Some stories begin with fate. Others begin with two stubborn people who keep ending up in the same room. This is one of those stories. Jack Abbott x Original Character | Romance | Angst | Slow Burn
Thank you for reading this so far, I'm going to keep writing till no one likes it anymore. I hope this one is a good one~
There weren't many Fridays in the emergency department that didn't make you question the sanity of the general public. At this point, you'd spent more time debating humanity's decision-making than the age-old question of whether the chicken or the egg came first. Still, like every Friday before it, controlled chaos had settled over PTMC.
Three ambulances were en route. The current psychiatric patient was licking the glass of his exam room window while passionately speaking what sounded suspiciously like Klingon. Across the department, an elderly man rang his call light every time a nurse stepped out of his room, convinced that if no one could see him, he'd somehow been forgotten.
Your coffee had long since been abandoned at the nurses' station. Condensation trickled slowly down the paper cup, forming a small puddle beside a stack of unfinished charts. Around it, phones rang relentlessly, monitors chimed in competing rhythms, and somewhere down the hall someone loudly insisted they had been "waiting for six hours," despite having checked in less than forty-five minutes earlier.
It was just another Friday.
You leaned against the counter, watching Abbott finish suturing one of the department's more colorful regulars. Mr. Frances swore up and down that he'd accidentally dropped a kitchen knife onto his foot while making dinner. Judging by the unmistakable smell of whiskey on his breath and the blood alcohol level currently pending in the lab, you suspected he'd simply decided tonight was the perfect opportunity to see if he could separate his own toes.
Before Abbott could ask, you reached into the suture tray and held out a packet.
His hand found it without looking. Only after accepting it did he glance up, one eyebrow lifting in quiet amusement before returning his attention to the laceration.
"You're predictable," you said with a shrug.
"And yet you still hover."
Abbott tied the final knot with the same meticulous precision he approached everything else. Only then did he snip the suture and finally look toward you.
"Don't you have patients to attend to, Trouble?"
"And miss spending quality time with my favorite patient?"
You nodded toward Mr. Frances.
The forty-five-year-old grinned lazily from the stretcher, years of hard living having etched themselves into his face long before age ever had the chance.
"Well, Dr. Henson," he slurred, "you sure know how to make a man feel special."
"Do not encourage her," Abbott replied without missing a beat.
You laughed, patting Mr. Frances lightly on the shoulder before stripping off your gloves and tossing them into the nearest biohazard bin.
"I'll let you two enjoy your date."
Sometime between eleven and one, the department found the kind of patient that reminded everyone why Friday nights never stayed funny for long.
Nurse Palma's voice carried across the department from triage, cutting through the constant noise with practiced urgency.
"I've got a sixty-eight-year-old male in severe respiratory distress coming to Room Twelve. Wife drove him in. He couldn't make it from the parking lot without stopping twice."
The lighthearted mood evaporated almost instantly.
Abbott was in the middle of a conversation with one of the security officers, but he broke away before Palma had even finished speaking.
You were already moving beside him.
The patient wasn't being wheeled through the ambulance bay by EMS. Instead, he shuffled through the automatic doors supported almost entirely by his wife. One arm was draped heavily across her shoulders while the other clutched at the center of his chest—not because he appeared to be in pain, but because every breath seemed to require every ounce of strength he had left.
His skin had taken on the pale, grayish color that never failed to make your stomach tighten. Sweat clung to his forehead despite the cool October air that still lingered on his jacket. Every inhale was rapid and shallow, followed by a wet, rattling exhale you could hear from halfway across the room.
His wife looked exhausted.
She barely waited for him to reach the stretcher before the words came tumbling out.
"He wouldn't let me call an ambulance. He kept saying it was just the flu." Her voice shook as she struggled to keep pace with everything happening around her. "He couldn't lie flat last night. Every time he tried, he said he couldn't breathe. This morning he couldn't even make it to the mailbox without stopping."
Your mind immediately began putting the pieces together.
Progressive shortness of breath.
Whatever was happening, it wasn't the flu.
Abbott nodded toward the stretcher.
"Let's get him on the monitor."
The room responded almost instantly.
Parker was already pulling cardiac leads from the monitor before the patient had fully settled onto the bed. Prince disappeared toward respiratory without being asked, knowing they would need BiPAP within minutes. You reached for the pulse oximeter as Abbott helped ease the man upright, both of you instinctively avoiding laying him flat after hearing his wife's story.
No one had to ask who was doing what anymore.
After months of working side by side, you and Abbott had quietly settled into a rhythm where half the conversation happened without words at all.
Abbott's voice was never loud, but it had a way of cutting through the noise without demanding attention. Around him, the room shifted almost instinctively. Parker abandoned the chart he'd been halfway through documenting and reached for the monitor leads while Prince disappeared toward respiratory before Abbott had to ask. Somewhere behind you, the familiar squeak of a portable X-ray machine echoed down the hallway, summoned by someone who had already anticipated where this case was headed.
You helped guide him onto the stretcher, careful not to force him flat. The moment his shoulders dipped too far against the mattress, panic flashed across his face. His breathing quickened immediately, every inhale sounding wetter than the last.
"Sit him up," Abbott said.
"I know," you answered, already adjusting the head of the bed until he was nearly upright.
Only then did the man seem to settle, though "comfortable" was far from the word. He leaned forward instinctively, elbows resting on his knees as though gravity itself might help him steal another breath.
You slipped the pulse oximeter over his finger.
The number glowed red against the monitor, accompanied by a frantic rhythm that seemed determined to outpace the room around it.
His wife remained frozen just inside the doorway. She still clutched his jacket in both hands, twisting the fabric so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. Every few seconds she looked toward her husband, then back toward the physicians surrounding him, silently searching for reassurance that no one was prepared to offer yet.
Abbott rested his stethoscope against the patient’s back. He listened for several seconds without speaking, moving deliberately from one lung field to another. You watched his expression rather than the patient. It had become a habit over the last several months. Abbott rarely reacted outwardly, but there were subtleties—a slight narrowing of his eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw—that told you what he was thinking long before he said it aloud.
Not confined to the bases.
The man coughed violently, bringing the stethoscope away with him as thick, pink-tinged sputum stained the tissue his wife hurriedly pressed into his hands. Her breath caught.
Abbott didn't acknowledge the panic in her voice immediately. Instead, he crouched until he was eye level, forcing the older man to focus somewhere other than the overwhelming sensation of drowning inside his own lungs.
"We're going to help you breathe."
There was no false reassurance. No promises that everything would be okay. Just a simple statement of the next problem they intended to solve.
You were already wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his arm while Parker attached the final cardiac leads.
"Pressure's two-oh-four over one-ten," you called, watching the numbers cycle across the screen.
"It means we've got room to work."
The explanation came almost absentmindedly, offered more for Flores's benefit than anyone else's. Abbott's attention never left Robert.
He looked toward the doorway where Robert's wife still stood, rooted to the floor.
"History of heart failure?"
She nodded so quickly it was almost frantic.
"Yes. His cardiologist said... twenty-five percent." Her voice cracked. "I think that's what he said. Twenty-five."
Abbott gave a single nod.
Silence settled over the room for only a heartbeat before she looked toward her husband.
Robert managed the smallest shrug between labored breaths.
For the first time since the patient entered the room, the corner of Abbott's mouth threatened something almost resembling a smile.
There wasn't an ounce of criticism in his voice. Patients skipped medications for a hundred different reasons. Judging them had never put fluid back into their lungs.
You were already entering orders into the computer.
"CBC. CMP. BNP. Troponin. Venous blood gas. Portable chest X-ray. Twelve-lead EKG."
"Respiratory's bringing it now."
He glanced toward you, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly.
"You already ordered the BNP."
"You were going to ask for it."
Coming from anyone else, it would've sounded almost dismissive.
Coming from Abbott, it was acknowledgment.
Weeks ago he would've listed every order himself. Somewhere between then and now, he'd stopped needing to.
By the time respiratory rolled the BiPAP machine into the room, you already had the mask in your hands.
Parker looked from you to Abbott, then back again before letting out an exaggerated sigh.
"I swear you two are getting creepy."
Neither of you looked up.
"We're efficient," you answered.
"No," Parker said, shaking his head as the mask settled over Robert's face. "Efficient is finishing each other's sentences. You guys finish each other's differential diagnoses."
That finally earned a quiet chuckle from Prince as he passed another IV bag toward the bedside.
Abbott accepted the ultrasound probe you handed him without asking for it.
His eyes flickered toward yours for only a second before returning to the screen.
"I liked you better when you had to guess."
You smiled despite yourself.
A beat passed as the ultrasound image resolved into familiar shades of black, gray, and white.
"You've just become predictable."
For the first time all night, Abbott actually laughed.
Most people probably wouldn't have noticed it over the beeping monitors and hurried footsteps outside the room.
"There it is," he said, pointing dramatically between the two of you. "See? This is what I'm talking about.”
Friday nights always left their fingerprints on PTMC. They lingered in abandoned coffee cups, wrinkled scrub tops, aching feet, and the quiet satisfaction that came after pulling someone back from the edge. The adrenaline was fading now, replaced by charting, paperwork, and the slow realization that the shift was almost over.The worst of the night was finally behind them.
Not because the work was over—there were still charts to sign, admissions waiting for beds, and a handful of patients whose discharge paperwork seemed determined to multiply—but because the frantic pace had eased. The adrenaline that had carried everyone through the last twelve hours had begun to settle, leaving behind the familiar ache in tired shoulders and feet that had been standing since sunset.
The overnight crew moved through the department with practiced routine. Nurses gathered abandoned water bottles and stethoscopes. Residents compared notes before morning sign-out. Somewhere down the hall, environmental services rolled another empty stretcher back toward the trauma bay, erasing the last evidence of the night's busiest hours.
You leaned against the nurses' station, finishing the final lines of your chart before rubbing at your eyes. Across from you, Abbott was still reviewing discharge instructions with the same level of concentration he'd given every patient that night. It didn't matter whether it was a trauma activation or a sprained ankle—he read everything twice.
A backpack landed on the counter with a loud thud.
"You know what?" Parker announced, dropping into the chair beside you with a theatrical sigh. She pulled the elastic from her hair, letting the messy bun she'd been fighting all shift fall loose around her shoulders. "I have officially decided this department has a morale problem."
"That's a bold diagnosis."
"And your treatment plan?"
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
She turned in her chair until she was facing Abbott.
The answer came so automatically that Parker actually laughed.
"You didn't even let me finish."
"I know where this conversation is going."
"I'm saving us both time."
Parker leaned farther across the desk, resting her chin in her palm.
"Tomorrow night. O'Malley's. Halloween weekend."
"You considered that one for almost half a second."
Robby wandered over, shrugging into his jacket as he reached the station. He looked between the two of them, immediately recognizing the expression on Parker's face.
"What are you trying to talk him into now?"
Abbott finally looked up, first at Robby, then at Parker, wearing the resigned expression of a man realizing he was now outnumbered.
"I liked it better when only one of you was persistent."
"You mean before Adeline got here?" Parker asked.
You held your hands up innocently.
"I haven't said anything."
"You don't have to," Parker replied. "You've got the face."
"The one that says, 'Come on, Jack, it'll be fun.'"
Abbott looked at you for a long second.
"I wasn't aware I had one."
Robby chuckled quietly, zipping his jacket.
Abbott looked between the three of you before exhaling through his nose.
"You people are exhausting."
"No," Parker corrected with a satisfied smile.
Saturday had always felt different after a night shift.
Most people woke up to sunlight spilling through the blinds and the promise of a weekend. You woke sometime after three in the afternoon, disoriented enough to wonder what day it was before your brain finally caught up. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner, your scrubs lay abandoned in a heap beside the bedroom door, and your phone was lit with three unread messages from Parker.
Parker: I know where you work.
You laughed quietly to yourself, dropping the phone back onto the comforter before rubbing the last remnants of sleep from your eyes. Every muscle in your body reminded you that twelve hours on your feet wasn't something a single afternoon nap could fix. Your shoulders ached. Your knees protested when you stood. Even your hands felt stiff after a night spent stitching lacerations, placing IVs, and filling out more charts than should've been legally allowed.
The familiar smell filled the apartment as you wandered barefoot into the kitchen, pulling your hair into a loose knot while the coffee maker sputtered to life. Outside your window, Pittsburgh was already settling into the cool evening that late October always seemed to bring. Trees painted the sidewalks in reds and golds, and somewhere across the parking lot a group of college students were already laughing louder than the hour justified, dressed in costumes that ranged from clever to deeply questionable.
Only in emergency medicine did those two words inspire dread instead of excitement.
You carried your mug toward the bedroom, nudging open the closet door with your hip. For a moment, you simply stared.
Most of your wardrobe had become practical over the last year. Jeans. Sweaters. T-shirts. Clothes that required absolutely no thought after a twelve-hour shift.
Tonight everyone expected costumes.
Your fingers drifted past a handful of jackets before settling on a familiar denim shirt tucked near the back. Next came your Wranglers, worn soft from years of use, followed by the boots resting neatly on the closet floor. The leather had molded to your feet years ago, each crease carrying memories of county fairs, football games, livestock shows, and long afternoons spent helping your grandfather around his property outside Lubbock.
A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it.
Your grandfather had insisted that a good pair of boots wasn't something you bought every season.
"You buy 'em once," he'd always say. "Then you earn 'em."
These boots had certainly been earned.
You reached for the turquoise belt buckle tucked inside a small wooden box on the shelf above them. It had belonged to your mother before she'd decided it looked better on you than sitting forgotten in a drawer. The silver had dulled with age, but the stone still caught the light the same way it had when you were a little girl watching her get ready for rodeos.
The cowboy hat was admittedly pushing it.
Turning toward the full-length mirror, you settled it onto your head before folding your arms across your chest.
The reflection looking back at you wasn't wearing a costume.
A slow grin spread across your face.
"If they're gonna make fun of me for being from Texas..." you muttered to your reflection, "...I might as well give them something worth teasing."
The knock at your apartment door came almost on cue.
You grabbed your keys, slipped your phone into the back pocket of your jeans, and opened the door to find Parker leaning casually against the hallway wall.
For three full seconds she simply stared.
Parker pressed her lips together, clearly fighting a losing battle.
"I told you I was dressing like a Texan."
"I thought you meant..." She gestured vaguely toward your boots. "...the boots."
"They're kind of a requirement."
"No." She pointed dramatically toward your hat. "That."
You instinctively reached up, touching the brim.
"What about it?" Parker laughed, throwing her head back. "Adeline, you look like you're about to leave here and go judge a cattle show."
"I've judged a cattle show."
Her laughter echoed down the hallway.
"That's what makes this so much better."
You couldn't help laughing with her.
"I swear to God, if one person asks me if I rode my horse here..."
"They're absolutely going to."
You sighed dramatically, locking your apartment before following her toward the elevator.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Parker stepped inside before turning back toward you with the unmistakable grin of someone who had already decided to make your evening as entertaining as possible.
"I'm introducing you to everyone as our emotional support Texan."
You stepped into the elevator beside her, shaking your head.
"You do that, and I'll tell everyone you think chili comes with beans."
"It's psychological warfare."
The elevator doors closed between the two of you, your laughter lingering in the small space as the building began its slow descent toward the lobby.
For the first time in what felt like weeks, you weren't thinking about consults or admissions. There were no charts waiting to be signed, no monitors beeping in the background, no overhead pages demanding your attention.
There was only the promise of one evening where the people who spent every day carrying the weight of everyone else's worst moments could simply be themselves.
And somehow, that felt stranger than wearing the cowboy hat ever had.
By the time Parker pulled into the parking lot, O'Malley's was already overflowing.
Strings of orange lights had been woven through the patio railing, fake spiderwebs clung to the brick walls, and every other person walking toward the entrance looked like they had interpreted "Halloween costume" very differently. A pirate held the door open for a woman dressed as a banana while someone in full zombie makeup argued with the bouncer over whether fake blood counted as a dress code violation.
Parker killed the engine before turning toward you with the grin of someone about to become a problem.
"I'm just saying," she began, "if anyone asks, I'm not with her."
"After the chili comment?"
"Especially after the chili comment."
You climbed out of the SUV, adjusting the brim of your hat as the cool October air hit your face. The boots clicked against the pavement as you walked toward the entrance, Parker falling into step beside you.
She made it exactly six feet before laughing.
"I still can't believe you committed this hard."
Before either of you could reach the door, someone called Parker's name from the patio.
She waved before looking back at you.
"Oh, this is going to be fun."
The warmth of the bar hit you the second the door opened. Music spilled over the crowd, conversations overlapped until they became white noise, and somewhere near the back someone had already started an enthusiastic—but objectively terrible—karaoke rendition of Livin' on a Prayer.
The emergency department had claimed two long tables near the back, and you recognized most of them immediately.
Prince was dressed as a vampire, complete with a cape he was somehow wearing with complete sincerity.
Whitaker had committed to Ghostbusters, proton pack and all, though he looked mildly embarrassed every time someone complimented it.
One of the nurses was dressed as a giant bottle of ketchup.
Another had shown up in full witch attire.
The moment Parker walked into view, several people waved.
The conversations stopped one by one.
Parker didn't waste the opportunity.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she announced loudly enough for half the table to hear, "I'd like everyone to meet our emotional support Texan."
Groans and laughter erupted simultaneously.
"Oh my God," one of the nurses laughed.
"You actually wore the hat."
You adjusted the brim proudly.
"I figured if y'all were gonna stereotype me anyway, I might as well earn it."
Someone from the opposite end of the table leaned forward.
"...did you ride your horse here?"
The entire table dissolved into laughter before you could even answer.
By the time Abbott and Robby had settled into the two remaining chairs, Parker had already taken it upon herself to order the first round for the table, a decision no one had authorized and several people would eventually regret. She returned from the bar balancing a tray of brightly colored shots with the concentration of a surgeon carrying a donor organ, while Santos followed behind her with a basket of fries and the expression of someone who had been trying, unsuccessfully, to talk Parker into making better choices.
“I asked her to order something normal,” Santos explained as she placed the fries in the center of the table, pulling her chair closer to yours before Parker could knock into it. “Apparently, tequila served in test tubes qualifies as normal now.”
“It is Halloween,” Parker argued, carefully lowering the tray onto the table. Her cheeks were already flushed from the drink she had finished before Abbott and Robby arrived, and the glitter around her eyes caught the orange lights strung across the ceiling whenever she moved. “Tonight is about poor decisions made in costumes, and since Abbott and Robby refused to wear costumes, they are required to compensate by drinking whatever I put in front of them.”
Abbott looked down at the small plastic tube Parker had placed beside his hand, his expression carrying the same measured skepticism he usually reserved for questionable lab results. “This appears to be antifreeze.”
“It’s melon,” Parker assured him, lowering herself into the chair across from him. “Try experiencing joy before deciding you’re allergic to it.”
“I’ve experienced joy,” Abbott replied, although the way he nudged the drink away suggested that he had no intention of experiencing it through artificial melon flavoring.
Robby picked up his own shot and inspected it beneath the hanging light. “When?”
The question was delivered so casually that it took Abbott a second to realize what his friend had said, and by then the entire table had begun laughing. He looked toward Robby with something between betrayal and reluctant admiration, while Robby lifted the tube in a silent toast and drank it before Abbott could formulate a response.
You leaned closer to Parker, raising your voice enough to be heard above the music. “I thought you said they were grumpy old men. You neglected to mention that one of them was capable of making jokes.”
“Robby’s the socialized one,” Parker replied, reaching for a fry. “Abbott was raised in the woods and only comes into town when the hospital pages him.”
“I’m sitting right here,” Abbott reminded her, although the faint movement at the corner of his mouth made it clear that he was not nearly as offended as he wanted everyone to believe.
“That’s exactly what someone raised in the woods would say,” you told him, and when he turned his attention toward you, you raised your glass with an innocent smile that fooled absolutely no one.
The evening began loosening around the edges after that. Conversations that usually happened in hurried fragments between trauma calls were allowed to stretch without interruption, becoming stories instead of updates and confessions instead of jokes abandoned halfway through. Robby told you about a resident who had once fainted while watching a central line placement, only to insist afterward that he had merely “lost his balance.” Santos offered an imitation so precise that even Abbott laughed, lowering his head toward his beer as though he could hide the sound from everyone else at the table.
Parker noticed immediately. “There it is again,” she announced, pointing toward him with a fry. “That is twice in one night. Someone document it before he denies it happened.”
“You’re holding ketchup,” Abbott observed, his gaze falling to the red smear across her fingertip. “Please stop pointing it at me.”
“You’re avoiding the allegation.”
“I’m assessing the danger.”
“You work in an emergency department.”
“And yet this remains the most threatening situation I’ve encountered all week.”
The table erupted again, and the laughter came more easily this time, carrying none of the exhaustion that usually followed them out of PTMC. You watched Abbott settle farther into his chair as the night progressed, one arm resting along the back while his other hand remained loosely wrapped around his beer. At work, he always seemed to hold part of himself in reserve, as though he expected the room to turn critical without warning and needed to remain prepared for it. Here, surrounded by people who knew him well enough not to demand anything serious, some of that constant vigilance began to ease from his shoulders.
You had not realized how tense he usually looked until you saw him relaxed.
Parker returned to the bar before anyone could stop her, and when she reappeared she carried a whiskey cocktail for you, presenting it with the pride of someone who had personally invented the recipe. “I told the bartender to make something sophisticated for our visiting dignitary from the Republic of Texas.”
“Texas joined the United States in 1845,” you reminded her, accepting the glass cautiously. “Although evenings like this do make secession seem appealing.”
Santos laughed into her drink while Parker placed a hand over her heart. “Listen to that accent getting stronger. Give her two more drinks and she’ll start challenging people to duels.”
“Because everyone owns a gun?”
Several heads turned toward you at once, waiting for the response, and you stared back at them in disbelief before setting the glass against your lips. The drink smelled heavily of bourbon and orange peel, and you took a cautious sip only to feel the liquor burn its way down your throat with enough force to make your eyes water.
Abbott noticed before anyone else. “Bad?”
You managed to swallow before answering, refusing to give Parker the satisfaction of watching you cough. “No, it’s wonderful, provided the bartender’s intention was to remove paint from furniture.”
Parker immediately reached for the glass, but you moved it beyond her reach. “You ordered it. You don’t get to rescue me from it.”
“I thought Texans drank whiskey.”
“We do, but usually not whiskey that tastes like it was distilled underneath someone’s bathtub.”
“That seems unnecessarily specific,” Robby said.
“You’ve never met my extended family.”
Abbott held out his hand, his fingers curling once in a quiet request for the glass. “Let me try it.”
You passed it to him without thinking, and he took a drink from the same side of the rim you had used, allowing the bourbon to sit on his tongue before swallowing. His expression barely changed, which you found more offensive than if he had openly disagreed with you.
“It’s fine,” he concluded, returning the glass.
You stared at him. “That drink just tried to cauterize my throat.”
“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”
Abbott shook his head before raising his beer, and you reached across the table to take it directly from his hand. He watched with a mixture of surprise and amusement as you sampled it, apparently deciding that objecting would only encourage you.
The beer was cold, uncomplicated, and significantly less hostile than your cocktail. “This is better.”
“I’m relieved to have your approval.”
“You should be. Texans take beverages very seriously.”
You took another sip before handing the bottle back, and it was only when you noticed Santos staring at the exchange that you realized how natural it had felt. There had been no hesitation when Abbott sampled your drink and none when you took his beer, as though the easy familiarity they shared at work had followed them out of the hospital without either of you noticing.
Parker noticed Santos looking and followed her gaze. Her expression changed slowly, first registering the shared bottle and then brightening with the unmistakable delight of someone who had just discovered material she planned to use later.
You narrowed your eyes at her. “Whatever you are thinking, stop.”
Parker lifted both hands, wearing an innocence that was even less convincing than yours had been earlier. “I was merely admiring the spirit of cooperation.”
Abbott glanced between the two of you. “Should I be concerned?”
“Yes,” you and Santos answered together.
He accepted that with a nod and took another drink from his beer, deliberately turning the bottle until his mouth landed on the exact spot yours had touched. It was probably accidental, and you told yourself as much, but Parker’s eyebrows climbed so high that they nearly disappeared beneath the glitter at her hairline.
Before she could comment, one of the nurses leaned across the table and asked whether your hat was authentic or merely part of the costume. The question redirected everyone’s attention toward you, although it also provided Parker with an opening for another round of Texas commentary.
“It is authentic,” Parker answered on your behalf. “She wears it when she rides into work every morning.”
You rested your elbows on the table and looked toward her. “I have never ridden a horse to work.”
“That sounds like something someone who rides a horse to work would say.”
“Pittsburgh does not have adequate horse parking.”
Robby’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter, while Abbott looked toward you over the neck of his beer. “Is that the only thing stopping you?”
“Mostly. The other issue is that horses are notoriously judgmental about hospital administration.”
“That’s fair,” he said, with such solemn agreement that you almost believed he was taking the subject seriously.
The jokes continued through another round of drinks, each one more ridiculous than the last. Someone asked whether you knew how to rope cattle; Santos wondered aloud whether your boots could detect snakes; and Parker informed a fascinated stranger at the next table that you had been medically trained through a combination of traditional schooling and “frontier wisdom.” You retaliated by telling him that Parker had never seen a cow in person and believed brisket came naturally sliced.
“That is slander,” Parker protested, clutching her drink against her chest.
“You asked whether cows had to be trained to become beef.”
“Those facts can coexist.”
Eventually, the teasing stopped feeling like a spotlight and became something warmer, a language the group used to make room for you within a history that had started long before your arrival. They mocked your accent and your boots because they had begun to recognize them as parts of you, just as Parker’s dramatics, Santos’s sharp observations, Robby’s steady humor, and Abbott’s dry restraint belonged to each of them. There was affection beneath every joke, even when it came wrapped in exaggerated questions about cattle and state secession.
You looked around the table while Parker argued with Robby about the best Halloween candy, and a quiet realization settled somewhere beneath the pleasant warmth of the bourbon.
You had spent so much of the past year learning how to belong inside the hospital that you had never considered what it might feel like to belong to the people within it.
Across from you, Abbott caught you watching the table, and his expression softened with something that looked like understanding. He did not ask what you were thinking, nor did he interrupt the moment by making it heavier than it needed to be. Instead, he lifted his beer in your direction, offering a private toast amid the noise.
You raised the terrible Old Fashioned in response.
Abbott glanced pointedly toward the glass. “You’re still drinking it.”
“I refuse to be defeated by fruit garnish.”
“That might be the most Texan thing you’ve said tonight.”
You smiled as you took another careful sip, letting the laughter and music swell around you. “The night is still young, old man.”
The first unmistakable signs of trouble appeared when the bartender abandoned the classic rock playlist in favor of something louder, faster, and apparently irresistible to anyone who had consumed more than two drinks. The opening beat had barely made it through the speakers before Parker lifted her head, her attention snapping away from the argument she had been having with Robby about whether candy corn qualified as food. A grin spread across her face with such immediate purpose that you instinctively tightened your hand around your glass.
“No,” you warned, although Parker had not yet spoken or moved from her chair.
Her smile only widened. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You didn’t need to because I recognize that expression, and whatever you’re planning is going to end with at least one of us being embarrassed.”
“That is an incredibly negative attitude for someone wearing a cowboy hat in downtown Pittsburgh.”
Before you could defend yourself, Parker pushed away from the table and reached for your wrist, nearly upsetting the remains of the Old Fashioned you had stubbornly continued drinking out of principle. You managed to set the glass down before she pulled you upright, laughing as you attempted to brace one hand against the table.
“I am not dancing to this,” you protested, although the words carried very little authority when Parker had already begun dragging you through the narrow space between chairs.
“You are absolutely dancing to this,” she replied, weaving around a man dressed as a referee without releasing her grip. “You have spent the entire night lecturing us about Texas culture, and now you are legally required to demonstrate whatever mysterious dance rituals happen south of Oklahoma.”
“That sentence alone proves you don’t deserve a demonstration.”
Santos rose from her seat with considerably more dignity, finishing the last of her drink before joining the two of you. “You should stop fighting her. Parker only gets stronger when people resist.”
“That is not reassuring.”
The dance floor had become crowded enough that movement required compromise rather than skill, which suited Parker perfectly. She inserted herself between a group of nurses and immediately began dancing as though she had been waiting all week for someone to give her permission. Santos joined with considerably more rhythm, lifting her arms as she laughed, while you remained near the edge for several seconds and attempted to look as though you had been brought there against your will.
Parker noticed your hesitation and pointed at your boots. “Those better not be decorative.”
“They aren’t dancing boots.”
“They’re boots. How specialized can they possibly be?”
“You clearly know nothing about footwear or cattle.”
“I don’t see any cattle here.”
You glanced toward the bar, where a man in an inflatable bull costume was struggling to lift his drink without crushing the straw beneath the fabric. “There is literally one standing behind you.”
Parker turned, saw the costume, and laughed hard enough to lose the rhythm she had never possessed in the first place. That was enough to draw you into the music, and whatever reluctance remained began to loosen as Santos caught your hand and spun you beneath her arm. The movement almost sent your hat flying, but you caught the brim and settled it more securely before falling into step beside them.
You were not performing anything recognizable as a line dance, despite Parker’s repeated demands, but the music did not require precision. It asked only that you surrender a little of the control you carried through every shift, allowing your body to move without calculating consequences or anticipating the next emergency. After weeks of fluorescent lights, hurried meals, and patients whose fear stayed with you long after they left, the uncomplicated pulse of the music felt almost medicinal.
When you looked back toward the table, Robby had abandoned his seat and was standing near the edge of the dance floor, apparently allowing one of the nurses to pull him closer while he protested with a smile that undermined every objection. Prince had discarded his vampire cape across the back of a chair and was dancing with enough enthusiasm to suggest he had been waiting all evening for the opportunity. Whitaker remained beside the table with his proton pack still secured around his shoulders, moving stiffly whenever someone attempted to include him.
Abbott had not moved at all.
He remained in his chair with his beer resting loosely between his hands, watching the growing crowd with the wary expression of a man observing a situation that could turn medically significant at any moment. The music flashed across his face in alternating bands of orange and shadow, illuminating the faint smile he failed to hide whenever Parker attempted something ambitious and nearly collided with a passing server.
You followed Parker’s gaze when she noticed him watching.
Her expression changed immediately.
“Don’t,” you said, already laughing because you knew the warning would have no effect.
“He came to a party dressed as himself. He has not earned the right to be left alone.”
Parker was moving before she finished the sentence, and you followed mostly because allowing her to approach Abbott without supervision seemed irresponsible. Santos came with you, although she looked less interested in preventing disaster than witnessing it from a better angle.
Abbott noticed the three of you approaching and sat back in his chair. “Whatever this is, the answer is no.”
Parker stopped in front of him and placed both hands on her hips. “You have to stop doing that.”
“Refusing invitations before you’ve heard them.”
“I heard the music, saw you walking toward me, and made a reasonable clinical assessment.”
“You aren’t practicing medicine right now.”
“That’s why I’m free to refuse treatment.”
You leaned one hand against the table, trying to keep your expression serious despite the alcohol warming your face. “She wants you to dance.”
“She thinks it will improve morale.”
“I disagree with her diagnosis.”
Parker reached for his forearm, but Abbott pulled it away before she could secure a grip. “Come on, Jack. Everyone else has been out there.”
“That isn’t the same thing as having fun.”
Santos folded her arms across her chest and studied him with exaggerated concern. “This may be worse than we thought. He believes sitting alone with a domestic beer constitutes recreation.”
“I’m not alone,” Abbott pointed out. “All of you are standing around bothering me.”
The response made you laugh, although Parker remained focused on her objective. She leaned closer to him, lowering her voice as if negotiation required privacy despite the music shaking the walls around them. “One song, and then I will leave you alone for the rest of the night.”
Abbott looked toward you. “Is that legally binding?”
“Absolutely not,” you answered. “She has been drinking tequila out of laboratory equipment.”
Parker placed a hand over her chest. “I am trying to create memories.”
“You are trying to create evidence,” Abbott corrected.
His eyebrows lifted. “Of dancing?”
“Of being bad at something.”
The words landed with enough accuracy that Abbott’s expression changed, not into anger, but into the reluctant consideration of a man who knew he had been maneuvered into a corner. Parker saw the shift and straightened with a victorious smile.
You shook your head. “That was manipulative, even for you.”
Abbott set his beer on the table with deliberate care and rose from the chair. “One song.”
Parker cheered loudly enough to draw the attention of several people nearby, while Robby, who had returned to retrieve his drink, stopped midstep and stared at Abbott as if he had witnessed a rare astronomical event.
“You’re dancing?” Robby asked.
“I’m ending a hostage situation.”
Parker grabbed one of Abbott’s hands before he could reconsider and pulled him toward the dance floor. He followed with the guarded posture of someone being led into a procedure he had not consented to, and you fell into step beside Santos as Robby trailed after the group, laughing quietly to himself.
Abbott’s discomfort became immediately apparent once Parker released him into the center of the crowd. He stood with his arms loosely at his sides, watching everyone else move as though he expected instructions to appear somewhere above their heads. The beat continued around him, relentless and entirely unimpressed by his refusal to cooperate.
You stepped closer, raising your voice over the music. “You know you’re supposed to move, right?”
“You shifted your weight.”
“That happened before the dancing began.”
Abbott looked toward Parker, who was demonstrating something that required far more hip movement than he seemed prepared to attempt. “I was promised one song. I was not told there would be choreography.”
“There isn’t choreography,” you explained, smiling as you moved with the rhythm. “You just stop thinking about it.”
“That is not helpful advice.”
“It helps normal people.”
“I work with normal people every day. I have never seen evidence that they exist.”
You laughed and reached for his hand, expecting him to resist. Instead, after the briefest hesitation, his fingers closed around yours. His grip was warm and careful, lacking the confidence he carried when guiding a patient through pain or directing a trauma room. There was something strangely endearing about discovering that a man who could control an emergency department with a single look had no idea what to do when faced with a dance floor.
“Follow me,” you told him, stepping backward and drawing him forward with you.
“You trust me with critically ill patients.”
“You’re right. The stakes are significantly lower.”
He allowed you to guide him through a simple movement, although his shoulders remained stiff and his attention stayed fixed on your feet. When you shifted to the left, he followed half a beat late; when you stepped back, he nearly moved in the same direction before correcting himself at the last second.
“You’re thinking too hard,” you said.
“I think an appropriate amount.”
“You are studying my feet like there’s going to be an exam.”
“I’d like to avoid stepping on them.”
“They’re protected by leather.”
The sincerity of his concern made you smile, and when the music shifted into the chorus, you moved a little closer so he could hear you without forcing you both to shout. Around you, Parker and Santos were laughing, Robby had finally surrendered to the music, and Prince appeared to be leading a group of strangers through a dance no one else knew.
Abbott managed several seconds of movement that could reasonably be described as dancing before Parker noticed and pointed toward him with open delight. “Look at you!”
His concentration broke instantly. “Don’t make it strange.”
“You’re dancing with a woman in a cowboy hat. It was strange before you started.”
You looked at him with mock offense. “My hat is not the problem here.”
“No,” he agreed, his gaze passing briefly over your face before returning to your joined hands. “It isn’t.”
The answer was quieter than the rest of the conversation, and although the music swallowed some of its meaning, you felt the words settle between you. For one suspended second, the teasing around you seemed to recede, leaving only the warmth of his hand and the unfamiliar ease of standing this close without a patient or procedure between you.
Then Parker attempted to spin Santos, misjudged the available space, and crashed directly into Robby.
The interruption broke whatever had formed, and you laughed as Robby caught both women before they fell. Abbott released your hand and stepped back, but the retreat carried more reluctance than relief.
“I believe my contractual obligation has been fulfilled,” he said, glancing toward the speakers as though hoping the song had ended.
“We are halfway through it.”
“I was told one song, not the duration.”
“That is not how songs work.”
He began moving toward the edge of the floor, navigating carefully between bodies, although he had barely taken two steps before Parker caught the back of his flannel.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“You were almost having fun.”
“I recognized the symptoms and intervened early.”
Robby laughed as Abbott removed Parker’s hand from his shirt. “You lasted longer than I expected.”
“That sounds like a criticism of both my coordination and my judgment.”
Abbott shook his head, but the smile he tried to suppress remained visible as he continued toward the table. You watched him go for a moment before Santos pulled you back into the center of the dance floor, and Parker immediately resumed her mission to prove that every song could be improved by unnecessary spinning.
The drinks had softened the careful boundaries everyone maintained at work, allowing laughter to arrive more easily and affection to show without disguise. Robby danced badly and without apology, Prince gathered strangers into his orbit, and Whitaker eventually allowed Parker to remove the proton pack that had been preventing him from moving his arms. Even Abbott, despite retreating to the safety of his chair, continued watching with an expression too relaxed to be mistaken for annoyance.
You stayed on the floor through two more songs, letting the music and alcohol blur the edges of the week until the hospital felt farther away than a few city blocks. When you looked toward Abbott again, he had shifted in his chair and was rubbing one hand absently along his thigh, his attention lowered as though he hoped no one would notice.
When you glanced back toward the table, Abbott was watching you over the rim of his beer. He looked away as soon as your eyes met, directing his attention toward Robby’s abandoned jacket as though it had suddenly become fascinating, but you had already caught the faint smile on his face.
You stepped away from Parker long enough to return to the table, breathless and warm from the crowded room. “You know,” you said as you reached for your drink, “for someone who claims to hate dancing, you spent an impressive amount of time watching everyone else do it.”
Abbott leaned back in his chair, appearing entirely unbothered by the accusation. “Someone had to remain alert in case Parker injured a civilian.”
“That sounds suspiciously like an excuse.”
“You’re sitting while hiding.”
His gaze shifted toward you, lingering for a moment before the corner of his mouth lifted. “You seem determined to make this an issue.”
“I’m determined to make sure you don’t leave here believing that shifting your weight twice counted as dancing.”
“That explains the low standard.”
Abbott laughed quietly and reached for his beer, while you claimed the empty chair beside him long enough to catch your breath. The music remained loud, and Parker was still waving for you to come back, but for a few minutes neither of you moved. You sat together and watched your coworkers embarrass themselves beneath the orange lights, sharing the easy silence of two people who had spent enough time side by side that conversation was no longer necessary to fill every pause.
Eventually, Parker shouted your name again and pointed accusingly toward the dance floor.
You sighed as you pushed yourself upright. “Duty calls.”
Abbott glanced toward the increasingly chaotic group. “That appears less like duty and more like a cry for help.”
“You could always come with me.”
“I’ve fulfilled my obligation.”
“You barely fulfilled half of it.”
“That’s still more than I intended.”
You smiled as you backed away from the table. “The night is still young, old man.”
Abbott shook his head, but his smile remained as you turned and allowed Parker to drag you back into the crowd.
Jack had intended to stay for one drink, which was already one more than he had wanted when Parker first began pressuring him at the end of their shift. He had expected to arrive, tolerate the noise long enough to satisfy everyone’s insistence that he needed to socialize, and leave before the night became the kind of story Parker would repeat at the nurses’ station for the next six months. Instead, one drink had quietly become two, and the hour had slipped past without his noticing because, despite the volume of the music and the crush of bodies surrounding their table, he had found himself enjoying the uncomplicated pleasure of watching people he trusted behave like complete idiots.
Robby had known him long enough to recognize the difference between Jack being irritated and Jack pretending to be irritated, although he had mercifully chosen not to announce it to the entire table. Parker possessed no such restraint, and she had spent the evening treating every reluctant smile as evidence in a case she intended to prosecute later. Jack could tolerate that because her teasing was predictable, but Adeline was different. She challenged him without trying to win, and whenever she called him an old man or accused him of hiding from the dance floor, there was warmth beneath the words that prevented them from feeling like an intrusion. She had learned, with unsettling speed, exactly how far she could push before he withdrew, and she always seemed to stop half a step before reaching the boundary.
From his place at the table, Jack watched Parker pull her back into the crowd, where Adeline immediately recovered the rhythm she had abandoned to come speak with him. Her hat had begun tilting slightly to one side, and several strands of her auburn hair had escaped around her face, but she appeared entirely unconcerned with how she looked. At the hospital, she was always composed because the work demanded it; her hands remained steady, her voice carried authority, and even her humor served a purpose by easing the tension around frightened patients or exhausted staff. Here, however, she laughed without restraint, throwing her head back when Santos said something Jack could not hear, and the sound reached him across the crowded room with enough clarity that he found himself smiling before he realized he was doing it.
She looked like she belonged among them, although Jack understood better than most how misleading belonging could be. A person could learn everyone’s coffee order, memorize the rhythms of a department, and know exactly who to call when a difficult case arrived, yet still remain aware that they had entered a story already in progress. Adeline had done more than adapt to PTMC, though. She had created space for herself without demanding that anyone else move aside, and somewhere between overnight traumas, cold coffee, and the hundred ordinary decisions they made together, she had stopped feeling like someone Jack needed to watch over. She had become someone he expected to find beside him.
That realization should have made him uncomfortable, and perhaps it would have if he examined it too closely, but the alcohol and the noise offered him an excuse not to. He could tell himself that he was only pleased to have another capable physician in the department, or that the ease between them was the natural result of working too many difficult shifts together. Both explanations were reasonable, and Jack had always preferred reasonable explanations, particularly when the alternative required him to acknowledge feelings he had neither invited nor intended to pursue.
Across the room, Adeline caught him watching again. This time, she did not look away or pretend she had missed it. She simply smiled at him, lifting one hand in a small wave before Parker caught her wrist and pulled her into another clumsy turn. Jack raised his beer in acknowledgment, allowing himself the smile she had already seen, because denying it now would have been pointless.
Robby lowered himself into the chair beside him a moment later, breathing harder than the dancing justified and wearing the satisfied expression of someone who believed he had just confirmed a private suspicion.
“You stayed longer than one drink,” Robby observed as he reached for the glass he had abandoned on the table.
Jack kept his attention on the dance floor. “I lost track of time.”
“That doesn’t happen often.”
Jack glanced toward him, but Robby’s attention appeared fixed on his drink, the faint smile on his face suggesting that he knew better than to make the observation more direct. They had been friends for too long for Jack to pretend he did not understand what Robby was implying, although friendship also meant Robby knew when to leave something alone.
“You’re enjoying yourself,” Robby continued after a moment.
Jack took another drink and watched as Parker nearly knocked Adeline’s hat from her head for the second time that evening. Adeline caught it, laughing as she secured it again, and Jack felt that same quiet pull of amusement settle in his chest.
“I’m tolerating it,” he said.
Robby laughed softly, apparently deciding that was the closest thing to an admission he would receive. “Of course you are.”
Jack ignored him, although the smile that remained on his face made the effort largely ineffective. He had not intended to stay, he had not intended to dance, and he certainly had not intended to spend half the evening watching Adeline as though seeing her outside the hospital had revealed something he had previously overlooked.
The truth was simpler and far more inconvenient.
He had not overlooked her at all.
He had been noticing her for months.
By the time the bartender announced last call, the party had begun to unravel in the way all good nights eventually did. Costumes had lost pieces, voices had grown louder, and the dance floor had thinned to a stubborn collection of people who were either too drunk to recognize exhaustion or too determined to deny it. Prince had recovered his cape but was wearing it backward, Whitaker had abandoned his proton pack beneath the table, and Robby was attempting to settle the tab while Parker leaned across the bar and explained, with great conviction, why the bartender’s playlist needed more women.
Adeline had lost track of how many drinks Parker had ordered on her behalf, although she suspected the answer was fewer than Parker claimed and more than either of them would comfortably admit in the morning. The room had taken on a pleasant softness around the edges, with the orange lights glowing warmer than they had when she arrived and the laughter surrounding her seeming to settle beneath her skin. Her hat had been passed around the table at least twice, worn briefly by Prince and then by a nurse who insisted it made her understand country music, but it had eventually found its way back onto Adeline’s head, where it now sat crookedly enough that she had stopped bothering to fix it.
Parker appeared beside her with one arm wrapped around Santos’s shoulders and the triumphant expression of someone who believed the night should continue indefinitely. “We’re going somewhere else,” she announced, drawing out the last word as if she had already selected a destination and arranged transportation.
Santos carefully removed Parker’s arm from around her neck before it could tighten into a headlock. “No, we are not. Some of us are working tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is technically today,” Parker argued, turning toward Adeline as though she expected support from the Texan delegation. “Tell her that makes it different.”
Adeline considered the statement with the solemnity it did not deserve. “It makes it worse, actually.”
Parker stared at her in open betrayal. “I brought you here.”
“You threatened me into coming.”
“You sent me three messages before I was fully conscious.”
“That is what friendship looks like.”
“It looked a lot like harassment.”
Santos laughed as she reached for her jacket, while Parker continued listing reasons the evening was still young despite the bartender stacking clean glasses behind the counter. Robby returned to the table with several receipts in one hand and Abbott following behind him, both men wearing the tired patience of people who had spent their professional lives managing chaos and had somehow still underestimated Parker.
“We’re leaving,” Robby said, handing Santos her scarf before she could forget it on the back of the chair. “Before Parker convinces someone to start karaoke again.”
“I was excellent,” Parker objected.
“You sang the same verse three times.”
Adeline watched Parker open her mouth to continue the argument, only to become distracted by the sudden discovery that one of her shoes had come untied. She bent toward it, misjudged the distance, and caught herself against the table with both hands before gravity could make the decision for her.
Abbott noticed at the same time Adeline did.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice carrying the quiet authority that usually made trauma rooms fall into order. He reached down and retrieved Parker’s coat from the back of her chair before holding it open for her. “Put this on.”
Parker looked at the coat as though it were evidence in a case she had not agreed to hear. “I’m not cold.”
“That doesn’t make you immune to weather.”
Abbott waited without arguing further, apparently trusting that silence would accomplish what reason could not. Parker stared at him for several seconds before rolling her eyes and pushing her arms into the sleeves with the petulant dignity of a teenager being collected from a school dance.
Adeline laughed as she reached for her own jacket, although the room shifted more than she expected when she stood. She steadied herself against the table and immediately straightened, hoping no one had noticed.
His attention moved from her hand on the table to her face, and one eyebrow lifted in quiet assessment. “You good?”
“That answer is statistically unreliable.”
“You’re a physician wearing a crooked cowboy hat who just attempted to leave without her purse.”
Adeline looked toward the chair beside her, where her purse remained tucked safely beneath Parker’s scarf. “I knew where it was.”
“You were walking in the opposite direction.”
“I was creating distance so I could appreciate it.”
Robby coughed into his hand to hide a laugh, while Abbott retrieved the purse and held it out to her. She accepted it with as much dignity as the situation allowed, slipping the strap over her shoulder before adjusting the brim of her hat.
“Thank you,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “Although your bedside manner could use improvement.”
“My patients are usually more cooperative.”
“You haven’t met your patients.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
Outside, the warmth and noise of the bar disappeared behind the closing door, replaced by the cold bite of the October night. The sidewalk was crowded with people waiting for rides, their costumes concealed beneath coats and their laughter drifting through the air in clouds of visible breath. Parker immediately declared that the weather was “aggressive,” despite having insisted less than a minute earlier that Pittsburgh natives were immune to it.
Santos and Robby were headed in the opposite direction, and after a brief argument over whether Santos was sober enough to navigate the walk to her apartment, Robby promised to see her home. Prince had already disappeared into a rideshare with Whitaker and two nurses, leaving Abbott standing beneath the bar’s awning with Adeline and Parker while Parker attempted to operate her phone through gloves she had put on backward.
“The app is broken,” Parker announced after tapping the screen several times without producing any visible result.
“The app is not broken,” Abbott replied.
“It won’t recognize my fingers.”
“Your gloves are backward.”
Parker looked down and appeared genuinely surprised by this information.
Abbott exhaled slowly and held out his hand. “Give me the phone.”
“You can’t order the car.”
“You’ve been trying to unlock the weather app.”
Parker stared at the screen before turning it toward Adeline. “Why does the weather app need a car?”
“It doesn’t,” Adeline answered, leaning closer to inspect it. “But it does think it’s sixty-six degrees.”
“I told you the weather was aggressive.”
Abbott took the phone from Parker before she could object again, although she followed the movement with an offended noise and immediately reached for it. He held it beyond her grasp with little effort, opening the rideshare application and entering Adeline’s address after she recited it twice, the second time more carefully.
Parker leaned against Adeline’s shoulder as they waited, her earlier energy finally collapsing beneath the weight of alcohol and exhaustion. “I had fun,” she said, sounding mildly surprised by her own conclusion.
“You were the one who organized it.”
“That doesn’t guarantee fun.”
“It usually improves the odds.”
Parker rested her cheek against Adeline’s shoulder. “You danced with Abbott.”
Adeline felt warmth rise into her face despite the cold air. “Everyone danced with Abbott.”
“No, everyone harassed Abbott. You danced with him.”
Abbott continued looking at Parker’s phone with such determination that it became clear he had heard every word and intended to pretend otherwise.
Adeline nudged Parker gently with her shoulder. “You’re drunk.”
“Those two things are not mutually exclusive,” Abbott said without looking up.
Adeline turned toward him. “You aren’t supposed to encourage her.”
“I’m not. I’m documenting symptoms.”
Parker smiled with her eyes closed. “He likes you.”
Abbott finally looked up.
The warning in his voice would have stopped most people, but Parker had spent years learning exactly how much authority he possessed outside the emergency department and had apparently decided the answer was very little.
“He does,” she continued, lifting her head enough to look between them. “He never dances.”
“I barely danced tonight,” Abbott replied.
“That’s still more dancing than I’ve seen in five years.”
Adeline folded her arms against the cold, telling herself that the sudden awareness of Abbott standing beside her had everything to do with the conversation and nothing to do with the memory of his hand around hers. “Perhaps he was simply overwhelmed by my natural talent.”
Abbott glanced toward her crooked hat and then toward the boots visible beneath the hem of her jeans. “That must have been it.”
“I watched you nearly collide with a vampire.”
“Prince moved unexpectedly.”
Abbott’s laugh escaped before he could stop it, quieter than Parker’s delighted reaction but unmistakable all the same. Adeline looked at him and found his expression more open than it ever appeared beneath the hospital lights, the lines around his eyes softened by amusement and the remains of the evening.
The rideshare pulled to the curb several minutes later, and Abbott checked the license plate twice before opening the back door. Parker climbed in first, although the process required assistance after she attempted to enter while still holding onto Adeline’s arm. Once seated, she immediately slid across the seat and rested her head against the opposite window.
Adeline paused on the sidewalk before following her, one hand resting against the open car door. The noise from the bar had faded behind them, and for the first time all evening there was enough quiet to feel the night ending.
“You know,” she said, looking toward Abbott, “you had fun.”
He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket, adopting the same expression he wore whenever she correctly interpreted something he would have preferred to keep private. “I tolerated it.”
“You stayed until closing.”
“Someone had to make sure Parker didn’t become legally responsible for that karaoke machine.”
“That allegation remains unproven.”
Adeline smiled, knowing there was no point in pushing harder when his amusement had already betrayed him. “Whatever helps you sleep tonight, old man.”
Abbott shook his head, but his answering smile lingered. “Get home safe, Trouble.”
The nickname landed differently outside the hospital. There were no charts between them and no patient waiting for the next order, which left the familiarity of it exposed in a way Adeline had not noticed before.
She lowered herself into the car beside Parker and pulled the door halfway closed before stopping. “You too, Jack.”
Something shifted in his expression at the use of his first name, subtle enough that she might have missed it earlier in the night. He nodded once and stepped back onto the sidewalk, allowing her to close the door.
As the car pulled away from the curb, Parker murmured something unintelligible and settled more heavily against the window. Adeline turned in her seat and looked through the rear glass, expecting Abbott to have already headed back inside.
He remained beneath the awning instead, one hand lifted in a small farewell while the orange lights from the bar glowed behind him.
Adeline raised her hand in return.
The car turned at the intersection, carrying them into the city before she could see whether he stayed there any longer.
