My name is Thirteen, a novice selfshipper and brand new fanfic writer. I'm not good at intro posts so I might as to this as I build up my identity on this blog... Sorry
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summary: working at the hospital morgue didn't exactly endear you to the emergency room staff, especially when you're always cracking jokes. you think Jack might be warming up to you, but are quickly proven wrong when he berates you in front of the department after an ill-timed joke.
tags/warnings: sfw just a steamy kiss, big time angst, morgue technician!reader, socially awkward reader, discussions of death and grief (seriously, a lot of talk about death and grieving), mean Jack :(, age gap (not specified, but i wrote her as being between 28-30), mean girl nurses, medical inaccuracies probably
wc: 8.9k
a/n: baby's first request!!! feeling very nervy about this one as its my first time writing angst so please be kind <3 it turned into much more of a meditation on death than i expected but i hope you enjoy the jack angst!! also please go read @nightpitt's take on this request!!! it was incredible <3 (and in the future please don't send me requests that you've sent to multiple other authors, it makes me uncomfy)
credits: gif credits to @vanillarot <3
Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.
That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience.
You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it?
Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming?
83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her.
You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created.
You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.
You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest.
You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list.
A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts.
“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?”
You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department.
Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room.
You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.
And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life.
It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong.
You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.
But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station.
“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.”
You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine.
“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.
“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that.
The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out.
His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.
You couldn’t get out of there sooner.
It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible.
You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare.
You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears.
But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.
You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all.
You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird.
“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station.
“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime.
There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.
“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head.
“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.”
He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused.
“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through.
Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night.
You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out.
He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket.
“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse.
“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact.
There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over.
“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving.
He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.”
Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.
You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.
“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction.
You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator.
The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs.
“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman.
You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head.
You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements.
By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.
The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill.
You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way.
And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance.
It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body.
You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central.
“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips.
And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again.
He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”
“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him.
He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”
You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack.
“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.”
“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.”
Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried.
You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you.
“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale.
He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in.
“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you.
You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there.
Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had.
It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician.
Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak.
You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.
“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in.
“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded.
“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?”
Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face.
“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”
Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times.
It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath.
He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could.
It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him.
He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.
He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling.
He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.
And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up.
“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.
“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.
The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that.
You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue.
You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor.
Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you.
You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break.
That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?”
Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory.
And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now.
His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now.
You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions.
He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office.
Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.
It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock.
“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.
You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy.
The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?
It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you.
He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.”
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing.
You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.”
He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.”
Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.
He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.”
You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk.
He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor.
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.”
Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it.
“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips.
He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.”
You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.
“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?”
You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.”
He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology.
Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway.
It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam, caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth.
You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time.
It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up.
You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through.
Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later?
Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it.
You: sounds great, see you later :)
You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.
It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office.
“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.”
You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him.
It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend.
But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop.
“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?”
“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.”
“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”
“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.
“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.”
You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.
“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly.
He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?”
“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”
Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.”
You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you.
“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”
You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.”
Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.
“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”
You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones.
You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul.
But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him.
You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door.
“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow.
Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing.
He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk.
You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly.
“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away.
You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.
He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–
CLANG!
The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.
You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise.
A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it.
“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face.
“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.
He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.
“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back.
You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.”
He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out.
“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.
You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.
You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak.
You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously.
You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face.
You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought.
“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously.
“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.
“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.”
“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.”
“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.”
You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force.
Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind.
You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always.
But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel.
And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure.
You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork.
“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate.
“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break.
He looked skeptical, but didn’t push.
“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient.
You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you?
Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.”
“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will.
He just doesn’t know how to let her down.
He probably feels guilty.
Her fawning over him is not cute.
You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say.
He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.
“Sure,” you muttered under your breath.
“What was that?”
You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.”
Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you.
He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?”
You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish.
“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now.
“Like what?”
“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back?
He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing.
“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.”
You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?”
He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words.
“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?
“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color.
“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.”
You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to.
“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again.
“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked.
“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.”
“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,”
“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively.
He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday.
“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek.
You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in.
His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.
He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss.
He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was.
You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate.
When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach.
He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?”
“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him.
He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw.
You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you.
“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?”
“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss.
“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.”
A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job
Summary: You talk a lot, you know this. It’s something you have been insecure about your whole life. Jack says something to Robby, and you overhear thinking it’s about you.
Warnings: Angst (lots of angst), Happy ending, Emotional spiral/ distress, insecurities, language, happy ending, implied age gap, made-up side characters, mental health themes, grammer mistakes,
Notes: This was purely self-indulgent. I overheard people talking about how I talk too much. And I went through a similar spiral. Only there was no one to comfort me lol.
word count is 6k
The bar was packed uncomfortably so, between the clinking of glasses, loud conversations, and the music. You were beginning to feel overstimulated. So, you understood when Jack and Robby needed a moment outside.
It didn’t stop you from staring at the door hoping to see jack walk back in. He’d been gone longer than expected, and a thin thread of unease tugged at your stomach, tightening with each passing minute.
You liked his friends—really liked them. You were comfortable around them now, enough to tease Whitaker and share history facts with Mel. But Jack was your anchor. Your comfort person. The one who made any room feel safer just by existing in it. Without him nearby, the bar felt louder, the crowd felt bigger, and your thoughts felt a little too sharp around the surface.
“Honestly, Huckleberry, if there’s a fifty‑fifty chance of disaster, you’ll hit the disaster ninety‑nine percent of the time. It’s a real talent.” Trinity’s jab snapped your attentions back to the group.
Whitaker squinted at her, then nodded with the solemnity of a man accepting his fate.
A laugh escapes you, the kind that comes as naturally as breathing. “Trinity that cant be true.”
“It is,” she insisted. “I’m pretty sure if he bought a lottery ticket and won, he’d still end up bankrupt.”
“Well don’t worry Whitaker I would help take care of you if that happened.” You pat his hand with a small smile.
Jack would have something to say about that. Probably some dry teasing comment about you wanting to take care of everyone. But you knew he would do it if you asked. He had a hard time saying no after you smiled at him.
And that thought, that soft truth, made the empty space where he should’ve been feel even heavier. Another five minutes passed before you excused yourself with a soft smile and slipped through the crowd, weaving between tables and tipsy strangers. You wanted to go back to Jacks place—curl up in his bed, breathe in the scent of his laundry detergent, and let the world quiet down.
The cool night air washed over you as soon as you pushed the door open. It was a welcome contrast to the suffocating warmth inside. You inhaled deeply, letting the quiet settle around you like a blanket.
Jack wasn’t on the patio like you expected. No familiar silhouette leaning against the railing. No soft glow from his phone screen. No low laugh shared with Robby.
They were at the end of the patio, a streetlight outlining their figures. They didn’t turn toward you. Didn’t notice you at all.
You froze mid‑step.
Something in their posture told you the conversation wasn’t casual. That it wasn’t light joking. It wasn’t anything you were meant to walk into.
You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You didn’t even think you could—until Jack’s voice cut through the air, sharp and tired in a way you’d never heard directed at you.
“I can’t do it any more Robby. She talks nonstop all the time.”
Your breath stilled. Completely.
Like your lungs forgot how to work.
Robby exhaled. “Have you tried to tell her?”
“Yes, but I can never get a word in.”
The words hit like a punch you weren’t braced for. They were Clean. Precise. Brutal.
They confirmed every fear you’d ever whispered to yourself at three in the morning, every insecurity you’d tried to smother with optimism, and the hope that love made your quirks endearing instead of exhausting.
You knew you talked a lot. God, you knew.
You’d even gone to therapy hoping someone could teach your brain how to slow down. To be able to survive in normal silence instead of fearing it might swallow you whole. Instead, they handed you an ADHD diagnosis and told you it was okay. A quirk. A part of you. Something that made you you.
But hearing Jack say it like that, like it drained him, felt like someone had taken all your insecurities and carved it into your ribs with deliberate, merciless precision.
Your eyes burned, and throat tightened. You swallowed hard, forcing a breath to stay quiet as you backed away, slipping inside before either of them could see you. Your body was moving on autopilot.
You knew you couldn’t go back the table. If you sat down, Trinity would take one look at you and know something was wrong. Then Mel would smile at you with some encouraging words, and you would break. You would start crying right then and there. And then she would tell jack. It would become a whole thing.
So, you ducked into the bathroom, pushing the door open with trembling fingers. You leaned against the sink, palms flat on the cool granite, trying to breathe through the sudden ache in your chest. Jacks’ words echoed, and with slinking certainty you realize you were as easy to love as you had hoped.
A cruel laugh escapes you. Your father had warned you—Men don’t like when woman talk a lot. They will leave you. You thought he was cruel, and hated you. But he was right. You talked to much and now jack wanted to leave you.
Fuck. You thought everything was going well. You had been together just over six months, it had been filled with laughter, feeding him all your baking experiments, of you rambling about everything. He always listened earnestly, whether it was about childhood movies, or the new recipe you were perfecting. Or, you thought he did.
Now you felt small and unwanted. Like every happy moment had been a misunderstanding you’d build a future on.
You wanted to go back to your home, and crawl into bed. Pretend this was all simply a nightmare you could wake up from. Pretend that the man you were irrevocably in love with didn’t secretly resent the way your brain worked.
Another cruel laugh escapes. When the thought occurs to you that he could have told you. That was the part that sung the most. He could have said something—anything—before it became a complaint whispered to his befriend on a street corner.
With a small pep talk and a promise that you could cry as soon as you got out of the building, your forced your legs to move. Each step you took felt like it belonged to someone braver than you.
You plastered on a smile when the group looked up, the expression stretching too tight across your face.
“Hey I can’t find Jack, can you let him know I walked home. I don’t want to take him away from his friends on his one night off.” You rushed out, desperate to escape before anyone could ask anything that might crack you open.
Trinity’s eyes narrowed, sharp and preceptive. “Are you okay?”
You grabbed your coat, shrugging it on like a piece of armor. You needed to leave before Jack came back and saw the truth written all over your face. Because he would. That man could read you like a book. Every gesture, every shift in your voice, every tiny hesitation—he noticed all of it.
“Yeah,” you lied, voice light. “Just need some sleep, I’ve got to finish a massive order for an engagement party coming up.”
“Are you sure? You don’t look ok.” Mel cut in.
You took a second to breathe then forced your smile to widen. “I promise. I just need sleep or my deserts will suffer.”
“Are you making those triple berry macarons again?” Melissa asked, brightening at the mention of your baking.
Warmth flickered through your chest. Mel adored your treats, and half the time you made extra for her in particular. She was one of the few people who understood you without making you feel like you were too much. Maybe it was because of her sister, maybe it was just who she was, but you adored her even more for it.
“I am,” you said softly. “I’ll send some over.”
You waved, turned, and made your way outside. Purposefully avoiding the are you knew jack and Robby were standing.
Five minutes in to the walk home, a sob finally rips out of you. It’s loud, ugly and impossible to swallow. A person passing on the street glances over, curious, but keeps walking. You pressed shaking fingers to your lips, trying to hold the next one in, trying to keep yourself from unraveling right there on the street.
God, you hated crying. It felt humiliating between the blotchy skin and the snot that built up slowly suffocating you.
Your phone vibrated incessantly in your pocket. First two calls. Then a string of messages, one after another.
Jack:
I would have driven you home love
Let me know when you’re safe
Love you
Love you.
Those words felt mocking to read. They made your chest cave in, because he didn’t mean them. They were just words coming from him. He tolerated you. He merely put up with you. He must have only been with you because he was lonely and he didn’t have to do much to entertain you. You did most of the work by talking all the time.
Part of you wanted to ignore him. Let him sit with the silence he wanted so much. But you knew Jack, if you didn’t respond, he’d show up at your door, and you couldn’t face him right now. Not with your nose red and your heart cracked open.
So, you typed the shortest message you’d ever sent him.
Got home don’t worry.
No warmth.
No rambling.
No I’m home, going to shower then head to bed. Early morning tomorrow, love you bunches.
If it bothered Jack, he didn’t say a word.
The bakery was already warm by seven a.m., the air was thick with the smell of sugar and butter, wrapping itself around you like a familiar hug. Normally you would fill the space with chatter; updates about your latest recipe experiments, stories about customers, random facts you’d learned at three in the morning. You were the heartbeat of the kitchen, the one who made the early shift feel less like work and more like a cozy, chaotic family.
But today you were silent.
You didn’t hum.
You didn’t ramble. You didn’t even comment on the new shipment of vanilla beans, which was practically a red flag in itself.
Brianna was the first to notice how the quiet clung to you. Like someone turned down the volume on your entire personality. She kept glancing at you at from the mixer, brows pinched waiting for you to speak.
Oliver caught on next, his eyes narrowing as he watched you pipe filling whipped ganache with mechanical precision. He shared a look with Bri.
“Hey,” Bri said finally, wiping her hands on a towel as she approached. “You good?”
You nodded without looking up. “Yeah. Just… focusing.”
It wasn’t convincing. Not in the slightest. The lie hung in the warm bakery air, thin and fragile, and everyone could see straight through it.
Oliver stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re never this quiet.”
You kept your eyes on the pastry bag, squeezing out perfect spirals like your life depended on it. “Just tired.”
Brianna exchanged another glance with Oliver, then gently nudged your elbow. “Sweetheart, you’re piping like you’re trying to win a Michelin star. What happened?”
Grant arrived, cheerful as always. “Morning!-“ The moment he saw you, his smile faltered. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
You forced a tiny smile. “Yep.”
You didn’t. But they didn’t need to know that.
Everyone in the kitchen shared a concerned look. The kind of look that meant they were about two seconds from staging an intervention.
“Babes do you want to take a break? You have been here since 5 a.m.” Oliver tried to grab the tray of macrons’ s from you.
“No.” you responded immediately. “I have to keep moving.”
“Okay…” Bri tried a different angle. “What’s the plan for the engagement party? I know the cake bases are prepped.”
You loved talking about recipes. Loved it. It brought you joy to share them with people.
“It’s on the clipboard by the stove.” You mumble.
You wanted to cry again, Jacks words were still at the front of your mind. But you were pretty sure one more tear would dehydrate you completely. Besides cookies with a side of salty tears were not professional. Nor delicious. And absolutely against your brand.
Jack had tried to call you that morning, and you ignored it. Facing him would make everything hit harder, and you weren’t ready for that. You would have to face him sooner or later.
While you weren’t looking, Grant quietly swiped the clipboard and tucked it behind a stack of sheet pans. “It’s not there, chef. So, you gotta tell us what the plan is.”
“It was literally just there.”
Brianna, Grant, Oliver all just stared at you waiting.
With a deep breath, you set the piping bag to the side.
“So the bride mentioned she likes tart flavors. We’re going to make a lemon‑raspberry cake filling and keep the decorating easy, clean.” You didn’t even realize it, but for a moment you felt… okay. “Then the macarons—we’re making strawberry, chocolate, and key lime. I wanted to do triple berry, but maybe it’s too sweet, and I don’t want it to be too much. Which reminds me, we should experiment with a pomegranate flavor in a—”
You stopped.
Mid‑sentence.
Mid‑you.
Your throat closed up. Your stomach dropped. Speaking suddenly felt dangerous. Like you were annoying everyone in the room without meaning too.
“Sorry,” you whispered, stepping back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to… talk so much.”
The room went still.
Grant blinked. “Honey…What?”
But you were already moving. You set the tray down, wiped your hands on your apron, and headed straight for the walk‑in freezer.
You slipped inside, letting the heavy door seal shut behind you. The cold air grounding you. You leaned back against the metal shelving, pressing your palms to your eyes as the chill seeped into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold in the hurt, trying to keep your thoughts from spiraling back to Jack’s voice, Jack’s words, Jack’s exhaustion.
You’d always talked too much. You had warned him when you first started dating.
Just a minute, you told yourself. Just one minute to fall apart before you had to go back out there and pretend everything was fine.
Your phone vibrated. Jacks name flashing on your screen for what felt like the 50th time.
He knew you were up. You were always at your bakery ridiculously early.
You hit a button declining it.
A message came through immediately.
Jack:
Are you ok sweetheart? Call me back please.
You squeezed your eyes. You would not cry again. You would not let this effect you. Not here. Not in front of your team. Not when you were supposed to be the steady one, the cheerful one, the one who made mornings feel lighter.
You typed out a quick, clipped reply.
I’m ok, just busy making cakes.
No emojis.
No warmth.
You shoved your phone back into your apron pocket and stepped out of the freezer before you were taken to the ED for hypothermia. Then you would really have to face jack.
Midafternoon the bell over the door rang.
You didn’t look up too focused on smoothing frosting over a cake layer. Grant was hired to deal with the customers anyway. You trusted him to charm anyone who walked in.
“Is she in the kitchen? I brought her lunch.”
Your heart lurched. You froze mid‑swipe of your spatula.
Jack was there. With food and probably expecting to see you. Maybe he was here to finally break up with you, which really would be fucked. He knew this order was a big deal.
Oliver caught the panic on your face instantly. He didn’t hesitate to slip out to the front, cutting Grant off mid‑greeting.
“She’s not here.”
“She said you guys were busy?” Jack sounded confused, worried, trying to make sense of something he couldn’t see.
Grant jumped in with a smooth lie. “She came in early, but she wasn’t feeling great. Went home to sleep it off.”
A beat of silence.
You could picture Jack’s face, brows drawn, mouth tight, that worried crease forming between his eyes.
“She didn’t tell me,” Jacks voice softened.
Oliver’s tone softened too, but only slightly. “She probably didn’t want to bother you.”
That line felt like a bruise being pressed on.
Because it was true.
Because it wasn’t supposed to be true.
“Did he do something?” Brianna whispered, suddenly appearing beside you.
You jumped back.
“It’s… a long story.” you murmured, marking off the delivery checklist with shaky hands.
Brianna didn’t push. She just stepped closer. “Well, We’ve got you whatever is happening, you aren’t alone.”
A burning rose behind your eyelids. This team you built had become a family. You all worked together so well. You loved them more than anything.
“Thank you, Bri,” you whispered. “I think I’m going to take a few days off. I know you three can run things.”
She nodded immediately, no hesitation, no doubt. “We’ve got it.”
You exhaled, shaky but relieved.
For the first time all day, you didn’t feel like you were drowning alone.
Jack texted you shortly after he left your bakery.
Jack:
Sweetheart, are you doing ok? Grant just told me you went home sick.
Do you need anything?
You didn’t respond just started at the messages, thumb hovering. You couldn’t come up with a response that didn’t feel like a lie or came across as snarky.
Another text came through after about ten minutes of just staring at it.
Jack:
Please call me. I am starting to worry.
I miss your voice.
You let out a scoff while your stomach twisted so hard you thought you were going to vomit. You knew those words weren’t true. Not after last night.
He doesn’t get to say that after complaining to Robby.
You started typing out a response but stopped deleting the message. It was to mean and you couldn’t bring yourself to be rude to him. He was still a really nice guy who brought lunch to work.
Your phone buzzed again, lighting up the dim kitchen.
Jack:
Sweetheart? Please… just tell me you’re okay.
He was probably watching the text chain, waiting for those three little dots to pop up—waiting for proof you were alive, reachable, still his.
You did as he asked and typed:
I’m fine. Just trying to rest.
It wasn’t a complete lie. You were about to head home—Bri had left with the order, and Grant had practically shoved you out the door, telling you to “go find inner peace or whatever chefs do.”
Outside your front door there was a bag neatly placed. It was filled with medicine that would take care of any problem you could possibly have like cold and flu tablets, throat lozenges, electrolyte packets. A container of soup from your favorite café. And a bouquet of flowers soft pink peonies—your favorite.
Your throat tightened.
Because if he didn’t like you, and found you to be exhausting enough to gripe about behind your back then why was he being so nice? Why did he bring flowers? Why did he bring your favorite soup?
You sank onto your couch. The flowers trembling in your hands as you traced your fingers over the petals. Part of you wanted to throw them straight in the trash and the other part wanted to selfishly hold on to him.
Your phone buzzed again.
Jack:
Sweetheart, please call me. I’m really worried. I don’t understand what’s going on. Just… let me hear your voice.
The words blurred and you chewed on the skin by your fingernails. Because now he wanted to hear your voice, not he missed it. When not even twenty-four hours ago he said it never stopped.
You turned the phone face down on the cushion. You would eventually deal with this, but not tonight. You deserved better than another night of tears.
The phone began to go off again. You ignored it. Then it rang again, and again, and again.
You curled up on the couch, flowers pressed to your chest, trying to find a way to breathe through all the self-doubt.
Your phone vibrated once more letting you know he left a voice mail.
You didn’t listen. You couldn’t.
The first morning off felt strange.
There was no alarm dragging you out of bed before dawn. No rush to preheat ovens. No mental checklist of pastries and deliveries. You just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, replaying Jack’s words over and over until they blurred together. Like one of those catchy songs that got stuck in your head.
I can’t do it anymore. She talks nonstop.
Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Jack:
Morning sweetheart, I hope you slept well. How are you feeling?
Do you need anything else?
You stared at the message until the screen dimmed, the glow fading like your ability to pretend everything was fine.
Finally, you typed the smallest truth you could manage:
I just need some space. I will call you when I can.
The moment you hit send; you turned your phone off. Space felt like the only thing you could ask for and the only thing you could control.
You turned onto your side and pulled your comforter up to your chin. Hoping the quiet apartment would let you sleep some more. It didn’t.
Instead, more questions crept in, sharp and unwanted.
What other part of you was Jack choosing to endure?
Was there anything to like about you?
The day stretched on, slow and heavy. Every passing second breathing felt like work. You stayed curled in bed, letting the silence settle around you, trying to figure out how to move forward when the person you trusted most had unknowingly broken something fragile inside you.
For the first time since that night, you didn’t cry. You simply were.
You just lay there, letting the space you asked for expand between you and Jack, hoping it would give you clarity.
Hoping the solution, you came up with wouldn’t hurt as much as it did.
You spent the next day off cleaning your apartment. Like aggressively cleaning your apartment. Scrubbing the counters like they had personally offended you. You moved everything off the shelves dusting and taking photos of Jack down. Anything to keep your hands busy while you tried not to spiral.
This all started after you turned your phone on to make sure your bakery was still in one piece and not up in flames. Grant liked to “help” in kitchen sometimes. It was a whole thing.
There was a set of messages from Jack.
Jack:
Okay. I’ll give you space. But please tell me if you need anything.
I’m here. Always.
So here you were attacking your tub with a scrub brush like it owed you money. And as you scrubbed you debated on the future of your relationship. It was the kind of debate that felt like you were pacing inside your own skull.
Should we take a break?
Maybe we should end things.
I could pretend nothing happened…. because maybe my dad was right, I was hard to love.
The thought felt like it was going to rip your heart out, and leave it right there on your bathroom floor. you paused your scrubbing, gripping the edge of the tub, breath shaking.
You knew you couldn’t avoid Jack forever. He would eventually show up at your door eventually trying to fix this. To fix something he unknowingly broke.
The toxic part of you wanted to ghost him. Pack up and move. Not tell him where you were. Change your number too. He would show up at the bakery though. You could use the whole mess as an excuse to expand your bakery like your team had been talking about—find a new place for you and Brianna to renovate. Start fresh somewhere else.
He would forget about you eventually.
But you weren’t that person. You had to see things through. So you stood in your bathroom, sponge in hand, wondering how one trivial sentence could unravel you.
Day three you sat on the couch, blanket pulled around your shoulders, staring at the Soft pink peonies he’d left. They were opening beautifully, petals curling like they were reaching for you.
You wished you didn’t love them.
You wished you didn’t love him.
It would make everything so much easier if you didn’t love him. Because at four a.m., after hours of tossing and turning, you came to the conclusion that it was time to break up. You just didn’t know how to do it. People usually dumped you. You didn’t have practice in being the one who walked away.
Jack tried to give you space. It took thirty‑six hours before you heard from him again.
Jack:
Baby, please… I’m really worried. I don’t know what’s going on.
You stared at the message blinking.
You knew it was shitty to break up with someone over text. Someone had done it to you once with a voice note. A thirty‑second recording that shattered you for weeks.
But the idea of seeing Jack made your stomach burn.
Made your hands shake.
Made you furious.
And now you really wanted to punch him. To make him feel the pain you have been going through. You wouldn’t though, you weren’t a violent person. But the anger was still there, running hot through your veins.
And it wasn’t like he wanted to hear you talk anyway.
Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard, breath shaking, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might bruise your ribs from the inside.
I think we should end things.
You weren’t what part hurt more—losing him, or realizing this was reaching an end for him way before you heard the words.
Your phone rang, and like every time before it, you declined it.
Jack:
Can we talk about this please? I cant lose you. I can fix this I promise I can fix this.
Sweetheart please let me fix this.
Then another call.
You closed your eyes, letting the tears fall.
Twenty minutes later there was frantic knocking at your door.
“Sweetheart?” His voice cracked on the word. “Please open the door.”
Your throat tightened painfully. But you didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
There was thump at the door—what you assumed was his forehead hitting it in defeat. “Please. I don’t— I don’t understand what’s happening. Just talk to me.”
You scoff at the word talk. Thought I did too much of that for you.
He knocked again, harder this time, panic bleeding into every movement. “Baby, please. I’m begging you. Just let me see you.”
Inside, you sat frozen on the couch, staring at the peonies like they might tell you what to do.
“I love you. I don’t know what I did, but please… please don’t shut me out.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Because you loved him too. He sounded so wrecked like he was breaking the same way you were.
His voice came again, barely audible. I’ll stay out here all night if I have to. I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay.”
He wasn’t yelling.
He wasn’t defensive.
He was scared.
And that made everything harder.
You stood slowly, legs trembling, blanket still around your shoulders. You walked toward the door, each step feeling like you were wading through wet cement.
Your hand hovered over the lock. I can do this, I can talk to him.
You turned the lock. The click echoed through the apartment like a gunshot. You sucked in a breath, reminding yourself again that you could get through this, and then you opened the door.
Jack was only a few feet away. It was the first time you had seen him in days, and he looked like a mess. His curls looked like he’d been running his hands through them for days now. There was a tenseness in his shoulders like he was being held together by sheer force.
He stepped forward instinctively, then stopped himself, hands hovering like he wanted to touch you. But he remembered he couldn’t. Not right now.
The two of you stare at each other, wrecked and shaking, neither of you spoke.
Jack stepped forward again, and you took a step back keeping the space between you two. “Sweetheart, please—”
Something inside you snapped.
“Don’t call me that.” Your voice came out sharp, louder than you meant. “You don’t get to call me that.”
Jack flinched as if you slapped him. “Okay. Okay. I won’t. Just—please talk to me.”
“Oh, now you want me to talk?” Your laugh was bitter, broken. “Funny, considering you were bitching about it the other day.”
You started at the wall over his shoulder refusing to look at him.
Jack moved so you were forced to look at him. His forehead creased, “What are you talking about?”
You scoffed, wiping angrily at your cheeks as tears started falling. “Don’t- don’t pretend you don’t know.”
Jacks hand twitched like he wanted to wipe your tears away and comfort you, but one look at your body language he knew you didn’t want that. You were still shut off to him.
“I don’t know!” Jack’s voice rose.
“You said you couldn’t do it anymore!” you yelled, chest tight, breath shaking. “You said I talk nonstop. You said I exhaust you.”
Jack’s mouth fell open. “I—what? No. No, sweetheart, no, I didn’t—”
There was that nickname again. The one you normally loved to hear but now it filled your stomach with acid.
“Don’t call me that!” you snapped again, voice cracking. “Just tell the truth. Tell me what you really think about me Jack!”
Jack ran his hands through his hair tugging at it hard, pacing the length of you entryway.
“I love you!”
You shook your head frantically, taking three more steps back that he mirrored. He wasn’t letting you escape.
“I heard you Jack,” A sob tore out of you. “I heard you say it!”
“Whan?” Jack demanded voice cracking. “When did I say something so cruel?”
“The night at the bar. You were talking to Robby.”
Jack froze. Eyes widening, and his breathing stilled. It looked as if the ground had dropped out from under him.
Checkmate you thought bitterly.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my God, no. No, no, no. Baby, that wasn’t about you.”
“You don’t have to lie to me Jack. I know I am a lot. I told you I talked a lot at our first date. So, I don’t get why you have to be so cruel about it. You could have told me!” You wipe more tears from your face, your bottom lip trembling. “That’s what’s killing me you could have told me. Instead, you have made me feel pathetic. Like I was a burden.”
You collapsed on to your couch, pulling your knees up to your chest.
“You made my dad right. ‘I can’t do it any more Robby. She talks nonstop all the time.’ That’s what you said. And every insecurity I ever had of myself became the only thing I saw Jack. That’s what you did to me. So, we need to break up.”
Jack was kneeling on the floor in front of you now. And because you still cared for him, you worried about his leg.
“I need you to listen to me, please. If you still hate me, I’ll leave. I promise.” Jack’s voice was even despite the tears falling.
Maybe because you needed to hear Jack say he hated you out loud, or because a part of you hoped you two could save this, you nodded.
“There’s a new resident,” Jack said quietly. “She was switched from day shift for insubordination.” He held up a hand when you opened your mouth. “They ignore everything I try to teach them. They talk over me. They think they know better than everyone. I was venting to Robby about them. I didn’t want to get HR involved.”
You pressed your lips together, shaking your head. You didn’t know what to believe. It seemed too convenient. But then again… you had heard about a know‑it‑all resident from Trinity.
Jack kept going,” I would never say that about you. Never. You’re—God you are my favorite person to talk to. You are the one I want to talk to the one I want to listen to. I love your voice sweetheart. And not hearing it has killed me.”
You shook your head, tears falling harder. “But you said—”
“I said it about them.” Jack’s voice cracked. “I swear to you. I swear on everything. I wasn’t talking about you.”
You covered your mouth with your hand, sobbing. “I thought— Jack I thought you hated me, that you were just putting up with me.”
“No, never. I love you. I love you so much. I was ready to have Trinity and Whitacker come barge in to get answers.”
You cried harder, shoulders shaking. “I’m a lot I know. My brain works different than most peoples, so I would get it if you told me to stop.”
Jack reached forward, placing a shaking hand on your knee. Silently begging you to look at him. “You’re not too much. You are never too much. I want to marry you one day. I love everything about you.”
You let out a broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp. “I want to forgive you. But I hurt so much. You may have not meant me, but my brain was convinced you meant me.”
“Then don’t forgive me,” Jack said softly. “Let me grovel. Let me take care of you the way you’re meant to be taken care of, let me buy you a bouquet of flowers every day.”
A tiny smile tugged at your lips
“Theres my pretty girl.” Jack teases. “I will spend every day making sure you know you are not too much, and honestly? You don’t talk enough if I am being honest.”
You snort. “Yeah right.”
“You don’t. I still have time to talk so-“
You grabbed his shirt, pulling him forward, and snot‑nosed, tear‑streaked, you kissed him. It was quick, messy, but enough to tell both of you that you were okay. That you were going to make it through this.
“Shut up and hold me.” You whispered.
And jack didn’t have to be told twice. He got up on the couch and pulled you in to his lap, holding you like he’d been drowning for days and finally reached air. You sighed burying your face in his shirt. You could feel quiet, shaking breaths against your hair.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered over and over. “I’m so sorry you thought that. I’m so sorry you were hurting alone.”
You shook your head against him. “I should’ve asked. I should’ve talked to you.”
“New rule,” Jack murmured, tightening his arms around you. “We always talk about our problems. No regressing. Both our therapists would be upset with us right now.”
You laugh breathing him in.
His lips press to the top of your head.
You held onto him harder, the weight of the last three days finally breaking open. “I love you, Jack.”
Do you think there was ever a point when Whitaker was interrupting her during a movie or tv show that Trinity just looked over and thought fuck?
Because now she had a new best friend. Someone who she had inside jokes with, someone that slept in the same apartment as her that she had started to sleep with her door unlocked around?
And she’d never admit it, but she had been so lonely before (so lonely she had become kind in it). lonely enough to let in a man after knowing him only during one of the top 10 worst days of her life.
Meanwhile Dennis probably has no fucking clue this revelation is happening and just pauses the TV to ask what the muppets were again.
“Oh my god, I actually don’t know how to explain it to you again.”
“I’m sorry that I didn’t grow up with a tv.”
And she’d just laugh but at the same time try to blink away the tears from her eyes without him seeing.
omg, stop. whitsantos going to ikea and pretending to be an unhappy married couple asking for a divorce in the kitchen showrooms. victoria is there filming it for her tiktok. i can't. omfg. this is something i need to witness.
drunk whitsantos sharing secrets, trans dennis saying, “my first chosen name was Dan because i wanted people to call me ‘Dan the Man’… but no one did.”
trinity just starts giggling, hard. there are practically tears in her eyes when he finally asks, “what’s so funny?”
older neighbour!robby who gets worried about you when you’re home alone, so he knocks on your door, bowl of popcorn in one hand and two glass bottles of coca cola in the other. you obviously invite him in, both of you settling down on your couch to watch a movie—your choice of course, because there’s no way he would choose legally blonde as a movie to watch on a saturday night.
he doesn’t overstep, just wants to make sure you’re safe while you live alone. when he leaves at the end of the night, he gives you his number, letting you know that if you ever need anything, he’s only a phone call away. you smile and thank him, watching as he crosses the patch of grass between your houses and enters into his own house. you’re totally giddy and you immediately call your best friend and tell her all about him.
“he’s like.. a bit older, but he’s so hot and he’s super nice..”
“you sure he’s not perving on you?”
“absolutely not, we watched legally blonde and shared some popcorn.. just made small talk, that was it..”
“okayyyyy.. well maybe he might like you.. flirt with him a little.. plus, you said he was a doctor right.. think of the money!”
“oh shit, you’re right.. oh my god..”
you talked with her some more before you yawned and called it a night. you made your way back downstairs to clear up the popcorn and the bottles, when you noticed his grey jacket slung over the arm of the couch. picking it up, you headed out your front door and looked over at his house, there was no light on so you figured he had gone to sleep and you would just take the jacket back over tomorrow. you walked upstairs to your bedroom, throwing it at the end of your bed before going into your ensuite, brushing your teeth and getting ready for bed—and as soon as your body hit the mattress, you were out like a light.
a loud knock at your front door jolted you awake as you turned to look at your alarm clock—6:35am. you groaned and grabbed the jacket laying on your bed, before slipping it on, forgetting that it wasn’t actually yours. you grumbled as you made your way to the front door, swinging it open ready to complain about whoever decided to wake you at this ungodly hour of the morning. but then you were met with robby, the very man who’s jacket you were currently wearing.
“morning.. i was about to ask if i had left my jacket here last night, but.. i can see that i did..”
“what? oh.. oh.. sorry… shit, here you go..” you mumbled out your words, frantically taking off his jacket and handing it to him—suddenly feeling slightly cold. you looked down and realised you were dressed in barely any clothing. robby’s mouth fell slightly agape, before he coughed and swallowed thickly.
“i.. uhm.. thanks.. i.. yeah, thanks..”
“your uhm.. your welcome..”
robby nodded at you, turning to step away before you stepped out your front door, grabbing his arm. he turned back to you, cheeks slightly flushed red as he stared into your eyes.
“do you.. uhm.. do you wanna come over again tonight? after work? your choice of movie this time?”
robby hesitates for a second, knowing he’ll have to leave early again since he has work early in the morning tomorrow—but when he got home last night, it’s been the first night in a while that he felt lighter, happier, calmer. you would laugh at funny parts of the movie and he could feel his heart lurch every time he heard that sweet noise coming out your mouth—and now he’s sure he wants nothing more than to hear you laugh all the time, his face buried in your neck as his beard tickles your skin, causing you to burst into a fit of giggles. he knows you’re like half his age but he’s never been more sure that you’re the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with—he doesn’t really believe in soulmates, but he’s starting to believe you might be his. so, he smiles at you, pulls his arm slightly back until his hand is now in yours, squeezing slightly when he speaks.
“popcorn and two bottles of cola?”
you smile back at him, before leaning up on your tiptoes and pressing a small kiss to his cheek, watching his cheeks flush red again.
Today is the 4th of July, aka the pitt s2 day, aka aka the worst day of Samira Mohan's life and the last time we see her at PTMC. I'll miss you forever Ms. Future of Medicine😭💔
Jack is pressed up against your back in bed. He adjusts your leg and angles your hips so that he can have better access to you.
“Morning sweetheart.” Jack says to you as he kisses your neck and brushes the hair away from your face. You barely open your eyes, but you do snuggle closer to Jack.
Robby rolls over at the sound. “You took my girl.”
“Our girl. She rolled over” Jack snakes his arm around your waist. “Plus, you have to get ready for work soon.”
“I got twenty minutes before I have to get in the shower.” Robby moves Jack’s arm and pulls you back to him. “Hey baby.”
You open your eyes fully and stretch up to kiss Robby on the mouth. “Morning Robby.”
“What about me?” Jack asks, hoping for a kiss.
You turn to give Jack a kiss but Robby holds you closer. “You can give him attention in…” he looks at the time, “18 minutes.”
“Are you holding her hostage?” Jack says.
“Stay on your side of the bed.” Robby gets a pillow and puts it as a barrier in the middle of the bed.
“Just you and me right now, baby girl.” Robby tugs your underwear down and can see how wet you are. “How are you this wet already?”
“I was in the middle of a dream about you.” You put your hands on his shoulders to pull him down and kiss him.
“Oh yeah? Was I making you feel good in that dream?”
You nod as he pulls down his sweatpants and underwear. Robby doesn’t waste any time before he’s sliding into you and stretching you.
Jack removes the pillow barrier so that he can watch.
“This is going to be quick baby.” Robby adjusts the angle of his hips and before you know it you’re clenching down on Robby’s length. “Christ. Baby. You got me in a vise.”
“Robby!” You whine.
“She likes it when you talk her through it.” Jack interjects.
Robby grabs a nearby pillow and tosses it at him. “Jesus Christ. No sex talk from you unless you’re the one that is going to cum in her.”
“I can be the one if you want to pull out.” Jack says.
Robby gives him the finger and picks up the pace. You cum moaning his name, with Robby following a moment later, spilling inside you.
Robby rolls over to his side of the bed. He kisses your forehead and whispers into your ear before getting out of bed, “You’re such a good girl. I love starting my mornings inside you baby. I’m going to shower and start some breakfast for you.”
Jack gets up and goes to your side a moment later with a wet cloth and begins to clean you up. When he finishes, he gets back in bed and pulls you into him. You put your head on his chest where you can hear his heartbeat.
“Think you got another round left in you, sweetheart? I can be very gentle.” Jack runs his hand through your hair.
You sit up and straddle Jack. “You don’t have to be gentle.”
Jack gives your ass a squeeze. “Noted. Let’s see what you can handle.”
Grabbing your ass, he sets a fast pace, as he kisses along your neck and chest. The bed frame hitting against the wall.
“Jack! I… I need more.”
He keeps one hand on your ass and the other moving to press two fingers to your clit. “Come on, sweetheart. I feel you fluttering. Let go.”
You bite down on Jack’s shoulder as you cum.
“There we go. You feel like heaven.” He continues to thrust up in you as he chases his own release. “Where’d you want me sweetheart?”
“Inside. Please, Jack.”
Not long after, you feel Jack’s release. He cums with a groan. You start to shift away but he keeps you right where you are. “Just want to make sure nothing drips out baby.” You lay your head on his shoulder as he rubs up and down your back.
About 10 minutes later as Jack finishes cleaning you up, you hear Robby yelling that breakfast is done.
love bites - a drabble
nurse!reader x michael "robby" robinavitch
“Dr. Robby, is that a bite?”
Javadi noted, eyes wide in suspicion.
He covered his neck with his hand immediately, clearing his throat and turning serious.
You’d done the damage in the supply closet about 15 minutes ago. It was like you were teenagers, or at least Robby felt like he was a teenager again. For you, that wasn’t as long ago.
Regardless, it made him forget about the aching pain in his lower back and the muscle strain in his shoulder for at least a little bit.
He'd never admit it to you, but he kinda loved it when you marked him. Sometimes showing up with red stains on his neck, gloss, whatever you were wearing at the time. And no one questioned it, until right about now.
“How about you check on projectile vomiting in exam 3?” He said in reply, hand still on his neck and trying to casually rush over to you. You’d been putting something away in the medicine locker when he came beside you.
“Coming back for more already?” You say, focus on the small glass vials.
It’s here he takes his hand off and motions towards the darkening skin. “You’re gonna have to be a little more discreet, kid.”
Your eyes widen and you stifle a laugh, looking around briefly before mouthing a “Sorry,” to him. You then rifle through the locker to find the most simple of objects and offer it to him.
“Bandaid for now?”
Robby takes it from your palm, annoyed expression but not serious. You can’t help but giggle at his grumpy demeanor. It was all an act, you knew it.
“Need some help?”
“I think I’ve had enough from you.” He responds, unsheathing the bandage and placing it in the reflection in the glass.
It’s here he leans down to you, hot breath at the nape of your neck, placing a palm on the small of your back.
“You’ll pay for that later.”
a/n: oh my gosh i just wrote this and im cringing too don't worry, enjoy i guess lol
3 times the pittlings suspect Robby is married and the 1 time it’s confirmed
cw: married!robby, robby and reader have a kid, godfather!jack abbot, medical inaccuracies (trying my best), age gap (unspecified)
wc: 4.7k
a/n: i couldn’t decide a name for their daughter so i just used a nickname ‘bug’ for her!
Doctor Michael “Robby” Robinavitch was not a married man.
Or so his residents thought.
The Chief Attending Physician never mentioned being married, kids, or any other indicators that typically pointed to a relationship.
Besides, while Robby was brilliant, he was also incredibly cynical. They weren’t quite sure that trait screamed husband material.
That was until one by one the ‘pittlings’ as they were called slowly uncovered aspects of Robby’s life that were more than meets the eye.
1. The Rings
Robby didn’t wear a ring.
His left hand was left completely barren during the duration of his shift.
He dodged questions about his love life left and right, especially from the older patients who learned of his last name origins and wanted his whole life story.
Never denied having a wife, just danced around the topic.
Even Abbot who was widowed still wore his wedding ring
Naturally, those who saw his left hand (including those who worked at PMTC), all assumed he was unmarried.
The Emergency Room today is scarily quiet. Not quiet necessarily, just not the typical rush of screaming patients and understaffing issues.
Robby stands by Dana at the central hub, typing away at the tablet to update charting information. Dana works by him silently, clearly savoring the moment of calm before the inevitable storm.
And then the peace is broken by two paramedics bursting through the ambulance bay doors.
Robby discards his tablet immediately and slings his stethoscope back around his neck.
“What do we got?”
“42 year old male. Experiencing chest pains and shortness of breath. Likely a stemi. EKG has been applied.”
“Whitaker! Jesse! You’re with me,” Robby demands.
The two men follow him right into Trauma 2, gloving up immediately and awaiting further instructions.
They know the procedure at this point. Stabilize the patient, call surgery, don’t lose the heartbeat.
Of course that last one is a lot harder to ensure.
But when they lose the heartbeat, Robby immediately springs into action. He rambles off something about the proper number of compressions.
Robby places his hands on the patient’s chest and began the familiar rhythm of CPR.
Whitaker takes over securing the airway while Jesse preps the defibrillator.
They’ve seen many stemi’s in Trauma 1 and 2 but each time it’s a stressful race against the clock.
Robby pauses his compressions, waiting on his internal clock before he starts again.
Still no pulse.
He places his hands once more, applying slightly more pressure as he begins his second wave.
Whitaker stands on deck, fully ready for Robby’s next set of instructions. The endotracheal tube was successfully inserted into the trachea. All he could do now was wait.
And even something catches his attention.
A shiny piece of gold slips out of Robby’s shirt, hitting his chest as it’s stopped by the chain it’s connected to.
Whitaker probably wouldn’t have noticed if the ring hadn’t caught the fluorescent emergency room lights. And then it hits him. Robby has a wedding ring around his neck.
“Whitaker!”
The resident doesn’t respond immediately. He’s too focused on the newest gossip point he may have just uncovered.
“Whitaker!” Robby yells again.
“Right! Sorry!” He rushes out before rambling off the patient’s vitals.
And then…..
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Robby removes his hands, a sigh escaping his lips as he allows the others to take over with the proper procedures.
Whitaker watches as he reaches for his exposed necklace. The attending runs his finger around the band before tucking it securely under his scrubs.
Like wearing a wedding band was nothing at all.
Whitaker doesn’t wanna ask. It isn’t the time, place, or status to question if Robby was married. Just morbid curiosity.
He’ll have to mention it to Santos if he remembers.
Robby shoots two thumbs up as the stemi patient is moved out by surgery.
“Good work everyone,” he announces before slipping out to see where he’s needed.
Huh.
Maybe Dr. Robby is secretly married.
2. Stitches
You don’t expect to end up at the Pitt, truthfully you never had.
Frankly, if you had a choice you would rather head to Westbridge. Okay, maybe that was a stretch but something about going to the Pitt felt like teetering in your husband's territory.
But now your hand is bleeding bad and if you were able to look past the blood, you swear you could see bone. You cursed yourself out for causing such a disastrous scene from simply trying to cook dinner.
You were incredibly grateful your daughter was being watched by your parents for the night.
You drive to PTMC in a haze. Your hand is throbbing and the blood has already started seeping through the thick towel you wrapped around. Should you be driving? Maybe not. But calling an ambulance for a deep wound wasn’t realistic.
In your dazed state, you don’t even think about texting Robby.
It must be your lucky day when you walk into the emergency department and there’s actually empty chairs available. Robby had come home many nights complaining of being understaffed and overrun.
Check-in went smoothly and when the triage nurse saw your hand, she called right for a nurse to bring you back.
You didn’t see Dana at the nurses station and you knew Jack wasn’t due in for another hour or so. Robby also seemed MIA, probably back with a patient.
Instead, a nurse named Sam shows you to your room. “You can have a seat on the bed. Someone should be with you momentarily.”
The pain in your hand continued to increase. Maybe it was the blood loss or the adrenaline fading but you let your eyes shut until there’s a knock on the door and the curtain slides open.
You're greeted shortly after being shown to North 14 by a dark haired doctor.
You squint your eyes to read her badge. Doctor Trinity Santos.
Ah. So that was Santos.
Robby subtly talked about almost all of his coworkers at home. You knew Whitaker was resilient, Javadi was young but highly gifted, Mel was brilliant, and lastly you knew that Santos, begrudgingly, was a lot like Robby.
“I’m Doctor Santos and I’ll be taking care of you today,” she starts. “What’s going on?”
You lift your band up weakly to show the blood stained towel. Despite all, you manage to force out a laugh.
“Kitchen accident. Knife slipped right down my palm.”
Santos sits in a stool and slides over to the edge of the bed.
“Mind if I take a look?”
You nod, only wincing slightly as she unwraps the towel.
“Yeah you got a nasty cut here. I’ll clean it up and we’ll probably need to do a few stitches. How’s the pain?”
“Not great.”
Santos stands up. “I’ll get you something to numb your hand. You should be in and out.”
You give her a warm smile. “Thank you Dr. Santos.”
She’s gone for another few moments before entering the room with the proper supplies. You swing your legs over the bed and rest your hand on the table and bring it over.
Robby is taking a lap around the floor when he double takes at one of the hospital's newest admitants.
Santos is at your bedside, saline flush in hand as she works to clean out the blood from your wound.
“Doctor Santos? What do we have here?” An all familiar voice enters the room.
Your eyes shoot up. Busted.
“Uh,” Santos starts. “Just a deep hand laceration. Kitchen accident. I gave a low dosage to numb the area. Should be good after I finish cleaning and stitch it up.”
The young doctor doesn’t seem to notice the intense eye contact between you and Robby. There’s a silent conversation between you and him. Something between an are you okay? and a why didn’t you ask for me?
“I’d like to take over here if you don’t mind Dr. Santos.”
There’s a long pause of silence in the room.
“Are you sure?” Trinity draws out each word.
“Yeah, I got it,” Robby starts. “Haven’t done some stitching in awhile. Need the practice.”
“I watched you stitch up someone this morning.”
You stifle a laugh, though clearly not well enough for Robby and Santos to not hear.
Santos stands. “But she is all yours. I’ll be back to discharge her when she’s ready.”
Once Santos leaves, you finally have the courage to look your husband in the eye.
“Michael-“ you start.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine. I was just being stupid in the kitchen.”
Robby sighs. “Accidents happen. I just wish you called me. Or texted.”
The saline continues to clean your hand as silence overtakes you.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you mumble after a moment.
“Bother me?” Robby quietly laughs. “Honey, I'm your husband. You’re allowed to bother me when you're hurt. I’d actually prefer it if you did.”
It feels stupid to you now. You were married with a child for god's sake and you still felt guilty asking for help when you had a huge gash down your hand.
“I was trying to make you dinner,” you winced as Robby began his stitches. “Since my parents are watching Bug I wanted us to have a romantic night.”
Robby laughs. Not in a mean way but simply at your kindness.
“We can still have a romantic night. Just gotta be careful of these stitches.”
“Yeah without dinner I guess.”
“I’ll grab something on my way home,” Robby responds to your quip without missing a beat.
He says it so casually too that you can’t help but smile.
“I like seeing you in your scrubs.”
“Oh yeah?”
You loll your head to the side so it’s resting on your arm. “Sorry, I just find my husband looks too good taking care of me.”
“Careful,” he warns.
“Always am.”
Robby’s mind is still in doctor mode. You managing to flirt with him despite your hand was a good sign.
You grimace one final time as Robby makes the final knot.
Your hand already looks miles better.
“Once I wrap it up for you you’ll be all set.”
Robby turns your hand over and wraps his fingers gently around yours. Still careful of your pulsing wound, he brings your hand up to his lips and places a gentle kiss.
His lips linger for a moment, just long enough for Santos to go wide-eyed as she walks past the room. Despite Robby taking over your stitching, you were still technically her patient.
Now, instead of entering your room, she turned on her heel and made a mad dash for where Whitaker sat charting.
“Huckleberry,” Santos sharply whispers.
The boy looks up at her. “What’s up?”
Santos looks behind her back, clearly afraid that her attending could sneak up and hear her gossiping about his personal life.
“My patient in North 14, the one that Robby hijacked?”
Whitaker’s brows furrow in confusion. “Yeah?”
“I swear Robby just kissed her.”
This immediately grabbed Whitaker’s attention. Chart now forgotten, he peers over Santos’ shoulder to see if he can catch a glimpse of the room. No luck.
“What? There’s no way.”
Santos pushes her stray hairs back. “I am so beyond serious you have no idea.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.”
They’re both silent for a moment before Whitaker speaks up. “You know maybe that’s just his girlfriend?”
“No,” Santos shakes her head. “She had wedding rings on. A massive one too.”
Whitaker finally scoffs. “Huh. Maybe Robby does have a secret double life. You know he wears a necklace with a ring on it?”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t think it mattered until now!” He defends himself.
“So you’re saying I may have just taken Robby’s wife as my patient,” Santos starts.
“Yup.”
“Oh wow. Huh.”
Silence once more. Santos stays deep in thought as Whitaker goes back to charting. She can’t help it, she’s behind nosy.
“Do you think I should just ask?”
“Absolutely not,” Whitaker replies immediately.
Santos rolls her eyes. Curse her roommate for always being the voice of reason.
After checking up on her kid with severe road burn and an older man with chest pains, Santos decides it’s time to check in on you. That is until she sees Robby by the hand sanitizer station.
“Hey Dr. Robby!” Santos calls after her attending.
Robby promptly stops in his tracks and spins around.
“I’m about to go discharge North 14 and then I’ll need a consult in South 6,” Santos explains.
“No need, I already took care of discharge.”
Oh. Robby discharged her patient. Her patient. While Santos was getting better, she still struggled with when to stand up for herself or step down.
“You discharged my patient?”
“Is there a problem Dr. Santos?” Robby inquires.
Oh shit. Santos knows immediately that’s his tone of voice saying are you questioning my authority?
She backtracks immediately. “No, not at all. You are the boss.”
“Good. I’ll meet you at South 6 in a few.”
Santos stays glued to her spot for a moment after Robby walks away.
“Huh,” she thinks to herself. “Maybe I did just stitch up Mrs. Robinavitch.”
3. Little Bug
Jack Abbot walking in the E.R. is an immediate sign that shift change had begun and day shift was finally off the hook.
Jack Abbot walking in with a child on his hip, however, was a totally different story.
Plus, the Paw Patrol backpack he had strung across his shoulder.
Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi sit around their desks. All three are frantically typing away at their charts, desperate to get out of the hospital at a seemingly normal time.
It’s Javadi that spots the scene first.
“Holy shit,” she starts. “Is Abbot holding a kid?”
It felt like the entire E.R. at that moment noticed the attending.
It’s a silent game of if anyone needs to react or not. On one hand, a child in an emergency room is a clear red flag. On the other hand, that kid was with Dr. Jack Abbot.
Jack is unbothered by the wandering eyes.
He heads right to the central hub. Dana spotted them minutes ago and already circled around to greet the pair.
“Day-Nuh!” Bug annunciates both syllables in the nurse's name when she spots the charge nurse.
“Hi Jellybean,” Dana beams, accepting the transfer from Jack and fixing the girl to sit on her hip.
Bug’s hands grasp at Dana’s stethoscope.
For your daughter's birthday, you and Robby had gifted her a play doctor set. She was familiar with the basics and was clearly interested in the real-life thing.
“You have fun with Uncle Jack today? Dana asks.
The girl nods.
“Pirate Jack,” Bug corrects as she points down.
“Pirate huh?” Dana chuckles.
“She learned about my leg a few weeks ago. Started calling me a pirate once she stopped crying,” Jack spoke.
Dana boops the girl on her nose. “Well aren’t you the cutest.”
The attending and charge nurse chat for a few minutes as Bug grabs at everything in her reach: Dana’s badge, her cross necklace, and even the pen that’s clipped to her pocket. Dana, of course, doesn’t mind in the slightest.
Bug quickly gets distracted and wiggles out of Dana’s arms the second she spots Robby in her sightline.
“Da-da!” Bug exclaims. It takes Robby only two quick strides to get to her.
God knows he doesn’t want his daughter running around this place.
Robby, as if he had already sensed his daughter's presence in the E.R., had gathered his things from his locker.
“Oof. Hi Bug,” Robby grunts as he’s hit full force in the legs by the toddler.
The second he picks her up, it’s like his entire demeanor changes. The tension in his shoulders eases and for the first time all day, he doesn’t look steps away from a breakdown.
Robby takes note of his daughter’s outfit that was certainly not the one he dressed her in this morning.
A jersey meant only one thing.
“You took her to a Pirates game?” Robby questions his friend.
Jack nods. “Yeah. They won.”
Robby slides a hand down his face. “So let me get this straight. You took my daughter to a 1:35 start game and are now here to work a 12 hour shift.”
Jack nods again like this isn’t difficult to comprehend. “I’m a shoe-in for uncle of the year.”
That gains a laugh from Robby.
“You’re insane,” he begins. “I’m assuming the jersey was a new addition.”
“Of course. Her cleaned ice cream helmet and hat are in her backpack.”
Javadi turns to their little group who has long abandoned their charting to watch the two men interact.
“You think that’s Robby and Abbot’s love child?’ Javadi inquiries.
That elicits a laugh. The new sound causes Bug to immediately lose her attention on her dad and look over towards the three doctors. Her little hands grasp at the hems of Robby’s scrubs as she focuses mostly on Javadi.
“Looks like she chose you,” Santos says quietly.
Javadi raises her hand tentatively to wave, clearly not wanting to overstep any boundaries with the dynamic most of the emergency department just learned about.
Bug shows a toothy grin as she waves back.
Robby feels Bug shifting around and turns to face the group who suddenly look like deer in headlights. Like Bug when she gets caught pulling puppy dog eyes on Dana for another cookie.
To the pittlings shock, Robby laughs.
“You guys are allowed to say hi.”
Robby points to Santos first. “That’s Trinity.”
“Trin-ty!” Bug repeats.
“Dennis.”
“Dennis!”
“And Victoria.”
Bug’s face scrunches up in concentration. More than two syllables were rough. “Vic-tora!”
Robby shrugs. “Eh close enough, Bug.” He then turns his attention away from the girl. “We’re working on phonics right now.”
Santos holds her hands up. “Alright I’ll bite. You have a kid? And it’s not yours and Abbot’s?”
Dana bumps Jack with her shoulder. “Told ya people would say something.”
Robby glares at the two before turning back to Santos.
“Yes, I have a kid. Yes, I am married. Yes, Jack has been helping me while my wife is out of town. Any other questions?”
Whitaker clocks Santos’ look immediately. So their suspicions were correct.
“Was your wife my patient that you stitched up?” Santos bursts out. She can’t help it. The curiosity has been eating her up.
“Yes it was. She didn’t want to bother me for help.”
“Aw. No wonder you two get along.”
Bug is growing not just tired, but restless too. A bad combination for a toddler.
“When does the missus get back?” Dana asks.
“Tomorrow night,” Robby starts. “Can’t thank you guys enough for everything.”
To everyone in the room, this made perfect sense. Two of Robbie’s close support systems helping him out with his daughter.
“But this little one seems pretty tired from romping around with Uncle Jack. Can you say thank you, Bug?”
Bug turns her head to her uncle. “Thank you pirate Jack!”
Dana squeezes the young girls cheek and with a final wave goodbye, Robby is out the door. Probably the earliest he has ever left PTMC.
Safe to say he left the Pittlings in shock.
+1. Meeting
Your hand takes a bit to heal. Given how deep the cut was, you were fully expecting a long road to recovery.
Robby checked over the wound almost daily. He explained in simple terms to Bug that “mommy’s left hand was hurt right now” and that “she needed to be extra careful.”
Of course Bug was determined to kiss it better. Just like her dad had done to you.
Robby insists that you set up a 3-week checkup.
He told you that the surface skin should be healed by three weeks (sometimes longer with it being such a utilized area), but there would be a road ahead for deep tissue recovery.
Your phone pings as you’re packing your purse.
What time are you coming in?
About to leave! Need anything?
All good. I let the triage nurses know you’re coming so you should be able to come right back. See you soon. Love you
Love you too!
After your initial incident, PTMC didn’t feel as scary. Also probably given the fact that you and your husband had a long conversation about it being okay to ask for help.
The irony was there best believe it.
You’re waved through once you enter the waiting room. This time, thankfully, you spotted Dana immediately at the central hub.
“Well look who’s back!” Dana exclaims.
You hold your wrapped hand up. “Michael insisted I come for a checkup.”
Dana rounds the hub and wraps you in a greeting hug. “Sounds like him.”
She pauses to notice there is no toddler trotting in with you. “No Bug?”
You roll your eyes playfully. “You know I do have a life outside of my daughter.”
“Eh. Debatable.”
You glance around the bustling emergency room. No signs of Robby. “Is my husband around?”
“Let me page him.”
Robby appears just moments after being paged. He looks tired and worn. You can’t imagine what the day has already thrown at him.
But when he sees you, he slaps on a tired smile and walks like the day hasn’t beat him down.
“Hi honey,” Robby greets you, shocking even you as he places a soft kiss to your forehead.
You know he prefers private displays of affection. Can’t live without it actually. In public, however, holding your hand suffices for both of you.
“I can get you set up in a room so we can look at that hand. In and out promise.”
You wave him off. “Take your time. I know you’re busy.”
Dana scoffs and laughs. “When is he not.”
“Tell me about it.”
Robby shoots both of his hands up in the air as an ‘i’m innocent!’
“South 10’s open.”
You’re so close to stealing your husband away to do your checkup when the phone rings and Dana’s face falls.
“Car pileup on 376. Incoming in 5 minutes.”
Robby slides a hand down his face. You squeeze his arm.
“It’s okay Mike. I can wait.”
Robby shakes his head as his eyes dart around the emergency room.
“Santos!” Robby calls. The young resident’s head snaps up, eyes immediately locking on you. “You free?”
She stands up. “I can be.”
“Mind doing a three week checkup? Since I hijacked it last time.”
You chuckle. “Don’t worry, I chewed him out for it.”
You and Robby can both tell Santos is treading in uncharted waters.
“I’m assuming this is your wife?” Santos asks.
You stick your uninjured hand out for her to shake. “Yes I am and Y/N is fine.”
Oh she can’t wait to tell Whitaker.
“Sorry about last time,” you apologize.
Santos shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. Nice to meet you.”
Dana looks at the group and repeats. “South 10.”
“Right,” Santos presses her lips together.
You can sense that Robby is on edge about the incoming trauma. “I’ll be okay Mike. It’s just a checkup. Besides, based on what you’ve told me I’m in good hands.”
Santos tries not to glow with pride.
“Okay okay. I’ll swing by when I can.”
Santos guides you to South 10. You take a seat in the chair before she slowly unwraps your bandage. While Robby’s stitches were flawless, it was still a nasty injury to heal from.
“I’m gonna do another cleaning and then test your movement,” Santos explains. “Just gotta grab the stuff and I’ll be back.”
True to her word, Santos is back but this time she’s accompanied by Robby.
“Thought you had an incoming trauma?” you inquire.
“Got re-routed to Westbridge.”
You nod, winching only slightly as Santos begins poking the area for tenderness. Safe to say she found it!
“Do you want to remove your rings?” Santos asks
You nod before sliding the two bands off. “Don’t want them in the way for either of us.”
Robby steps forward and opens his palm. You drop them down as he unclips his necklace chain and slides them on. They hit his respective wedding band with a satisfying clink.
“Want me to stay?” Robby offers.
“Not if you’re going to terrorize Santos,” you fire back.
Santos is enjoying this a bit too much.
“I will go see if someone else needs help then. Please call if you need anything.”
The young resident works in silence. Despite Robby not being in the room, his presence lingers over. If she fucked up working on his wife, she was screwed.
But surprisingly, you’re the one to break the silence.
“Robby told me you’re interested in general surgery,” you speak.
Once again, Santos is taken aback. Robby doesn’t just talk about her outside of work but he talks highly of her outside of work.
“Yeah I think so. I’m still figuring it out.”
“Eh you have time. Don’t tell him I told you this but he thinks you’ll be a great fit.”
Santos smiles. “I think I’m just in shock to be treating you now that I know who you are. And your daughter too.”
“Don’t worry about me. I have no problems telling Robby off,” You laugh. “Just didn’t want to make a big deal last time.”
“I get it. How long have you to been together?” Santos asks and then immediately freezes. “Oh I’m so sorry I don’t mean to interrogate.”
What has Robby been doing to these poor residents to make them so scared?
“We’ve known each other for 10, married for 8, and we’ve had Bug for three years now.”
“She’s adorable. She waved to us when Dr. Abbot brought her in.”
“Yeah she likes Jack more than me sometimes,” you grin.
Your checkup doesn’t take much longer after that. Santos wraps your hand up once more and goes through aftercare instructions. “But I’ll let Dr. Robby know as well,” she finishes out.
You walk back to the central hub as you make small talk with Santos. She tells you about how she used to be an athlete and how she’s fluent in Tagalog. You, in turn, tell her about your own work and all the details that come with that.
Robby strategically positioned himself to be waiting with Dana when you’re done.
“Dr. Santos is fantastic,” you praise when you find him. “Everything looks a-okay.”
Santos slides past you to sit down at her desk with Whitaker and Javadi.
“Just treated Mrs. Robinavitch,” she whispers. The other resident and student doctor lean in close. “She’s so nice. Like scary nice. And smart too.”
And just like the pittlings feared, Robby appears behind them to interrupt their gossip session.
“Well I’m glad you find my wife nice and smart,” Robby muses.
Then you’re popping up right behind them. “Cut them some slack, Mike. They’re just curious.”
It’s like you have him under a spell with the way he relaxes at your touch.
“Wanna walk me out?” you offer.
Robby points at the group of three. “Any of you need anything?”
It’s amusing so see how quickly they shake their heads no.
“Alright, I’ll be back soon.”
As Robby turns to leave, you grab his arm to stop him.
“It was nice to meet you guys! Thank you again Dr. Santos for all your help.”
Dana laughs loudly at their shocked expression. It was definitely weird to see their strict attending doctor be so relaxed around his wife.
“So you do have a wedding ring,” Whitaker points out.
Robby reaches under his scrub top to pull out the chain. “Eight years.”
“And a child together,” Javadi jumps in.
“Three years,” Robby adds.
“I’ll have to bring her back sometime. She’s been asking about you guys non-stop,” You laugh.
Your phone pings. It’s daycare sending you and Robby Bug’s report of what she did today.
“Well duty calls. See you guys!”
Robby wraps his arm around your shoulder as he steers you out of the emergency room.
Santos, ready as ever to pounce on an opportunity to hype herself up, looks at Whitaker.
“Y/N told me that Robby thinks I’d thrive in surgery.”
She pushes away from her desk, laughing loudly and ready to go check up on her next.
Whitaker and Havadi follow immediately, a chorus of “What!” and “Did she say anything about me!” fall from their lips.
Santos gloats.
“You’ll just have to find her next time.”
And just like that she escapes, still riding on the high of Robby’s praise.
And above all, the emergency room feels a little lighter.
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x diabetic!nurse!reader
Warnings: medical emergency, severe hypoglycemia, muscle spasms, seizure activity, brief amnesia, disorientation, vomiting, needles, IV placement.
Summary: a rapid blood sugar crash catches you completely off guard, leading to a medical emergency in the middle of a patient procedure.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
🎀 based on this request 🎀
more diabetic!reader fics
The shift was relatively calm for a friday night, but the air still carried that distinct heavy exhaustion. You blinked hard, trying to clear the sudden fuzziness around the edges of your vision. Just a few more hours, you told yourself, leaning against the nurses' station.
"Hey." Dr. Abbot stepped up beside you. "I need you in Bed 6. I need a large bore IV started immediately. Can you handle it?"
"On it," you murmured. Your voice sounded a little distant, even to your own ears, but you forced a reassuring nod and grabbed an IV kit.
Inside Bed 6, you prepped the tourniquet and tore open the alcohol wipe. Your hands were usually rock solid, it was why Jack always asked for you on difficult sticks. But as you brought the needle down toward the patient's arm, your fingers violently jerked.
The needle slipped from your hand. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked through your chest.
You gripped your right wrist with your left hand, trying to steady it, but an involuntary spasm rippled through your forearm. Your muscles tightened up, rigid and uncooperative.
No, no, no. Not right now.
You knew the signs. You lived with this reality every day. The entire shift knew it, too. But the velocity with which your blood sugar was crashing caught you entirely off guard.
"Sarah," you choked out, catching the eye of another nurse who was checking the monitor. Your voice was barely a whisper. "Can you... can you take over? I c-can't... I can't get the angle."
Sarah looked at you, confused. "Yeah, sure. I got it."
You stumbled backward out of the cubicle, your right arm tight against your chest as another spasm wracked the muscles.
You needed glucose. Now. Urgently.
You had a strange sensation, a tingling, in your legs, although you could still walk to the break room only because of muscle memory.
From across the floor, Jack catched you exit Bed 6. He frowned. It wasn't like you to hand off a procedure, especially not an urgent one. He stepped away from the central desk, his eyes tracking your swaying stride as you turned the corner into the staff breakroom.
"Hey," Jack called out softly, following you in and closing the door behind him. "Are you alright? Did you—"
You turned to face him, intending to tell him you just needed a fast acting carb, but your body betrayed you. Your neck stiffened slightly, and a small tic appeared, convulsing into a series of uncontrollable muscle spasms. You tried to reach for the cupboards, but your hand was shaking too much.
Jack froze, his medical instincts kicking in instantly.
He knew your diagnosis. He knew what a rapid drop looked like.
"Jesus, baby," he breathed, lunging forward just as your knees buckled.
He caught you before you hit the floor, guiding your trembling body down until you were sitting in one of the breakroom chairs.
"Hey," Jack commanded, cupping your face with his hands. "Look at me, doll."
You were awake. Your eyes were wide open, your gaze still fixed on him, your tics still twitching, but you weren't there. Your gaze was completely lost, glassy and unfocused. An involuntary whimper escaping your lips as another spasm gripped your hand.
"Hey, stay with me. Keep your eyes open," Jack pleaded, his fingers gripping your jaw firmly. He searched into his pocket, grabbing a tube of oral glucose gel he kept strictly for you.
"I'm going to put this in your mouth, okay? Don't swallow. Don't waste energy. Just let it absorb," he muttered, his hands shaking slightly, a rarity for Dr. Abbot. He gently parted your lips and squeezed the gel into your mouth, his eyes locked on yours, desperately searching for a flicker of recognition.
Your eyes remained swimming in an unfocused void, your head still twitching rhythmically against his hand.
The oral glucose gel was in, but your body wasn't responding. Jack knew the gel would take too long to turn this around.
He couldn't risk waiting.
"I need help in here!" Jack shouted toward the door, his voice cracking with urgency. Within seconds, the door burst open. Sarah and a resident rushed in, pausing for a fraction of a second in shock at the sight of the lead attending holding you tightly.
"She's crashing. Severe hypoglycemia, early seizure activity," Jack ordered. "Get a gurney. I need an IV kit and a bag of D50, now!""
The team moved fast. They wheeled a gurney right to the breakroom door, and Jack insisted on lifting you himself, his arms straining as he carefully laid you onto the mattress. They rushed you into an empty trauma bay, pulling the curtains shut to give you whatever dignity they could save.
"Starting IV," Sarah said, her fingers flying as she prepped your arm.
Jack didn't step back. "Baby, can you hear me?" he muttered, holding your head so you wouldn't hurt yourself. He didn't care about who listened to him calling you nicknames in a moment like this. "Are you with me?"
As Sarah successfully flashed the vein and pushed the concentrated dextrose into your IV, the violent twitching in your muscles finally began to subside. Your jaw relaxed and your eyelids grew incredibly heavy.
Your eyes closed completely. Your head rolled slightly to the side against the pillow.
"Hey, hey, no. Stay awake," Jack said sharply. He tapped your cheek, his pulse skyrocketing. "Goddammit, doll."
Jack felt nervous but he felt your breathing deep and even, your body completely limp.
"Fuck, her blood sugar is going to take a few minutes to register a rise in her brain. She’s just exhausted," Jack said gently, he didint know if he was trying to ground Sarah or himself. A patient losing consciousness after a neurological event was never just sleeping. His mind raced through every worst-case scenario: prolonged cerebral hypoglycemia, a postictal coma, a secondary head injury he hadn't seen.
"Get a fingerstick. Check her glucose levels," Jack demanded. He grabbed a penlight from his pocket, peeling back your eyelid to check your pupils. They were reactive, but you didn't even stir from the light. "Come on. Wake up. You can't sleep right now."
Seeing you completely unresponsive was tearing him apart.
"Don't do this," he whispered. "Please, wake up."
Long minutes later, the first thing that roused you from your deep sleep was the sound of the door closing. Your head felt as if it were being pressed tightly between two hands; you felt a great pressure on your temple.
"Hey..." a rough voice made you open your eyes, but the harsh lights of the trauma bay made your vision blur. Before you could even formulate a word, a violent wave of nausea surged from the pit of your stomach.
You gagged, instinctively trying to sit up.
Jack moved fast, grabbing an emesis basin from the bedside table and sliding his arm behind your back to support your weight as you threw up. He held you firmly, his hand rubbing your back as you retched, your body trembling from the sheer exhaustion of it all.
"I've got you," Jack murmured. "Breathe through it."
When it finally stopped, you sank heavily back against the pillows, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
You felt entirely disconnected from your own body.
Jack quickly set the basin aside, grabbed a damp washcloth, and gently wiped your mouth. Then, he picked up his blood glucose meter from the bedside. "I need to check your sugar again, okay?"
You nodded as he pricked your finger, and a moment later, the machine beeped. Jack sighed, a mix of relief and frustration washing over his face. "Two hundred and eighty four. It's high. The D50 overcorrected you, but we can manage that. We'll give you a small correction dose of insulin in a bit."
You blinked at him, the numbers not quite registering. Your brain felt like it was swimming in confussion. You looked around the trauma bay, the familiar sights of The Pitt looking completely foreign to you.
"Jack?" your voice was barely audible.
"Mh? I'm right here," he said, taking your hand and squeezing it tightly. "How do you feel?"
"Tired..." You said, sighing. "Did... did I miss my shift? What time is it? Do I need to clock in?"
Jack’s brow furrowed. He leaned closer. "Doll, you were already working. You collapsed in the breakroom."
You shook your head slightly, confusion hitting your chest. "No… no, it's… it's Thursday. We had the day off yesterday and had a date. I need to clock in."
Jack froze, his eyes scanning yours. Postictal disorientation was common after a severe hypoglycemic episode, but hearing you sound so lost cut right through him.
"It's not Thursday," Jack said softly, his voice was tending as he tried to reason with you. He raised his hand to gently cup your cheek. "It's Friday, love. Well, technically Saturday morning now. It's 5 AM."
"Saturday?" you whispered, your eyes filling with sudden tears as you realized just how blank your memory was. "I don't... I don't remember."
"Hey, it's okay," Jack rushed to soothe you. "It's completely normal to be confused right now. Your brain just went through a war. We're gonna run some studies to check your brain."
After your blood sugar began to stabilize, he ordered a full workup. He personally walked your labs down to the desk, demanded a priority read on your chem panel, and stood over the monitor while you were monitored for any residual cardiac ectopy.
Two hours later, the results were back.
"Good news," Jack said. He sat on the edge of your mattress, taking your hand back into his, intertwining her fingers with yours. "Physically, you’re completely cleared. Your body handled the crash beautifully, all things considered."
You looked down at your lap. "I still can't remember it, Jack. I remember walking into Bed 4 with an IV kit, and then... nothing. Just waking up and throwing up on you."
"You didn't throw up on me," he corrected gently, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And the amnesia is normal. The neurologist on call confirmed it’s just localized retrograde amnesia from the seizure activity. It happens when the brain is deprived of glucose so quickly. It might come back in pieces, or it might not. But you are okay. That’s all that matters."
You let out a sigh, leaning your head forward until it rested against his shoulder. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you with protective tightness that spoke volumes about how terrified he had actually been.
"You scared the hell out of me, you know?" he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking slightly. "Don't do that to me again."
"I'll try not to, baby," you murmured against his shoulder. "Thanks for catching me."
"Always," Jack said, pressing a warm kiss to the side of your head. "You're my favorite, I always be there to catch you."
-
Jack entered the room later as the distant sounds of the early morning shift change began to filter through the curtains.
"Alright," he said, his voice was in authoritative tone. "I’m pulling you off the schedule for the rest of the weekend, and you are going home to sleep."
You groaned slightly. "You know I have a double scheduled for Sunday. The floor is already short handed."
"I don't care if the entire hospital is short handed," he countered. "I'm the attending here, and I'm putting my best nurse, my girl, on mandatory medical leave. Arguments denied."
You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "You're very bossy when you're worried, Jack."
"I am your supervisor, and your soon to be boyfriend. It’s my job to be bossy," he murmured as you blushed.
He reached over, placing a small paper bag carefully in your hands.
"Here. Open it."
You frowned, peering into the bag. You pulled out a brand new glucose monitor sensor box, along with a pack of pink patches meant to secure it.
You blinked, memory suddenly sparking. "Wait... my old sensor..."
"When we were cutting your sleeve to line you, the shears caught your sensor," Jack explained. He rubbed the back of his neck. "It completely ripped it off. I had pharmacy pull a replacement from the emergency stash immediately, and I grabbed these extra-strength overlays from the supply closet so it doesn't budge during your next shift."
You looked from the box up to him, your heart swelling. Even in the middle of an emergency, he was anticipating exactly what you would need to recover.
"Thank you," you whispered, running a finger over the smooth box. "Though I'm pretty sure using hospital supply overlays for personal use is a protocol violation, Abbot."
"Consider it an attending-approved override for an exceptional nurse," Jack smoothly replied, a smirk playing on his lips. "Once we are officially off, I am taking you to my house. I'll help you with the new sensor, and then you are going to rest. I'll even cuddle you to sleep. Deal?"
You looked at him, the perfect blend of your demanding mentor and your devoted partner, and nodded. "Deal. But only if you promise not to critique my sensor placement technique."
Jack chuckled softly, leaning down to give you a warm kiss on yur cheek. "I'm not promising anything. I know you're not exactly… delicate with that."
