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so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god
okay so i just got my dream job??? a week after applying to it?? and now i’m thinking….maybe this is the good luck post
…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
i need all the help i can get for finals
Hey so
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.
So you know.
This might be the real one, y’all.
I could use some luck
The good luck post! \o/
SMOKE
contains: youngerdom!reader, sub!dana, eye rolling, dana's nicknames for reader, kitchen counter sex, oral sex, fingers in mouth.
description: annoying Dana although out her 12 hour shift is the only way you get to taste her tonight.
a/n: sorry for the long wait. i was swamped
wc: 1.4k
“Hey, boss. can I go out for a smoke?” you slide across the counter of the nurses’ station, wriggling your eyebrows at Dana who’s eyeing you through her glasses.
She let out a breath, not finding your tactics amusing. “You were just out for one, weren’t ya?”
You gave her a shrug and looked down as you pick at your cuticles, as well as to suppress the laughter that threatened to escape your throat.
“What can I say? Being an R3 is tough.”
“You’ll fry off your lungs before you even finish your residency, kid.”
You rolled your eyes at the nickname, a groan following soon after. “Quit calling me that. I’m not one of your nasty children.”
Dana’s lips quirked into a smirk at your reaction, her head shaking when your face scrunched into a scowl. “Yet you’re here acting like one.”
Your head snapped up at her comeback, mouth hung open as if you just heard the most painful insult.
“And that’s why i’m going out for a smoke.”
“You better watch it, doctor. Being stubborn won’t get ya anywhere.” Dana scolded, her voice now turning serious and has that cold edge that you love.
You didn’t turn around to respond, instead you waved a hand at her before sliding through the exit.
It wasn’t long before the both of you arrived at your shared house—Dana’s house, to be exact. Her kids moved out and you moved in, although they pay the two of you visits from time to time.
The car ride was silent, you were focused on the road while Dana was looking out the window—but you can tell that she wanted nothing to do with you.
You’ve been getting on her nerves all day. Running your mouth to the med students around her, going out for a smoke after every patient, and joining Santos on her bitchiness spree.
She wasn’t having any of it. It was on purpose though. You always knew how to get her worked up, and even though this “method” of yours is dangerous because you can’t really predict Dana’s reaction—it’s surprisingly effective.
When you stepped inside the house, Dana walked ahead and entered the kitchen to cook whatever she could find for the both of you.
You were left behind, dropping your keys to the bowl on top of the drawer at the entrance, hanging your jacket to the clothing rack, and taking off your shoes before following suite.
Dana was already frying eggs and bacon on the barely heated pan and you slowly creeped up behind her, hands snaking around her waist.
You could tell that she was taken aback by how quickly she got tensed, but she eventually relaxed into your touch—a relieved sigh escaping her mouth that she didn’t even hear.
“You mad at me?” you mumbled against her silver hair, your thumbs sliding up and down her sides.
Dana shook her head, hand resting on your wrist as she craned her head to face you. “You were getting on my nerves. But, that’s your purpose in my life huh?” she chuckled, head shaking.
“You know i’m only trying to make your life shine brighter.” you whispered and pressed a kiss behind her ear that sent a shiver down Dana’s spine.
“Because I love you..” you trailed off, the same way your lips trailed kisses from her jaw down to her neck—where you left tiny bruises on her pulse point that made her whimper.
“And I want you to feel good. So, so good.”
Dana’s back slightly arched when your hands went under her shirt, you pulled down her bra and fumbled with her now hardened nipples—her bottom lip getting caught between her teeth as her wetness pooled between her legs.
“Fuck..” she whispered and leaned further into your touch.
Your right hand fumbled with the stove to turn it off and you swung Dana around, making her face you and her flushed face.
Her eyes looked up hungrily into yours, orbs travelling from your lips and back into your eyes.
Dana didn’t say anything, instead she pulled you into a kiss—her tongue immediately slipping inside your mouth that you eagerly took in. You sucked gently on the muscle, your hands coming down to squeeze her ass that made her tiptoe.
The kiss you shared became sloppy and it wasn’t long before Dana was sat on the counter with you standing between her legs—your hands squeezing her bare tits as you discarded her shirt and bra moments ago.
You pulled away from the kiss, your mouth moving to her collarbone then to her chest before you took one of her nipples in your mouth.
Dana’s eyes closed, her hands springing to clutch your hair as you sucked hungrily on her breast.
You alternated between her right and left tit, hand massaging one as you sucked the other.
“Wanna taste you.” you whispered and slowly got down on your knees as you looked up at Dana’s lazy eyes, your hands tugging at the waistband of her sweats that made her lift her hips.
You took them off, slowly sliding them down her legs that made Dana bite down on her lip as the soft material tickled her skin.
Once they were off, you spread her legs wider—mouth watering at the sight of her sopping wet cunt just waiting eagerly for your tongue.
Dana’s hand went behind your head, as if pushing you towards her heat.
You chuckled and pulled her hand down. “Eager, huh?” you teased, earning an eye roll from the woman.
“A picture’ll make it last longer.”
“I can’t taste a picture, sweetheart.” you grinned and leaned froward to lick a bold stripe up her slit, her back arching at the sudden sensation.
You sucked on her clit, your thumb teasing her entrance—finger going in and out just slightly to make her pussy twitch and clench hungrily around nothing.
She whined, a rare sound that you could ever hear from Dana, and that pushed you over to the edge.
You made out with her pussy, tongue licking her hole while your thumb pressed tightly on her swollen clit.
You eventually pulled your tongue out, and before Dana could even protest—you replaced it with your fingers, her walls so slick that you easily slid a third finger in.
Dana’s eyes rolled, her mouth hanging open as various curses escaped her throat. Her hips buckled forward, her hole swallowing the entirety of your fingers’ lengths that made a delirious sound echo in the kitchen.
“You feeling good, baby?” you smiled against her clit, eyes looking up to find Dana’s face scrunched up with her hands fumbling with her tits.
“F-fuck.. yes.” she slurred, making you grin and twist your fingers to rub her clit with your thumb.
Dana practically screamed at the added pleasure, her chest starting to heave when a familiar knot started forming in her stomach.
Her hands grasped at everything, your fingers sliding in and out of her at a deliberate pace that made sloppy sounds from how wet she is.
You took notice of the way Dana’s thighs flexed and how her moans started getting louder, your mouth replacing your thumb’s place on her clit—tongue flicking over the sensitive nub as you helped Dana cum.
“Fucking c-christ.. i’m cumming.” she trembled, eyes shutting tightly.
Dana’s hands flew up to your head as she pressed it forward, her breathing getting heavy as you ate her out and fucked her most sensitive spot with your fingers.
It didn’t take long before Dana’s cum started coating your fingers, her legs trembling harshly as she came hard on your fingers.
You grinned at the sight of your fingers drenched in her cum, and you slowed down your pace—only wanting to help her come down from her high.
Dana’s brows furrowed and she whined before pushing your hand away.
And you did, knowing that she was starting to get overstimulated.
You slowly pulled your fingers out, seeing moe of Dana’s cum gush out of her pussy.
“Came hard, didn’t you?” you teased, earning a flick to the forehead from Dana.
You got up from your knees and stared intensely into her eyes as you slipped your cum-coated fingers inside your mouth, tongue licking your digits clean before releasing them with a pop.
“You rascal.” Dana grinned and pulled you down for a kiss, her tongue entering your mouth once more as you shared her cum on your tongue.
Hey! Just wanted to see how you are doing!
Hey anon! Thank you for this ask!
To be honest I am doing okay but not great.
I am currently starting my gap year away from college which feels very hard to do especially since I am so close to finishing (and most people I know irl has either graduated or is graduating soon) but due to financial reasons, it wasn't possible to finish without taking time off to find work and save up for a year or so.
I just started working a job recently so I have been busy with learning the ropes of that and having an odd schedule so I haven't done much writing recently, which is something that I want to do now that I am not writing for college classes currently.
However I did start watching The Pitt recently and have finished all of season 1 so far (haven't started season 2 yet). I did start writing a fic for The Pitt but like I said above, not much has been written.
Once I get more adjusted to my work schedule I hope to be more active on here again (I need to catch up on the last few weeks of the book club first, then I'll work on other stuff). I miss writing for my mc's and oc's so I hope I can do that soon.
When people justify using gen AI by talking about how it allows them to do (insert creative hobby) it sends me into a blind rage. The whole point of the creative hobby is to use your brain. Having a machine do it for you defeats the purpose. That’s like saying you’re getting into running marathons then just driving the 42km
opened my draft, saw one sentence i wrote three weeks ago, closed the draft. healing is not linear
Sweet Tooth
Jack Abbot x fem!resident!reader
summary: Jack Abbot has never been to the fair. You take him and have a great time even though he ends up nauseous.
content/warnings: fluff, girlfriend reader and Jack, implied age gap.
word count: 1.3k
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Sitting on the couch with a steaming mug warming his hands, the soft strains of eighties rock music drifting through the apartment, and a medical journal open across his lap — it was Jack’s idea of a perfect Sunday.
He loved his work more than most people could understand, but even he knew the value of a quiet morning to himself. You, on the other hand, had stumbled in just after sunrise after a grueling night shift, barely managing to kick off your shoes before collapsing into bed. He hadn’t dared wake you. A sleep-deprived girlfriend was a force of nature nobody wanted to reckon with.
“Good morning! Jack! Isn’t it just a beautiful morning?” You cheerfully said at lunchtime.
He startled, nearly sloshing his coffee, and turned to find you breezing into the living room looking impossibly fresh out of the shower and ready to take on the world. You were wearing a flowy yellow dress, your hair washed and falling straight past your shoulders, a small backpack purse dangling from one side. His stomach dropped.
Oh no. Did I forget something? Jack tought.
“Morning,” he said carefully, buying himself a second. “You look awfully cheerful for someone who looked like a zombie after a shift.”
He set down his mug and crossed the room to press a kiss to your forehead, hoping the gesture might distract you both. It didn’t.
“So,” you said brightly, tilting your head up at him. “Ready to go?”
He scratched the back of his neck. Damn. He had forgotten something. “About that—”
“You forgot, didn’t you?” The laugh that escaped you was more amused than annoyed, and somehow that made it worse.
He nodded slowly. “I did. Forgive me my love.”
You crossed your arms, but your eyes were already dancing. “Jack. You promised me a trip to the fair today. It’s the very last day, and I’ve been looking forward to it all week.” You looked up at him with those eyes — wide, hopeful, utterly devastating — and he knew without question that he was completely done for.
“Damn, darling. I’m sorry.” He sighed, though the corner of his mouth was already pulling upward against his will. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready.”
The squeal you let out could have woken the neighbors.
The fairgrounds were louder, brighter, and considerably more chaotic than Jack had anticipated. You held his hand in both of yours as you half-walked, half-dragged him through the entrance gates, your head turning in every direction at once like you were trying to take it all in before it disappeared.
“I love the fair! God, I haven’t been to one since I was a kid — I feel like I’m eight years old again!” You practically glowed.
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually been to one,” he admitted, glancing around at the sea of spinning rides and flashing lights with something between curiosity and mild alarm.
You stopped dead in your tracks. “I’m sorry — what?” You stared at him as though he’d just confessed something deeply serious. “For real? You’ve never been to a fair?”
“Not that I can recall, no.”
“Oh my god.” You breathed it like a revelation. Then you grabbed his hand tighter, squared your shoulders, and a look of intense determination crossed your face. “Okay. We are doing everything. The carousel. The bumper cars. You are winning me a stuffed animal — a big one — and we are eating terrible food that we’ll probably regret, and we’re riding the Ferris wheel, and—” you gasped— “the rollercoaster. We absolutely have to ride the rollercoaster.”
He opened his mouth.
“Don’t say no.” You warned.
He closed it.
And so you did everything.
Jack knocked over enough bottles at the ring toss to claim an absolutely enormous stuffed giraffe, which he carried under one arm for the rest of the afternoon with surprising dignity. You shared caramel-glazed apples that left both of your fingers sticky, split a slushy the color of a traffic cone, and rode the Ferris wheel just as the late afternoon light turned golden over Pittsburgh’s skyline.
From the top, you could see everything. The skyscrapers, the river, the faint outline of PTMC in the distance. He pointed it out to you like a landmark, and you laughed and leaned into his shoulder, and though he would never say it out loud, that quiet moment at the top… your hand in his, the whole city laid out below you like a secret… was the best part of his day. Possibly the best part of his entire week.
Then came the rollercoaster.
“Never again,” he announced the moment it came to a stop, gripping the safety bar with white knuckles. His voice was flat. Final. “Never. Again.”
“You were so brave—”
“Do not.” Jack stepped off the platform and moved toward a nearby bench with the careful determination of an old man trying very hard not to be sick. His head was still spinning, and the caramel apple was staging a protest somewhere in his stomach.
You sat down beside him and rubbed slow circles across his back.
“Can I ask you something?”
“No.”
“But you don’t even know what—”
“The answer is still no.”
You bit back a smile and placed your hand over his knee instead. After a long moment, when his breathing had steadied and the color had returned to his face, you spoke quietly.
“I’m sorry for dragging you into the deep end today. I know a lot of it was outside your comfort zone.” You paused. “But I had the best time. We took the most ridiculous photos, and the food was terrible in the best way possible, and the Ferris wheel was—” you exhaled softly— “perfect. Spotting the hospital from up there made me so nostalgic and remember we fell in love all those mornings after our shifts up on the roof.” You smiled, and it reached your eyes completely. “I’m really glad we did this together, baby. I won’t forget it.”
Something in his expression shifted. The tension around his eyes loosened, and the hazel of them caught the light.
“That was my favorite part too,” he said. “And I’m not unhappy, I promise. I’m just—” he paused, turning to cup your face gently in his hand— “adjusting. I didn’t exactly grow up with any of this and I’m too old now.”
“I know,” you said softly, leaning into his touch. “And I love you for letting me drag you into my chaos anyway.”
He laughed — a real one — and kissed you, briefly forgetting entirely that you were surrounded by hundreds of strangers.
When you finally pulled apart, you stood and tugged him up after you. “Alright. Let’s do one more thing before we go home.”
“Please tell me that ‘one more thing’ doesn’t involve food,” he said, falling into step beside you.
“Churros. My sweet tooth is demanding more.”
He groaned. “Sweetheart, I am going to be in the bathroom all night—”
“I’ll take care of you, I promise.” You winked over your shoulder. “Oh, and I want another caramel apple.”
He said nothing for a beat. Then, quietly: “…Could we maybe get two?”
You stopped walking. You turned around slowly. The grin that spread across your face was dangerous.
“Dr. Abbot,” you said, in a tone of pure delight. “Are you telling me that you, of all people, have developed a weakness for junk fair food? You were just complaining.”
“I said no such thing.”
“You absolutely did. I have witnesses.” You grabbed his hand and spun on your heel. “Nobody is going to believe this. I need photographic evidence. I need a signed statement!”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Too late.” You were already laughing, already pulling him forward into the crowd, and despite everything, the upset stomach, the rollercoaster, the absolute assault on his senses this day had been, he was smiling too, following you willingly into whatever came next.
—
I loved writing this and I want to cry and hide forever because I want Jack so bad, bye. Thanks for reading. <3 taglist: @staygoldsquatchling02 @lacy1986
Pittsburgh heat was stifling. The air hung heavy and thick, making even the simplest task like breathing feel like a chore. The heat felt even worse when your boyfriend, Jack, refused to turn the AC on at night. He insisted that "the heat was all in your head" and "the nights cooled off significantly." He was, unfortunately, right part of the time, the heat wasn't unbearable when you were in bed alone which was most nights.
Tonight was not one of those nights.
Tonight, Jack was glued to your back, thick arms wrapped around your waist with a leg thrown over your own. You usually loved having Jack home, you loved going to sleep with him instead of missing him as you slid beneath crisp sheets on your own, but god, not tonight. You were miserable, slick with sweat and wishing it would magically become twenty degrees cooler.
You'd been awake for hours, trying to wiggle away from Jack since the second you woke up practically drowning in your own sweat. Each escape attempt was unsuccessful and harder than the last. Each wriggle made Jack tighten his hold, let out a sleepy sigh, and nuzzle closer to you.
You groaned, kicking your legs off the edge of the bed in frustration. You inhaled deeply and threw yourself forward with all your anger-fueled strength. You sat up, a triumphant and shocked laugh escaping you. A feeling of triumph that was too soon quelled when that same heavy hold wrapped itself around your waist and dragged you back down to hell.
"Stop squirming," Jack rasped, his hot breath fanning the back of your neck.
You whined, kicking your legs petulantly, "let go of me."
"Wanna cuddle with you, sweetness," he replied, dragging the tip of his nose up and down the slope of your neck, "we never get to do this."
"Then let's cuddle with the AC on! I'm swimming in my own sweat, you're a human furnace, and I'm suffering. You're making me suffer!" You exclaim while helplessly trying to wriggle away from Jack's embrace.
Jack chuckles, rolling onto his back with a loud yawn, "you're cranky when you're hot."
"Jack! We're living in hell! My rich, hot doctor boyfriend likes to reminisce on his days before central cooling was invented and it's torturous!" You wail dramatically, "what is the point of having these luxuries if we don't even use them!?"
He continues to chuckle, dragging a tired hand down his face, "are you this dramatic when I'm not here?"
You sit up with your eyes ablaze with anger, "I sleep just fine when you're at work. Wanna know why? There's not a huge, hot man laying next to me and wrapping me in sweltering heat! I'm done with this!"
You stand from the bed and angrily begin to slam the windows shut around the room before stomping out to close the rest windows around the house. It doesn't take to long for Jack to hear the familiar sound of the AC kicking on which only makes him smile.
Your glare hasn't softened, in fact, it sharpens as you make your way back to your shared bedroom and lay down with a huff, "I'll send you money for the energy bill since my misery is so entertaining to you."
Jack settles on his half of the bed, missing the feeling of you in his arms, but he knows better than to push you to your limits right now. He fluffs his pillow and turns onto his side to face you, "don't you dare send me money for any bills. I cover household expenses and you know that."
You exhale sharply, closing your eyes and willing the cold air to cool you off even faster. After some time, you feel yourself begin to drift off, feeling fresh and sleepy.
You're just minutes away from a deep sleep when you reach for Jack's hand, tugging softly. He hums sleepily, roused from his sleep at your touch. You curl onto your side and blink slowly at him, "why aren't you cuddling me?"
Jack sighs, tugging you into his chest. His heart skips a beat at the content hum you let out before you both succumb to sleep. He thinks you can be a total pain in the ass, but god, he loves you.
feedback is appreciated! divider from cursed-carmine <3
I'll take the couch
Pairing: Jack Abbot x fem!reader
Summary: You prank Jack with the 'I'm sleeping on the couch tonight' (0.6k)
Warnings: swearing, use of pet names, implied age gap, reader is cheeky
----------------------------------------------------
You take the duvet and your pillow just as Jack opens the bathroom door. He was getting ready for bed, beushing his teeth and so on, while you thought about your prank.
He stops moving just as he sees you. "Angel, what are you doing?"
"I'm sleeping on the couch tonight." You mumble out, fighting back the giddy grin.
"What?"
"I'm sleeping on the couch." You say a little slower, and Jack just shakes his head at you, still standing in the bathroom doorway.
"Why?" Jack's mind is raking through everything that could have happened today to get you to sleep there.
"Just because." You shrug, slowly inch closer towards hallway.
"Are you mad? Did I do something?" Jack finally moves, but stops before he gets too close to make you more upset or mad when you clearly don't want to be close to him.
"No. I just want to sleep on the couch."
"C'mon, doll, give me a real answer. We can just talk it out or-or I'll sleep on the couch. You sleep here." Jack tries to reason with you but for a reason Jack can't even fathom, you are set on on the couch.
"It's okay, handsome. I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight, love you." And then you are off, settling yourself on the couch as you giggle into your hand.
It takes Jack 10 minutes to lull over what he should do. You hear him turn off the bedside lamp and then the rustle of his duvet.
Jack's torn between giving you the space you need and between missing you. But the decision comes and you hear the sound of his crutches on the floor as he moves through the dark house.
You hear him stop next to the couch and you have to cover your mouth so he doesn't hear you giggle. It's quiet for a second before the cushions in front of you dip, and Jack slides in next to you.
"Oh my god, Jack. You're gonna fall." This time, you let the laugh escape you. Because this ridiculous man hold ons to you for dear life just so he doesn't fall on the ground.
"Don't care." He murmurs, practically manhandling you on top of him. "It's your fault, angel. You don't want to sleep next to me or communicate with me. So you're going to sleep like this."
That earns him another laugh from you, your chest shaking. "Okay, okay. Let's go to bed."
"Nope. You're mad. So we're both sleeping on the couch."
"Baby, it was a prank." You breath out in between chuckles, you can see him frown even through the darkness.
"I saw it on TikTok. I'm sorry." You're not really sorry because you are laughing your ass off as you see his reaction.
When his shock wears off, he's clutching you even tighter to him, head buried in your neck. "Oh thank god, sweetheart. You got me so worried."
"Awww, babe, why do you have to be so damn sweet?" Your laughter dies down. You just wanted to tease him a little, not to worry him like this.
"Because my sweetness needs to balance out the fact you are a little minx." There he is. Your Jack with his smart mouth and quick hands. He pinches your side and sits up as you yelp in surprise.
"Okay, come on now, doll. No more couch. My back can't handle sleeping on it." Jack mumbles out. He gets up on his crutches and somehow manages to grab your duvet as well.
"Okay, let's go old man." You tease him and then laugh some more as he shakes his head at you.
"You are really pushing it tonight, huh?" His voice dips deeper as he says it, and you are exactly where you want to be. Teasing him and then squirming under his knowing smirk is your speciality.
God. Maybe you should do pranks like this more often if it gets you this reaction.
----------------------------------------------------
Worth Seeing
Part One: For Me
Jack Abbot xWife! Reader
Summary: You book a boudoir shoot for yourself. Not for Jack. Not because you need him to think you’re beautiful. Not because you need proof that he wants you. For you. Jack is thrilled because you’re excited, but he tries very hard to be cool about it. He is supportive. Respectful. Only mildly concerned that you are trying to kill him. But when the photos come back, and he sees you the way you finally let yourself be seen, Jack has a very hard time keeping his reaction contained. Especially when he gets to the photo of you in white sheets, wearing his dog tags, looking up at the camera like you finally believed what he has been trying to tell you for years.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established marriage, boudoir photography, body confidence themes, sexual themes, Jack being deeply attracted to his wife, dog tags used in an intimate/emotional way, emotional vulnerability, body image feelings, reader feeling nervous but empowered, Jack being supportive/soft/obsessed, swearing, lots of married intimacy.
Author's Note: This one is really special to me. I wanted this fic to be sexy, obviously, because hello. Jack Abbot, seeing his wife’s boudoir photos? We were never going to survive that politely. But more than that, I wanted this to mean something. This was inspired by my own boudoir experience. I was nervous going into it, and my photographer was absolutely incredible. She hyped me up, made me feel safe, talked about how empowering the experience could be, and helped me see myself in a way I honestly don’t think I had before. It wasn’t just about taking sexy photos. It was about feeling confident, beautiful, powerful, and present in my own body. That is what I wanted you to feel when you read this. The shoot is for her. Jack loves the photos, yes. He is attracted to her, yes. He loses his mind a little, obviously. But what matters most is that she did something brave for herself. She let herself be seen. And when Jack looks at the photos, he does not just see her body. He sees the light on her skin, the look in her eyes, the little smiles he knows because he loves her. He sees her seeing herself.
This is a sister fic in spirit to Source Material — sexy, funny, emotional, and very married.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
Jack knew the look on your face. Not the exact cause of it yet, but the category.
You were trying to be casual.
Which meant, immediately, that nothing about this was casual.
You were standing in the kitchen with your hip against the counter, both hands wrapped around a mug of tea you had not taken a single sip from. The dishwasher hummed quietly behind you. Rain tapped against the window above the sink, soft and steady, turning the glass dark. Jack had changed out of his work clothes twenty minutes ago, but he was in a black T-shirt with his sweatpants loose at his hips, and his hair damp from the shower.
He was rinsing his coffee mug when you cleared your throat. Not dramatically. Not even loudly. But enough.
Jack looked over his shoulder. You smiled at him. Too quickly.
His eyes narrowed.
“What?” you asked.
Jack turned off the faucet. “Nothing.”
“You’re looking at me.” You said.
Jack gave you a pointed look, “I do that.”
“Not like that.” You replied, waving your hand vaguely toward him.
He set the mug in the drying rack and turned to face you, leaning back against the sink with his arms folded loosely over his chest. “Like what?”
You took a sip of tea to avoid answering. It was too hot. You regretted it immediately.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Smooth,” he said.
You lowered the mug. “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask.” He replied.
You narrowed your eyes, “You were about to.”
“I was observing.” Jack shrugged.
“That’s worse.”
His smile widened by a fraction. “Usually.”
You looked down into your tea, watching steam curl up between your hands. The words were right there. Not bad words. Not scary words, exactly. Just words that felt bigger than you had expected now that Jack was standing in front of you with his attention on you, steady and warm and impossible to hide from.
You had been excited all day. Nervous too. But excited.
You had opened the photographer’s booking confirmation three times just to look at it. You had reread the prep email twice. You had imagined the studio, the outfits, the soft light, the camera, the strange and terrifying possibility of seeing yourself in a way you had never quite managed before.
And then Jack had come home, kissed your temple, complained about someone mislabeling leftovers in the break room, and suddenly the thing you had been excited about felt fragile in your chest.
Like saying it out loud might change it.
Jack’s expression softened. “There it is,” he said.
Your eyes lifted. “There what is?”
“The thing you’re trying to decide whether to tell me.”
Your fingers tightened around the mug. “I’m not doing that.”
“Okay,” Jack said simply.
Your eyebrows shoot up. “You believe me?”
“No.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself.
Jack pushed away from the sink and crossed to the island, stopping on the opposite side so he was near you but not crowding you. He knew how to do that. Give space without feeling far away. It was deeply inconvenient.
“I booked something today,” you said.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Something.”
You nodded. “Mm-hmm.”
“That was an extremely suspicious something,” Jack said evenly.
You frown, “It’s not suspicious.”
“No?” he quirks a brow.
“No.” You looked back into your tea. “It’s not a big deal.”
Jack was quiet for half a second. Then he said, very gently, “Baby.”
You closed your eyes. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replied.
You sighed, “You said baby like that.”
“Like what?” He asked.
“Like you know me.” You grumbled, deeply inconvenienced.
His mouth twitched. “Terrible habit.”
You opened your eyes and found him watching you with that expression you hated and loved in equal measure. Amused. Patient. Seeing too much.
“You only say it’s not a big deal when it is, in fact, a big deal,” he said.
Your reply comes quickly, “It’s not.”
“Okay.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Letting me lie to you politely.” You point an accusatory finger at him.
Jack nodded once. “I’m a generous husband.”
“You’re an annoying husband.” You corrected.
“Also true.”
Your laugh came easier that time. Some of the tightness in your chest loosened with it.
Jack noticed. He leaned his forearms on the island, gaze still on your face. “You want to tell me?”
You stared at your mug for one more second. Then you took a breath. “I booked a boudoir shoot.”
Jack went still. Not upset. Not confused. Just still. Like his brain had received the words and needed one additional second to decide what kind of husband he needed to be first.
Then he nodded once. “Okay.”
You blinked. “Okay?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Okay.”
You throw your hands up, “That’s all I get?”
His mouth twitched, but he held it back. “For now.”
“For now?”
He nodded, “I’m controlling my reaction until I know why you booked it.”
Your chest did something strange. Softened and tightened at the same time. “You’re controlling your reaction.”
He nodded again, “Trying to.”
“How’s that going?” You ask, unable to stop your smile.
“Poorly.”
A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Jack’s mouth curved, pleased he had gotten you there.
“I am enthusiastically supportive,” he said. “I’m just trying to be cool about it.”
Your eyes narrowed at him, “You’re being weirdly calm.”
“I’m aware.” He replied.
You looked him up and down. “You look like you’re doing math.”
“I am.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of math?”
“The kind where I calculate how excited I’m allowed to be before you tell me whether this is exciting or terrifying.”
That did something to you. Something small and soft and stupidly emotional. Because that was Jack. Not uninterested. Not dismissive. Not making it about himself. Waiting to know what you needed him to be.
You looked down and ran your thumb along the handle of your mug. “Both, maybe.”
Jack’s expression gentled. “Yeah?”
“I’ve thought about it for a while.” You say your voice quieter.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
You inhaled a breath, “I’ve followed this photographer for months. She does these really beautiful shoots, and she talks a lot about body confidence and feeling safe and taking up space in your own body.” You exhaled, a little shaky. “All the comments are always women saying they were nervous and then they left feeling powerful, and I just…”
Jack did not interrupt. You glanced up at him. He was listening the way he always did when he knew something mattered. Completely.
“I wanted to do something for myself,” you said.
There. That was the part.
Jack’s face changed. The humor did not disappear exactly. It gentled.
“For yourself,” he said.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
He stayed quiet, giving you room.
“It’s not because I need you to think I’m sexy,” you said.
His eyebrows lifted slightly, but he still did not interrupt.
You continued, “I mean, obviously, I like that you do.”
His mouth curved.
“But that’s not why I booked it.”
Jack pushed away from the island and came around to your side, stopping in front of you close enough that you could feel the warmth of him. Not so close that you felt trapped.
“Good,” he said.
You looked up. “Good?”
“Yeah.” His voice softened. “That’s better.”
Your throat tightened. “Better?”
He nodded once. “If you want to do something that makes you feel confident in your own body, I love that.”
The words were simple. That was why they hit.
You looked down quickly.
Jack’s fingers brushed the side of your mug, not taking it from you, just touching where your hands were wrapped around the ceramic.
“Are you excited?” he asked.
You nodded. “Nervous.”
“That wasn’t the question,” Jack said gently.
Your mouth twitched. He waited. You let yourself breathe.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m excited.”
Jack’s smile appeared slowly. Not restrained this time. Real. “Then I’m excited.”
Your chest warmed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His eyes moved over your face, careful but warmer now. “Very.”
“There it is,” you said.
Jack huffed a quiet laugh and glanced away for half a second, like he was trying to keep the rest of himself in check. Then he looked back at you.
“Now that I know we’re excited,” he said, “I do have one question.”
You lifted an eyebrow. “One?”
“For now,” Jack replied.
You waved your hand towards him, “Okay. Shoot.”
His expression went very serious. “Are you trying to kill me?”
The laugh burst out of you, immediate and relieved.
Jack pointed at you. “No, I’m serious. I need to know if this is premeditated.”
“It’s not for you.” You said, smiling.
“I understand that.” His eyes stayed warm on yours. “That does not answer the murder question.”
You laughed again, softer this time.
Jack leaned one hip against the counter beside you, trying and failing to look casual.
“I am thrilled for you,” he said. “And also personally concerned for my long-term survival.”
You rolled your eyes, “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m a man with eyes.” Jack corrected.
You smiled. “There he is.”
“I held out as long as I could,” Jack said, raising his hands innocently.
You shook your head, still smiling into your tea. The nerves had not disappeared entirely. But they had changed shape. They were not sharp anymore. They were warm. Manageable.
Almost giddy.
Jack watched your smile like he had been waiting for it.
“When is it?” he asked.
“Two weeks.” You answered.
His eyebrows lifted. “Soon.”
“Yeah.” You said with a nod.
Jack looked at you, “You picked outfits?”
“Some.”
Jack’s gaze sharpened with interest before he visibly forced his face back into something neutral.
You pointed at him. “I saw that.”
“I didn’t say anything.” He defended.
You glared. “You thought something.”
“I think many things,” Jack said, aiming for innocence and failing miserably.
“About the outfits.” You prompted.
Jack looked at you for a beat. Then he nodded once. “Yes.”
You laughed.
His smile flickered, but he kept his voice careful. “Do you want help?”
“With outfits?”
“Or not help,” he said quickly. “I can also be far away from the outfits. In another room. Possibly another state.”
You smiled. “I might want help packing.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “Okay.”
“But you don’t get to choose everything.” You added.
“Everything,” he repeated.
You nodded firmly. “You heard me.”
His mouth curved. “That implies I get to choose something.”
“You may have opinions.” You replied.
Jack grinned. “I have several.”
“Shocking.” You said sarcastically.
He leaned closer, just enough that his voice lowered. “I’ll keep most of them to myself.”
“Most?” You asked, brows raised.
Jack shrugged, “I’m still me.”
Your pulse jumped. Jack saw it. His expression softened with something quietly pleased before he eased back again, careful not to push. That was the thing about him. The reason you had wanted to tell him, even when it made you nervous. Jack could tease you until you laughed, then pull back the second the room needed tenderness. He could want you without making you feel like his wanting was a demand. He could look at you like that and still leave you room to choose.
You set your mug down on the counter.
“There’s one thing I was thinking about bringing,” you said.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “Okay.”
You continued, “It’s yours.”
His expression shifted. Curious now. “Mine?”
“Maybe.”
“Should I be worried?” he asked.
You shook your head, “No.”
“That was too quick.”
You smiled, but your fingers curled against the counter.
Jack noticed the nerves come back before you said another word.
His voice gentled. “What is it?”
You looked up at him. “Your dog tags.”
Jack went still. This time was different. Not funny. Not controlled. Just still.
His eyes searched your face. “My dog tags?”
You nodded softly, “Only if that’s okay.”
He did not answer immediately.
You rushed on before the quiet could grow too big.
“I know they mean something. I don’t want to just use them as a prop or anything. I just thought…” You looked down, embarrassed in a new way now. “I don’t know. They make me feel brave.”
Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.
You felt it before he even moved.
He reached for your hand, carefully uncurling your fingers from the edge of the counter. His thumb swept once over your knuckles.
“They make you feel brave?” he asked.
You nodded.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Then take them.”
Your throat tightened. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” The word was immediate. Certain.
Jack glanced toward the stairs, where your bedroom was. You knew the tags were kept in the small wooden tray on his dresser. He looked back at you. “Do you want them now?”
You blinked. “Now?”
His mouth curved faintly. “So you don’t spend the next two weeks wondering if I meant it.”
Your eyes burned a little. “That’s annoying.”
“What is?” He asked.
“You knowing me.”
He smiled. “Terrible habit.”
Then he kissed your forehead and left the kitchen. You stood there alone for a moment, listening to the quiet sounds of him moving up the stairs and through the bedroom. The faint shift of something being picked up. The soft fall of his footsteps returning. When Jack came back, the dog tags were in his hand. The chain pooled in his palm, silver catching the kitchen light.
He stopped in front of you. For a second, neither of you spoke.
Then he lifted the chain slightly. “Turn around.”
Your breath caught. “Jack.”
“Only if you want.” He added gently.
You did.
So you turned.
Jack stepped close behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. He slipped the chain carefully over your head, his fingers brushing your neck as he settled it against your skin.
The tags landed at the center of your chest, cool and solid through the thin fabric of your shirt.
You touched them with two fingers.
Jack’s hands rested lightly on your shoulders. Not holding you there. Just there.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded, throat tight. “Yeah.”
His mouth brushed the side of your head. “There,” he said softly.
You turned back around, the tags shifting against your chest. Jack looked at them. Then at your face. His expression was quiet now. Not teasing.
Not even thrilled, though you knew he was.
Something softer than that.
You touched the tags again. “How do I look?”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For a second, he seemed to consider the question more seriously than you had meant it. Then his thumb brushed the chain where it rested against your shirt.
“Like yourself,” he said.
Your chest pulled tight. “That’s vague.”
“No.” His voice stayed low. “It’s not.”
The kitchen went quiet around you. Rain at the window. Dishwasher humming. Jack standing close enough that you could feel his breath when he exhaled.
You looked down at the tags, then back up at him. “I’m really doing this.”
His mouth curved, small and proud.
“Yeah,” he said. “You are.”
You smiled. Nervous still. Excited still. But braver now, with the weight of his dog tags warm against your chest and his hand curled carefully around yours.
Jack squeezed your fingers once. “For you,” he said.
You swallowed. “It is for me.”
“I know.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “That’s why I want you to have them.”
The night before the shoot, you packed your bag three times.
Not because you had forgotten anything.
Because packing involved your hands.
The first time, you had laid everything out on the bed in neat little sections: black lace, soft robe, bodysuit, a pair of heels you had bought with more confidence than you currently possessed, one of Jack’s white button-downs folded carefully beside the pile, and the small velvet pouch where his dog tags rested.
The second time, you had decided the robe should be folded differently.
The third time, you had taken everything out and started again because the zipper on the bag had caught on the lace, and apparentl,y that meant the entire system was compromised.
Jack stood in the bedroom doorway for the first five minutes and said nothing.
Which was how you knew he had noticed everything.
You picked up the black robe again and smoothed it over your lap.
Jack’s voice came from the doorway. “Is the robe improving?”
You looked up. “What?”
He nodded toward your hands. “Every time you fold it, you look disappointed in its performance.”
You glanced down at the robe in your hands.
It looked the same as it had the first two times.
You folded it anyway. “I’m fine.”
Jack leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “That sentence is becoming one of your least convincing.”
You set the robe on the bed. “I am packing.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “You packed twenty minutes ago.”
You picked the robe back up. “I am refining.”
Jack nodded once. “Of course.”
You gave him a look. “Don’t sound like that.”
He lifted his brows. “Like what?”
You gestured vaguely with the robe. “Like you think I’m spiraling.”
Jack’s eyes moved over the bed, the open bag, the outfits, and the robe currently being folded with surgical intensity.
Then he looked back at you. “I think you’re refining.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That was patronizing.”
His expression stayed mild. “It was supportive.”
You pointed the robe at him. “It was both.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Marriage is about multitasking.”
Despite yourself, you laughed.
Jack’s expression softened in that quiet, pleased way he got when he managed to pull you out of your head.
Then he pushed away from the doorway and came farther into the room.
He had changed into sweatpants and a faded PTMC T-shirt, his hair still a little damp from the shower. His prosthetic made its familiar, quiet sound against the floor as he crossed toward the bed, and the ordinary comfort of it settled something low in your chest.
He stopped at the foot of the bed, hands loose at his sides.
Not reaching. Not touching the outfits. Not inserting himself into the process.
Just there.
Jack asked, “Do you want reassurance, distraction, or practical help?”
You blinked. “Those are my options?”
He nodded. “For now.”
You looked at the half-packed bag. “What if I want all three?”
Jack’s face stayed serious. “Then I’ll multitask.”
Your throat tightened for absolutely no reason. Or maybe for every reason. You looked down at the robe again, your fingers worrying the edge of the fabric.
You said, “I still want to do it.”
Jack’s expression softened. “I know.”
You swallowed. “I’m just nervous.”
Jack kept his voice gentle. “I know that too.”
You let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “Are you always this annoying?”
He nodded. “Consistently.”
You set the robe into the bag, then immediately took it back out.
Jack watched it happen. His eyebrows lifted.
You pointed at him. “Don’t.”
Jack held up one hand. “I didn’t.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You were going to.”
He dropped his hand. “I was thinking.”
You folded the robe again. “Loudly.”
His mouth twitched.
You looked back down at the bed. The outfits had looked exciting when you put them together. Pretty. Bold. Maybe even a little powerful. Now, under the warm bedroom light, with tomorrow sitting closer than it had all week, they looked like evidence of nerve you were not fully convinced you had.
You asked, “What if I look awkward?”
Jack did not answer too quickly. That made you look up. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, leaving the pile of clothing between you like neutral territory.
Jack said, “You might.”
Your mouth fell open. “Jack.”
He looked at you steadily. “What?”
You stared at him. “That’s your pep talk?”
Jack leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “It’s an honest one.”
You dropped the robe onto the bed. “It’s a terrible one.”
He shook his head. “No.”
You waited.
Jack’s voice softened. “You might feel awkward for the first few minutes. It’s new. New things feel awkward.”
You looked down at the black lace set on the bed. “That is not as comforting as you think it is.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. “Awkward doesn’t mean wrong.”
Your fingers stilled.
He added, “It just means new.”
The room got quiet for a second. Rain tapped lightly against the bedroom window, soft and steady. The lamp on your nightstand threw a warm pool of light across the comforter, catching on the chain of his dog tags where the velvet pouch had fallen open.
You looked at them instead of him. “She said that, actually,” you said.
Jack followed your gaze to the pouch. “The photographer?”
You nodded. “In one of her prep emails.”
Jack’s attention returned to you. “Smart woman.”
You touched the edge of the pouch. “She said most people feel awkward for the first few minutes, and that’s normal.”
He nodded. “Good.”
You let out a small laugh. “She said she walks everyone through posing and facial expressions and what to do with their hands.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Also good.”
You looked at him. “Because apparently no one knows what to do with their hands.”
Jack tilted his head. “That tracks.”
You laughed softly. Then your eyes dropped back to the outfits.
You said, “She also said the point isn’t to look like someone else.”
Jack’s face changed slightly.
You looked back at him. “It’s to see yourself differently.”
His voice went quiet. “That sounds like exactly the right person.”
You swallowed. “Yeah?”
Jack nodded. “Yeah.”
You looked back at the bed. “I hope so.”
Jack’s hand moved over the comforter, stopping near yours but not touching. “Do you want practical help now?”
You glanced at the pile. “Maybe.”
He sat up a little straighter. “Okay. What are we deciding?”
You picked up the black lace set.
Jack’s gaze flicked to it. Then away. Too fast.
You smiled for the first time in several minutes. “Interesting.”
Jack looked back at you with an admirably blank expression. “What?”
You lifted the lace slightly. “Your face just did something.”
He shook his head. “My face is innocent.”
You smiled wider. “Your face is a liar.”
Jack’s eyes dropped to the lace again. “My face is enthusiastically supportive.”
You held up the set. “So this one?”
Jack’s jaw shifted once. “Do you feel good in it?”
The question took you by surprise. Not because it was complicated. Because it was the right question.
You looked down at the lace in your hand. “I think so.”
Jack’s answer came easily. “Then yes.”
You smiled, a little helplessly. “That’s all?”
His gaze lifted to yours. “That’s all that matters.”
You looked at him for one beat too long. Then you folded the set carefully and put it in the bag. Jack watched you pick up the bodysuit next, something soft and dark and more structured. You held it against yourself, suddenly unsure.
You asked, “This one?”
Jack’s eyes moved over it, then up to your face. “Same question.”
You sighed. “You’re not going to give me shallow husband opinions?”
His mouth curved. “Oh, I have them.”
You laughed. “Do you?”
Jack nodded. “Many.”
You waited. “And?”
His smile warmed. “I’m choosing growth.”
You repeated, “Growth.”
Jack sat back. “I’m capable of it.”
You gave him a skeptical look.
He nodded toward the bodysuit. “Do you feel good in it?”
You looked at the fabric, thinking about the first time you tried it on. How you had stood in the bathroom and turned slightly toward the mirror. How you had not hated the way it fit. How you had maybe, for half a second, liked the shape of yourself in it.
You said, “Yeah. I do.”
Jack’s voice stayed steady. “Then bring it.”
You folded it and set it beside the lace. Then you picked up Jack’s white button-down. The room changed. Not drastically. But enough.
Jack stilled. His eyes dropped to the shirt. Then to you.
“That’s mine,” he said.
You looked down at it. “I know.”
Jack’s voice lowered slightly. “For the shoot?”
You hugged the button-down lightly to your chest. “Maybe.”
His jaw shifted.
You smiled slowly. “You’re being cool about that?”
Jack answered immediately. “No.”
You laughed. “No?”
He looked at the shirt again. “I considered lying.”
You waited.
Jack looked back at you. “Decided against it.”
You rubbed your thumb over the cuff. “I thought it might be nice.”
His gaze moved from the shirt to your face. Jack said, “It will be.”
Your stomach flipped. He seemed to realize how his voice sounded, because he cleared his throat and looked down at the open bag.
Jack added, “Very supportive.”
You smiled. “Very controlled.”
He nodded gravely. “Heroic, honestly.”
You folded the shirt and placed it on top of the pile. Then your hand drifted to the velvet pouch. You had not meant to touch it. Your fingers found the chain anyway.
Jack noticed. His expression softened at the edges.
He asked, “Still taking them?”
You drew the dog tags out of the pouch and let the chain pool in your palm. Silver caught in the lamplight.
You said, “Yeah.”
Jack’s voice was quieter. “Good.”
You looked down at them. “I know the shoot is for me.”
He answered gently. “I know.”
You ran your thumb over the stamped metal. “And I don’t want it to feel like I’m making it about you.”
Jack’s response came immediately. “You’re not.”
The answer loosened your chest.
You let the tags slide against your palm. “They make me feel like I’m not going in alone.”
Jack went very still.
You glanced up quickly. “Not because I need you there. Just because…”
He waited.
You looked back at the tags. “They remind me of who I am when I’m with you.”
Jack’s voice softened. “And who is that?”
Your throat tightened. You said, “Braver.”
For a second, he did not move. Then he stood. You looked up as he came around the bed toward you.
Jack held out his hand. “Can I?”
You knew what he meant without him saying it. You nodded. Jack took the dog tags from your palm with careful fingers and stepped behind you. The bed dipped slightly as he settled close enough to reach around you. His hands came over your shoulders, warm and steady, and then the chain slipped over your head. The tags landed against your chest, cool through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt.
You touched them with two fingers. Jack’s hands settled lightly at your upper arms. Not holding. Just there. He looked at you in the mirror across from the bed. You looked at yourself, too. Not styled. Not posed. Not in lace or soft light or anything close to tomorrow. Just you, sitting on the edge of your bed in pajama shorts and an old T-shirt, hair a little messy, face bare, dog tags resting against your chest.
Your stomach fluttered.
Jack’s eyes met yours in the mirror. “There she is,” he said.
Your throat pulled tight. “Who?”
Jack’s thumbs moved once against your arms. “The woman going tomorrow.”
Your mouth trembled before it turned into a smile.
Jack’s voice stayed steady. “She looks nervous.”
You looked at him through the mirror. “She does.”
“She can be nervous,” Jack said.
You swallowed. “She can?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
His gaze held yours in the reflection.
Jack said, “You don’t have to walk in there already believing all of it.”
Something in your chest ached. You asked, quieter than you meant to, “I don’t?”
Jack shook his head. “No.”
His hands stayed warm on your arms. “You just have to go,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s voice softened. “Let her help you see it.”
The room went quiet. You looked back at your own reflection. At the dog tags. The bag half-packed on the bed. At the lingerie, robe, and button-down, waiting beside you.
You were nervous. Still. Maybe more now that it was almost real. But you were also excited. And beneath both things was something new.
Something steadier.
Jack leaned down and kissed the side of your head.
He asked, “Do you want them in the bag or on you?”
You touched the tags. “Bag.”
Jack nodded. “Okay.”
He lifted the chain over your head with the same care he had used to put it on. Then he knelt beside the bed and tucked the tags back into the velvet pouch. You watched him place the pouch into the side pocket of your bag. Not thrown in. Not casual. Careful. Like it mattered because you had said it did.
Jack zipped the pocket closed. “There.”
You smiled. “Your tactical support?”
He stood. “Very official.”
You nodded. “Extremely.”
Jack looked down at the bag. Then at you.
“You’re really doing this,” he said.
Your chest warmed. “I’m really doing this.”
His mouth curved, small and proud. “Good.”
You picked up the robe again. Then you stopped when Jack gave you a look.
You asked, “What?”
Jack’s eyes dropped to the robe. “You’re folding it again.”
You looked at the fabric. “It looked wrong.”
“It’s a robe.”
You lifted your chin. “It can still look wrong.”
Jack crossed his arms. “Do you want a distraction now?”
You laughed. “From the robe?”
He nodded. “From the robe.”
You looked at the bag. “Maybe.”
Jack nodded toward it. “Zip it.”
You looked back at him. “Excuse me?”
His expression stayed calm. “Zip the bag.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That feels aggressive.”
Jack said, “It’s doctor’s orders.”
You pointed at him. “You’re not my doctor.”
He looked around the room. “I’m the only doctor in this bedroom.”
You stared at him. Jack stared back, calm and impossible. Then you zipped the bag. The sound felt weirdly final. Your nerves kicked once, sharp and bright.
Jack noticed immediately. He sat beside you again, close enough that your knees touched.
“Hey,” he said.
You looked at him. His hand found your waist, warm and grounding.
Jack said, “Proud of you.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “I haven’t done it yet.”
His thumb moved once over your waist. “You booked it. You packed the bag. You’re doing it scared.”
Your eyes burned.
Jack held your gaze. “That counts.”
You looked down quickly. His hand stayed where it was. Steady. Patient. You leaned sideways until your shoulder rested against his. Jack kissed the top of your head.
For a while, you sat there like that, staring at the packed bag at the foot of the bed.
Then you asked, “Are you going to be normal tomorrow?”
Jack considered that. “Define normal.”
You lifted your head. “Jack.”
His mouth curved. “I will be supportive from an appropriate distance.”
You narrowed your eyes. “And?”
Jack looked toward the bag. “And possibly pace.”
You blinked. “You’re going to pace?”
He answered calmly. “Privately.”
You stared at him. “That is not private if I know about it.”
Jack nodded once. “Then forget I said it.”
You laughed, and Jack’s mouth curved against your hair. The bag sat zipped at the end of the bed. The dog tags waited inside. Tomorrow still felt big. But beside you, Jack’s hand warm at your waist, it no longer felt impossible.
You said softly, “Thank you.”
Jack’s thumb moved once. “For what?”
You looked at the bag. Then at him. “For being excited with me.”
His face softened. Jack said, “I am.”
You smiled. “And for trying to be cool about it.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m doing terribly.”
You nodded. “You are.”
His eyes warmed. “But you’re doing very well,” he said.
Your throat tightened. Jack leaned down and kissed you once, soft and certain. Then he glanced toward the zipped bag. His mouth curved.
“For the record,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “What?”
Jack’s expression turned solemn. “I’m still personally concerned for my survival.”
You laughed and shoved his shoulder. Jack caught your hand before you could pull it back, kissed your knuckles, and held on.
The studio smelled like coffee, linen spray, and something faintly floral. You were grateful for the coffee. It gave you something normal to focus on while your heart tried to climb out of your chest. The building itself was tucked into the second floor of a renovated brick storefront, the kind with creaky stairs and tall windows and old wood floors that had probably seen a hundred different lives before this one. Soft music played from somewhere near the back of the room. The afternoon light came in through sheer curtains, warm and pale, falling across a white bed, a velvet chair, and a small couch draped with a cream throw blanket.
It was beautiful.
That somehow made it worse.
Your bag felt heavier on your shoulder than it had when you left the house. Inside were the outfits you had packed and repacked, the robe Jack had finally made you stop folding, and the velvet pouch tucked safely into the side pocket. Jack’s dog tags. Your tactical support. You smiled faintly at the thought, then immediately inhaled like breathing was a task you had forgotten to practice.
A woman with warm eyes and a messy bun came around the corner holding two iced coffees.
Her smile widened when she saw you. “You made it.”
You let out a nervous laugh. “Barely.”
She handed you one of the coffees. “That counts.”
Your fingers curled around the cup. “Does it?”
“Absolutely.” She nodded toward the studio. “Getting through the door is usually the hardest part.”
You looked around at the bed, the mirror, the clothing rack, the camera resting on a stool near the window. Your stomach flipped. The photographer saw it. She set her coffee on a small table and turned back to you, calm and easy. “First rule.”
You looked at her. “There are rules?”
“One rule,” she said, holding up a finger. “You do not have to know what to do.”
You laughed because the relief was immediate and humiliating. “Great, because I absolutely do not.”
“That’s my job.” She gestured toward the changing area behind a screen. “Your job is to breathe and tell me if something feels weird.”
You nodded. “I can probably do that.”
“Probably is enough to start with.”
Your laugh came easier that time.
She smiled like she had been expecting it. “You’re going to feel awkward for the first five minutes.”
You tightened your hand around the coffee. “Excellent.”
“Everyone does,” she said. “And then your nervous system realizes nothing bad is happening.”
You looked at the bed again. “That would be nice.”
“It usually helps when people realize this isn’t about pretending to be someone else.” The photographer’s voice softened without becoming too serious. “We’re not here to fix you. We’re not here to make you smaller or different or unrecognizable.”
Something in your chest loosened.
She nodded toward the camera. “We’re here to let you see what’s already there.”
Jack’s voice came back to you so clearly it almost felt like he was in the room.
Let her help you see it.
You swallowed.
The photographer tilted her head. “You okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Her mouth curved. “Nervous?”
“Very.”
“Good.” She picked up the garment bag from your shoulder and hung it on the rack. “Means you’re doing something brave.”
That made you laugh softly. “My husband said something like that.”
“He sounds smart.”
“He is.” You looked down at your coffee. “Annoyingly.”
The photographer grinned. “The worst kind.”
You relaxed by a fraction. Enough to follow her toward the changing screen. Enough to unzip the bag. Enough to start.
The first outfit was the bodysuit. It felt safe enough. Structured enough. Like an opening argument you could maybe survive. You changed behind the screen, tying the robe around yourself afterward and staring at your own bare feet against the rug for a second longer than necessary.
Then you stepped out.
The photographer looked up from adjusting the camera.
Her face lit. “Oh, yes.”
You froze. “Yes?”
She pointed gently toward the mirror. “Yes. That’s beautiful on you.”
You looked down at yourself. “I feel like I forgot how to stand.”
“That’s normal.”
“Great.”
She laughed and crossed to the window, adjusting the curtain so the light softened. “Come here. We’ll start easy.”
You obeyed, mostly because she sounded like a person who knew exactly what to do with nervous women in pretty lingerie.
The first pose felt awkward. Your shoulder was too high. Your hand felt strange against your thigh. Your face kept trying to do something and then forgetting what it was.
The photographer lowered her camera. “Drop your shoulders.”
You exhaled and tried.
She smiled behind the lens. “Good. Now breathe through your mouth a little.”
You did.
“Perfect,” she said. “Chin down just a tiny bit. Eyes past me, not at me.”
You shifted your gaze.
“There,” she said immediately. “Hold that.”
The shutter clicked. Once. Twice. Again.
You tried not to think too hard about it. Your fingers curled against your thigh.
The photographer noticed. “Shake out your hands.”
You laughed, embarrassed, and did it.
She pointed gently toward you. “See? That laugh. That was real.”
You looked at her. “The laugh?”
“The laugh.” She lifted the camera again. “Do that again.”
“I can’t just recreate a laugh on command.”
“You don’t have to.” Her grin turned mischievous. “You just have to stop apologizing with your shoulders.”
You blinked. Then laughed for real. The camera clicked again.
The photographer lowered it just enough to smile at you. “That one.”
Your stomach flipped. “That one?”
She turned the camera so you could see the small screen.
You braced yourself.
You did.
You prepared for the familiar list.
Your arm looked weird. Your stomach. Your face. Your angle. Your skin. Your everything.
But then you saw the photo.
And for almost three full seconds, you forgot to critique yourself.
You were sitting near the window, shoulders relaxed, head turned slightly, your mouth open around a laugh you had not meant to give the camera. The light curved over your cheek and collarbone. Your body looked soft and real and somehow stronger than you remembered it feeling. Your breath caught.
The photographer watched your face. “That’s you.”
You looked closer. “That’s me?”
“That is absolutely you.”
Your throat tightened.
The photographer’s voice gentled. “We’ll take a lot more, and you may like some better than others. That’s normal. But I want you to remember that one.”
You looked at her. “Why?”
“Because you didn’t have to become anything else for it.”
The words sat in your chest. Warm. A little frightening.
You nodded, not fully trusting your voice.
The next outfit was Jack’s shirt. You changed behind the screen and left the top few buttons undone because the photographer suggested it, then one more because you decided you wanted to.
That felt like a victory. Small. But yours.
When you stepped out, the photographer smiled before she even lifted the camera.
“That one means something.”
Your fingers brushed the cuff. “My husband’s.”
Her expression softened. “That explains the face.”
You looked up. “What face?”
“The one where you forgot to be nervous for a second.”
You felt heat move up your neck.
The photographer pointed to the bed. “Sit there. One knee up. Let the shirt fall off one shoulder if it wants to.”
You sat, trying not to overthink every inch of yourself.
She adjusted your sleeve gently, then stepped back. “Good. Look toward the window.”
You did. The camera clicked.
“Now back at me.”
You turned.
“Perfect,” she said. “That little smile. Keep it.”
Your mouth twitched. “I don’t know what smile I’m doing.”
“I do.” She took another shot. “And your husband probably does too.”
You laughed.
The shutter clicked. You were starting to understand what she meant. Not fully. But enough. The shoot did not become easy exactly. It became possible.
The black lace was harder. You stood behind the changing screen longer than you needed to after you put it on, looking at yourself in the small mirror propped against the wall.
It was not that you disliked it.
That was the problem.
You liked it.
You liked the shape of yourself in it. The dark lace against your skin. The way it made you feel a little braver than you had been ten minutes ago. The way you could imagine Jack’s face if he saw it and the way that thought did not make you want to hide.
It made you smile.
The photographer’s voice came from the other side of the screen. “You doing okay?”
You looked at your reflection one more time. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
You touched the edge of the lace. “I think so.”
“That sounds promising.”
You stepped out.
The photographer went still for half a second.
Then she pointed at you, eyes bright. “That.”
You froze. “What?”
“That look.” She lifted the camera fast. “Don’t move.”
Your laugh caught halfway in your throat as the shutter clicked.
The photographer grinned behind the camera. “Yes. That is the one.”
“What did I do?” You asked.
“You looked at me like you knew.”
Your pulse jumped. “Knew what?”
“That you looked good.”
You laughed, but your cheeks warmed.
She lowered the camera slightly. “Don’t laugh it away.”
You stopped. Not fully. But enough.
She came closer, voice gentler now. “That’s the whole thing, right? Letting yourself know without immediately apologizing for it.”
The room went quiet around you.
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
She nodded. “Then let’s take the picture before your brain talks you out of it.”
That made you laugh again. But this time, you did not shrink from it. You let her pose you near the velvet chair, then on the edge of the bed, then against the white sheets with the window light touching your skin. She told you where to put your hands, when to lift your chin, when to soften your mouth, when to look straight at her.
And slowly, impossibly, it started to feel less like pretending.
More like allowing.
There was one photo where she had you turn slightly away and look back over your shoulder.
You felt ridiculous for half a second.
Then she said, “Oh, that is unfair.”
You laughed. “Unfair?”
“Absolutely.” She checked the camera screen and shook her head. “Your husband is going to need a minute.”
The laugh that left you was startled and delighted.
Not because the shoot was for Jack.
It wasn’t.
But because you could picture him.
Trying to be respectful. Failing by inches.
You tucked that thought somewhere private and let it make you bolder.
Between outfits, the photographer handed you water and let you sit on the couch for a minute.
You pulled the robe around yourself, warm and a little breathless.
She sat on the edge of the velvet chair, camera resting in her lap. “How are we feeling?”
You considered lying. Then you smiled. “Better.”
Her face lit. “Good.”
You sighed, “I thought I’d feel silly the whole time.”
“Most women do.”
You looked at her. “Really?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She leaned back in the chair. “We’re taught to apologize for wanting to be seen, then we’re surprised when being seen feels vulnerable.”
Your fingers tightened around the water bottle.
She smiled softly. “But this isn’t about asking anyone for permission to be beautiful.”
The words landed somewhere deep.
She tapped the camera lightly. “It’s about giving yourself proof.”
You looked toward the bed. The white sheets. The soft light. The bag waiting near the changing screen. Your heart kicked.
“I brought something else,” you said.
The photographer’s expression warmed. “Yeah?”
You stood and crossed to the bag. Your fingers found the side pocket, then the velvet pouch inside it. When you returned, you held the pouch in both hands. The photographer did not rush you. You opened it carefully and let the dog tags slide into your palm. Silver against skin.
Cool and familiar.
The photographer’s face softened immediately. “Those are special.”
You nodded. “My husband’s.”
She looked from the tags to your face. “Do you want to wear them?”
“Yeah.” You ran your thumb over the stamped metal. “They make me feel brave.”
The photographer smiled. Not teasing. Not too sentimental. Just understanding.
“Then we’ll make sure the photo feels like that.”
Your throat tightened. “Okay.”
She led you to the bed.
The room felt quieter now.
Not heavy.
Focused.
She draped a white sheet over you carefully once you were lying down. The fabric was cool against your skin, light enough to feel delicate, substantial enough that you did not feel exposed in a way you had not chosen.
The dog tags rested against your chest. Your fingers curled around them automatically.
The photographer adjusted the edge of the sheet near your shoulder. “Good. Let your shoulders sink into the bed.”
You tried.
She smiled. “A little more. You’re safe.”
The words loosened something in you. Your body softened into the mattress.
“There,” she said. “Hold the tags for a second.”
You did. The chain slid over your fingers.
“Now let them fall.”
You opened your hand. The tags settled against your skin. Your breath caught.
The photographer’s voice stayed soft. “Look up at me.”
You looked toward the camera.
“Think of something that makes you feel safe,” she said.
You thought of Jack. Not his reaction. Not whether he would like the photos. Not even the look on his face when he saw the dog tags, though the thought brushed through you warm and quick. You thought of him kneeling beside your bag, tucking the velvet pouch into the side pocket like it mattered because you had said it did.
You thought of his thumb at your waist.
His voice in the bedroom.
You booked it. You packed the bag. You’re doing it scared.
That counts.
Your breath left you slowly. You looked up.
The photographer went quiet. The camera clicked once. Then again. Then several more times, but the silence between them felt different now. Soft. Reverent.
Finally, the photographer lowered the camera. “Oh,” she said.
Your heart kicked. “What?”
Her smile was quiet. “That’s the one.”
You swallowed. “Can I see?”
She came around the bed and tilted the camera screen toward you. You pushed yourself up on one elbow, careful to keep the sheet over you, and looked.
There you were.
Lying beneath white sheets, hair spread against the pillow, Jack’s dog tags resting against your skin.
Your eyes were bright.
That was the first thing you noticed.
Not your body.
Not the sheet.
Not the parts of yourself you had expected to inspect and measure and critique.
Your eyes.
They were bright in a way you did not remember making them.
Your mouth was softened around the smallest smile.
You looked happy.
You looked like you belonged to yourself.
For a second, you could not speak.
The photographer stood beside the bed and let you have the moment.
Then she said, very gently, “That’s you.”
Your throat tightened.
You nodded, but your eyes stayed on the screen. “Yeah,” you whispered.
And for the first time that morning, you believed her.
By the time the shoot ended, your body felt tired in strange places. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your nerves had not disappeared entirely, but they had become something else. Energy. Pride. A little disbelief. You changed back into your clothes behind the screen, fingers moving more slowly now. Before you tucked the dog tags back into the velvet pouch, you held them in your palm for a moment and smiled down at them.
Then you slipped the chain over your head instead. Just for the drive home. Just because you wanted the weight of them with you a little longer.
When you stepped out from behind the screen, the photographer noticed immediately.
Her mouth curved. “Keeping them on?”
You touched the tags beneath your shirt. “For a little while.”
“Good.”
You picked up your bag and looked around the studio one more time. The bed. The chair. The tall windows. The place where you had walked in nervous and awkward and sure you would not know what to do with your hands.
You looked back at the photographer. “Thank you.”
Her face softened. “How do you feel?”
You considered lying. You considered saying good, or fine, or better.
Then you thought of the photo. Your eyes. The tags. The white sheet.
The version of you who looked like she belonged to herself.
You smiled. “Proud,” you said.
The photographer’s smile widened. “Good,” she said. “That’s the point.”
Outside, the air felt cool against your face. You sat in your car for a full minute before starting it. Your bag rested on the passenger seat. The dog tags were warm beneath your shirt. Your hands were still shaking a little when you picked up your phone.
You opened Jack’s message thread. For a second, you just looked at his name.
Then you typed:
You:
I did it.
His reply came less than a minute later.
Jack:
Proud of you.
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt again. Then another message appeared.
Jack:
Also practicing heroic restraint and asking zero inappropriate follow-up questions.
You laughed alone in the car, the sound filling the small space and breaking the last sharp edge of nerves in your chest.
You typed back:
You:
Very mature of you.
Jack replied:
Jack:
Historic.
You were still smiling when another message came through.
Jack:
You okay?
Your thumb hovered over the screen. You looked down at yourself. At the shirt hiding the dog tags. At the bag on the passenger seat. At the version of you still bright behind your eyes.
Then you typed:
You:
Yeah. I feel good.
Jack’s answer came back almost immediately.
Jack:
Good.
Simple. Steady. Jack.
You set the phone down and started the car. As you backed out of the parking space, the photographer’s words stayed with you.
That’s you. For the first time in a long time, you thought maybe it was.
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Pics from my shoot. This is your sign to fucking do it. You won’t regret it.
jack abbott x reader who adopted her nieces (toddler and older maybe six or eight?) after their parents died (sister and brother in law) and none of her coworkers knew until the older got injured and had to go to the ER w/ babysitter and little sister . everyone thinking she has a secret family and her having to clarify those are her nieces - jacks heart just getting all fuzzy seeing her being all soft with her nieces ?!
𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐄𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫 ♡
This is such a cute (and kinda sad🥺) idea!!
Jack Abbot x resident!reader || Masterlist || Spotify
summary: The night takes a turn when Jack finds you in the ER hallway with two little girls who look unmistakably like you. He realizes there’s a whole part of your life he never knew about. But maybe, if you let him, he’d really like to understand it.
word count: 8.0k
warnings/tags: No use of y/n. Hurt/comfort. Angst and fluff. Canon typical medical traumas. May contain medical inaccuracies. I usually prefer not naming kid characters in my stories, but reader's nieces are named in this (I found it too difficult writing two unnamed child characters in the same scene, hehe)
Jack is looking at the board with a slight crease between his brows, eyes scanning the patient list like he’s expecting something to suddenly appear. It’s an unusually quiet night, which, in Jack’s experience, usually means something is about to go down.
He shifts his weight slightly, arms folded over his chest as he studies the list like it might suddenly rearrange itself if he watches long enough.
A couple of minor injuries. One patient waiting on labs. Someone in observation who probably should’ve been discharged an hour ago. He can’t remember the last time the board looked this manageable.
“Don’t stare at it too hard,” a well-known voice says from behind him. “You might scare the calm away.”
Jack glances over his shoulder.
You’re leaning against the counter. You look tired, yet you still have that small, sweet smile on your face, the one he’s noticed shows up most when the shift is at its worst, like you’re stubbornly refusing to let the place grind you down.
It’s a smile he has begun to rely more on than he probably should. It’s subtle. Easy to miss if someone isn’t paying attention. But Jack always notices.
It’s steady, reassuring. And somewhere along the line, Jack realized he looks for it now. Which is a bit of a problem. You’re his resident, which means he probably shouldn’t be noticing things like that, but he just can’t help it.
He shouldn’t be cataloguing the way your smile softens the hard edges of a shift, or how the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction when you walk into a room. He shouldn’t be aware of the way your voice sounds when you’re explaining something gently to a patient versus when you’re arguing with an elderly patient about why they really do need to stay for observation.
But he does. He notices all of it.
“Calm’s a myth,” he says after a moment. “Just means the ambulance bay’s about to light up.”
You hum softly behind him. “Optimistic as always, Abbot.”
“Just speaking from experience.”
“Sure.” Your tone is light, teasing, but there’s something softer under it that Jack can’t quite place.
You have been a little different lately. Jack noticed it before he meant to. It’s just in glimpses, short moments where you linger a little longer than usual after a hard case. Your usual optimism is by no means gone, but it seems like you’re fighting a little more for it. The smile is still there. Still warm, still steady. But sometimes it takes a second longer to show up.
Sometimes he catches the moment just before it does. The quiet breath you take before turning back to a patient. The way your shoulders drop when you think no one’s looking. The way you stare at a chart a little too long after delivering bad news. Most people probably wouldn’t notice, but he does.
You push yourself off the counter and walk up beside him, leaning slightly so you can see the board better. Your shoulder brushes his arm for half a second before you settle next to him. Neither of you mention it.
“Got anything good for me?” you ask, leaning a little closer, eyes bright even though your body is clearly tired.
“I got a dislocated collarbone in room twelve,” he offers.
You’re studying the list, brow slightly furrowed now, that little smile still sitting at the corner of your mouth like it belongs there. It’s ridiculous, honestly, how much it steadies him.
“Yeah, we better get that fixed,” you murmur, voice low, almost to yourself, but loud enough that Jack hears.
He glances at you, smiling despite himself. “You know cherrypicking is against hospital policy, right?”
“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, eyes glinting.
Jack snorts softly, shaking his head. “That’s called careful evaluation. Strategic thinking.”
“Strategic, huh?” you tease, leaning just a little closer, it makes you brush your shoulder against his side again. It’s just the slightest touch, but it’s still enough for him to notice. “If you say so,” you murmur, voice low and teasing, “but I think we both know you just like standing here watching me pick the fun cases.”
Jack shakes his head, though a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You finish your notes on the chest pain in four?”
“Yep,” you say. “Negative trops, normal EKG, probably reflux. I set up discharge and told him to follow up with his PCP.”
Jack nods once, approving.
You glance sideways at him. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Just checking.”
“You’re so reassuring,” you deadpan.
Jack’s mouth twitches faintly, like he’s trying not to smile and mostly failing. “Part of my job description.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t move away. If anything, you settle a little more comfortably beside him, shoulder still brushing his arm every now and then when one of you shifts. It’s easy like this, too easy.
“Yeah,” you murmur after a beat, voice softer now, “it’s… nice to have a good attending.”
Jack glances at you, caught slightly off guard by the softness in your voice. He opens his mouth to respond, he doesn’t even know what to say, but he is cut off when your phone suddenly rings. The sound slices clean through the quiet moment.
You blink, startled, and pull it from your pocket, glancing at the screen. Your expression changes immediately. The teasing ease disappears. Your shoulders stiffen just slightly. You frown, glancing at the screen. “Sorry, I really need to take this.”
You turn and begin walking away with quick steps, your thumb swiping over the answer button almost instinctively. “Hello?” Your voice is calm, but there’s an undertone of alertness now, of attention fully focused.
Jack watches you as you disappear down the hall. He gives a soft shake of his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off the sudden shift from warm ease to professional focus. Then he turns back to the board, pushing his thoughts aside.
But he barely has time to refocus before Lena appears at the board, her expression tense but professional. She doesn’t waste words. “We’ve got a trauma coming in. Motorcycle accident, one patient, multiple injuries. Five minutes away.”
That’s all it takes for him to snap fully back. “Do we have vitals?”
“No.”
“Okay, room prep. Get trauma two cleared, full protocol, you know the drill,” he says, already moving. “Vitals on arrival,” he calls out as he reaches the bay.
The patient is in rough shape upon arrival, but he pulls through and after working on him for half an hour he’s finally stable and on his way up to surgery.
Jack peels off his gloves, the latex snapping softly as he drops them into the bin, and as he washes his hands the adrenaline finally begins to ebb. Warm water runs over his fingers as he scrubs methodically, gaze fixed somewhere on the tiled wall in front of him
The patient had made it. Stable enough for surgery, that counts as a win in the ER. He steps out of the trauma bay and stops short.
You’re in the hallway near triage. On your hip is a toddler, she can’t be more than two years old, sleepy, fighting a great fight to keep her eyes open, clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest. In front of you, perched on a gurney with an ice pack pressed to her head, is a little girl who looks suspiciously like you. Same eyes, same shape to the mouth. Even the tilt of her head when she looks up at you feels familiar. She looks to be about five or six years old.
For a second his brain just stalls, and then it does something unhelpful. Oh… she has kids. It’s absurd how hard that thought lands. Around him, whispers start immediately.
“Did you know she had kids?”
“Since when?”
“Wait, is she married?”
Jack hates how tight his chest feels. You never mentioned a partner. Never mentioned children. He’s spent so long memorizing all the little things about you, the way you take your coffee, the way you sigh after long shifts, the way you rub your temples when you’re overwhelmed, and somehow missed an entire family?
He watches you press your forehead to the little girls on the gurney’s, murmuring reassurances. The toddler tiredly pats your cheek like she’s comforting you too. Jack feels something in his chest rearrange.
Ellis raises a brow at him. “Did you know?”
“No,” he mutters, unable to look away.
Jack watches the scene like he’s accidentally stepped into someone else’s life.
You’re standing there in the harsh fluorescent light of the ER hallway, still in your scrubs, just like he has seen you hundreds of times before, now you’re just holding a toddler like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your hand is rubbing slow circles on her back while you lean down toward the older girl on the gurney.
Jack stands there longer than he should. Long enough to feel vaguely like he’s intruding on something private. Because the version of you he knows exists in trauma bays and chart rooms and late-night coffee runs. The version of you who stubbornly smiles through brutal shifts and argues politely with patients who want to leave against medical advice
This version of you is… different. Soft in a way that makes something in his chest pull tight. But then he pulls himself together. Because standing there staring isn’t helping anyone. And the whispers behind him are getting louder.
“Did she ever mention kids to you?” someone murmurs.
“Nope.”
“Do we know who the dad is?”
Jack’s jaw tightens. He steps forward before he can think too hard about it. You turn your head in his direction as he approaches. For a moment your expression freezes, but you recover quickly, shifting the toddler a little higher on your hip as her little head droops against your shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and even. “What have we got her?”
You glance down at the little girl on the gurney before answering, your voice automatically shifting into the calm, clinical tone Jack is used to hearing during rounds.
“She fell out of bed and hit the corner of the nightstand,” you finish gently, brushing a stray piece of hair away from the little girl’s forehead. “She cried right away. No loss of consciousness, no vomiting. Babysitter said she seemed a little dizzy after, but she’s been alert the whole time.”
“I just had to pee,” the little girl insists, her lower lip wobbles a little.
You give her a soft smile immediately. “I know you did,” you murmur gently, brushing your thumb across her cheek where a tear had started to slip down.
The toddler on your hip lifts her head a little at the sound of your voice, blinking slowly like she’s trying very hard to stay awake. Her tiny hand pats your shoulder once before she tucks her face back into your neck, rabbit still clutched tight.
Jack feels something strange twist in his chest.
“Let’s get her to peds and have a look,” Jack says gently.
You nod immediately.
The next five minutes pass in a blur, the kind of blur that only comes from moving quickly but carefully, every motion practiced and precise. You walk beside the gurney, still cradling the toddler, while Jack guides the gurney towards the pediatric room.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” Jack begins, his voice calm but firm, as he closes the door behind them, shutting out the harsh fluorescent buzz of the main ER. He glances at you, taking in how naturally you balance the toddler on your hip while keeping an eye on the older girl. “Is it okay if I take a look at your head and ask a few questions?” he says gently as he pulls, first a chair for you to sit beside the gurney, before rolling a stool for himself to sit on the other side.
You whisper a small thank you as you settle, carefully shifting the toddler from your hip to your lap, letting her slump a little as her eyelids droop.
“Okay,” the little girl on the gurney whispers.
You give her a soft nod, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Dr. Abbot is just going to check your head and make sure everything’s okay, alright? He will be super gentle, I promise. He’s really, really good at this.”
Jack feels a strange mixture of awe and something heavier, something private, almost fragile, coil in his chest. He swallows hard, keeping his voice low and steady, though his chest feels just a little too tight. “Yeah, I’m gonna be super gentle, promise.”
Jack wheels his stool a little closer to the gurney, keeping his movements slow and unthreatening the way you would with any nervous pediatric patient. The little girl watches him carefully, her small fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.
“Alright,” he says softly, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “First things first, what’s your name?”
“Sophia,” she says in a small voice.
Jack nods gently, keeping his tone soft and warm. “Hi, Sophia,” he says, like they’re just meeting under normal circumstances and not in the middle of a late-night ER visit. “That’s a really good name. Means wisdom, right?”
“Mhm,” she nods seriously, like this is very important information.
Jack smiles faintly. Your thumb brushes gently over her ankle through the blanket. “Alright,” Jack continues gently, shifting a little closer on the stool. “I have this flashlight,” Jack says, pulling the small penlight from the pocket of his scrub top. He clicks it on, letting the beam shine briefly against the wall first so Sophia can see it. “I’m just going to use it to look at your eyes, okay?”
Sophia watches the light with cautious curiosity. “Okay…” she murmurs.
“Perfect,” he says, offering her a small, reassuring smile. Jack keeps his movements slow and predictable, the way he would with any nervous kid. “Can you look right at my nose for me?” he asks gently.
She is very cooperative, squinting a little as she focuses hard on the middle of his face.
“Perfect,” Jack murmurs. He lifts the penlight and shines it briefly into one eye, then the other, watching the pupils carefully as they react to the light. “Great job,” he murmurs. “You’re really good at this.”
That seems to make her proud. Her shoulders lift just a little, like she’s sitting a bit taller on the gurney. Jack notices and lets the moment sit for a second before continuing.
“Alright,” he says gently, clicking the penlight off and slipping it back into his pocket. “Now can you follow my finger with your eyes, not your head.”
Sophia nods solemnly, clearly taking the task very seriously. Jack lifts a finger in front of her face and begins to move it slowly from side to side. Sophia’s eyes track it carefully, her brow furrowing in concentration.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “Now up here.” He moves his finger upward, then down, watching closely as her gaze follows smoothly. “Great job.”
Sophia’s shoulders relax a little at the praise.
“I heard you felt a bit dizzy after you fell,” Jack continues gently. “Does your head feel spinny right now? Or do you feel nauseous at all?”
Sophia thinks about it very seriously, her brow scrunching as she considers the question.
“A little before,” she admits quietly. “But not now.”
Jack nods once, calm and reassuring. “Okay, that’s good.”
But the little girl shuffles slightly on the gurney. “But I still have to pee…” she says quietly.
You sigh, closing your eyes a brief second, the sound carrying a mixture of exhaustion and guilt. “You never got to go to the bathroom, did you, sweetheart.”
“No,” she says, her voice small.
The sound of your voice wakes the toddler on your lap, her eyelids fluttering as she takes in her surroundings. Her eyes land on Jack wide and curious, a tiny frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. You shift slightly, holding her securely against your chest while keeping one hand free to guide Sophia.
The little girl in your lap lifts the stuffed rabbit in her hand and points it vaguely in Jack’s direction.
“Bun,” she informs him.
Jack nods very seriously. “That’s a great bunny.”
She seems satisfied with that. Her little frown turns into the sweetest, little tentative smile, and she wiggles slightly against your chest, the rabbit still clutched tight.
“Let’s go find a toilet,” you murmur softly, shifting the toddler gently so she’s more comfortable against your hip, but her little feet kick lightly, a little whiny sound of disapproval leaving her mouth, like she isn’t willing to move so shortly after being woken up. “Sweetie, Sophia has to go to the bathroom,” you murmur gently, tilting your head so the toddler can see your face. Her little frown deepens, and she lets out another small whiny sound, hugging her bunny a little tighter.
“Here,” Jack says, reacting on instinct more than thought, holding his arms out gently toward the toddler. “Want to come to me for a sec?”
Your eyes finds his, a tired, thankful look in your eyes as hand the little girl over her tiny body shifting hesitantly into Jack’s arms. He catches her with ease, one hand under her bottom, the other supporting her back, letting her hug her rabbit close against his chest. The toddler relaxes slightly, leaning into him as if she’s known him far longer than a few minutes.
Jack gives a soft, reassuring hum, careful not to startle her. “There we go,” he murmurs gently, adjusting her so she’s comfortable.
“Okay, let’s find you a toilet,” you murmur to Sophia, gently squeezing her hand. “Are you okay to walk?”
She nods and you help her down fram the gurney, your hands steadying her as she plants her small feet on the floor. “We will be back in a minute,” you say, looking at Jack.
Jack gives a small nod, his arms still steady around the toddler. “I’ve got her,” he says softly, his voice low and calm, like he’s afraid any sudden sound might startle her.
You glance at him, the weight of the night and the exhaustion in both of you hanging between you for a moment. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly, the tired gratitude threading through the simple phrase.
Jack meets your eyes for just a second, his expression softening in a way that makes your chest tighten slightly. “Of course,” he murmurs, his tone steady and gentle, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “Anytime,” he says gently, shifting the toddler slightly so she’s snug against his chest.
You make it to the door, Sophia’s hand in yours, your gaze lingers for a moment, grateful and weary, before you turn your attention back to Sophia and leave the room. The toddler shifts a little in his arms, pressing her cheek more firmly against his chest, and Jack instinctively rocks her just a fraction, careful and deliberate.
Jack adjusts her tiny weight slightly, settling her more comfortably against him. Her small sigh of contentment is almost inaudible, but it’s enough to draw a faint, careful smile across his face. He rocks her gently, slow and steady, as if the motion itself could smooth out the rough edges of the night.
He glances down at her little hand clutching the stuffed bunny, the way she presses it to her chest like it’s a lifeline. Even in the chaos of the ER, this small, quiet connection feels grounding. His eyes flick up briefly toward where you’ve just disappeared with Sophia, and there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his chest, acknowledgment, relief, admiration.
For a few seconds, it’s just him and the toddler, the world outside the room fading to the soft rhythm of her breathing and the faint hum of hospital life beyond the walls. Jack rocks her just a little more, careful not to disturb the fragile bubble of calm, letting himself breathe into it, too.
He had no idea that you had children, but seeing you now, so effortlessly caring, so present even under the harsh glare of the ER lights, shifts something in him.
The image of you juggling a little tired toddler on your hip while gently guiding Sophia, your voice soft and steady, imprints itself firmly in his mind. It’s not just admiration or curiosity, it’s a quiet, sinking awe that someone so capable, so brilliant, also carries this other life, these tiny, fragile humans who rely on you so completely.
“I never got your name,” he murmurs, careful, low, his voice soft as if saying it too loud might shatter the fragile calm between him and the toddler. The little girl in his arms shifts slightly, nuzzling her cheek against his chest, and he instinctively rocks her just a fraction more. She is clearly too tired to answer, but he wasn’t expecting her to do so anyway.
Her small hand twitches, brushing against the edge of the stuffed rabbit, and he tightens his hold just a little, letting her feel secure. The simplicity of it, her trust, her quiet presence, anchors him more than any adrenaline rush or successful trauma ever could.
For a few minutes it’s just him and her, the faint hum of the hospital, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the gentle sway of his arms. Jack exhales slowly, letting himself sink into the strange, grounding calm.
When you come back the world shifts again, snapping into motion with the same gentle urgency that fills every corner of the ER. Sophia’s hand still clasped in yours, her steps small but determined. The little girl in Jack’s arms stirs slightly at the sound of your voice, lifting her head and blinking up at you with sleepy, trusting eyes.
Jack straightens just a fraction, still careful, still protective, as if even a slight motion might break the fragile bubble of calm. “We’re back,” you murmur, voice soft but steady, like a bridge between the chaos outside and the tiny universe he’s holding. “Did you fall asleep again, honey?” you murmur gently, tilting your head slightly so the toddler can see your face.
The little girl in Jack’s arms lets out a tiny, sleepy yawn and snuggles closer, her grip on the rabbit tightening just a fraction. Jack shifts her slightly as he stands up, easing her into the curve of your shoulder as you step closer. “She’s been a really good girl,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady, careful not to startle her. “Just got herself a little nap.”
You smile softly down at the toddler, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I see that,” you murmur, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head before looking at him again. You smile softly, warmth threading through your tired eyes. “Thank you,” you murmur, voice gentle but carrying that quiet, exhausted gratitude that Jack can feel in his chest more than he can hear.
He meets your gaze, just for a moment, his expression softening in response, the small crease between his brows easing. “Anytime,” he murmurs, voice low and calm, a faint, careful smile tugging at his lips as he adjusts the toddler slightly so she’s snug against your shoulder again.
The little girl presses her face into your chest, and you can’t help but hum softly in response, rocking her gently.
Jack feels that quiet, twisting mix of awe and something warmer, something protective, settle deeper in his chest. He has to look away as if to reset himself, to stop his thoughts from spiraling too far. The sight of you, so effortlessly present with the toddler and Sophia, so gentle and patient, so human, feels like it’s pulling at something inside him he wasn’t sure he still had room for.
He turns his attention back to Sophia. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft and steady, “let’s see how your head’s feeling now.”
Sophia nods, her weary seemingly fully gone, her weariness seemingly fully gone now, replaced with that careful, attentive focus that comes from trying to do exactly what she’s asked. Jack helps her up onto the gurney just enough so she’s sitting comfortably, his hands steadying her small frame. “Good job,” he murmurs, his voice calm, low, gentle. “Did you hit anything besides your head when you fell? Anywhere else it hurts?”
Sophia thinks seriously for a moment, brow furrowed. “No… just my head.”
Jack nods slowly, his voice still calm and gentle. “Okay, that’s good to know.”
Jack’s eyes soften as he examines the small gash on Sophia’s forehead. It’s shallow, just enough to bleed a little, but nothing alarming. He keeps his tone calm, gentle, and steady, aware of how closely you’re watching.
“I’m gonna clean this up, okay?” Jack murmurs softly, leaning slightly closer so Sophia can see exactly what he’s doing.
“Okay,”she whispers, her small voice tentative but trusting.
“And then I’m gonna close the wound with a little bit of medical super glue,” Jack continues gently. Keeping his voice is calm, low and steady, the kind that makes scary things seem small.
Sophia’s eyes widen just slightly at the mention of glue, and she leans back a fraction. Jack notices immediately and gives a reassuring smile. “Super glue?” she whispers, her voice tiny and uncertain, brows furrowing.
Jack nods gently, keeping his tone soft and steady. “Yeah, but it’s not the kind you use at home. This is special hospital glue. It helps the skin stick together so it heals really fast. You won’t even feel it much, I promise.”
“It’s true,” you murmur softly, brushing a stray curl from Sophia’s forehead, your voice gentle and reassuring. “And Jack is really good at this, and the glue helps your wound heal so it doesn’t leave so bad of a scar.”
Sophia blinks up at you, confusion knitting her small brows together. “Who is Jack?” she asks, her voice small but genuinely curious.
“I mean Dr. Abbot,” you correct yourself, looking a little sheepish as you glance back at him.
For a moment Jack pauses, he can’t help but like the way his name sounded when you said it. It sounds easy coming from you, natural in a way that settles somewhere warm in his chest before he has time to think about it. The corner of his mouth lifting in quiet amusement.
“Jack is fine,” he says gently, his voice warm as he crouches slightly so he’s more at Sophia’s eye level.
Sophia studies him very seriously, her small face thoughtful, for just about half a second before she then gives a small, decisive nod. “Okay.”
Jack’s smile softens at her approval. “Okay,” he echoes lightly. “Now let’s get that wound cleaned.”
Sophia nods again, a little braver now that she knows what’s going to happen. It’s a quick, careful process. Jack works with practiced ease, dabbing gently at the small cut while keeping his movements slow enough that nothing startles her.
“There we go,” he murmurs softly. “This might sting a little.”
Sophia scrunches her nose a little at the cool antiseptic wipe but holds perfectly still, her small hands gripping the edge of the gurney.
“You’re doing amazing,” Jack adds quietly, genuine approval in his voice.
Beside the gurney, you shift the toddler slightly against your shoulder as she stirs, humming softly until she settles again, her cheek pressed into your chest and the stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin. The quiet rhythm of it fills the small space between the four of you.
Jack finishes cleaning the wound and straightens just a little, reaching for the small applicator of medical glue. “Alright,” he says gently. “Now for the tiny bit of glue we talked about. This part is really quick.”
Sophia nods solemnly, eyes fixed on him, trusting. It’s a quick fix, and he’s sure the scarring will be minimal. “And… done,” he says softly after a second, leaning back.
Sophia’s shoulders drop in visible relief. “All finished?” she asks hopefully.
Jack smiles. “All finished.”
A small proud smile spreads across her face, and she happily accepts his offer of a high five when he lifts his palm. Sophia beams, as her small hand connects with his in a perfect, confident high five. The sound echoes softly in the room, and Jack can’t help but mirror her grin, warmth threading through the exhaustion of the night, and when Jack glances at you, there’s that same quiet warmth in your eyes that makes his chest tighten in a way it probably shouldn’t, but he just can’t help it.
That warmth in your eyes lingers for just a moment too long. Jack notices it immediately. He notices everything about you lately, which is exactly the problem.
Sophia is still smiling proudly, clearly thrilled that the entire ordeal ended with a high five instead of something scarier. The toddler in your arms has sunk back into that half-asleep state, her cheek pressed against your shoulder, rabbit tucked beneath her chin.
And it hits Jack all over again how strange it feels to see you like this. That he hasn’t known this part of you. Not in passing conversation between patients. Not in the quiet moments over stale coffee at two in the morning. Not in the long shifts where people start sharing pieces of their lives just to stay awake.
And yet here you are, like this has always existed just outside the edges of the world he knows. Sophia swings her legs a little where she sits on the gurney, clearly pleased with both the praise and the attention.
“See?” you murmur softly to her, brushing a curl back from her forehead. “Told you he was good.”
Jack pretends not to notice the way you said that, like it’s something you’ve known for a long time.
Sophia nods seriously. “Mhm.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh under his breath. “Well,” he says lightly, pushing himself up from the stool, “I had a very good patient.”
Sophia sits a little taller at that, visibly proud of herself. The little girl stirs faintly against your shoulder, her small fingers tightening in your scrubs as she shifts. You instinctively rock her a little, one hand coming up to steady the back of her head while the other rests against her back.
The movement is automatic, practiced. Jack notices that too, of course he does.
You shift slightly, adjusting the toddler so she’s more comfortable against your hip, and murmur softly. “We should probably go find Lauren,” you say with a small smile to Sophia before you look at Jack to explain. “She’s their babysitter, she was panicking when they came in, so I told her to take a snack in the cafeteria.”
Jack nods. “It’s never fun being the babysitter when accidents happen.”
“Yeah, it feels like a big responsibility to take care of other’s kids…” you mumble, your gaze turning briefly to the toddler in your arms. Jack follows your glance down at the little girl in your arms, who’s nuzzled comfortably against you, and his chest tightens just a fraction.
Your gaze turns to Sophia. “Are you okay going home with Lauren now? I will be back for breakfast.”
“You don’t have to stay,” Jack interrupts softly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the toddler in your arms.
“I would really like to follow up on my asthma patient,” you murmur quietly, voice low but firm, glancing at Jack. “Is that okay?” you ask, now turned to the girl on the gurney.
Sophia nods solemnly. “Mhm,” she says, trusting, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
He holds the door open for you as you leave the pediatrics room. You shift slightly, adjusting the toddler so she’s more comfortable against your hip, and pause just outside the door.
“Can you say goodbye to Dr. Abbot,” you murmur softly to Sophia, brushing a curl from her forehead.
Sophia looks up at him and lifts her hand in a tiny wave. “Bye, Dr. Jack,” she says clearly, her voice proud and earnest.
Jack crouches slightly, meeting her gaze with a soft, warm smile. “Bye, Sophia. You were so brave tonight.”
Sophia beams at the praise, then lifts her hand for a high five. Jack feels a warm molten feeling rise in his chest as he raises his own hand to meet hers, holding it steady at her height. Her small palm smacks against his with a crisp confidence, and she grins like she’s just won something important.
“Alright,” he murmurs with a soft chuckle, lowering his hand again. “Perfect high five.”
The little girl’s grin only widens at that, clearly thrilled with herself. She rocks a little on her heels, still glowing with pride.
Jack’s eyes meet yours as he straightens again, and for a moment the hallway feels quieter than it should, the distant noise of the ER fading into the background. There’s a softness in his expression he doesn’t quite try to hide.
You give him a small, tired smile in return, shifting the toddler slightly, the movement, and the chance from the quiet room to the hallway waking her. She blinks sleepily, brow knitting for a moment as she lifts her head, still clutching the stuffed rabbit beneath her chin. Her eyes drift around the hallway before settling on him.
For a second she just stares at him, heavy-lidded and quiet, trying to place where she is. Her fingers tighten a little in the fabric of your scrubs, rabbit still tucked under her chin.
Jack’s expression softens even more at the sleepy focus of her gaze. “Hey there,” he murmurs gently, careful to keep his voice low.
A small, sleepy smile tugs at the toddler’s lips at the sound of his voice, slow and uncertain but unmistakably there. She blinks at him once more and her smile widens, the kind that belongs entirely to half-awake toddlers who haven’t quite decided if they’re still dreaming.
She lets out a sleepy giggle, soft and warm, the kind that seems to fill the small space between you all. The soft giggle seems to catch him completely off guard, and his smile widens despite himself.
“Oh, you are a real charmer, aren’t you,” Jack murmurs quietly, voice warm as he watches her fight sleep. Jack tilts his head slightly, studying her for a second before glancing up at you.
“What’s her name?” he asks softly.
“Her name is Rosa, but we call her Rosie the most,” Sophia says quickly, clearly pleased to be the one answering. A small smile touching your lips as you glance down at the toddler. Sophia rocks a little beside you, clearly proud of the introduction she just delivered.
“Yeah, you’re our little flower, right?” you murmur softly, brushing your fingers lightly over Rosie’s cheek.
Jack’s gaze lingers on the two of you, something warm and thoughtful settling in his expression.
Rosie lets out one more tiny, breathy giggle before she suddenly leans toward him, her tiny hand reaching out curiously. Without thinking, Jack steps closer and lets her grab one of his fingers.
Jack stills for a second when her tiny hand closes around his finger. Her grip is warm and unexpectedly strong for someone so small and half-asleep. Rosie peers at their joined hands with slow, fascinated focus, like she’s just discovered something very important.
Jack watches her for a moment, careful not to move too quickly. “Well,” he murmurs softly, glancing up at you with a quiet, amused smile, “that’s… a pretty firm handshake.”
“Yeah, she’s tougher than she looks,” you say softly, a quiet hint of amusement in your voice, though there’s something else there too, something more subdued, almost melancholic. Jack notices it. “And so are you Phia,” you murmur quietly, shifting your gaze down to the older girl, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
It’s as he stands there, watching the three of you, with Rosie’s tiny fingers still curling lightly around his, that Lena comes walking down the hallway. Her steps are light but purposeful, an ipad tucked under one arm.
“Dr. Abbot we need you in room four,” Lena calls softly as she approaches, her voice gentle but carrying that unmistakable urgency. She glances at the scene before her, Rosie still holding Jack’s finger, Sophia’s small hand in yours, and the quiet warmth between you all, and offers a small, understanding smile.
Jack gives Rosie one last, careful squeeze of her tiny hand before letting go, to let her curl her fingers back around your scrubs. “Duty calls,” he murmurs softly, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he straightens.
Rosie blinks slowly when his finger slips from her grasp, her tiny hand hovering in the air for a moment as if she’s trying to understand where it went. Then her fingers curl again, to bunch into the fabric of your scrubs instead. She lets out a small, sleepy hum and presses her cheek back against your shoulder, rabbit still tucked beneath her chin.
Sophia watches the exchange with great seriousness before giving Jack another small wave. “Goodbye,” she says earnestly.
Jack’s smile softens. “Bye, Sophia,” he replies gently. “Take care of your sister, okay?”
Sophia nods like she’s just been entrusted with something very important. Jack’s gaze flicks back to you then, lingering for a quiet second.
“I’ll be back on duty in sec,” you say quietly, almost apologetically, shifting Rosie a little higher on your hip so her head rests more comfortably against your shoulder. The words half directed to Lena, who pauses a step behind Jack, her expression softening with understanding.
She gives a small nod. “Take your time,” she says gently.
Jack’s eyes linger on you for another moment, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly as he watches you adjust Rosie against your shoulder, the toddler already drifting fully back into sleep.
For half a second he doesn’t moment, he doesn’t move. “See you back on the floor,” he says finally, his voice low but warm, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He gives the girls a last wave then he turns with Lena, the two of them heading down the hallway toward the ER rooms, already slipping back into the rhythm of the shift.
The shift hums around him again, he checks his watch briefly before slipping back into the flow of patients and charting.
It’s not until the end of the shift that he gets a chance to speak with you again. It’s quiet now, the ER settling into the slower rhythm that comes in the early morning. You’re at the nurses station, finishing up the last of your charting while chewing lightly on your lower lip. He walks up to the station, settling his forearms on the counter, learning slightly toward you as he watches you work.
He watches you for a quiet moment, the hum of the ER soft around the two of you. “You know lip chewing can lead to inflammation,” he says quietly, the teasing edge in his voice soft but present as his gaze lingers on you.
You glance up quickly. “Of course, I’m a doctor,” you say with a small, mock-offended smile, tilting your head slightly. “And I’m not chewing my lip,” you mumble, though the small twitch betrays you. “But I am finishing my charting,” you say, pushing the last key with a satisfying click. You push back slightly from the keyboard, letting your shoulders relax, and finally look up at him fully.
He offers you a small, amused smile, the kind that lingers more in his eyes than on his lips. For a moment neither of you says anything. The quiet of the early morning hums around you, monitors beeping softly somewhere down the hall.
The events of the night seem to hang quietly between you for a moment. Rosie’s sleepy giggle and Sophia’s bright smile, seems to linger in the air, like soft echoes. But that underlying melancholy he has noticed earlier still lingers faintly beneath it all.
His expression softens a little as he watches you, though the hint of amusement never fully leaves his eyes. “Been a long night,” he says quietly.
You nod once, letting out a small breath. “Yeah.”
For a second the two of you just stay there in the quiet hum of the ER. Then you glance toward the clock, push your chair back, and stand.
“Walk with me?” you ask casually, nodding toward the hallway that leads to the staff lockers.
“Sure,” Jack replies easily, pushing himself away from the counter.
He falls into step beside you as you head down the quieter hallway toward the lockers. For a moment neither of you says anything. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel awkward, just tired after a long shift.
“Thank you for being so gentle with them earlier,” you say after a few steps, your voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.
Jack glances over at you, a little surprised by the sudden sincerity in your tone. “Of course,” he says softly, his voice low but steady. “And it wasn’t hard, they’re great kids.”
You glance at him briefly, catching the subtle warmth in his expression, and then look away, letting a small smile tug at your lips. “I just… appreciate it. They have had a hard time, and they don’t usually warm up so quickly to new people.”
Jack gives a small, easy shrug. “Guess I got lucky.”
You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, lucky for them… and for me.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you like a soft blanket after the chaos of the shift. Then you reach the lockers the two of you stop, letting the quiet stretch for a beat longer.
“You never told us you have kids.” It comes out rougher than he means it to.
You blink up at him, your tired eyes catching his, those pretty, pretty eyes of yours. “It’s also relatively new… they’re my nieces,” you say quietly. “My sister and her husband...” Your throat tightens, and you swallow hard before continuing. “They were in a car accident five months ago.” The words settle heavy. “I adopted them.”
Jack swears the air gets knocked out of him. The resemblance clicks into place in a different way now,
“I didn’t know.”
You shrug, offering him a sad smile.“I haven’t told anyone here.”
Jack blinks, his expression softening as he processes your words.
“I guess, I needed to have a place, where things just were ,as they used to,” you continue quietly. “I didn’t know how to tell you guys without breaking down, and I can’t do that, I have to be there for the girls.”
Jack’s eyes soften even more, the air of playful teasing that often hangs between the too of you is gone completely now, replaced with steady, quiet understanding. He shifts slightly closer, careful not to crowd you, letting his presence speak more than words.
“You’re doing amazing,” he says softly. “I don’t think most people could handle what you’ve taken on… but you-you’re doing it. And you’re doing it so well.”
You let out a small, shaky breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “I try,” you mumble, your voice barely above the quiet hum of the hallway. “But some days… it feels like I’m just holding everything together by a thread.”
Jack doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He simply shifts a little closer, his presence steady and grounding, the kind of calm that doesn’t demand anything from you. “I get that,” he says softly. “It’s a lot to carry, but you’re carrying it with so much care. And if you need anything,” he continues, his voice low and steady, “you can always ask. No judgments, no questions.”
You blink up at him, the words settling around you like a warm, quiet reassurance. “I… thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it carries the weight of genuine relief. “It means a lot… just knowing that.”
Jack gives a small, steady nod, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re never alone,” he says softly. “Even when it feels like it, you’ve got people who care. And I’ll always be one of them.”
For a moment, the hallway feels almost suspended in time, the soft hum of the ER fading into the background as the two of you simply stand there. You let out a small, shaky laugh, the kind that carries both exhaustion and a touch of gratitude. “I guess I’m pretty lucky then,” you say quietly.
“Maybe,” Jack replies, a hint of warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But mostly… you’ve earned it.”
You glance at him, meeting that steady, unspoken understanding in his eyes, and for the first time in hours, it feels like you can finally exhale.
“I would ask you if you wanted to grab a quick coffee before heading out, but I promised someone I would be home for breakfast,” you trail off, a small, wry smile tugging at your lips. “But some other time, maybe?” you add softly, tilting your head toward him, voice casual but carrying a quiet hope and just a hint of your usual teasing edge.
Jack lets out a quiet, warm laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Yeah, I would never say no to that,” he says, his voice low and easy, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Great,” you murmur, a small, relieved smile tugging at your lips. You finally unlock your locker, grabbing your bag and jacket.
“Get home safe, okay?” Jack says softly, his tone gentle but carrying that quiet weight of care.
You give a small nod, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I will.”
“Good. And I’ll look forward to that coffee,” he says, the faint teasing edge returning to his tone.
You glance at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Me too.”
For a second neither of you moves, but the quiet between you isn’t awkward, it’s warm, steady, like something gently settling into place.
Jack nods once, that small smile still resting at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he says softly.
You pull your jacket on and adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. The exhaustion of the shift is still there, the tired gaze still lingering in your eyes, but it doesn’t seem quite as suffocating as it did earlier.
As you step past him, he shifts slightly to give you space, but his hand briefly brushes your arm, light, almost absent-minded, the kind of touch that lingers for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You glance back at him.
“Seriously… you’re doing a great thing,” he adds, voice low but certain.
You give him a smile, the kind that’s tired but genuine, your eyes softening just a little. “I hope so,” you say quietly. “And thank you, Jack.”
“Of course,” he replies softly. For a moment he just looks at you, debating with himself if he should say something else but decides against it. Instead he gives you a small nod, the kind that carries quiet certainty. “And you’ve got this,” he adds simply.
You hold his gaze for a second longer, something warm and steady passing between you. Then you shift your bag a little higher on your shoulder.
“I’ll see you around,” you say, a faint smile touching your lips.
“Yeah.”
He leans back lightly against the lockers, watching as you start down the hallway toward the exit, the soft morning light already creeping in from the far glass doors.
“Get some sleep,” he calls after you gently.
You glance back over your shoulder with a tired smile. “I will, after breakfast duty.”
That earns a quiet laugh from him.
And as you disappear out the doors, Jack stays there a moment longer than necessary, hands in his pockets, the faintest smile still on his face, already looking forward to that coffee.
₊⊹ BUDDY KNOWS BEST !
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x GN!Resident!Reader.
SUMMARY: When an angry patient attacks you at work, you do everything in your power to hide how bad it is from Jack. Unfortunately for you, his dog, Buddy, knows best, and is quick to alert him to how bad things are as soon as he gets home.
NOTES: Aggressive patient, physical injury, Jack has a retired military dog, the dog is very protective of reader, hurt/comfort, established relationship.
NAVIGATION | PITT MASTERLIST | KO-FI
a/n — technically a part two to dog’s best friend, but can absolutely be read as a standalone !
“I just need you to stay seated for a second, alright?” you say, voice soft, even, the same tone you use with every difficult situation, steady and careful without ever sounding condescending.
The patient doesn’t like it. You see it in the way her shoulders tense, the sharp turn of her head, the flicker of something reactive and unpredictable behind her eyes.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not,” you reassure gently, hands visible, posture open. “I’m just trying to help you, ma’am.”
The metal tray is already in her hand before you fully register it.
“Hey!”. It’s Samira’s voice, a sharp warning from somewhere behind you, but it comes a second too late.
The patient swings. Not hard enough to seriously injure on its own. But combined with the shove that comes with it, it’s enough. The impact glances off your shoulder, but the force of the push sends you stumbling backwards, your foot catching awkwardly on the edge of the trolley behind you.
There’s a split second where you try to correct it. Your balance almost rights itself. Then, your heel slips.
You go down hard.
Your hip hits first, the shock of it jolting up your side before your shoulder follows, and then your head clips the edge of the cabinet behind you with a dull, sickening crack that makes your vision flare white.
The world tilts. Sound distorts.
You suck in a breath too fast and it catches halfway, your ribs protesting sharply as pain blooms deep along your side, spreading outwards in a way that feels heavy and wrong.
“Shit!”
“Hold her back!”
“Move!”
Hands are on you immediately. Too many. Too fast.
“Don’t move,” Dana says firmly, already crouched at your side, one hand braced against your shoulder to keep you grounded.
“I’m fine,” you manage automatically, even as your voice comes out thinner than you want it to. “I just slipped—”
“You didn’t slip,” Samira cuts in, sharper than usual, already scanning you quickly. “She shoved you.”
“I’m fine,” you repeat, trying to push yourself up.
Your body protests instantly. A sharp, deep pain lances through your ribs and your breath hitches before you can stop it.
Dana presses you back down without hesitation.
“No, you’re not getting up yet.”
“I’m okay,” you insist, though your hand has already moved instinctively to your side, fingers pressing there like you can contain the ache if you just hold it still.
“Yeah,” Langdon mutters, crouching on your other side, one brow raised. “You look fantastic.”
You glare weakly. “I am—”
“You’re wincing,” Mel says gently from behind them. “Just stay down a second.”
Across the bay, Robby steps in, taking in the scene quickly, his expression tightening slightly as he looks between you and the now-restrained patient.
“What happened?”
“They got knocked,” Dana says, not taking her eyes off you. “Hit their head on the way down.”
“I’m fine,” you say again, the words automatic now, like muscle memory.
Robby’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer than you’d like. Assessing. Weighing.
Then, “Get them checked,” he says. “No arguments.”
You open your mouth to argue anyway. Close it again.
The check is quick. Too quick.
Vitals steady. Pupils reactive. A few questions you answer without thinking, even as your head still feels slightly off and your ribs ache every time you breathe too deeply.
“Probably just bruised,” Langdon says, though there’s hesitation there. “Keep an eye on it.”
“I will,” you say.
You go back to work. Of course you do. It’s slower now. More careful. Every movement measured so you don’t aggravate the pain blooming along your side, every breath kept shallow enough to avoid the sharpest edge of it.
You don’t let anyone make a fuss. You don’t give them the chance.
By the time shift change creeps in, you’re running on stubbornness more than anything else.
Your body feels heavy. Your head dull. Your ribs worse. But you’re still standing. That counts for something.
You see Jack the second he walks in.
It’s instinct, the way something in you softens at the sight of him, even through the ache, even through the exhaustion.
He sees you just as quickly, and immediately, his expression changes. “What happened?”
No hello. No lead-in. Just that.
You blink. Too slow. “…nothing.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
You can see him clocking it, the stiffness in your posture, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re trying not to move too much, the faint mark forming near your hairline.
“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.
“Do what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Lie to me.”
You huff a small breath, trying for normal. “I’m not lying. I just got knocked a bit. It’s fine.”
“Knocked how?”
“Patient,” you say quickly. “It happens.”
His jaw tightens. “You hit your head.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“You didn’t ask a question.”
Jack steps closer, his hand coming up instinctively, hovering for a second before brushing lightly near your temple, careful.
You flinch. Just slightly. Jack notices anyway.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Talk to me.”
“I am,” you insist, forcing a small smile. “It’s nothing, Jack. Just a bruise.”
“You don’t look like it’s nothing.”
“I’m just tired.”
“That’s not what this is.”
You don’t let him push further. You can’t, because if you stop holding it together now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to start again.
“I promise I’m okay,” you say, gentler now, stepping into his space, your hand brushing his arm. “I’m just going to go home, sleep it off.”
Jack searches your face. Longer than you’re comfortable with. “…yeah?”
You nod. “I promise.”
You kiss him before he can argue again. Soft. Quick. A distraction more than anything.
“I’ll text you,” you add.
He doesn’t look convinced. But he lets you go.
You don’t realise how much you’ve been holding in until you get home.
The door shuts behind you. Your bag slips from your shoulder. Everything collapses.
The pain hits first. Sharp. Deep. Your ribs screaming the second you stop forcing yourself to breathe carefully around it. Your head throbbing dully where it connected earlier. Your whole body suddenly too aware of itself.
Then the tears. They come fast. Uncontrolled. Your hands come up to your face as your shoulders shake, the sound breaking out of you before you can stop it.
“It hurts,” you whisper, voice cracking.
Soft paws hit the floor behind you. Buddy is there instantly.
No hesitation. No distance. Just straight to you, pressing in close, whining low as his nose nudges at your hands, your face, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.
“Hey, Buddy…” Your voice wobbles as you drop one hand to him, fingers tangling in his fur. “I’m okay,” you murmur, even as you cry. “I’m okay—”
He doesn’t believe you. He licks at your cheek, catching tears, pressing closer until you sink down with him, your body folding as he crowds in, solid and warm and there.
Buddy doesn’t leave your side once. Not when you get up slowly. Not when you change. Not when you ease yourself into bed with a quiet, pained breath.
He jumps up beside you without hesitation. Circles once. Then presses himself along your back, heavy and grounding, his head resting near your shoulder like he’s keeping watch.
You fall asleep like that. Hurting. Exhausted. But not alone.
Jack knows something is wrong before he even gets the door fully open.
It isn’t logical at first. There’s no noise, no obvious sign of anything being off, but the second the latch clicks and the door gives, the silence hits him wrong, too heavy, too still, like something’s settled where it shouldn’t.
Then, there’s movement. Fast. Low.
A sharp bark that cuts straight through the quiet.
Buddy is there instantly, planted between Jack and the hallway like a barrier, body rigid, ears forward, a low, warning growl vibrating through his chest in a way Jack has never heard directed at him before.
“Hey, Buddy…” Jack stills, hands lifting slightly in reflex, not defensive, just careful. “Buddy.”
The dog doesn’t move.
If anything, he braces harder, stance widening, blocking the path to the bedroom completely like he’s guarding something.
Another bark. Sharper this time. Urgent.
Jack’s chest tightens. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice dropping instinctively, steady, controlled. “Talk to me, what’s going on?”
Buddy huffs, pacing a tight step forward, then back, torn between holding his ground and needing Jack to follow.
It clicks immediately. Not aggression. Protection.
Jack’s stomach drops. “…where are they?”
Buddy barks again. Turns. Looks back. Then looks at him.
Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, I’m coming.”
Buddy doesn’t fully relax, but he shifts just enough to allow it, moving ahead of him down the hall, glancing back every few steps like he’s making sure Jack is still there. Still following. Still paying attention.
The bedroom door is half open. The light is off.
Jack pushes it gently. “Sweetheart?”
No answer.
His chest tightens further as he steps inside.
You’re there. Curled on your side, exactly where he expects you to be, and somehow still wrong. Too still. Too tense even in sleep, your body drawn in slightly like you’re protecting something.
“Hey,” he says again, softer now, stepping closer.
Buddy is already at the side of the bed, whining low, tail flicking anxiously, nose nudging lightly at your arm.
You don’t wake straight away.
Jack reaches you in two steps, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering for just a second before resting lightly on your shoulder.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You stir at that. Just slightly. A small sound leaving you, somewhere between a breath and a soft groan as you shift without meaning to.
The movement pulls a reaction out of you immediately. A sharp inhale. A wince. Your hand tightening instinctively at your side.
Jack stills. “There it is,” he murmurs quietly.
Your eyes open slowly, heavy with sleep, disoriented for a second before they land on him.
“…Jack?” Your voice is rough. Small.
“Hey,” Jack exhales softly, relief flickering across his face for just a second before it’s replaced with something more focused. “Yeah, it’s me.”
Buddy immediately pushes closer the second you’re awake, nose nudging your cheek, then your shoulder, then settling half across you like he’s making sure you stay put.
“What…” you start, blinking. “What time is it?”
“Too early for you to pretend you’re fine,” he replies gently.
You try to smile. It doesn’t quite work.
“I am fine.”
Jack doesn’t even entertain that.
“Mhm,” he hums, eyes already scanning you properly now, taking in the way you’re holding yourself, the tightness in your posture, the faint shadow of bruising starting to show along your side where your shirt has shifted. “What actually happened?”
“Nothing,” you say automatically. Too quickly.
His gaze flicks up to yours. Flat. Unimpressed.
“Try again.”
You hesitate. Just for a second. It’s enough.
“A patient knocked me,” you admit finally, quieter now. “It’s not a big deal.”
Jack’s jaw tightens immediately. “Knocked you how? You can’t just leave it at that, baby.”
“I fell,” you say. “It’s just a bruise.”
Buddy lets out a soft, unhappy whine. Jack glances at him briefly, then back at you.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “He doesn’t seem to think so either.”
You huff a weak breath. “He’s dramatic.”
“Yeah,” Jack repeats. “Funny. So are you.”
You try to push yourself up. Bad idea. The movement pulls a sharp, involuntary sound out of you before you can stop it, your hand flying back to your ribs as pain flares hot and immediate.
Jack’s hand is there instantly, steadying you before you can even properly lose balance.
“Hey, easy, easy.”
“I’m fine,” you insist again, breath uneven now.
“No, you’re not,” Jack says, still calm but firmer now, his other hand coming up to gently guide you back down against the pillows. “Lie back.”
You don’t argue this time. You don’t have the energy.
Buddy shifts with you immediately, repositioning so he’s still pressed against your side, careful, oddly careful for his size, like he knows exactly where not to put weight.
Jack notices. Files it away.
“Where?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering just above your ribs. “Show me.”
You hesitate. Then, slowly, you move your hand just enough to indicate the worst of it. His touch is light when it comes, fingers pressing gently along the area, assessing. You flinch. Harder this time.
“Shit, okay,” Jack murmurs, more to himself than you. “Yeah, that’s not nothing.”
“It’s just bruised,” you say weakly.
“Maybe,” he replies. “Maybe not.”
You look at him. A flicker of worry finally breaking through everything else.
“It’s not broken. I got checked out. Ask Robby.” He doesn’t answer straight away. Which is answer enough. “Jack, please.”
“Hey,” he says softly, immediately, his hand coming up to your face instead, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears are starting to gather again. “Don’t get upset about it. Not your fault.”
“I didn’t want to make a fuss,” you admit, voice cracking slightly. “It wasn’t that bad at work, I just—”
“You came home and cried,” he says quietly.
You freeze. “How did you—”
He glances at Buddy. Buddy, who is currently pressed against you like a guard dog with a personal vendetta.
“Right,” you mutter weakly.
Jack’s expression softens. A lot. “You should’ve told me,” he says, not accusing, just honest.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” you whisper.
He huffs a quiet breath. Too late for that. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he says gently.
Your throat tightens. “I know.”
There’s a pause. Soft. Then, “Alright,” he says, shifting slightly. “We’re going to fix you up, okay?”
You blink. “We?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Me and him. You know we can’t leave him out of anything.”
Buddy lifts his head slightly at that, like he’s been formally acknowledged.
Despite everything, you almost laugh.
Jack doesn’t rush you. That’s the first thing you notice. Even with the tension sitting tight in his shoulders, even with the way his eyes keep flicking back to your ribs like he’s already running through worst-case scenarios in his head, he keeps everything slow. Measured. Like if he moves too fast, you’ll bolt or break or both.
“Alright,” he murmurs, shifting off the bed briefly. “Stay there.”
You don’t have the energy to do anything else. Buddy does. The second Jack steps away, Buddy’s head lifts, ears pricking forward, a low, suspicious rumble building in his chest again like he’s not entirely convinced this is still safe.
“Hey,” Jack says without looking at him, already grabbing what he needs. “Pack it in.”
Buddy huffs. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t relax. You reach down weakly, fingers brushing through his fur.
“It’s okay, Buddy,” you murmur softly. “He’s helping.”
Buddy’s attention flicks to you immediately. That’s all that matters.
Jack comes back with a small kit, nothing dramatic, just basics, but it’s the way he carries it that tells you everything. Familiar. Practised. Focused.
He sits beside you again, closer this time. Close enough that your knees brush when he shifts.
“Can I?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering near the hem of your shirt.
You nod.
He moves carefully. Slowly lifting the fabric just enough to expose your side. The bruise is worse than either of you expected. Dark already. Spreading. Angry under the skin, the kind of deep, blooming discolouration that makes your stomach twist just looking at it.
“Fuck,” Jack exhales quietly. Not surprised. Not pleased either.
“It looks worse than it feels,” you say automatically.
It’s a lie. A weak one.
Jack glances at you. Doesn’t call it out. Doesn’t need to.
“Does it hurt to breathe?” he asks instead.
“A bit.”
“How much is a bit?”
You hesitate. “More than a bit.”
He nods slightly, like he expected that. “Any sharp pain when you move?”
“Yes.”
“Dizziness? Nausea?”
“No.”
“Headache?”
“A little.”
He takes that in, nodding with a frown. Then his hand comes back to your side, touch light, deliberate, pressing just enough to assess without making it worse. You tense immediately. A sharp inhale slipping out before you can stop it.
“Sorry, honey,” he murmurs, instantly easing off.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, even as your eyes sting again.
“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”
That lands. Heavier than anything else has. Your lip wobbles slightly before you can stop it. You look away.
“I really thought it was fine,” you admit, voice small now. “At work it didn’t feel this bad.”
“Adrenaline,” he says simply.
You huff a weak breath. “Yeah.”
There’s a pause. Then, “Hey.”
You look back at Jack. His hand comes up to your face again, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears have started slipping free again without you realising.
“You’re alright,” he murmurs. “It looks bad, but you’re okay.”
“I feel stupid,” you whisper.
His expression tightens. Not at you. At the word.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
“I should’ve just stopped. Let them check it properly. Told you—”
“You got through your shift,” he cuts in gently. “That’s what you were focused on.”
“That doesn’t make it smart.”
“No,” he agrees quietly. “But it makes it understandable. I know what you’re like.”
You swallow. Your chest tightens.
“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” you say, barely above a whisper now.
“You don’t get to decide that it’s not a big deal,” he replies, not harsh, just steady. “Not when it’s you.”
You don’t argue. You can’t.
Buddy shifts slightly, pushing his head more firmly into your lap like he’s trying to insert himself into the conversation. You let your hand fall to him automatically, fingers threading through his fur.
Jack watches it for a second. Then, “Alright,” he says, softer now. “We’re going to assume bad bruising, maybe a cracked rib. No heroics for a few days.”
You let out a quiet breath. “Okay. I can live with that.”
“I’ll grab some ice,” he adds.
Buddy immediately lifts his head again. Watching. Tracking. Jack pauses. Looks at him.
“I’m coming back,” he says dryly.
Buddy blinks. Considers it. Then settles again, barely. You laugh softly despite yourself. It hurts. You do it anyway.
By the time Jack comes back, you’re more settled. Not better, but calmer.
He helps you adjust carefully, guiding you so you’re propped slightly, a pillow tucked behind your back to keep pressure off your ribs. Every movement is slow. Considered. His hands never far from you.
“Gonna be cold, sorry,” he warns quietly, pressing the ice pack gently against your side.
You flinch. Then relax. “That’s actually nice,” you admit after a second.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Usually is.”
The quiet settles again. Different now. Softer.
You’re watching Jack without meaning to.
The focus in his expression. The care in every movement. The way he keeps checking in without making it obvious.
“You’re not mad?” you ask after a while.
He looks up. Brows drawing together slightly. “Mad?”
“That I didn’t tell you.”
There’s a pause. Then, “No,” he says.
You blink. “Really?”
“I mean, I’m not thrilled,” he adds honestly. “But I’m not mad at you, sweetheart.”
That eases something in your chest. You didn’t even realise it was there.
“I just didn’t want to worry you,” you repeat softly.
“You don’t get to make that call,” he says again, gentler this time. “You tell me, I worry. That’s the deal.”
Your lips twitch slightly. “That’s not a very fair deal.”
“No,” he agrees. “Works for me, though.”
You laugh quietly. It pulls at your ribs. You wince.
His hand is there instantly. “Easy.”
“I’m okay,” you murmur. “Stop being funny.”
“I know. I’ll try,” he says.
Buddy shifts again, this time climbing more deliberately across the bed until he wedges himself firmly between you and Jack, his body pressed along your side, his head settling heavily across your lap like he’s decided his position is now permanent.
Jack stares at him. “Really?”
Buddy doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge him. You smile softly, your hand resting automatically on Buddy’s head.
“He’s just making sure I’m okay.”
“Yeah,” Jack mutters. “I can see that.”
There’s a pause. Then, carefully, deliberately, Jack shifts closer anyway. Working around the dog rather than moving him. His arm slides gently behind your back, pulling you just slightly closer so you’re supported without putting pressure on your ribs.
Buddy allows it. Barely.
You melt into it. Exhaustion catching up all over again now that everything else has settled. Your head tips lightly against Jack’s shoulder. Your hand still resting on Buddy.
“I’m really tired,” you mumble.
“Yeah,” Jack murmurs softly. “I know.”
Your eyes slip closed. Between them, you’re completely boxed in, warmth at your back, solid weight at your front, hands anchoring you in place like nothing is going to let you fall apart again.
“Stay,” you whisper, barely conscious now.
Jack’s arm tightens slightly around you. “I’ve got you.”
Buddy huffs softly. Settling deeper. And for the first time since it happened, you actually relax. Sleep comes easy after that.
All three of you tangled together in the quiet.
— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !
ALL PITT: @shawnhatosysrightbicep @goldfishenthusiast67 @snake-in-a-flower-crown @aureliacalista @sheridamn
ALL PITT MEN: @malindacath
JACK ABBOT: @moonlitblossomsofthesun @nebuleuseeeeee @nyxmoretti @oliviarw3
Where the Hell Is My Husband? - Jack Abbot x Reader
Pairing: Jack Abbot x Reader
WC: 1.5k
Summary: It was supposed to be date night… but Jack was nowhere to be seen.
A/N: This work is all mine, and proofread by Grammarly.
Masterlist
After being with Jack for years, you two had fallen into a rhythm together. One constant: every two weeks, a day was set aside for a date. Sometimes brunch, sometimes running errands together, sometimes just dinner out. Tonight was supposed to be date night, at some new, upscale restaurant on the far end of town that a fellow doctor had recommended to Jack.
You glanced at yourself in the mirror one last time, ensuring that everything was perfect. Heels on, Jack’s favourite dress hugging you in all of the right places and lipstick with no smudge in the slightest.
However, one thing was missing.
Jack.
Your phone sat on the counter, silent. No call. No text. Nothing. You rolled your eyes, though a smile tugged on your lips. Of course, he was late. Trauma cases didn't exactly respect your dinner plans.
“Jack,” you muttered under your breath, tapping your fingers on the counter as you waited. “You’re something else.”
Still, you knew where he was. Probably elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity, saving their life. He probably forgot the world outside of work. And yet… You couldn't help but feel a little pang of annoyance that made your arms cross over your chest.
You stalked around your apartment, heel clicking against the floor as you filled a bag. If Jack wasn’t coming home, you were going to him.
And with that, you sling your bag over your shoulder, grab your coat, and leave for the hospital.
–
The sliding doors of the hospital opened with a soft hiss, and your heels clicked against the polished floor. The familiar hum of the hospital filled you, the beeping monitors, soft chatter and distant calls over the intercom. Your eyes scanned the room as you made your way to the nurses' station, searching for him.
“Hey, honey!”
You looked up to see Dana, the Charge Nurse for the daytime shift, waving with a warm smile. “Looking gorgeous as always,” she added, giving you a quick hug.
“Thanks,” you replied with a shrug, trying to hide the edge of your annoyance. “The things we do for our husbands.”
From behind, a sharp, mischievous voice chimed in. “Ohhh, look at you!”
Dr. Ellis leaned against the desk, hoodie half-zipped, and sneakers scuffed from a long shift, grinning as she looked you up and down.
“I don’t know if I should be jealous or terrified, honestly. Jack’s gonna melt into a puddle when he sees you.”
“That’s the plan,” you said with a shrug, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “Or at least… it was.”
Ellis leaned on the counter, grinning. “Ooooh, he must be in trouble. I can see the smoke already.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Careful, Ellis… keep it up and you’re gonna see way more than just smoke.”
Ellis threw her hands up, eyes wide in mock surrender. “Okay, okay! I wasn’t planning to get burned today, unlike someone.”
You smirked, still chuckling. “You’re fine; the only person facing my wrath will be Jack.”
“Now that I need to see,” Dana said, raising her eyebrows.
You leaned on the counter. “Where the hell is my husband anyway?”
Dana gave a sympathetic smile. “Oh, he’s in Trauma Room 3. Got called into a case. Multiple car pile-ups, he's probably elbow-deep in it right now.”
Dana’s words barely left the air before you let out a quiet sigh, though it carried more amusement than frustration.
“Of course he is,” you murmured. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“They brought the worst one straight to him,” Dana added as she took a seat at her computer.
That didn't surprise you in the slightest. Jack was good, damn good. Years of experience meant he was the one they trusted the most with the worst cases. It was one of the things you loved the most about him, his ability to lead, even if it meant waiting sometimes.
Ellis tilted her head at you. “You’re taking this suspiciously well for someone all dressed up.”
You shrugged lightly. “I married a trauma doctor who loves his job. Expecting him to always be on time would’ve been my first mistake.”
Dana laughed softly. “Fair point.”
You leaned in closer to the women, speaking quietly enough for only them to hear. “Besides,” you added with a sly smile, “now I get to make sure Jack works for what he wants.”
Ellis barked out a laugh. “You cheeky little thing,” She had a feeling her coworker was going to be in for a very long night once he finished that trauma case.
Dana shook her head, smiling as she glanced down the hall towards the trauma rooms. “Poor Abbot,” she said with a small chuckle. “Man just finished wrestling a major trauma to have to come out and fight with his wife looking like that.”
You just smiled sweetly, smoothing a hand over your dress to avoid wrinkles as you turned your gaze towards the rooms at the end of the hall.
As if on cue, the double doors swung open.
A couple of nurses stepped out first, pulling off their gloves and chatting about labs and scans. Perlah was the first one you recognized. She spotted you and immediately slowed, eyes widening as she nudged the other nurse, whom you thought was Princess.
They both glanced back towards the trauma room with barely contained grins, whispering among themselves. Even the nurses knew Jack was in for it.
A moment later, Jack stepped out.
His shoulders looked heavier than usual, and the exhaustion from the case was settling on his face as he tugged his gloves off. He reached up to rub the back of his neck in relief when he looked up.
And froze.
His eyes found you instantly.
He took in the heels.
The dress.
The makeup.
Standing there in the middle of the ED, as if you had stepped straight out of date night.
For a split second, the trauma attending who had just run an entire emergency team looked like his brain had completely shut down.
Then the realization hit him.
His eyes widened.
“…Oh shit.”
Behind you, Ellis clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.
Dana just leaned back in her chair, watching the scene unfold with open amusement.
And Jack stood there, staring at his wife like a man who had suddenly remembered something very, very important.
Because he knew.
He had forgotten date night.
Jack quickly made his way towards you, running a hand through his hair.
When he got close, you could see the tiredness that clung to his eyes, but also the look of regret written all over his face.
“Hey,” he said softly, stopping in front of you.
You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms.
“Hey?”
He winced immediately. “Right— no,” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m so sorry. The pile-up came in and I just—”
“You forgot,” you finished for him.
Jack nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. I forgot.”
Behind you, Ellis and Dana were very clearly pretending to type on their computers while they watched the interaction like it was prime television. Perlah and Princess stood near a code cart nearby, suddenly looking very interested in the equipment they definitely knew how to use.
You stepped a little closer, invading Jack’s space just enough that he instinctively leaned down towards you.
Then you reached up and gently straightened the collar of his scrubs.
Jack blinked in surprise.
“You’re lucky,” you murmured, “that you're hot and pretty good at saving lives.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, relief flickering across his face.
“You’re not mad?” he asked cautiously.
You tilted your head, considering him for a moment. Looking at him, tired, apologetic, still coming down from the high of saving someone’s life. It was hard to stay mad for long.
“Oh, I’m still making you work for it,” you said sweetly.
Behind you, Ellis snorted.
Jack’s ears turned slightly red.
You smoothed a hand down the front of his scrubs before stepping back. “Now go change,” you added casually. “So we can go home.”
He blinked. “Home?”
“I already called the restaurant,” you said, picking up your bag from the counter and handing it towards him. “Told them we’re doing pickup instead.”
Jack stared at you for a second, clearly processing that. “You… did?”
“Mhm.” You nodded toward the hallway. “Now go change.”
Jack looked back at you, something soft settling into his expression, something warm and a little overwhelmed. For a moment, the tough trauma doctor disappeared, replaced by the man who loved you.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Then he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before heading down the hall.
The moment he disappeared around the corner, Ellis spun in her chair.
“Oh, my god.”
Dana shook her head with a laugh. “That man is so whipped.”
Perlah grinned. “Completely.”
Princess nodded. “I’ve never seen a trauma attending run that fast.”
You glanced down the hallway where Jack had disappeared, a small warmth settling in your chest. Maybe he was.
But that was only because Jack Abbott loved his wife more than anything.
it's literally the evilest thing in the world to finally have time to write but then be tired. like wow you're telling me these two hours before going to bed are completely free but my brain is just Not Feeling It? fuck off
