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Jun 30

Cowgirl (Jack Abbot)

MDNI - 18+

CONTENTS: farmer! jack abbot x age gap! f! reader au, cowboy! jack abbot au, future child mentions, fluff, unprotected p in v, daddy kink, breeding, hand job, oral (f! receiving)

Word Count: 2.4k+

SUMMARY: instead of jack abbot joining the military swat as a medic, he opts for taking care of a farm instead! (ofc he can't put himself at risk when he has you in his life)

a/n: inspired by concepts of farmer! pope cody by @dirtygir1 (which i just plugged in jack abbot instead!)

You were cuddled into Jack's side, your legs draped across his thigh. His fingers tickled and trailed down the length of your quads, one hand on you and one hand on the steering wheel. The truck's engine hummed, creating the perfect white noise for you to focus on your book.

Fields and silos passed in the distance, you occasionally sticking pointing at the cows grazing in the distance.

"Look, Jackie!" you squealed. "Cows!"

"Yeah, honey," he chuckled, his chest rumbling. "They're here every time we come by."

"That's not the point, Jackie," you pouted. "They're so cute!"

It all started shortly after his wife passed away, his therapist griping about how he needed a new hobby. He had tried everything, writing, painting, going to some lame ass book club. It settled on him buying an old farm from one of his uncles, reminiscent on the days he spent out here growing up.

"Yup," his uncle said as he admired the property. "Just gettin' too old to run this place. You remember how to even take care of this place?" "For the most part," he sighed. "Yeah, I got it."

This led to now, his pretty girl sat next to him on the bench seat of his truck. You both spending every other weekend out here, away from the bustling city.

Jack had inherited the farmhands as well, paying them generously and always making sure they had everything they needed. Most weekends you'd spend most of the time baking and cooking for them, home cooked meals stuffing their bellies.

The large white farmhouse rested on top of the hill, the bench swing slightly swaying in the breeze as the truck bounced along the dirt road. You were locked in to your romance novel when Jack put the truck in park.

"Sweetheart, we're here," he mumbled, patting your thigh.

You climbed out of the truck, your cute little cowgirl boots that Jack bought you kicking up the dust as they hit the ground. Jack grabbed the luggage from the backseat, duffel bags nestled in both of his palms. He followed behind you as you practically skipped to the house.

The minute you entered the threshold you drew open the windows, the soft breeze billowing into the rooms. Jack made his way to the bedroom, unpacking the clothes and filling the drawers. You padded into the master bedroom, your arms encircling his strong middle and your head resting on his back. This was common, you just clinging to him while he worked on any task.

Once everything was in its place, he'd turn around and resting his hands on your cheeks, placing a kiss on the crown of your head.

"M'gonna go check on the farmhands, okay, baby?" he mumbled into your hair, his hands on your hips now.

"Can I come with you? I wanna check on my babies."

After you came into Jack's life, the cattle farm grew into a complete zoo. Chickens, ducks, sheep, goats, yeah, safe to say it was insane. There was even the one time you begged Jack to buy you an alpaca.

"Sweetheart, I am not buying an animal that is going to spit on me." "Please, Jackie!" "I promise this is the only time I'll tell you no."

You trailed behind Jack as he limped towards the stables. You gushed at the new little foal in the neighboring stall as Jack slid the gate open. Grabbing the lead and guiding the mare out to the front of the stable. He drew the bridle across the nose, patting the mare's cheek. Heaving when he hoisted the saddle across the horse's back, rubbing the haunch.

"Good girl," he rasped.

He tugged himself onto the mare, gathering the reins in his hands. He adjusted his cowboy hat while he stared at you as you gripped the bars, admiring the little foal. Constant coos falling from your lips.

"Baby," Jack called to you, still standing there talking to the animal. "Baby, hey."

Your head finally turned, seeing Jack holding his hand out to you. You put your hand in his as he helped you up, your arms lacing around his middle.

Your head rested against his back, slightly bobbing with the steady gait. Jack would sneak his hand behind him, rubbing and rubbed at your thigh.

You both made your way to the chicken coop, practically leaping off of the horse and sprinting to the coop. You greeted all the hens, griping at them as they pecked your ankles. You took the little basket hanging on the side of the coop, peaking into each cubby and collecting the eggs. Jack chuckled as he watched you bounced around the coop. You jogging towards him with your full basket like a little girl on Easter. You fastened the basket of eggs to the saddle.

"Jack!" you exclaimed. "I got breakfast for tomorrow!"

"You sure do, sweetheart."

This led to the sheep pen, the babbling creatures racing around. The sheep were your favorite, always loving how they'd respond to your little 'bah'. Jack would find you so cute when you would be around the sheep. Always scratching at their fluffy coats, a smile everlasting on your face as you greeted every one.

Then your eyes would land on the little lamb in front of you, briefly making eyes with Jack before returning to the little baby before you.

"Jack! You didn't tell me we had a new baby on the farm!"

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack smirked. "Wanted to surprise you."

You sat there, continuously gushing over the little guy. Jack, growing inpatient, drew himself off of the horse and made his way over.

"Jackie, can you lift it?" you asked kindly. "Need to see if its a girl or boy!"

Jack would follow through, lifting the lamb to where its pink belly was exposed.

"Aw, it's a boy!" you cheered while the sheep bleated in Jack's grasp. "Did you know Jack and I are your mommy and daddy?"

"Honey," Jack gritted out. "You know no one can call me daddy besides you and our child, right?"

Oh.

You stared at the lamb while Jack slugged his way back to the horse, you slowly following once you made your goodbyes.

That night, you made dinner for all of the farmhands. Them rubbing their full tummies while you placed a fresh apple pie in front of them. A smile curved across Jack's lips as he stared at you in your frilly little apron.

"Ugh, I can't eat anymore," one of the farmhands mentioned. "Always good to have you here."

"It's always my pleasure."

The farmhands would start to leave one by one, their call time always at sunrise. Jack would bring the remaining dishes to you, him tugging off his cowboy hat and his hands finding your hips. His lips tickling across your skin while you scrubbed at the dishes.

"Jackie! Tickles!" you squealed.

"Can't help it, sweetheart," he chuckled against your skin. "You just look so pretty like this, cooking for our crew, cooking in our kitchen. It's so domestic, only other thing I need is a little toddler running around here."

Jacks hands rubbed around your childless womb, picturing how swollen and ripe you would be with his kin. It led to him starting to nip at your earlobe. Slickness pooled in your underwear, leaning back into his chest at his touch. His hands trailed down to the bow that sat on the middle of your back, holding your apron in place. He unfastened the bow and shed you of the garment. Then he was turning you around and backing you into the counter. He gripped the back of your thighs and hoisted you up to where your ass was placed on top of the cabinets.

Jack placed himself between your thighs, his fingers slowly making their way up the length of your quads. Your arms were draped across his shoulders, one hand scratching at the silver hairs on the nape of his neck. You sighed the minute his tongue swept across yours, his hands digging into the flesh of your hips at the contact. You fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, quick to expose his muscular chest. Jack snaked his fingers to your clothed center, you riding his fingers slightly, feeling the rough denim against your clit.

"J-Jack-" you stuttered out. "I need more."

"You'll get more, doll. No need to beg me."

Jack got down to on his good knee, shrugging off you boots and socks. Your blown pupils met his as he placed adorning kisses to the inside of your ankles. It made the wet spot in your underwear grow even more. His arm wrapped around your middle, helping you down. He placed a sharp slap to your denim clothed ass.

"Get that ass to the bedroom," he demanded, smirking at how the curve of your ass jiggled and bounced.

The minute you entered the bedroom, his lips were back on yours. Him disregarding his flannel, and you stepping out of your tiny ass shorts. This would lead to your hand unbuttoning his jeans, sliding your hands beneath the denim and palming at this half hard cock.

"Ah-, sweetheart," Jack hissed against your mouth. "Slow down. Fuck-, I can't keep up with your young pretty ass."

You giggled against his lips, lacing your fingers along his sides, slightly guiding him to the edge of the bed. You shoved him back, to the point where he was sitting on the mattress. With his jeans already halfway down, you stripped the fabric off.

Jack always grew embarrassed and insecure during this part of the foreplay, the minute his prosthetic would be exposed to you. However, you didn't mind. Always kissing his thigh while you released the metal free. Placing kisses on his knee of his residual limb.

You'd be between Jack's legs, finally kissing him once he was free of his constant burden. Only wanting him to focus on you and only you. Your legs would draw across his lap, straddling his solid length. Your hips slowly grind down on him, both of you moaning at the meeting. His hands slipped you out of your tank top, casting the clothing aside.

He squeezed the bare flesh of your breast, fidgeting with your nipple. The touch making you gasp against his mouth. He moaned when your mouth trailed down the expanse of his neck, suckling along the freckled skin. His hands seek the hem of your underwear, drawing the fabric down the curve of your ass. You stood up briefly to step out of your panties, then having him lift his hips to bare his hard cock.

You returned to his lips before he patted your thigh, getting your attention.

"Sweetheart," he rasped. "Sit on my face. I need to taste you."

"Jack, no I stink."

"Don't care," he whispered, already guiding your hips towards his mouth. "Need to taste my pretty girl."

At first he teased you, feather light kisses sprinkled across the fat of your thighs. Then leading to slow kitten licks along your clit while his fingers undulated in and out of you. Your hips slightly grinding to where his nose was pressed against the hairs that decorated your center, him taking a deep inhale at your musk. His tongue entered your hole, reaching as deep as he could before repeating the motion.

"Oh— Jack," you whimpered while he fucked you with his tongue. "God—, fuck, that feels so good."

He slapped your ass, a harsh red welt peaking along the cheek. This hushed you up real quick, Jack wanting to focus on the little sounds that were pouring from your lips. His nails dug and clenched at the warm fat of your ass. Your hips started to buck and ride his mouth, his scruff scratching against your soft pussy.

"Cum for me, sweetheart," Jack demanded. "Need to taste your release. Fuck—, been desperate for you all day."

He continued to lap and suck around your needy bud. Your constant groans and squeals filling his ears. You shivered and convulsed around him while your orgasm rolled through you, your release slipping across his tongue.

"Mm, that's it, sweetheart."

You panted on top of him, desperately trying to catch your breath. Your chest heaving while Jack peered up at you. His gentle palm met your cheek, his thumb slightly stroking your hot flesh.

"You okay, doll?"

You nodded, your mouth agape while you looked at him. Swollen lips, lustful eyes, all of it.

Cum dribbled and bubbled from the flush head of his cock. His cock starting to ache at how hard he was for you. Once you finally felt yourself starting to meet with reality, you slid your figure to where you rested on his thighs, toying and stroking his rigid member. The slight slick coating his length and allowing for quicker movements.

"Ah—, baby," Jack's back slightly bowed against the sheets at your touch. "That's it, stroke daddy's cock. God—."

You slightly smirked at how his body bent and his hips bucked beneath your touch. Fisting his cock to the point where he couldn't take it any longer. He tugged your hips to where they rested above his cock.

"Ride it for me, cowgirl," he gritted out. "Ride this bull till you can't anymore."

It took you no time at all to sit on top of him, the inches grazing into your plush walls. Your hands placed on his chest for stability, crying at how good he filled you up. You were completely made for him. Little squelches filled the room while you dove your hips on top of him, your boobs bouncing above him.

He adjusted to where his frame was propped up on the pillows, enough reach for him to tug your nipple into his mouth, swirling and flicking his tongue around it while you bobbed on his dick. It made you whimper and squirm even more.

"Oh—, Jackie!" you cried. "I want you to fill me up, want you to give me that baby we always dreamed of."

"Oh, yeah, sweetheart?"

"Y-Yeah," you mewled. "Yeah, fuck yes, daddy."

You continued to grind and wobble on top of him, his thumb meeting your clit and absolutely driving you over the edge. Your raspy little whimpers filling the room while you continued to squeeze and hug around his cock. Sweet sloppy sounds coming the from his consistent thrusts that met your movements.

"That's it, good girl," he cooed. "Cum on daddy's cock, you can do that for me, yeah?"

With that, he felt your walls constrict around him, hugging him so tight that it felt like a vice grip. Jack slowly continued to rut into your hips, eventually meeting his own orgasm. Thick hot ropes of his cum filling your empty womb.

"You sure know your way around this old cowboy."

taglist: | @sagitamds @weemswife @emma8895eb @hoffmanfan13 @mast3rbait3r

yulesinla

Jun 10

snoopy-abbot-archives

Chapter 7:"Don't Wanna Vortex Again"

Jack Abbot x IT!worker Reader Pittling Tech Support: Fueled by Red Bull

Summary: Navigating the bitter aftermath of a workplace layoff, you struggle to ignore the blurred lines between Jack’s protective care and his escalating possessiveness. A rain-soaked, emotionally charged encounter in the parking garage pushes the two of you dangerously close to crossing a point of no return. But when a sudden crisis at the hospital violently unearths a ghost from your hidden past, the fragile walls you’ve built shatter, forcing you to push Jack away just when he tries to hold you together. Word counter: 11k - Tags: Mutual Pining,Heavy Angst,Protective Jack Abbot,Jealousy,Age Difference,Older Man/Younger Woman - Content warning: Grief/Mourning,Dissociation,Denial of Feelings,Touch-Starved,Unhealthy Coping,Mechanisms,Emotional Hurt/Comfort,Rejection of Comfort -Editorial team and beta readers for this chapter: @aubrazilla @kdcollinsauthor @theariespov @yulesinla @ktarima Masterlist ALT Masterlist Subscribe to taglist!

After the night Jack spent at your place, you both came to an understanding.

You agreed it was time for therapy, admitting you hadn’t been taking your medication as prescribed. You promised you’d start taking your meds properly—both for Jack’s peace of mind, and so you could meet with your doctors and hear their thoughts. You also clipped an AirTag onto your belt loop with a carabiner so Jack could keep track of you, though he didn’t appreciate the “dog tag BARK BARK” label showing up on his phone.

“What should I name it? ‘Snoopy’ or something?” You joked after handing his phone back once everything was set up. You kept telling yourself that letting him track you—even when your phone wasn’t in your hand—was just practical. Thoughtful, even. A small, harmless gesture for the sake of convenience; proof you had nothing to hide. If something happened, he could find you. If you were late, he wouldn’t be left wondering. That’s the version you repeat. The reasonable one. The calm one.

He doesn’t pretend. He’s clear about wanting to know where you are, about needing that access, about how it makes him feel better. He doesn’t dress it up as anything else.

But you do.

You insist it’s about convenience, about transparency, about being considerate. You refuse to call it what it is. Because doing so means admitting this isn’t normal. That you’re shrinking yourself so you fit inside his fears. That you’re bending so he doesn’t snap. You tell yourself it’s easier this way—no tense pauses, no sharp questions, no heavy silence that makes you feel guilty for simply existing.

And when the doubt surfaces, you push it back down. What kind of friendship—or whatever this is—needs constant proof of loyalty? What kind of connection requires surveillance disguised as care? He doesn’t hide his expectations. He doesn’t deny wanting control over the uncertainty.

You’re the one pretending it doesn’t mean something.

You keep calling it trust-building. Calling it harmless.

But deep down, you know.

Stop lying to yourself.

You get called down to the nursing station at The Pitt just as the late-night rush is beginning to build. The overhead lights hum softly, phones are ringing off the hook, and a steady stream of staff weave in and out of the corridor with urgent expressions and half-finished conversations. At the center of it all, the wall-mounted monitors are flashing erratically—screens blinking to black, then bursting back to life in jittery bursts of color and static. A few of the nurses glance up at you with a mix of relief and impatience as you set down your toolkit and step behind the counter.

Dr. Crus is already there, arms folded, watching the chaos unfold on the screens. He gives you a quick rundown: patient charts flickering in and out, seconds before reappearing. You crouch down to inspect the cable connections, suggesting at first that it might just be a single HDMI issue—a loose connection or a frayed cord causing interference. It wouldn’t be the first time a simple fix solved a dramatic-looking problem.

But as you start tracing the cables and swapping ports, it becomes clear this isn’t just one bad line. Two of the monitors refuse to stabilize, their displays stuttering even after you reset the connections and test them with known-good cables. One screen fades to black entirely, emitting a faint electrical whine before going dark. The other flickers stubbornly, colors washing out as if the life is draining from it. You straighten up, sighing quietly as you realize that these monitors haven’t just glitched—they’ve chosen this exact moment, in the middle of a busy shift, to give up for good.

“No, like, I love being Chief,” you say, your voice dripping with irritation as you push your glasses up onto the crown of your head, giving yourself enough room to pinch the bridge of your nose. “But who’s supposed to tell me I now have to call maintenance, who never gets here on time? Or do I have to go up there and yank that thing off the wall myself?”

The fluorescent light above you flickers again, as if mocking you, buzzing with that faint electrical whine that has been drilling into your skull for the past twenty minutes.

Dr. Crus laughs, the sound low and warm, and pats your shoulder. “Occupational hazard,” he says, clearly amused by your slow descent into exasperation. He looks like he’s about to add something—probably a joke about leadership or budgeting—until the double doors burst open and a trauma case rolls in.

The energy in the hallway shifts instantly. Nurses move fast. Voices sharpen. The gurney rattles past.

“Coming,” Crus mutters, already stepping backward as he shrugs into motion, leaving you standing there alone beneath the rebellious light fixture.

You glance back up at the monitor. It flickers again. Once. Twice. A dramatic pause. You narrow your eyes at it like you’re in a standoff.

“Are you planning to kick it, or just stare at it until it falls off?” Jack calls out as he walks past you to join the trauma case, not even slowing down. He’s already tugging on a pair of gloves, snapping them against his wrists.

You don’t bother turning around; you just flip him off in his general direction, your arm raised lazily without breaking eye contact with the ceiling.

“Careful, kids around, Snoopy!” he yells back, grinning as he pushes through the doors into Trauma 1.

You sigh and let your hand drop. “I hate all of you,” you mutter, though there’s no real venom behind it.

As you wait for the maintenance team to arrive—after being transferred twice and assured someone is “on their way”—Dr. Toomerian swivels slightly in her chair. She’s charting at the computer next to you, but her attention is entirely focused on your profile. She tucks a stray, dark curl behind her ear, her gaze lingering on you just a second longer than necessary.

“Wait,” she says, her voice softening, her brows lifting in a way that makes her eyes look impossibly wide. “You’re the Chief?”

You nod, devoid of enthusiasm. “Unfortunately.”

She shifts closer, her knee brushing the fabric of your slacks before she quickly tucks her leg back with a small, apologetic smile. The touch is brief—barely there—but something about it lingers. You notice the way she doesn't quite pull all the way back, the way her chair still tilts toward you. You file it away and focus on the conversation.

“I thought you were kidding earlier.”

“I wish I was.”

She leans back in her chair, her eyes tracking the tired line of your jaw. “How long?”

“Two weeks,” you reply, glancing at your watch as if that alone explains your exhaustion. “Feels like three years.”

Her lips part into a small, encouraging smile. “Wow. Well, congratulations?”

You huff a humorless laugh, looking away from her bright expression to the empty hallway. “I don’t like the reason I was promoted. There was a massive layoff in the IT department. We went from fifteen people down to just five, including me.” You gesture vaguely upward toward the sixth floor. “I lost ten friends in one afternoon. And as a reward, they gave me a title and an office that feels far too big and way too quiet. It wasn’t exactly a merit-based fairy tale. It was more like, ‘You’re still here, you’re cheap, and you’re technically qualified, so congrats, you’re in charge.’”

Dr. Toomerian winces, her hand instinctively reaching out toward your arm. She catches herself halfway, pulling back and settling for nervously twisting her pen instead. The aborted gesture is small, but you notice it—the way she wanted to close that distance. It makes something in your chest tighten. You’re not used to people reaching for you like that.

“That’s… really rough. I’m so sorry.”

She’s just a really empathetic person, you think—though even as the thought forms, something about it feels incomplete. Like you’re translating something more complicated into a simpler language because the alternative is harder to sit with.

“Yeah. Now instead of fixing servers and actually helping people, I’m approving budgets, juggling on-call schedules, and apparently managing old device replacements.” You point upward again as the monitor gives another theatrical flicker.

As if summoned by your sarcasm, the screen sputters violently, flashes bright white—and goes out completely.

You stare up at the dead monitor in silence.

Nazely slowly turns back to you, biting back a smile. “Well,” she says softly, leaning into your space again, “good news. It fell off on its own.”

You let out a long, defeated breath. “Fantastic,” you murmur. “Now I get to file the incident report.”

A half-hour later, a maintenance worker finally arrives with two new monitors and a small portable workbench. As you’re signing off on the work orders on their iPad, Dr. Toomerian watches you type.

“Wow, new equipment,” she says, a teasing lilt in her voice. “Isn’t that something to celebrate?”

“I’d love to,” you reply, handing the iPad back. “But it doesn’t feel like I earned the pull to get this done. It’s more like the hospital thought, ‘We’ve had a huge layoff—let’s throw the remaining five a bone so they don’t quit too.’”

Before she can answer, the pager clipped to her waistband goes off. She checks it, her shoulders dropping slightly. “Ah. My patient in bed four is waking up. I’d better go check on him.” She gives you a soft, lingering smile—something warm and almost wistful in it—before slipping away into the chaos of the hallway.

You watch her go. A faint pulse of something you can’t quite name settles in your chest. Probably just gratitude. She’s kind. That’s all.

“Wait, you’re the Chief?”

Dr. Crus’s voice cuts in from behind you. He’s wandering back from Trauma 1, looking entirely too energized as he spots the shiny new hospital ID clipped to your belt. He reaches out and taps the plastic badge with one finger. You know HR is already hunting you down to give you an even flashier one since you haven’t been at your desk all night.

Before you can explain, one of the maintenance guys clears his throat, clearly impatient. You pivot, instructing the crew to remove the old monitors, send them down to the basement, and install the new mounts. You assure them you’ll handle the cabling yourself. Thankfully, they don’t ask any questions, getting straight to work—mostly because they clearly don’t want to put in any extra effort.

“Don’t call me Chief, please,” you sigh, turning back to Crus.

But Crus is already enjoying this way too much. “Come on. Captain, Chief—you’re collecting ranks like it’s a video game.” He grins, leaning against the counter with an ease that makes it look like he has nowhere else to be. “You practically live here. You married to the job or something?”

It’s a throwaway line. Casual banter. But something in your expression must shift—just a flicker, there and gone—because Crus’s grin softens. His head tilts.

“Wait.” He straightens slightly, eyes dropping with unsubtle curiosity to your left hand. “Seriously? You’re not—”

You follow his gaze to your bare ring finger. “No,” you say, simply. “I’m not.”

Crus blinks. For a moment, the playful edge in his expression gives way to something more genuine—something almost puzzled, like he’s trying to solve an equation that doesn’t add up.

“Huh.” He studies you, and there’s a warmth in it that you’re not sure what to do with. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You keep this entire department from collapsing into chaos on a nightly basis.” He says it simply, like he’s stating facts. Not flattery—just observation. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

Something warm blooms behind your ribs, unexpected and inconvenient. You open your mouth—probably to deflect with a joke—when Jack walks into the Hub from Trauma 2.

He arrives just in time to catch the tail end. You know this because his steps falter. Not dramatically—just a half-second hitch in his stride before he continues toward the nurses’ station. But his attention has already shifted. You can feel it like a change in air pressure.

Jack is still wearing his late wife’s ring. You’ve noticed it before—the thin band that has morphed from a vow into a quiet, permanent fixture on his left hand. You try not to look at it. You try not to think about what it means that you notice.

You turn back to Crus, aiming for casual. “Maybe I’m just too charming for my own good. Scare people off.”

Crus snorts softly, but his eyes flick past you—toward Jack—and something sharp and knowing surfaces in his expression before it’s gone. “Or maybe,” he says, his voice light, “you haven’t noticed who’s paying attention.”

The comment lands strangely. You glance at him, but he’s already looking down at his iPad, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s swallowing a secret.

You shake it off. “Okay, Dr. Henderson. Should I be taking notes?”

He grins but doesn’t elaborate, and you’re left with the odd sense that you’ve missed something important.

Now it's just you and the machines.

A small aluminum ladder stands between you and the mess of cables snaking down the wall. The ladder is too short—you can see that already. The monitors are mounted high, and even the top step won't quite get you there. You'll have to reach. You'll have to balance on the very top, the step labeled NOT A STEP in faded warning letters.

You slip off your cardigan and drape it neatly over the back of a chair. Then you roll up the sleeves of your white shirt, exposing your wrists, and let out a slow breath.

Climbing the ladder, you feel it wobble immediately—a cheap, lightweight thing that wasn't built for this. It creaks under your weight. You test it with a subtle shift of your hips and feel the whole frame shudder. Not ideal. Not something you'd bet your life on. But the cables need connecting, and you're the one here.

You reach behind the first monitor, rising onto your toes on the top step, fingers searching for the right ports by feel. The cables are stiff, new, reluctant to bend. You're stretching—too far—and the ladder bucks under the shift in your center of gravity.

For one lurching second, you feel it go. The world tilts. Your stomach drops. That awful, sickening lurch of gravity deciding it wants you on the floor—

A broad hand catches you at the small of your back, pressing you steady against the wall. Another grips the ladder frame, anchoring it.

"I've got you, Cap," Crus says calmly, right beside you now.

Your heart is hammering. You grip the monitor mount, knuckles white, waiting for the adrenaline to drain from your fingertips. When it does—slowly—you realize Crus hasn't moved. His hand is still firm against your back, his foot hooked around the lowest rung to pin the ladder in place. Grounding. Necessary.

"You okay?" he asks, and this time his voice is quieter, stripped of the usual ease. Just checking.

"Yeah," you manage. "Yeah. Ladder's shit."

"Agreed." He doesn't let go. "Want me to spot you for the rest?"

Part of you bristles at the offer. The other part—the part still vibrating with that half-second of freefall—knows he's right.

"Fine," you mutter.

He nods, settling into position. His attention shifts to his iPad, but his stance stays locked, his body angled to catch you if the ladder moves again. Professional. Reliable. The brush of his thumb against your shirt as you shift is incidental—you think—and you're not sure what to do with the fact that you notice it anyway.

"Thanks, Crus Control," you say, twisting the cable into place. It clicks. You tug twice to be sure. "You're very bossy for someone not technically my boss."

"Just part of the charm," he replies without looking up. But you catch the slight pull at the corner of his mouth—the quiet pleasure he takes in being here, doing this. It occurs to you, briefly, that he didn't have to stay.

You climb down, shift the ladder to the second monitor, and go up again. This one's mounted even higher. You have to stretch full-length, both hands off the ladder, balanced on that top step. The ER has gone even quieter, that strange suspended stillness that feels like the deep inhale before a scream.

Crus moves with you without comment, positioning himself at your right side again, one hand on the ladder frame, the other ready at your back.

Then—

"Crus."

The voice comes from across the nurses' station. Low. Flat. Jack is standing there, one hand on the IV cart, the other holding a chart he's clearly not reading. His jaw is tight. His eyes are on the ladder—on the way it shivers every time you shift your weight.

Crus glances over. Reads him in a second. Something flickers across his expression—not annoyance, not competition. Just recognition. Like he's been waiting for this.

"Cap," Crus says, looking up at you. "I need to finish charting on that pelvic fracture from earlier—attending's already riding me about it." He taps his iPad, already pulling up the file. "Give me a sec."

He doesn't wait for you to answer. He steps back from the ladder—and the absence of him is immediate, the frame wobbling without his weight to anchor it. You sway, and your hand shoots out to grip the monitor mount.

"Whoa—"

"I've got you."

Jack is already there. He moves fast—faster than you expected—crossing the distance between the IV cart and the ladder in three long strides. His foot hooks around the bottom rung, mirroring exactly what Crus was doing. One hand clamps onto the ladder frame. The other settles against your lower back, broad and steady.

The ladder goes still.

You look down at him, breath caught. He's not looking at your face. He's looking at the ladder, at the angle of your body, at the distance between your feet and the floor—calculating, assessing, like this is a trauma case and he's triaging the risk.

"You good?" he asks. His voice is clipped. Professional.

"I'm—yeah. I'm good."

He doesn't move. His hand stays flat against your back, warm through the thin cotton of your shirt, and you're suddenly, acutely aware of how much of your weight he's holding—not because you're falling, but because the ladder is that unreliable, and he's not taking any chances.

Across the room, Crus is leaning against the counter, iPad in hand, watching with an expression of calm, genuine interest. Like someone enjoying a play he's already read the ending of.

You turn back to the monitor. Focus. The cable is right there—you just need to thread it through the mount and click it home. Simple. You can do this.

But Jack's hand shifts against your back as you reach up—not creeping, not wandering, just adjusting his grip to follow your center of gravity as you stretch—and the awareness of it shorts out your brain for a half-second.

Your fingers fumble the cable.

"Sorry," Jack says quietly, like it's his fault. His hand steadies.

"It's not—you're fine," you manage. "Just—hold still."

"Waiting on you, Chief."

You reach up again. Left hand raised, fingers working against the stiff plastic. The HDMI cable resists, the angle awkward, and you have to lean further than you'd like—weight shifting, the ladder groaning beneath you.

Jack's grip tightens instantly. Not dramatic. Just certain. Like he's been doing this his whole life.

And he has, you realize. Steadying people. Keeping them from falling. That's the whole job.

You just never expected to be on the receiving end of it quite so literally.

What you don't expect is what happens next.

You reach up to thread the HDMI cable through the mount, left hand raised, fingers working against the stiff plastic—and Jack's gaze shifts. Not to the cable. Not to the monitor. To your hand. To the specific, bare expanse of your ring finger.

There's nothing subtle about the way his eyes track the movement. It isn't clinical. It isn't absentminded. It's searching. Like he's confirming something he overheard earlier—something that matters far more than he wants it to.

Your stomach flips despite yourself.

"Sorry," you say, tugging at the cable again, buying yourself a moment. "I swear this damn thing's too short. I just need to—okay—if I pull it like this and… we good?"

You glance at Crus, who checks his iPad and gives you a thumbs up.

"It's in," he confirms.

But you're not looking at the monitor anymore. You're looking down at Jack, who hasn't looked away from your hand.

You flex your fingers slightly—deliberately this time. Testing.

His eyes track the movement. Slow. Intent. Something flickers behind his expression—something soft and aching that he can't quite hide in time.

"See something interesting, Dr. Abbot?" you ask, keeping your voice light but letting the edge show.

Jack straightens too fast. His hand jerks back from your back like he's been burned. The IV cart rattles. His gaze snaps up to meet yours, and for a moment, he looks completely undone—like you've caught him somewhere he didn't mean to be.

"I—" He falters. His eyes flicker back to your hand once more before he forces himself to look at your face. "You should come down from there. The ladder's not stable."

It's not what he was going to say. You can tell. You can see it in the way his jaw works, in the faint flush crawling up his neck, in the way his hand twitches at his side like it wants to reach for you again.

From across the room, Crus watches this unfold with quiet, unhurried interest. He doesn't interject. Doesn't swoop back in. Just leans against the counter, iPad cradled against his chest, and waits.

"Come down," Jack says again, extending his hand toward you. "I don't want to see you in Trauma Two because you fell."

There's no room for argument in his voice.

You hesitate only a second before placing your hand in his. His grip tightens instantly, secure and unyielding. He braces the ladder with his other hand as you descend—first to the lower rung, then the floor. His hand doesn't let go until both your feet are on the ground. Even then, he lingers—a beat too long, his fingers wrapped around yours, his thumb pressed against the side of your wrist where your pulse is still racing from the ladder, from the height, from him.

Then he releases you. Steps back. Gives you space.

But the ghost of his grip stays, warm on your skin, and you can still feel the exact pressure of his palm against your back.

You're not sure what to do with that. So you do what you always do.

You brush your palms against your slacks and look between him and Crus, who's already wandering back over, iPad tucked under his arm.

"Don't you guys have better things to do?" you ask dryly. "Lives to save? Charts to sign? Brooding to accomplish?"

"Don't mind them."

The loud, obnoxious slurping sound of a drink echoes across the nurses' station. Shen is leaning back in his chair, iced coffee in hand, watching with open delight.

‘It’s a quiet evening and I am fully enjoying the show.’

"Jesus," Dr. Parker Ellis snaps, swatting at him like he's an overexcited child. "Shen, don't screw this up for us. Two hours before shift change and not a single major trauma. Do you know how rare that is?"

Shen grins unapologetically. "I'm just saying—"

The red phone rings.

The sound slices through the room like a blade.

Every head turns toward it.

No one moves at first. It rings again, shrill and demanding.

Several people mutter curses—some directed at Shen, some at fate.

Lena steps forward with Jack at her side. She answers on the second ring, her posture sharpening instantly. "PTMC, go ahead Medic Command."

The room seems to shrink as she listens. Her pen flies across a notepad, scribbling details in tight strokes. Her expression shifts—focused, alert, ready.

She hangs up.

"Trauma incoming," she announces, already moving. Then, with pointed clarity: "Assigned to Dr. Shen."

For half a heartbeat, silence.

Then chaos begins to bloom.

Shen straightens in his chair, nearly choking on the last of his drink. "You've got to be kidding me."

Jack is already moving toward the trauma bay. Crus grabs gloves. Lena starts issuing rapid instructions.

And you—still standing between the two newly lit monitors—feel the ER snap back to life around you, the calm shattered, the storm rolling in.

It’s 7 a.m. already, and both of your night shifts at the PTMC hospital dragged on far longer than they ever should have. You are waiting outside for Jack on the top level of the hospital's three-story parking garage. The weather has violently shifted from the sunny, warm days of earlier this week to a rough, relentless summer downpour, turning the rooftop asphalt into a sea of dark glass. In the distance, the wailing sirens of an ambulance and a fire truck cut through the noise of the rain; the city is beginning to breathe and live again, even in this chaotic weather.

His pickup truck and your car are parked right next to each other, but you’re currently leaning against the side of his truck, a cigarette already lit between your fingers, waiting like you’ve got nowhere else to be. The wind keeps trying to steal the flame, but you cup your hand around it, feeding it. Each time you inhale, the red ember glows brightly through the wet, gray air, anchoring you to the moment.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Jack jokes as he walks toward you. The sound of his voice is the only dry thing in the world right now. He cuts through the downpour—shoulders squared against the wind—walking like he simply doesn’t believe in weather.

He’s wearing a grey sweater, completely soaked through, and he clearly doesn’t care about the cold dampness clinging to him. But as he closes the distance, his eyes narrow, taking in your shivering form. He clearly doesn't like that you are getting soaked in this shitty weather.

“You've been standing out here alone long enough,” he says, his teasing tone dropping into something far more grounded and protective.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you shift your weight, digging your free hand into your coat pocket. You pull out a spare brass key with a metallic clink, holding it out by the ring. A little Woodstock keychain dangles from the metal, swaying between you. The bright yellow plush bird looks entirely ridiculous against the bleak, stormy sky, but somehow it makes the moment feel softer—a reminder that you’re still holding onto something bright.

Jack stops. He notices it immediately, even through the driving rain. He steps closer into your personal space, ignoring the downpour soaking his shoulders. Without asking, he reaches out, but instead of taking the key right away, his cold knuckle gently nudges the plush bird, making Woodstock swing.

"This is kind of cute," he murmurs, a faint, lopsided smile catching the corner of his mouth as he studies the plushie. "Though if we're being honest, you're definitely the Snoopy to my Woodstock."

You let out a huff of smoke into the rain, trying to formulate a proper insult. "Woodstock is a terrible pilot who speaks entirely in chicken scratch. Are you saying you're—" You stumble over the comparison, the mockery falling completely flat as a small, betraying smile tugs at your own lips.

Jack laughs, the sound warm and low against the freezing wind. He reaches out and catches the keychain, tilting the little plush bird up so it's facing you. "Don't even try. I know you only remember this thing as 'the yellow bird.' I'm still butthurt about it."

You roll your eyes, but the tightness in your chest finally eases. You don’t pull your hand back. Instead, you hold the ring out a fraction further, pressing the issue. "It's to my front door."

Jack goes perfectly still. His gaze drops from the absurd little yellow bird to the cut of the brass key, and then finally lifts to meet your eyes. The last traces of his smile fade, settling into something brutally honest. He closes his hand over the key, his damp, freezing fingers deliberately brushing yours as he takes it.

“Are you bringing me good fortune out here,” he asks, his voice dropping lower, cutting right through the noise of the storm, “or just offering me something to keep you from focusing?”

His thumb drags over the jagged edge of the key, slipping it into his own pocket before stepping even closer. “Because I'll take it. I'll take whatever you give me. But how are you really holding up after what happened today?”

You take a drag, but the wind shifts, and the smoke drifts directly toward him before you can stop it. The rain hammers the world around you, cold and constant, but the thought of him standing in your secondhand smoke bothers you more than the storm. Without overthinking it, you reach out and grab his forearm, guiding him to switch places with you so the massive frame of the truck blocks the worst of the wind. You step in close. Close enough to feel the solid warmth radiating off him through his damp sweater.

It frustrates you sometimes—the fact that you’re the kind of person who turns even small things into a burden he has to accommodate. Still, he doesn’t pull away. He stays exactly where you placed him, standing tall in the cold, like your boundaries are always negotiable and he’s more than willing to meet you halfway.

"You don’t have to look for me. I’m already wherever you are," Jack murmurs gently.

Jack holds your gaze. He’s patient, but clearly affected by how exhausted you look. “Talk to me,” he says, his voice cutting clearly through the sound of the rain. “I’m right here.”

You exhale again, watching the smoke mingle with the rain before vanishing into the dark. Your fingers tighten around the cigarette like it’s a lifeline.

Jack takes your silence not as a rejection, but as a plea. In that slow, deliberate way he does everything when he wants you to feel completely safe, he raises his hand. Palm up. Waiting.

When you finally pull the cigarette from your lips, the wind catches the edge of your damp hair, blowing it across your cheek. You are suddenly, intensely aware of how close your faces are. The burning ember hovers in the space between you, fragile and romantic in the worst possible way—like a spark that could ignite something neither of you will be able to undo.

“You smoke?” you ask, your voice rougher than you intended.

“Rarely,” he replies. When he takes the cigarette from your fingers, his touch is gentle. Reverent, almost. Taking it feels less like borrowing nicotine and more like an unspoken permission to close the distance between you.

He inhales, slow and controlled, his eyes never leaving yours. As the smoke curls out between his lips, threading through the wet air, you notice it. Your lipstick—dark cherry—has left a faint smudge on the white filter. Jack turns his head slightly, and his eyes catch the mark too. Just a touch. A trace. A proof that your lips were just there.

You kind of hope it doesn’t look like you meant for him to wear you. But as your pulse spikes, you also can’t pretend you don’t secretly love the idea.

Jack’s eyes flick from the filter down to your mouth, and the heavy gaze lands like a physical touch. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands there in the freezing rain, close enough that your shoulders would brush if you just leaned an inch forward. The way he watches you is enough to make your chest tight.

“Do you even realize how you’re looking at me right now?” he asks, his voice dangerously low. “You want it back?”

You swallow hard, your eyes dropping to the cigarette he’s offering, then lifting back to his face. You legitimately can’t decide what you want more: the nicotine, or the excuse to lean in until the entire parking lot disappears.

Before you can answer, the summer storm intensifies, taking a sudden turn for the worse. Thicker, heavier sheets of water slam against the asphalt. In the nearby hospital building, blurred silhouettes of staff members move past the lit windows, distant and completely irrelevant.

“You should tell me what happened,” he prompts gently. But the way he says it makes it obvious he knows you aren’t just upset about an office restructuring. He’s watching you like he wants to catch you before you shatter.

You finally reach for the cigarette, but you don’t snatch it back. You take it slowly, letting your freezing fingers drag along his warm, damp skin. The contact is brief, but it feels heavy. It feels like a promise.

“You’re staring,” Jack murmurs. He sounds like he can’t help himself—like he’s teasing you purely to force you to admit that you want this as much as he does.

“I’m not,” you lie, but the breathy softness of your voice completely betrays you.

Jack leans a fraction closer. Tiny beads of rain cling to his dark eyelashes. “You are,” he whispers. “And you like it.”

You don’t have a defense for that. You just lift the cigarette back to your mouth—then pause, hovering a millimeter from the filter instead of taking the drag. Your breaths mingle, warm against the freezing air.

Jack’s hand comes up. Careful, certain, and completely unapologetic, his palm rests lightly against your waist. He doesn’t pull you flush against him; he just anchors you there in the storm.

“Tell me,” he says again. And this time, it isn’t about the hospital, or the layoffs, or the promotion. It’s about you. “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The rain drums harder against the metal of the truck, like the sky is demanding honesty from both of you.

You finally exhale a shaky breath, pulling the words out like they’ve been lodged behind your ribs all day. “Something happened today,” you say, your voice trembling but determined. “And I didn’t know how to tell you without… I don’t know. Without making it a bigger deal than it is.”

Jack’s sharp eyes soften entirely. “Then make it smaller,” he says softly. “Make it mine for a second. Let me hold it with you.”

Your chest aches. The yearning burns through your veins—hot, helpless, and unmistakably mutual. You tilt your chin up, just a fraction, and suddenly the tiny distance between your mouths shifts from an accident to a deliberate choice.

Jack’s gaze drops from your eyes to your lips again. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Can I—” he starts, his restraint slipping.

You reach up. Your fingertip lightly brushes the smudged cherry lipstick on the cigarette filter, and then traces a path down to rest over his hand at your waist. “I want you to,” you whisper.

Jack’s smile is barely there, tight with restraint, like he’s terrified of ruining the moment by moving too fast. But instead of kissing you, he brings the cigarette back up between you and shares it one last time—taking a deep inhale, like the storm might steal all the warmth from his lungs if he doesn’t hold onto it.

When he lowers his hand, his forehead comes down to rest gently against yours. The air is thick with smoke, petrichor, and a desperate yearning. It’s tender, deep, and far more intimate than a kiss in the rain would have been.

After a long, quiet moment, you step back. You flick the dying cigarette butt into a nearby puddle, watching it skid across the glassy surface before it dies with a soft hiss. The rough weather is only getting worse, the street turning into a moving mirror of headlights and red brake lamps.

You look toward your car, parked right beside his truck, and wave a hand toward it. "Let's take my car," you suggest, raising your voice over the downpour. "We can sit there, get out of this shitty weather, and get dried off."

Jack hesitates for only a second before jogging through the rain beside you. When he reaches the passenger side of your car, you pop the lock and push the door open for him.

You slide into the driver's seat, shivering violently, and immediately reach for the climate control dial. You crank the heat to maximum. The engine turns over, and the heater kicks in with a low, familiar rumble. Hot air blasts through the vents, aggressively pushing against the bone-deep chill soaking through both of your clothes. The windshield wipers swipe rhythmically—thwack, thwack—clearing the blurred glass, while the radio automatically picks up a quiet, familiar indie song. As the cabin warms, the harshness of the outside world softens until all that exists is the drum of the rain, the hum of the engine, and the sound of Jack breathing next to you.

For a few minutes, the silence is heavy. Jack stares down at his lap, gripping his knees like he expects his hands to stop shaking now that he’s out of the wind. You can see him actively trying to project normalcy, acting like the raw intensity of what just happened outside hasn't completely knocked the wind out of him.

Finally, you break the silence. You shift in your seat and nod toward the center console. Folded neatly inside the cup holder is the HR layoff notice. The creases are worn soft from how many times you’ve nervously unfolded and refolded it today.

“I’m still just… really bitter about it,” you say, your voice sounding small in the enclosed space. “Administration is acting like this bloodbath is justified because we’re getting ‘structural upgrades.’ Like software makes it fair. Like the people they just fired are supposed to clap because some VP changed the logo on our email signatures.”

Jack’s jaw clenches. He turns to look at the folded paper. “Yeah. And that new Chief title they’re rolling out for you—what exactly was their pitch? Like slapping a new title on your door fixes the fact that your team is gone?”

“It’s a sick joke,” you say, resting your forehead against the steering wheel. “They put the word ‘strategy’ in every sentence, and suddenly it’s all about growth and synergy, but it’s just rebranding failure. They didn’t stop for one second to consider what this costs the people actually doing the bleeding work.”

Jack turns his head toward you. He searches your face, as if anticipating that you might backtrack or apologize for venting. “Even with all the corporate bullshit, I still think you earned that promotion,” he says firmly. Then he grimaces, as if the words leave a bad taste in his mouth. “It’s just… it came at the absolute worst time. I hate that you’re caught in the middle of this.”

You snort. Not because he's funny, but because you’re so incredibly tired. “No, Jack. It’s not like they handed me the promotion because I’m some prodigy who deserved it. It’s like—” You search for the right phrasing, finally settling on a hollow imitation of a cheerful HR rep. “‘Please don’t quit on us. We really need warm bodies to cover the gaps.’”

The blast from the heater warms your freezing palms where they rest on your thighs. The radio hums, a low baseline filling the quiet, while the wipers continue their relentless sweeping—pushing away a problem that just keeps washing right back over the glass.

You sigh, turning in your seat to glance into the back. Hidden behind a folded fleece blanket and a disorganized stack of mail is your gym bag. It’s been sitting there for three days, waiting for a burst of motivation that never came. But the thought of what’s inside pulls your mind away from the corporate anger, grounding you in something much simpler.

“You know what?” you say softly, talking more to yourself than to him. “Hold on.”

You twist around, grabbing the straps of the duffel and hauling it over the center console. You unzip the main compartment and pull out a clean, plush cotton towel.

You glance at Jack. You weigh whether you should just toss it in his lap. He’s currently rubbing his hands vigorously up and down his forearms, trying to generate friction. He’s shivering, and he looks vaguely embarrassed about how the rain has plastered his graying hair flat against his forehead.

You hold the towel out toward him. When he dutifully reaches out to take it, you pull it back just an inch—a gentle, playful denial. It’s enough to cut the heavy tension in the car without ruining the mood.

“Relax,” you say, a genuine smile finally breaking through your exhaustion. “I’ve got you.”

Jack blinks, his hands dropping. He looks caught halfway between total confusion and a deep, melting softness. “You’re… sure?”

“I’m sure,” you tell him. You unbuckle your seatbelt to give yourself room and lean closer over the center console. “Come here.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second, shifting his weight toward you carefully, as if expecting you to pull away and say just kidding. But you don’t. You reach up, wrapping the soft towel over his damp hair. Your fingers are incredibly gentle as you begin to massage the towel into his scalp, blotting the freezing water away from his roots. You move slowly. Deliberately.

Jack’s breath catches in his throat. “You’re really doing this?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. You pull the towel back slightly to smooth his damp hair away from his face. “Because you looked completely miserable back there.”

“I wasn’t miserable—”

“You were,” you cut in, your voice warm with a grin you don’t even try to hide. The heater hums against your legs as you press the dry cotton against the ends of his hair. “And because…” You pause, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make the next words feel heavy. “Because I like taking care of you.”

Jack goes entirely still. His dark eyes flick up to yours, searching your face like he can’t decide whether to laugh to break the tension, or just give up and lean all the way into your touch. “You don't know how much this means to me,” he says softly.

“It’s dangerously effective,” you shoot back. You keep your hands moving—dabbing his forehead, drying behind his ears, ensuring the chill is completely gone.

When his hair is mostly dry, you don’t pull your hands away immediately. You drape the towel over your lap and look pointedly down at his soaked grey sweater. You raise an eyebrow, treating the next step like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “Alright. I’m confiscating that.”

Jack’s brows shoot up. “You’re taking my sweater off for me now?”

“For you,” you correct smoothly, your eyes bright with amusement. “Unless you’d rather sit there in a wet puddle and ruin my upholstery.”

He swallows hard. Then, moving at a glacial pace, he pulls the heavy, wet knit over his broad shoulders. He hands the soaked garment over to you with a careful, reluctant politeness that only makes you want to push his buttons more.

“There,” he says. He sounds a little breathless. You pretend it’s just the cold getting to him.

You take the heavy sweater, tossing it into the back seat, and then turn back to face him. “Look at that,” you say, your voice dropping an octave. “No more wet clothes. No more freezing. And no more pretending you don’t absolutely love it when I fuss over you.”

Jack’s mouth curves into an asymmetrical smile, edged with a sudden, nervous energy. “I don’t pretend.”

“No?” You lean in, resting your arm on the console. You are close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your skin, blending with the blast of the car’s heater. “Then tell me what you do like.”

His eyes drop straight to your mouth. The stare lasts for half a second—just long enough to be an absolute, undeniable answer—before he drags his gaze back up to meet yours. “I like…” He exhales a long breath, clearly steadying his racing heart. “I like that you don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” you say quietly. You lift your hand, your fingers gently catching his chin. You don’t force him; you just guide his face so he has nowhere else to look but at you. “Relax, Jack. I’ve got you.”

He lets out a low, rough laugh. It sounds like pure relief. It sounds like trust. It sounds like a man who is entirely fully falling for it. “Okay,” he whispers, leaning his cheek just slightly into your palm. “But you’re definitely going to owe me for this.”

“Oh?” you murmur. Your thumb brushes against his jawline, lingering at the collar of his dry shirt. “What’s the payment?”

Jack’s voice drops to a gravelly whisper, incredibly bold beneath the softness. “You start first.”

Outside, the rain continues its steady, drumming rhythm against the roof of the car. Somewhere in the distance, a heavy truck passes on the wet road, the sound rolling through the lot like distant thunder. But inside the cabin, surrounded by the hum of the heater, the radio fades into a slow, rhythmic acoustic track—a quiet, perfect soundtrack for the electric space between you.

Here’s something you didn’t account for when you engineered your own disappearance.

When you cut contact with everyone after your past violently unraveled—after you packed whatever fragments of a life you could carry and fled to Pittsburgh—you convinced yourself it was a clean, surgical break. You built a fortress out of a quieter city. You secured a job tucked deep within the labyrinthine IT department, a windowless sanctuary where the servers endlessly blink, the overhead fluorescent lights hum a steady lullaby, and absolutely no one asks personal questions. Here, your desk is just yours.

You legally changed your name. You scrubbed every digital footprint. You made an entire life out of absence.

But the past possesses a cruel, stubborn way of surviving erasure. It lingers in the quiet spaces, patient as settling dust.

You are halfway through a monotonous, highly technical discussion with a colleague about cascading system failures when your desk phone vibrates. The sharp sound cuts through the sterile air, far too intrusive against the muted hum of cooling fans. You almost let it go to voicemail. Your hand hovers over the receiver, a phantom instinct warning you not to answer.

Her voice is remarkably careful when you finally pick up. She states, with practiced professional neutrality, that you are listed as someone’s emergency contact.

At first, a wave of cognitive dissonance washes over you; you think she simply has the wrong file. It isn't because you don’t have the kind of life that paperwork can reach into, but because you have spent years systematically training yourself not to let people close enough to tether you. You do not belong on anyone’s “in case of emergency” line.

Then, she says his name.

Nico.

The conditioned air leaves your lungs as if you’ve been physically struck. It’s him—the man you loved with a desperate, all-consuming intensity before everything unraveled. Before the agonizing night that forced you to walk away from your career at the FBI, and from him, in the exact same breath. You disappeared so the toxic fallout of your fractured life would never spill into his.

It has been years of absolute, agonizing silence. Wouldn’t he have changed that damn form by now? Who keeps a ghost listed as their lifeline after all this time?

You don’t answer that question out loud. You begin to pace the gleaming hallway of the IT department while the charge nurse, Lena, explains in a measured tone that his condition isn’t good.

Not stable. Severe highway crash.

The edges of your vision begin to warp and blur. You frantically repeat a silent, desperate spell in your head: You’re not obligated. You built your entire life around not being obligated. But empathy and unresolved grief possess a quiet, immovable weight. Beneath the screaming animal instinct to run lies the memory of how he used to reach for your hand without thinking.

When your erratic breathing finally evens out, you push off the cold wall and step into the elevator. The descent to the Emergency Room stretches out into a localized eternity. When the metal doors slide open, you tell yourself you are only here for logistics. Just information.

But your traitorous feet turn toward Trauma One before your conscious mind can stop them.

The heavy privacy curtains haven’t been fully drawn. Through the narrow gap, you see a blur of frantic, highly coordinated movement—Shen, Nazely, and Jack working with the violent, bloody precision of medical professionals who refuse to let their minds wander. The scene is a terrifying paradox of chaos and calm.

Then, Jack glances up from the table.

He is masked, his eyes framed by his thick, black-rimmed protective glasses. Initially, his expression registers pure confusion at seeing you standing paralyzed in the doorway. But as he looks back down at the shattered, bleeding body of the man on the table, and then back up to your ashen, horrified face, the pieces violently snap together. He realizes exactly who this patient is, and exactly why you are standing there.

Simultaneously, the patient codes. The monitor unleashes a shrill, unbroken, agonizing alarm.

Panic and a fiercely protective instinct flash across Jack’s rugged features.

“Pull that curtain!” Jack barks, his voice erupting with a jagged, deafening authority you have never heard from him before. “Mateo, pull the damn curtain, right now!”

A startled nurse lunges forward, violently yanking the heavy fabric shut. The metal rings scrape harshly against the rod, instantly severing your line of sight. Jack disappears back into the desperate, failing procedure, leaving you staring at the swaying, opaque fabric.

And then—somewhere between the frantic shouts calling for another round of epinephrine and the endless, piercing drone of the flatline—the shouting abruptly stops.

The ensuing silence is infinitely heavier than the alarm. You don’t need to hear a doctor call the time of death to understand that Jack has just decided what you are not allowed to see.

Your mind instantly unmoors itself. The sharp edges of the ER soften into a thick, dissociative fog. The fluorescent lights hum at a frequency that makes your teeth ache. You drift back toward the main nurses' station, entirely disconnected from the feeling of your own shoes hitting the linoleum.

Lena is just lowering the receiver of the desk phone as you approach. She takes a slow breath, her expression shifting into that horrible, practiced gentleness reserved for the worst moments of people's lives. She opens her mouth to deliver the official words you just watched happen.

"I saw," you interrupt. Your voice sounds flat, hollow, as if it belongs to someone standing across the room. You can't let her say the actual words. "Can someone just... grab his belongings for me?"

Lena blinks, momentarily thrown by your eerie, vacant calm. "I... yes, of course," she murmurs. She looks down, scanning the top page of the file. Her brow visibly furrows as her eyes dart between the birthdates on the paper and your remarkably young face.

She stares at you, her professional filter slipping slightly. "Wait... you're the emergency contact. Are you family? His daughter, maybe? Niece?"

"No."

The single syllable lands between you. Lena's confusion only deepens—the easy explanation evaporating, leaving behind something far stranger. She glances down at the file again, as if the paperwork might offer some other logical answer.

"I'm sorry, I just—you were twenty, and he was forty-two," she says, her voice careful now, treading uncertain ground. "What does a twenty-year-old even have in common with someone that much older?"

You open your mouth, but the hospital noises buzz, rushing in your ears like water filling a sinking room. An image of Nico flashes behind your eyes—not the broken man on the table, but the exhausted, deep-set brown puppy-dog eyes you used to love.

"He was a widower," you manage, the words tasting like dry ash. "He knew what it was like to survive catastrophic loss. We—"

Your voice dies in your throat. The exhaustion of grief hits you all at once. How can you possibly explain the crushing gravity of a past life to a stranger? You focus entirely on a generic blue flu-season flyer pinned to the corkboard behind her head, obsessively tracking a small smudge of ink on the corner, letting the colors bleed into static. It takes far too much energy to make her understand.

Jack steps up beside you, having emerged from the trauma bay. His jaw is locked tight beneath the silver-grey stubble covering his jawline. He doesn't say a single word to excuse the intrusion; he merely meets Lena's questioning eye and gives a sharp, definitive shake of his head. No. Careful not to startle your fragile, dissociated state, Jack gently places a warm hand on the center of your back, much like a herding dog guiding you back to safety. His touch is light, utterly human, but it makes your skin burn. He steers you away from the desk, toward the family room, and you allow it, letting the steady current of his direction carry you when you have none of your own.

Inside, the family room feels claustrophobic. Jack guides you to a sofa and pulls a stiff chair directly in front of you. He doesn’t settle back into it; he leans far forward, elbows resting heavily on his knees, his large hands clasped tightly together.

“Mr. Solance was involved in a highway accident while driving home from work,” he says softly, his usually booming voice dialed back to a gentle rumble.

You stare intensely at a small crack near the baseboard. You blink, the dissociative fog parting just enough for the deafening silence of reality to rush in. “Can I see him?”

He shakes his head, just a fraction. He already commanded the nurses to clean Nico up a little, to wash away the worst of it, but clean is not the same as whole.

You wipe your leaking tears brutally into the rough denim of your jeans and reach out—a small, blind, helpless gesture. Jack does not hesitate for a microsecond. He takes your hand instantly, his warm, calloused palms wrapping securely around your freezing, trembling knuckles to ground you.

“Nico was my first real relationship,” you say, your voice cracking pathetically on the word first. “I was a late bloomer. We met at such a wrong time in my life, but he just... he kept showing up. He used to hold me and say, 'The past already took what it wanted, doll. Our job is to make sure tomorrow doesn't do the same.'”

Jack sits very still, his thumb moving rhythmically over the back of your hand. He listens intently, processing the shattered fragments of your past.

(She dated a widower? He was that much older? Has she ever actually been in a normal, age-appropriate relationship?) Jack keeps the barrage of internal questions locked firmly behind his teeth. He isn't judging you; beneath his composed, professional mask, there is a searching, profound sadness in his intense gaze. He just looks at your blank, tear-stained face, piecing together the trauma you've been hiding from him, genuinely wondering why you had been carrying the massive weight of an older man's grief when you were barely out of childhood yourself.

He watches your eyes glaze over completely as another wave of clinical shock pulls you under the surface. He lets the heavy silence stretch, giving you the space to just breathe, refusing to push for complex answers you are currently incapable of giving.

A careful, hesitant knock breaks the vacuum. Mateo steps inside carrying a clear plastic patient belongings bag.

“This is all I could get from the bay,” Mateo says gently.

You slowly take the bag. The abrasive crinkle of the cold plastic is violently jarring in the quiet room. Inside, folded haphazardly, is a dark blue long-sleeve shirt, stiff and ruined with dried blood. Beneath it sits a battered leather wallet. A small, worn flip notebook. An old, scuffed flip phone.

These mundane objects are undeniable proof that time did not ask for permission before it brutally took him. You pull the plastic bag into your lap. The sheer, physical weight of his ruined belongings finally anchors your floating consciousness back to reality, the grief settling over you in one agonizing breath.

“My shift ends in an hour,” Jack says, watching the ER lobby finally settle into that exhausted kind of quiet. “After I hand over everything to the day shift, I could take you home.”

The two of you walk slowly toward the elevator banks. You stand with your posture rigid, built like armor—your eyes fixed blankly on the reflective metal doors. You hold Nico’s plastic bag tight against your chest, obsessively adjusting your grip. The plastic creaks loudly. It’s an automatic, anchoring tick, giving your violently shaking hands something to hold onto so they don't fly apart.

“No need for that,” you reply, your voice stripped of all inflection.

As you stand there in the suffocating quiet, the doors of the adjacent hallway slide open with a soft swoosh. Cassie steps into the corridor, balancing a stack of patient charts against her hip. Her eyes casually scan the lobby until they land on you. She takes a quick, sharp breath, her expression lifting in recognition, and steps forward, her mouth opening to call out your name.

Jack catches the movement in his periphery. Without breaking his stride, shifting his stance, or letting you out of his protective orbit, he turns his head. He meets Cassie’s eyes and gives her a sharp, severe, incredibly dark shake of his head. He raises his free hand—a subtle but fiercely commanding gesture. Not now. Do not approach. Cassie freezes mid-step. She reads the violently protective, tense line of Jack's broad shoulders, looks at the bloody plastic bag clutched desperately to your chest, and her expression immediately drops into a mask of quiet understanding. She steps backward, melting into the hallway.

“YN…” Jack says your name, his deep voice pulling your fractured attention back before you even realized Cassie had been standing there.

“I appreciate what you and your crew did for Nico, Dr. Abbot,” you say. The formal title lands between you like a reinforced concrete wall—a shield of polite gratitude placed carefully on top of a volatile body of grief.

Right now, you know you need to travel down to the morgue. You need to gather every piece of clinical information that matters. You need to speak exclusively to people who will give you answers in sanitized phrases, because absolutely nobody in this hospital can give you what you actually want.

“I have to call his family and let them know,” you continue, each word perfectly measured. “After that, I have to report to my boss that I’m taking an unspecified leave of absence. If you'll excuse me.”

The elevator chimes and opens. You step inside the empty car, immediately turning and pressing the button for the morgue level in the basement.

The moment the doors begin to slide shut, Jack’s hand shoots out, his palm catching the heavy metal. The elevator shudders in protest and reverses. He steps fully inside the small, enclosed space just as the doors finally slide shut, sealing you both in.

As the elevator begins its slow descent, he effectively corners you—not with physical force, but with an inescapable, overwhelming proximity.

“I don’t want you to be alone tonight,” he says, his usually steady voice cracking slightly, betraying him on the word alone.

“You have work.”

“I can delay it.”

“It’s not your problem,” you reply, staring straight ahead at the mirrored walls, refusing to look at his reflection.

He sees the intense tightness in your jaw, the violent, rhythmic trembling in your hands that you are desperately trying to hide beneath the crinkling plastic of Nico's bag. “You’re shaking,” he whispers.

Taking a massive risk, throwing his professional distance entirely out the window, Jack steps completely into your space and pulls you into a firm, enveloping hug.

For a second, your shoulders lock into stone. His grip is careful at first, testing the waters, then it turns desperate, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm directly against your ribs. He clings to you as if he is terrified that if he lets go, you will simply vanish into the sterile hospital walls and never return.

And then the realization hits you, sharp, sudden, and deeply humiliating.

Nico used to hug you exactly like this. Nico’s deep, crushing hugs meant absolute safety after a brutal, traumatic case at the bureau; Jack’s hug, in this horrible context, feels like profound pity after a death. Nico was your past—messy, heavily traumatized, tragically flawed, but so deeply, genuinely loved. Jack is the present. He is safe. But accepting Jack's warmth right now feels like a sickening betrayal to the man whose blood is drying on the shirt in your hands. Worse, the heat of Jack's body makes you realize how utterly terrifying it is to risk caring about someone new, someone who could just disappear on a highway on a random Tuesday, leaving you shattered all over again.

The warmth is a violent, emotional trigger. It doesn't feel like comfort; it feels like drowning. If you lean into his solid chest, you know with absolute certainty that you will dissolve into a wailing chaos you will not survive.

Your breath hitches painfully in your throat. Gently, but with absolute, upsetting finality, you free your hands and place your palms flat against Jack’s chest, pushing him back just as the elevator car jolts to a halt.

He stumbles a half-step, looking startled, as if he just crashed headlong into a physical brick wall.

The heavy doors slide open with a dull chime, letting in the freezing, sterile air of the morgue level.

You step backward, out of the car and into the quiet, dimly lit basement corridor.

“You still have work,” you say, your voice taking on a clean, distant, icy edge. “I’ve got this. I’ll call you later.”

His intense eyes flicker with a helpless, puppy-eyed despair that he cannot hide beneath his competence. He knows *later* is a lie. He moves to step out after you, his hand reaching into the charged space between you.

But you reach right past him into the car. Your finger jabs the 'ER' floor button, then immediately presses the 'Close Door' button. You step back into the hall, severing the connection.

The heavy metal doors slide shut, cutting off his silhouette and his extended, pleading hand with a soft, mechanical finality, forcibly sending him back up to the world of the living. As the mechanical hum of the elevator fades upward, you adjust Nico’s bloody bag against your chest. Standing completely alone in the freezing basement hallway, you successfully lock your feelings behind a towering wall that will not be breached until the paperwork is signed and the calls are made.

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