everyone knows I’m yours.”

He smiled at that.

And although he was loopy from his concussion when he did it, there was not one ounce of regret in what had happened.

You smiled at him lovingly as his eyes drooped shut, when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Frank: sooo… tickets?

You scoffed. And that’s exactly what you expected.

You: nice try. I’ll think about it.

Frank: not a no!

You laughed and put your phone back into your scrubs.

Everyone now knew that you, Resident in the Pitt, were Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend and good luck charm.

PART TWO!

Tags: @thehockeynerd30 @weeknddlusttt

[mercury-retrogay]

…for I am the Lord who heals you

Jack Abbot & his child! reader (gender neutral)

Summary: Tragedy often forces action. After Jack Abbot lost his wife, he tried to raise his kid the best he could, now as a single father. And he got damn lucky with the one he got. So when you're invited to go to Pitt Fest with your friends, he isn't overly worried about you making bad choices. But it was never your choices he should have worried about.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Depictions of a shooting, injuries, first aid and medical produces (nothing too graphic, I think), grief, mourning, parent loss, fear of dying, fear of losing your child, talks of trauma, mentions of not believing in a god, praying, reader is described as being interested in medicine (mostly as a coping mechanism), maybe a light hint of Rabbot but shhhh, I think that's it-

Notes: First fic for The Pitt so let's hope this is decent and I didn't make it too OC- Happened to finish this fic first, but the other from the poll shall be out soon. I'm not quite happy with it, but it' s been awhile since I've written anything close to action lol so. Comments always appreciated!

It breaks people apart and pulls them together into something new when it's done. Most of the time, all you can do is hold onto the people you love and hope that when you make it out the other side, you're still together. 

Jack Abbot had been in therapy for as long as you could remember, which means something when you've known the man your whole life. It was him who had insisted you go to therapy after your mom passed, despite the overwhelming force of his own grief. 

There was a period of time when you were terrified you’d never be whole again. Desperate to act strong and not put extra weight on your dad’s shoulders. He didn’t need more on top of his job, the grief, PTSD, and now being a single parent. It felt like he was watching you for when you’d finally break down. 

And, of course, he had been thinking the same as you, trying to hold it together for his kid after they lost their mom and were left alone with their mess of a father. 

You moved out of your childhood home, unable to keep looking for ghosts. You attended therapy, separately, and then together. You ended up losing nearly all your friends. You opened up, finally, sobbing in some mixture of grief and shame, after trying so hard to keep it together. You also gained a relationship with your father that would make any other teen so embarrassed they’d skip town. You started to make new friends, people who saw you as more than just the kid with the dead mom. 

The grief didn’t shrink, but you started to grow around it. Let the new mix with the old and make something worth saving. 

When you came home one day and mention an invite to Pitt Fest with your friends, you expect uncertainty. Jack Abbot is a good dad. He’s your favourite person in the world, even if you never plan to say that to his face. He is also undeniably protective, and Pitt Fest would be large, crowded, and packed with poor decision-making. 

Instead, he encouraged you. Said he was proud you're going out and connecting with others and having fun, in a roundabout way. And that was that. 

With the promise you’d call him on your way home before he started his shift, you went to the festival a few weeks later. 

And everything, as it tends to do when you look away for too long, went wrong. 

—

He’d called three times. You didn’t pick up. 

It was stupid, but as he shoved the car keys into the ignition, he contemplated driving towards the festival. To go and find you. 

But it wasn’t feasible. It was across town. Even if he managed to somehow get close, it would be chaos, all those faces a blur in the crowd. And there’s no way they’d let him on a scene that's not secured. 

Everyone who wasn’t injured would be held on site and questioned by police before being released. Injuries to be sent to the PTMC. The deceased was… something he couldn’t think about, right now. 

“...then I can’t pick up right now, so text me like a normal person! Or leave a message, and I’ll text you. Bye!”

A beep. He sucked in an abnormally shaky breath. 

“Hey. I need you to call me back asap. Let me know you’re okay. If you can, come to the Pitt, okay? I love you. I love you, and-” His voice breaks off. What else could he say? “Call me. See you soon.” 

Jack didn’t make it to the nurse's desk before Robby was on him, and it's true he’d bitch at Robby all day long, but there are very few people he’d like to see more, right now. Just one, really.

A hug he could barely remember. A speech. Dana pulled him to the side. 

“The kid. They’re at Pitt Fest?”

Leave it to Dana not to beat around the bush. Not that there was time to, now. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I… Haven't heard from them yet.” Watching the way Dana’s face fell made it too real. 

Suddenly, he wanted to go find Robby again. Robby and Jack were good at ignoring things, or better said, talking around them. Leaving space. Robby understood that Jack needed to be strong right now and keep his shit together. He couldn’t talk about how his kid, his fucking kid, might be dead or hurt, and he can’t do a damn thing about it-

And Dana must’ve seen that on his face because she pulled him in for a brief hug, promised to try and call you when she tried Jake, and moved along to help prep carts. 

He has a good kid. A smart one. And so strong, even when they shouldn't have to be. The best child someone could ask for, even if all parents say that. He’d gotten damn lucky. 

Jack Abbot hasn't believed in a god for a long time, or at least not a kind one who shows mercy. And yet…

He uttered a prayer under his breath, barely a whisper. Please. Please. 

Then he finished setting up his kit, steadied his breathing, and did his job. 

—

You had your first aid certification. 

It was something you’d wanted, though you're sure your dad would have asked you to get it eventually. 

You took the highest level courses they’d let you take at 16. You read books on a variety of medicine. Harassed your dad about resources and volunteered at the cancer clinic during the summers. 

At first, it was an expression of grief. A way feel in control after mom. To feel like you could stop death if you faced it again. Then, with time, it had become a new way to talk to your dad, to complain about how weirdly the human body worked and ask about recent studies. 

But nothing could ever have prepared you for this. 

The gunshots came quickly. The screaming came faster, somehow. 

You were off by yourself, attempting to find a stall with water cheaper than $6 (fucking festival prices, and they won't even let you take more than one bottle in with you). Suddenly, you were slammed into the side of a tent, almost falling through the tarp as people rushed past. 

Everything started moving very fast. 

Not fireworks. Not fireworks. Gunshots. Someone was shooting at the festival. 

You were going to die. 

Closer to the stage entrance, someone went down, hard. Her leg folded underneath her unnaturally as she was shoved into the dirt. A young woman, maybe a few years older than you. She was going to get trampled if someone didn’t help her. If she didn’t get shot first. 

She was going to die. 

Your brain felt blank, suddenly. 

Adrenaline, a distant voice in your head whispered. It’s hell of a drug. Makes people do all kinds of crazy things. 

She was going to die if no one helped her. 

The plastic tent cover brushed your leg. Somehow, you were standing halfway in it, foot through where the bottom had come untucked. When had you done that?

She was going to die if you didn’t help her. 

You were moving before you realized the decision had been made. 

She was pale and unconscious when you got to her. The crowd started to disperse further away from the stage. You shouldn't move her if there were a risk of spinal trauma, but the scene was far from secure. 

Hoisting your arms under her armpits and clasping your hands together in front of her chest, you pulled, dragging her back into the tent you’d fallen onto earlier. It was abandoned, of course. Anyone with a lick of sense is running away right now. 

There’s my brave kid. The sting of disinfectant on your knee. A dinosaur bandied. A kiss on the head. 

ABC. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. 

You tilted her head back. She had eyeshadow that was shaped like a butterfly. Her lips were painted the same colour as the wings. Lift the chin. Her airway was clear, breath steady against your cheek. 

At least someone was relaxed. 

Her leg was twisted all wrong, but you couldn’t fix that now. You patted down her body. Multiple open wounds, but they seemed minor enough. The blood had begun to cover your hands and arms, soaking into the knees of your pants. She had hit her head, surely, but a concussion was the least of anyone's worries right now. The stomach and chest didn’t feel hard or distended, so hopefully no internal bleeding. 

God. Oh shit, you needed to get out of here. You needed to get both of you out of here. 

Deep breaths, honey. A soccer game. Most of the team was older than you. New, bright green shin pads. You got this. 

You needed help to get her out of here. 

Before you were fully standing, your left leg gave out beneath you suddenly, pitching you into the dirt. 

There was no pain. It felt as if your leg just… gave out. For a blissful moment, you wondered if maybe your leg had fallen asleep from kneeling so long. 

When you pushed yourself up on your elbows and started to pull your knees beneath you, it was a genuine surprise to look down and see the bullet hole. 

It was small. Smaller than you’d thought a bullet hole would be. You’d thought it would bleed less, too, somehow. Your ears rang. 

Outside the tent, noise filtered in. A popping noise, random and sporadic. It was getting impossibly closer.

Hide and seek again? Alright, alright, fine! A deep laugh. The air smelled like blueberry pancakes. I’m seeking this time. Can’t try to fit myself behind the couch with my knees, honey. 

You forced your body to go limp and held your breath. 

There were footsteps outside. Help or another bullet? You couldn’t tell how visible you were from the doorway. If someone could tell you were still alive.

1… 2… 3… 4… 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… 10…

At 80, you had to breathe. You couldn’t just lie here and wait to bleed out. 

Ready or not, here I come!

You slowly exhaled. Shifted an arm. A leg. That should hurt, right? A bullet wound should definitely hurt. 

Fight or flight, fight or flight. You couldn’t do either, like this. 

The woman was still non-responsive. A distant part of you screamed in envy. 

This wasn’t fair. You wanted someone to help you. 

You wanted your dad to make it better. 

Your belt was slick with blood when you took it off your waist. 

Stop the bleeding. You had to stop the bleeding.

They told you how much force a tourniquet takes. The answer is “more than you think it should.” How it could be so painful for the casualty, they sometimes would try to fight back, even knowing they’d die without it. None of this knowledge helped in that moment as you failed to stop the scream that slipped out. 

Your hands shook. 

Pull harder. You jerked the belt suddenly, forcing the prong through the fake leather, far higher than any of the other holes. 

Cheap garbage. Thank god for modern fashion. 

It hurt. The shock must’ve been starting to wear off. The belt wasn’t tight enough, either. But you couldn’t force yourself to take it off and try again. 

Get help. One of the most important steps in emergency response. Contact help. 

Distantly, you spare a thought for your friends. They’d been near the washrooms when you’d split up. You hope they’re nowhere near here. 

The shots had stopped. The gunman must have moved further away again. Or was out of bullets. Or was hiding. 

Staggering to your feet and limping towards the entrance of the tent, you distantly wondered about family resemblance and wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream. 

Dad got hurt at work, and now I only have one leg. A pause. Yeah, but I still get around okay. Gotta be able to get up so I can go eat all the cake by myself, right? Hey, come back here-

There was an older man near the entrance of the tent, on the ground, moaning in pain. He had a gunshot wound in his right shoulder and a festival staff ID pinned to the other. 

You want to keep walking. You needed help. So did the lady in the tent. 

But she was currently stable. And you both looked to be in far better shape than he was. 

He looked up at you, forehead sweaty, eyes glazed. 

It hurt when you knelt next to him. 

“I’m first aid trained. I… I’m here to help.”

—

It was Shen who received the ambulance you arrived in. 

One of the last ones, the paramedic promised. 

They were probably right, though. The shooter was gone, dead. Took the easy way out. Jack wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He wasn’t sure he had much room for feeling anything at the moment.

There had been no word from you. And the last of the injured were here. The rest of the festival-goers were either unharmed or dead. 

Later, he’d ask Shen and the paramedics for the full story. It wasn’t a long one. 

They had found a kid way in the merchandise stalls. It was how it took so long to find them and get them out. They had been doing first aid on a man and pointed EMS to a tent with an unconscious woman. The kid had refused to be treated until they took the other casualties first, and had practically collapsed into the back of the ambulance. 

It was Jack Abbot’s kid, which was what they didn’t say. They couldn’t have known, of course. But Shen had. He bought you the damn band shirt you were wearing for your last birthday. It wasn’t red, then. 

“Oh fuck.”

You blinked up at him from the gurney. 

“Oh. Nice to see you, too.”

It was his name, called by Shen in a way that is too stressed to come from Shen of all people, that caused his head to jerk up so fast the room shook. Dehydration. Blood loss, maybe. Definitely stress.

“We got the kid.” Jack was across the floor and at your side so fast he didn’t remember moving, only that Langdon took over for him and finished some sutures.  

You were in a gurney, drenched in blood, and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe, but he had to, because you looked up at him and there was blood streaked across your damn face, his baby, oh god-

“Dad.” 

It wasn’t a question. An observation, maybe. It sounded more like a plea to Jack. 

He needed to stay calm. Instead, what slipped out is “oh god.”

Shen injected an IV in your arm. Mohan pushed him closer to your head. He went to reach for a blood bag, and Robby was beside him. Bless him, Robby was taking over primary patient care without any questions, which was for the best. 

Jack was good at acting under pressure, had saved lives while bombs blew behind him- but this was his kid. And he needed help. 

“Most of it isn’t mine,” You whispered, and it took him a moment to realize what you were talking about. The blood. Most of it wasn’t yours. 

No head injury. No spinal. Not internal bleeding. Impaired by blood loss and, now, the pain meds. The main source of blood loss is from a gunshot wound. In your leg. 

Someone shot his kid. 

“Dad?” 

And the world rushed back. 

“It's okay, honey. We got you. We’re gonna patch you up,” he soothed, attempting to focus on what he should be doing. To ignore how none of this should be happening in the first place. “You're okay. You're okay, I'm right here.”

Shen started a heavier painkiller on the IV. You shouldn't be awake for this. 

Still, watching you fight to stay awake made him want to start screaming. 

“Okay…” It was barely a whisper. 

He shouldn't have been able to hear it over all the commotion. He did, of course. Jack was always listening for you. 

“I love you.”

This was all so fucked up. 

“I love you too. It’s okay. You can sleep.”

Your eyes slipped shut. He got to work. 

—

When you woke up, it was a slow process. The world felt thick, like molasses. You opened your eyes, the ceiling familiar. 

Your throat was so dry it hurt. 

A machine beside you beeped steadily. An IV drip sat beside it. Your dad sat beside both, charting silently. His whole body jerked when you attempted to clear your throat. 

You stared at each other for a long moment. 

Slowly, he reached beside your bed and grabbed a cup of water with a straw, holding it up to your mouth. You sip lightly. 

Water had never tasted better. 

He set the cup back beside him, then grabbed your hand. 

“Hi, baby.”

It should have felt wrong to smile after everything. And yet, you do. “Hi, Dad.”

He had been crying. You could tell. You hoped someone was around, but you know he wouldn’t allow himself to break down within view. Unless it was Robby, maybe. Robby was here earlier, right? You’d seen him. He’d spoken to you. 

“My therapist is gonna have her hands full next session, huh.”

And now he was smiling, too, though it was the saddest smile you’d ever seen. You didn’t have to look at it for long, though, because he hugged you. It was awkward, with the wires and the hospital bed. His hands were shaking. It was amazingly perfect. 

“I love you. I love you so much, okay? Fuck…” He sounded choked up above you, and you would cry yourself if you could. It all seemed so distant right now. The tears would come with time, you knew. He'd be there when they do. 

“Paramedics told me some of what happened,” He pulled back, stroking a hand through your hair as he sat down. “I’m so proud of you. You were so brave. And I love you so, so much.’

Oh. At the festival. The woman and her bent leg and her butterfly makeup. The man who worked at the festival and wouldn't stop bleeding. 

Leaning into his hand, you croaked out, “You helped me do it.” 

And that didn’t make sense, really. You wanted to explain further. How you had remembered to use your belt. First Aid training. Hide and seek. But the world was still moving slowly, all wrong. And you were tired. And you had time to explain later. You had time. 

“Sleep?” He was still staring at you, so soft, as he adjusted the blankets on you. There were at least three, piled on the bed, and one of Robby’s sweaters on top. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Go to sleep. I'll be here.”

As your eyes slid closed, his palm ran soothingly up and down your arm. Distantly, you remembered you didn’t say I love you back. 

The hand ghosted over your IV site, checking for tension or shifting.

It was okay. He knew.

[whoisririn]

jealous abbot. (nsfw-is)

the music was loud on everyones ears, from across the booth Shen laughed loudly at a joke Santos made. it was rare for everyone to be out, but a few of the night shift took a night off to relax, so here they were.

Jacks arm was casually around you, his hand resting on your hip, playing with the fabric of your jeans, a beer on his other hand. you can feel his body vibrate with his small and quiet laughs, you can feel his breath on your neck, his eyes following yours.

"oh my god, mother gaga" Santos gasps from the other side of the table, her eyes darting at you. "come on, we have to dance"

Trinity drags Dennis to the dance floor too, the three of you singing and dancing to the voice of mother monster herself. Dennis is blushing from the alcohol on his veins and Trinity makes a joke about Robby eyeing him down.

"no he isn’t!" Dennis mumbles as he giggles, too drunk to care. "he so is, but you know who also has a staring problem? doctor Abbot" Trinity turns at you with the same cheeky smile.

"no, we aren't having this conversation" you shake your head, still smiling, your eyes moving at the table to take a quick glance at the rest of your coworkers, Jack was laughing behind his beer, shaking his head at something Robby said.

"i might like girls, but i know how a guy acts when they like someone. he is into you, and not just into you, he wants you, like hardcore se-" you cover her mouth, feeling your cheek grow red as she speaks.

"shut up! don't say things like that... we are close, good friends" you mumble, taking your hand away as you glare at Dennis who is chuckling st the scene.

"yeah, like Dennis and Robby" she insists and you just roll your eyes. "fine, then flirt with someone, you always complain ablut needing to get laid... get laid" her smile is the same as before but you can see it on her eyes, the slight change, like she was planning something.

"fine" you scoff, arms crossed, looking around the room, scanning. your eyes land on a good looking guys, around your age, a bit tall, not as strong as Jack. your eyes go back to Trinity "got it, now stop saying things about Ja- doctor Abbot and me"

"go get him!" Dennis cheers as you walk away from them, towards the bar. the moment you walk past the table you regret it, you could have sat back down next to Jack, listen to him lecturing you about drinking water between shots and needing to eat more when you are drinking this much, you could be feeling his skin against yours, his hand on your thigh below the table where no one can see. instead you are here, "hi, cool tattoo, this might sound silly but my friends told me to talk to you" you say to the random besides you.

he was funny, you can give him that, for the past 15 minutes he has made you laugh a few times, he is interesting enough to make you stay for those 15 minutes. Carlos (the guy) leans closer everytime he gets a laugh out of you, you notice, and Jack does too, but he doesn't move, you wanted to talk with him? fine, he doesn't own you, you aren't his, you aren't dsting or anything, he doesn't have the right to feel angry, or at least that's what he keeps telling himself.

"here are your drinks" the bartender places the drink in front of you, you nod with a soft smile. "like i was saying-" the voice of Carlos os interrupted by a small tud besides you, a hand smacking the table, you don't need to look up to know who it is, and yet you do.

"Jack" you whisper, mouth slightly open, he smiles at you, the same smile he gives at rude patients, fake, cold, you hate it.

"hi, sweetheart" he talks quietly, not even looking at Carlos "sorry to ruin your date but Javadi is puking on the bathroom and she is calling for you" he finally looks at Carlos, glaring into his soul as if he did hard enough he would vanish.

you apologize quickly before walking away, Jacks hand around your wrist as he leads you out of the bar. "did you seriously just lie to get me out?" you ask a bit surprised, he doesn't let go for a few seconds, his hand squeezing your wrist before letting go, crossing his arms over his chest. his hair was messy, the black tshirt tightening around his biceps, you try to not look.

"Javadi is puking but she is with Mel, but more important, you didn't even know because you weren't with them" he shots back, he was mad.

"oh, well i don't have to stick with everyone all night, like, Trinity is probably with some rando and no one cares, a lot of people do it, it’s the same" your argument is horrible, you want to take it back as soon as you say it, because it wasn’t the same at all.

"oh" Jack tilts his head slightly, eyebrows raising in disbelief "is it now? because last time i checked we aren't the same as everyone else here. you come home with me, i drive you to my place and you sleep in my shirts, i pay for your drink and food here, you whine my name when i kiss your neck, is that the same?"

"we were just talking" you whisper, one of your hands touching his forearm, making him drop his arms down. "yeah, but he was getting ideas, he thought that you wanted him" Jack leans towards you, making sure that you are looking back at him "do you know how that feels? how hard i was trying to sit still on that fucking table as he brushed your arm?" you shake your head and put yourself in his shoes, if Jack was at the bar stools talking with someone close to his age, laughing, letting them touch him. you would lose your mind. "that's it, we are going home, now"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

the sun starts to go down, you adjust your backpack on your arms as you walk into the ptmc. Jack walks inside a few seconds later, two coffes in hand, one for you, you know because you where in the car as he bought them, you know because you woke up with him and he complained about being sleepy.

"so, just close friends" Trinity talks with a devious smile, despite being tired, she had to tease you.

"shut up, you saw nothing" you whisper as you look to the sides.

"i didn't, was there something to see? oh my god... how long have you two been fucking?" she stands from the rolling chair at the hub and follows you to the lockers.

"i'm not answering anything" you talk a bit louder since the lockers are empty, you pull up the collar of your undershirt and glare at her.

"no, i have to know everything, because i thought he just liked you but it turns out you and him are fuc-"

"handover in 5" Jack talks behind Trinity, handing you your coffee "good evening doctor Santos" he says before leaving.

"okay, tell me everything after your shift, i'll read it with Dennis when we wake up" she smiles as she starts to walk away, only to stop by the wall "oh, and you have one here" she says as she point to the side of her neck, you curse as she leaves, knowing somone must have seen it and how fast rumors spread here.

[marlboroughmills]

promise - j. abbot

✧･ﾟ: * pairing: Jack Abbot x Female!Reader

✧･ﾟ: * summary: you've been working the day shift throughout your pregnancy without much of a problem. but the third trimester is a bitch.

✧･ﾟ: * content: tooth-rotting fluff, blood draw, pregnancy, soft-whipped-husband-jack abbot

The sun rises over Pittsburgh and it's really a beautiful morning. The lady on the weather channel said that at least three times as you begrudgingly got ready, so it must be true.

You, however, practically crawl into the ambulance bay at the hospital to clock into the day shift and do the best you can for your patients. The best you can on only four hours of sleep, that is—if you were even counting them correctly.

You hear him before you see him. Jack is whistling "Mr. Brightside," one of his favorite songs ever. Comin' out of my cage and I've been doin' just fine, gotta gotta be down because I want it all. He emerges from the sliding doors, his camo backpack slung over one shoulder. His chipper attitude is the one thing you've smiled at since you woke up. 

It means all the more because you know he's tired and ready to go home, but wants to give you a good start to the day shift. You're reminded once again that you have the best husband in the world. 

"Dr. Unstoppable," Jack smiles crookedly, giving you a kiss and a coffee from the break room. "It's decaf, promise. Good morning."

It's a game the two of you play now: at shift change, he gives you a cute nickname and a cup of decaf, which he makes just for you as he does his final charting. Switching to decaf during your first trimester was maybe harder than all of medical school put together. 

"Good morning, sunshine," you say with as much enthusiasm as you can muster.

"You doing okay?" he asks, his voice lowering with concern. "You and baby?"

You instinctively rest your hand on the swell of your belly, now seven months along, rounded under your blissfully loose maternity scrubs. "Just tired, hon. You know how it is."

"Nah. I've never carried someone else around for an entire twelve-hour shift." He steps forward and presses the back of his fingers to your forehead. Satisfied with your temperature, he takes your pulse at your throat. 

"Jack—"

He quietens you with one serious look and lets his hand drop after a few seconds. 

"Little too fast for my liking. Sure you shouldn't come home with me?"

Robby's voice pipes up from somewhere behind you. "Who's going home?"

"No one," you sing before Jack can answer. You turn to see Robby putting away his headphones. "Morning, Robby."

You love working with Robby. Having him as your attending eased the difficulty of switching to an entirely different shift from your husband, and he's a great teacher. Where Jack is the decisive and creative rebel, Robby is the textbook and patient mentor. Getting to learn from both of them is a gift, one that you're eternally grateful for. 

You and Jack worked together for most of your time in the Pitt, first as an intern and then as a resident, even though Gloria threw fits about the HR implications all throughout your relationship. Jack never was a rule follower, and in his mind, you made it all worth it regardless. You got married and stayed on the night shift, never tiring of your firecracker attending physician.

As soon as you found out you were pregnant, Jack kindly but firmly insisted you switch with someone on day shift. Your OB-GYN, who Jack knew and trusted, recommended it, as well as working fewer shifts altogether. So you switched with Collins. And you simply pretend that you never overheard Jack on the phone with Robby, telling him to take care of you or else. 

The change was unexpectedly hard—having to recalibrate your Circadian rhythm for the first time in years, not to mention the bonkers pregnancy hormones. You spend your days off trying not to cling to Jack, forcing yourself to remember that he needs to sleep while the sun is up. But he stays awake as much as he can, and it makes your heart swell.

But the concerned look on his face now, lit up by the morning sun, is making your heart crack a bit. 

"Morning," Robby chimes, taking off his sunglasses. He nods to Jack. The two of them know each other so well that sometimes they don't even bother with words. "How's baby?"

"She was rolling around last night," you say with a groan. "Imagine trying to sleep with a rotisserie chicken in your torso."

Robby throws his head back and laughs. "I don't think I can." Seeing Jack's expression, Robby sobers and pats you on the shoulder in his friendly way. "You sure you're up for it today?"

You very pointedly do not look at Jack. Just last week, the two of you had an argument about you continuing to work full twelves multiple times per week. You love your job as much as Jack loves his, but he is increasingly worried. The hours took a toll on any person, so he could only imagine what it was like doing ER shifts with a first-time pregnancy.

And it kills him that you have to do it without him.

"I'll be okay, promise." You hold up the lunchbox Jack packed for you and finally dare to look at him. "I'll eat and keep my fluids up, Dr. Abbot."

Jack finally allows one side of his mouth to quirk up. You kiss his cheek, basking in the feel of the scruff on his face, and tell him to head home.

"Have a good day. See ya, Robby."

"Bye, Jack. I've got her, buddy."

It's only two o'clock and shit has, as they say, hit the fan.

A city bus crash in the mid-morning brought in a flurry of critical cases, so the trauma bays and chairs were completely full even earlier than normal. The bus collided with a minivan carrying a pregnant woman and her two kids, one of whom had a serious neck injury, and the trauma of it all sent the expecting mother into an early delivery. It was moving too quickly for her to get up to labor and delivery's floor, so the poor woman screamed in a bay while the crash victims sat in the hallways murmuring to one another.

Apparently, the windows completely blew out of one side of the bus, so almost everyone on board needed stitches, which took hours in and of itself. 

One of the better off crash victims, Marina, only needed stitches in her left arm. She lit up like a Christmas tree when she realized you were pregnant and interrogated you the entire time, in the well-meaning way of a young woman who's just gone through something very scary.

"When are you due?"

"December 29. I can't wait."

What does kicking feel like? Like there's an increasingly large fish trapped in a tank that is your stomach. Is this your first pregnancy? Yes. Is the father in the picture? Yes, he actually works here. Really? Oh, how sweet! Is he a doctor? Yes, he's also an ER doctor. Is it the older guy I saw out in the hall? No, that's Dr. Robby. But he's a very good man, too. He looks like it—if I may say so! I think that's the general consensus. Thanks, Dr. Abbot. Take care.

You discharge Marina after you promise her that you'll keep her name in mind as a contender for the baby. While you're showing an intern how to do a clean suture line on a different patient, a psych patient sprints down the hall with a (thankfully empty) bedpan. He spots the three of you in one of the central rooms and hurls it at the intern, who was just putting her tools back on the tray. The corner of the bedpan nails her in the temple, and she crumples to the floor.

"Robby! Mateo!" you shout. "I need a little help here! And for God's sake, somebody sedate Mr. Bryant!"

Once the intern is roused, assessed, and put in the on-call room with some apple juice and a prayer, you finally get to circle back to one of your pediatric cases. It was just a bad asthma attack, and the kid is now stable, waiting on his parents so he can be discharged.

"Hey, Dr. Abbot," he says cheerfully. "I finished my orange juice."

"Good job, sweetie. While we wait for mom and dad, can you repeat back to me what we talked about earlier? About how you're going to remember to keep your inhaler on you all the time?"

Looking accomplished but a little bashful, he begins to recall the tips you went over with him. You try to nod attentively but you feel strange.

The painted animals on the walls start to change colors a bit. They become pastel instead of their normal vibrant colors. When you blink, they don't go back to normal.

Your lungs don't fully expand when you breathe. The edges of your vision are darkening, like someone reaching around and cupping their hands by your eyes. It sounds like a machine somewhere is whining. I need to turn that off.

Your patient nods with finality, expecting you to congratulate him on his sharp memory, but you can't.

The door opens behind you. Distantly, you hear Dana say, "Dr. Abbot, mom and dad are finally here. Time to discharge this sweetie pie."

Thrilled, the kid jumps off the bed and follows Dana out.

When you stand up to leave, your entire field of vision flashes white and your legs buckle. You feel a twinge of fear, and then nothing else at all.

It's Robby's voice you hear first. "Dr. Abbot. Wake up for us, sweetheart!"

You want to open your eyes, to put him at ease, but the light is so unbearably bright. You feel multiple gloved hands: one holding your wrist, one rubbing your sternum vigorously. It hurts, and you finally know what it's like to be on the receiving end of a pain response assessment.

The confusion is almost worse than the headache and lightheadedness. You can feel a gurney beneath you. You're also freezing cold. And it seems like no matter how hard you try, you can't get your damn eyes to open.

Whoever's digging their knuckles into your sternum is doing a good job, because you finally groan and open your eyes a sliver. You hear Princess shout, "She's awake!" and a deep exhale from Robby. 

"Come on, Dr. Abbot," Mateo says. "Open those eyes for us. You're scaring the crap outta me."

You're earnestly trying to comply when Robby flashes his penlight into both your pupils, and you groan again, biting back a few swear words. "Pupils look good," Robby says.

"I—I get that a lot," you try to joke, but your voice sounds far away and reedy.

Robby chuckles, more for your benefit than any real amusement. "Mateo, you get ahold of Jack?"

"Yessir. He's on his way."

At that, you finally get your eyes open all the way, squinting at the seemingly full patient bay. You're surrounded by Princess—holding your wrist and saying something to herself in Tagalog—Robby, Mateo, your sweet little intern, and Dana, who is peeping in without straying too far from central, just in case she's needed. You hear Samira calling from another curtained-off bed, asking about you. 

Tears well in your eyes, unbidden. Of course you passed out on one of the most hectic day shifts in a long time. Robby sees the sheen in your eyes and tells Princess to go help Samira and for Mateo to go get a needle and an ultrasound machine. 

Terror hits you then. You splay your hands over your stomach, your breath coming out in short gasps. 

"Robby," you start to sob, and the tender look on his face makes you cry harder.

The intern shuffles out, pushed on her way by Dana, who gives you a caring smile.

"Shhh. We're gonna check everything out." Robby holds one of your hands. "If you'll let me, I'm gonna do an ultrasound while Mateo does a blood draw for a panel. That ok?"

Swallowing the rest of your sobs as well as to can, you nod, staring up at the ceiling to try to conquer your dizziness. You hear the ultrasound machine's squeaky wheels and Robby warns you about the cold gel, even though he knows you know.

You hate that you're too afraid to even look at the screen.

"There she is," Robby says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. You cover your eyes so he can't see the tears again. "Baby Abbot, happy as a clam. Heartbeat's good." He switches the machine off and wipes your stomach with a tissue while you blow your nose into another one.

"Thank God," you whimper, gripping Robby's forearm, just needing some comfort from another human being. He lets you.

"Where is she?" a familiar voice nearly shouts in central. You hear Dana using her very best customer service tone, the one that could calm even the rudest patient out in chairs.

Jack appears around the curtain, Dana and Mateo close at his heels, and you release a shuddering breath. Jack's jaw is clenched tight and his shoulders are locked.

"Sorry to wake you up, honey," you say weakly, absolutely refusing to cry any more. He rushes over to you and grabs your still-freezing-cold hand.

"Don't apologize," he rasps, biting his lip hard. He tucks a stray hair behind your ear. "You alright?"

You muster up a smile. "'Course I am. I'm Dr. Unstoppable."

Robby gestures to Mateo, who maneuvers around Jack with a needle in his hand. Mateo expertly finds a vein in your arm and takes a sufficient draw before Jack can even ask more questions.

"Baby's alright," Robby says, taking his gloves off and looking seriously at Jack. The former takes an iPad from Princess. "I'm ordering a rapid blood panel. If it's all the same to you, we're gonna put your gurney in the break room. It's quieter and you'll have privacy while you wait."

"And that'll free up this patient bay," you retort without any real venom. You know how it is in the Pitt, and you already feel horrible for inconveniencing all the staff during an already crazy day. "Thank you, Robby. And I'm so sorry."

"None of that," Robby says as he stands up. "My order is in. Now let's get you situated."

Without needing to speak, Jack and Mateo work together to push the gurney out toward the break room. You're certain you blush fiercely with all the staff and patients staring at you, but Jack has one hand on your shoulder, and it grounds you. The two men park you in the corner of the break room, the table moved to one side, and Mateo bows out with one of his sweet smiles. 

I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to—

"Sweetheart," Jack murmurs. The raw worry on his face snaps you in half. "What happened?"

He's met by gut-wrenching sobs that threaten to tear his heart out of his chest and out the window. You're crying so hard that it's difficult for you to catch your breath, and he presses your head into his chest, holding one of your cold hands so tightly he's afraid he might be hurting you.

"Talk to me, angel." He pulls up the bottom of his old army shirt—something he had yanked out of the dresser in a hurry, no doubt—and wipes your face with it, not caring how the fabric will look. You hiccup. 

"I don't know," you finally answer, shakily. "One minute I'm in pedes talking to an asthma case and the next, Robby is trying to fracture my sternum." You're joking, to ease the pain of it all, but Jack only runs a hand down your spine and nods. You look up into his hazel eyes. "Jack, I'm so glad you're here."

He holds your face in his hands and kisses your forehead. "That's right. I'm here." He steps over to take one of the wooden chairs from the table and places it as close to the gurney as he can. "The labs are going to take a couple of hours. I want you to sleep. I'll wake you in a bit to eat."

You frown. "I promise I meant to eat, Jack. Really."

"All the ER staff say that," he hums, but his usual cutthroat sarcasm doesn't have an edge. "I'm going to go find you a pillow and blanket." When he returns, he tucks you in earnestly and kisses you as gently as he can.

Ten minutes later, you're floating on the edge of sleep despite the muffled noise of the ER and the fluorescent lights. Jack has his chin propped on the gurney and is running his fingers through your hair so softly that you almost don't feel it. In the last moments before you drift off, you swear he's talking to himself.

"Gonna be okay, sweetheart. I swear it. My girls are gonna be alright."

After Jack feeds you your lunch and you take another long nap, Robby comes in with an iPad. The sound of the door wakes you, and Jack pulls out a chair for Robby.

"Alright, Dr. Abbot, Dr. Abbot," he says with a smirk, nodding at each of you. "I've got great news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

You say bad news at the exact same time that Jack says great news. You squeeze his hand. 

"I'll respect the lady's wishes. The bad news is you've got rather severe anemia. Not too uncommon in the second and third trimester with the increased blood volume, as I'm sure you both know." He spins the iPad around to show you your chart, ever the teaching doctor, even when he's not trying to be. 

"The great news," he says, looking at Jack specifically, "is that everything else is normal. I even consulted with McClellan from labor and delivery. She agrees with me. Recommends iron supplements, bed rest for a while, and a high-iron diet hereafter."

You and your husband still. Then, Jack seems to deflate, his head coming to rest on your thigh. You watch as his rigid hands curl out of their fists. You smile broadly and stroke your husband's back. "That's it? That's all?"

"That's all. The combined low iron, high stress, little sleep, and moving into the third trimester is what caused the fainting. Hopefully it won't happen again." Robby clutches the tablet to his chest. "And I'm sending you home for at least the rest of the week."

"Robby!"

"Doctor's orders," he shrugs. "Jack, I'm feeling inspired to work a double tonight and let Shen take tomorrow. Will you let me?"

Jack is quiet and you realize that his eyes are glistening with tears. "Thanks, man."

They shake hands, which turns into the one-armed hug you recognize from years of knowing them both. Robby even leans down and squeezes you tight. 

"Thank you so much, Robby. We love you." 

Robby races over to the door. "Don't get sappy. Get outta here." He opens the door and points at you. "Bed rest!"

"I hear you."

Robby waves and disappears. 

"Let's stop by the pharmacy for some iron and then head home," Jack says with finality. He briefly leaves and comes back with your bag from the locker room—he knows your code as well as his own. He throws your floral-pattered tote over his shoulder without a bit of irony, and it makes your heart lurch.

No complaining. No I told you so. No arguing. Just a gentle invitation.

You grin like an idiot as he helps you off the gurney. "I love you, Dr. Abbot."

He kisses the top of your head as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. "And I love you, Dr. Abbot. And our little one. So much."

"I won't tell anyone."

"Good. I've got an image to maintain."

[baisemains]

— Private Selection ᥫ᭡

trinity santos x afab!reader

word count: 3k

contains: established relationship, reader is not physically described, alcohol, food, pet names, fluff, smut, dom!reader, sub!trinity, oral (r receiving), praise kink, ummm romantic sex! 😄

description: your girlfriend suggests trying a new restaurant for dinner tonight, but what you're really craving isn't the food.

a/n: wanted an excuse to write romantic smut for my babygirl so 🤷‍♀️ here it is, enjoy! 🍷

ao3 link | spotify playlist

trinity santos masterlist

"Baby, you almost ready?" Calling out for your girlfriend from your place in the kitchen, you're double checking that you have your cards and ID in your wallet.

"Yes, darling, just couldn't find my pants." Trinity appears in the doorway of your shared bedroom, padding over to you while adjusting the belt adorning her black slacks.

The pet name makes you beam, having let her know early on in your relationship how much you enjoyed using them. She plants a kiss on your cheek before grabbing your hand and spinning you around, letting out a low whistle. "Mm, I'm not sure I wanna go out anymore, you look..."

Facing her again, you see the way she's looking you over with a predatory gaze, bringing her lower lip into her mouth as she does.

"You look pretty sexy yourself," letting your eyes roam over her figure, you notice she's wearing the red long sleeve that hugs her perfectly, "I love this—"

Your attempt to brush her off is cut short when she attaches her lips to yours, tongue swiping along your bottom one immediately. Instinct kicks in before anything else, parting your lips to allow her entrance, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. Her hands encircle your waist as yours wrap around her neck and she pushes you into the kitchen table.

You're lost in the haze of the moment until you feel the hands on your back slide down to your ass and squeeze, causing you to moan into her before jerking away, eyes flying open. The string of saliva connecting your mouths is visible, and your girlfriend raises a thumb to break it before bringing that same digit to her lips and licking it off.

Rolling your eyes with a smile, you put a hand on her chest to keep distance between you, your own slightly heaving. "Should've thought of that before you made the reservation, doctor. Now you have to wait."

Trinity groans at that, cursing her past self who listened to you instead of walking in like she originally planned. "That was your idea, by the way, not mine!"

Chuckling softly, you gather your things by the door before slipping your shoes on and grabbing Trinity's keys, dangling them in the air before you. "What a shame. Now let's go, I'm hungry."

Grumbling under her breath, your girlfriend walks to entryway and grabs the pointed black boots you'd gotten her for her last birthday. Putting them on quickly, she follows you out to the hallway before grabbing her keys from your hand and locking the door. Slipping her hand into yours, she leads you down to her car, opening your door for you before sliding into the driver's seat.

The entire drive to the restaurant, you stare at her as the two of you talk about your weeks, and you relish the way her cheeks tint pink when you slide a gentle hand over her thigh. Stroking it slowly, she begins to stutter through her sentence as she tries her best to focus on the road ahead, brain buffering while you look at her with a faux confused face.

Luckily for her, you arrive at the restaurant soon after, Trinity whispering a silent thanks to whoever is listening when she finds a parking spot right away. Putting the car into park, she shuts the engine off and lays her head against the headrest, sighing quietly before turning to you and narrowing her eyes. "You're evil, you know that?"

A wicked smile crosses your face as you wink and squeeze the thigh still under your hand before unbuckling yourself and opening your door. "You love it."

A grin breaks out on Trinity's face as she also exits the car, unable to deny that she does, in fact, love it. Walking into the restaurant hand in hand, you give the hostess your name for the reservation as your girlfriend looks around, taking in the atmosphere of the building.

When the woman checks you in and asks the two of you follow her, she leads you outside to a section of tables on the patio before putting two menus down on the furthest one. "Your server will be right with you." You both thank her after taking your seats and picking up your menus, the hostess leaving to seat other customers.

"God, I'm gonna need a drink after that drive," Trinity mutters under her breath, flipping open her menu like it holds the resolve she's grasping for.

She sneaks a glance at you over the edge, gaze sparkling with mischief. "Or maybe just another kiss. To hold me over." A soft breeze catches her hair as she leans forward slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. "You're really gonna make me wait all through dinner?" Her green eyes glint in the patio lights—equal parts pleading and mischievous.

A soft laugh escapes your lips before you lean in slightly, reply coated in that warm, honeyed tone that always makes her pulse skip. "I absolutely am." Then—because you can’t help yourself—you reach across the table and brush your thumb along her knuckles ever so teasingly. "But if you behave tonight…we can skip dessert here and have it at home."

Her breath hitches just as the server approaches.

Challenge accepted.

That twinkle in her eye is back, and she straightens up, folding her hands on the table as the waiter begins his introduction. She's almost too polite in her response, flashing a wide smile before ordering a glass of wine without hesitation. The young man leaves after you give him your order, and Trinity shifts in her seat, the material of her shirt adjusting across her chest and drawing your attention almost magnetically.

Her eyes never leave yours, and she leans forward, mirroring your gesture from earlier, hand brushing over your wrist briefly. "You sure you're still up for this?"

Setting your jaw, you have a momentary want to give in to the woman across from you, to do away with the little contest you've set, but you know good things come to those who wait, and that it will make your victory even sweeter. Moving your hand away from hers, you look down towards your menu again before responding, foot briefly brushing her calf as you do. "100%."

The rest of dinner drags on at a tortuous speed, at least for Trinity. You do nothing but tease her the entire time, 'accidentally' grazing your limbs against hers, making double entendres that draw out multiple groans and blushing cheeks. She's sure that this is how she dies, frustrated and aching for more.

When the check finally comes, she throws her card down with a quickness, tipping generously and practically dragging you out of the restaurant. It takes a great deal of her restraint to not speed home, reminding herself of how dangerous reckless driving is and that it won't get you two to your destination any faster.

That thought almost flies out the window when a warm hand threads through the baby hairs at the nape of her neck, wrapping a few strands around your finger and tugging. She actually whimpers, eyelids fluttering shut and squeezing the steering wheel with both hands.

A few seconds pass before the car behind honks their horn, signaling that the light is now green. Trinity's eyes shoot open and she quickly looks around before pulling off, face heating up with embarrassment as well as arousal while all you do is giggle and drag your nails along her scalp.

When your apartment building comes into view, Trinity actually cheers, an exasperated "Thank fuck" following, before parking her car along the curb in front. She almost forgets to turn the engine off before yanking her door open and flying around to your side, hauling you upstairs at record speed.

Once she manages to get the door open, she flicks the nearby lamp on and pulls you into the room. Slamming it shut and turning the lock before pushing you against it, she wastes no time as she slots her mouth onto yours and moans in relief. Smiling against her lips, you let Trinity take the lead, knowing you've teased her enough tonight.

She bites your lip with force, causing you to gasp at the pain before she soothes it with her tongue. "You were driving me insane, you know that?" She whispers into your mouth, pecking the spot she just pierced with her teeth and beginning to kiss under your ear.

Arching up into her, you feel her hands scratch along your back as you slide your hands into her hair. "That was always the plan, baby."

A low growl rumbles in her throat at your words, and she nips sharply at your neck before dragging her lips back up to capture yours again—hard, hungry, like she’s been starving for days. Your fingers twist in her hair, tugging just enough to make her whimper into your mouth.

“Next time,” she breathes between kisses, “We're ordering in. I'm never letting you make me wait like that again.”

You laugh darkly, heart pounding against your ribs. “You think you're running this show?”

She pulls back just enough to glare at you, playful fire dancing in those green eyes, and then pouts. "I earned this."

"Oh, really?" You can't help but tease, raising one eyebrow. "Earned it how? By sitting across from me all night, looking desperate so I'd give in?"

The color on her cheeks deepens from pink to red, but she doesn't look away. "Like you weren't torturing me all night."

You hum, pretending to consider that. "Maybe I was. I like watching you squirm."

Now it's your turn to take charge, remind your girlfriend who's really in control. Capturing her lips with force, you grab her hands and place them on your ass, mirroring her actions from earlier, and you feel the smile against your mouth.

Lifting your hands higher, you take one and place it on her chest before ghosting the other over a pebbling nipple and rolling it between rough fingers. Your girlfriend noticeably shudders while the hand on her chest then pulls at the chain tucked under her shirt. "This necklace looks so fuckin' sexy on you, baby."

That causes her to grind down onto you, feeling the warmth between her legs on your thigh. Building the tension further and further, you lean down to lick a strip from her collarbone to her ear, nibbling the shell of it and receiving a quiet moan in return.

You smile to yourself before whispering in a heated ear, "You can have your dessert now."

It takes a second for your permission to register through the aroused haze of Trinity's mind, but once it does, she immediately freezes before letting out a noise of relief and pulling at your clothes. "Off, everything, I need to feel you."

A shiver rolls across your skin at the huskiness in her tone, and you're more than happy to obey, helping her strip you of your clothes. As soon as the last article hits the floor, Trinity is on you, hands and mouth roaming hungrily, eager to touch and taste every inch of you. You feel her blunt nails run down your back, arching against her touch.

"Shit," she breathes, shuddering. "I've wanted this all goddamn night."

Immediately enveloping an erect nipple with perfectly pink lips, the feeling of the woman's tongue drags a loud moan out of you, forgetting about the neighbors who can definitely hear it.

Her free hand drifts down to the apex of your legs, teasing your inner thighs with light, feathery touches, knowing how much it drives you crazy. She hums against your chest, relishing the shiver that runs through you then pulling back with an obscene pop before giving your other nipple the same treatment.

"I wanna taste you," she husks, meeting your gaze, pupils growing. "Can I? Please?"

Tongue darting out to wet your lips, you nod slowly before cupping her cheek and running your thumb across the skin there. The women below you turns her head toward your hand, pecking your palm over and over. "Thank you."

The soft murmurs of gratitude against your skin send another wave of heat coursing through you, and you swallow thickly, unable to look away from the tenderness in her expression. It only makes you want her even more, and you gently brush a few strands of hair from her face before nudging her head lower with a quiet command.

"Go ahead, angel."

Her eyes never leaving yours, Trinity sinks to her knees, hands running over your thighs with reverent caresses. Your breath hitches as she leans forward, leaving an open-mouthed kiss on your hip before moving lower, so torturously slow it makes you ache.

The brunette begins suckling at the crease of your thighs, biting then soothing the inner planes of them. Keeping this up for several minutes, you curl your fingers through brown tresses and pull her to where you really need her, and she gets the hint.

A soft groan falls from your lips as her tongue finally drags through your pussy, hot and sure. "Mm, you taste so fuckin' good," she murmurs against your skin, voice muffled and thick with want. The first slow, deliberate swipe was pure sin, and when she follows it with a gentle suck just above where you need her most, your knees nearly give out. Her thumbs spread your dripping lips gently, then—without warning—she laps at you again, deeper this time.

Your fingers tangle in her hair as a shaky gasp escapes you. “Trin…” It comes out half-plea, half-warning. "I need more."

She looks up at you quickly and blinks, clouded eyes on display as onyx overtakes emerald. “Yeah?” One hand slides up your thigh to grip your hip hard enough to bruise. “Then hold on.” Her mouth closes over you completely, and all coherent thought dissolves into nothing but heat and stimulation.

The combination of your touch, the sight of you like this, and the way her name sounds in your voice is almost too much for Trinity to handle. She can't help but moan against you, tasting you, wanting more of that sound, that sensation.

Your skin feels hot to the touch, burning under her fingers as you writhe and gasp. She watches your expression from beneath thick lashes, committing this moment to memory and feeling her own need coiling low in her stomach. "God, you're gorgeous like this," she husks, pulling back just enough to speak.

Your breath hitches at the raw worship in her voice, and you tug harder on her hair, guiding her back to where you need her. “Don’t stop,” you whimper, voice trembling. “Right there, baby, right there.”

She obeys with a growl, tongue flicking over your clit in fast, firm strokes before sucking it gently between her lips. Your back arches off the door with a cry, hips bucking against her mouth as pleasure spreads from your core to the furthest reaches of your body. Every nerve is alight—her name spills from your lips again and again like a prayer.

And she eats you like she’s starving.

Like she means to memorize every shudder, every moan.

Like she’ll never get enough.

Her tongue slipping inside your pussy and reaching as far as it can forces a deep moan from your throat, spurring her on. Alternating between curling it against that sensitive spot and pulling out to kiss around your clit, Trinity is sending you hurtling towards the precipice faster than you can handle.

The sounds falling freely from both of you fills the air, obscene in tandem with your ragged breathing. Your body is coiled tight with need, and your fingers twitch in her hair as the sensation becomes almost too much. It's like she can read your body like a map, knowing exactly what you need before you do.

"I—" your words are broken by a gasp as her tongue bends just right, white-hot pleasure sparking through you. "I'm close," you manage to breathe. "I'm so close."

She hums against you—low, deep, devastating—and the vibration alone nearly pushes you over the edge. Her fingers dig into your hips, throwing one leg over her shoulder as she redoubles her efforts: flicking, sucking, swirling against your clit with relentless precision.

“Cum for me, baby,” she murmurs between licks, voice rough with want. “Let me taste it.”

Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps as your thighs tremble around her head. The tension snaps suddenly and beautifully—your back arches sharply and a cry rips from your throat as pleasure crashes through you like a wave.

And Trinity doesn’t let up.

She rides out every pulse and spasm with soft licks and gentle sucks until you’re squirming again—not from need this time but sensitivity—and weakly tugging at her hair to pull away.

Only then does she finally lift her head, lips and chin glistening in the dim light. Her eyes are the darkest shade of green you've ever seen them and there’s a satisfied look playing on her features.

“You taste so sweet,” she murmurs before flicking her tongue out and cleaning up the mess running down your thighs. “My favorite dessert.”

Your muscles are still shaking when you fully slump against the door, fatigued and breathless. It takes a minute for your pulse to return to something akin to normal, and even longer for your mind to wind down. Finally, your gaze refocuses on Trinity, still kneeling at your feet, and you swear you've never seen her look so radiant.

"Satisfied with yourself?" you tease, voice hoarse.

Your girlfriend moves to stand, shrugging once she's at her full height and sending a smile your way, encircling your waist with strong arms and a firm grasp. "Maybe."

Before she can continue with a snarky remark, you hook a hand behind her neck and pull her into a deep kiss, tasting yourself on her lips and loving every second of it. When you finally break away, your fingers trail down to the bottom of her shirt, scratching along the pale skin underneath.

“Your turn,” you murmur darkly. “Let’s see how much you can take.” Slipping a finger under her chain, you begin dragging her to your bedroom with a renewed sense of passion, almost causing her to stumble behind you.

Her breath hitches.

Challenge accepted—again.

[rynwrites4fun]

Affinity (1) | Jack Abbot x Popstar ! Reader

Jack Abbot x F ! Popstar ! Reader

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

Word Count: 7075

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack rolled his eyes, continuing to type.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The bus just pulled up,” John said.

“Yeah, but—” Jack’s brow furrowed.

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

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

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

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But before he could move, a nurse intercepted him.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“I got Popstar’s results back.”

“What do they show?”

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

“Okay—”

“But there’s a problem.”

“Problem?”

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

“Gone?” Jack’s eyebrows shot up.

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

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

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

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

“I think I know where she might be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He steps closer to the railing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a little while before he speaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be watched by everyone… yet never truly seen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hug the hoodie tighter around yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack has a playful smirk on his face “What? Fair’s fair. I butchered it, might as well hear it from the professional.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Without thinking, your words slip out, more flirty than you intended. “The only way you’ll see me perform that song… is if you get a private concert.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jack… wait.”

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

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

“Yeah, of course”

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

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

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

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want an autograph too?” you tease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Affinity Tag List:

Affinity | (1)

[kendallroydefender]

Cowboy take me away (Kayce Dutton x Roy!fem!reader)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

(More coming soon!)