Chapter Text
Trinity was on a mission to drag the entire ward out for drinks, her insistence hovering in the air like a dare. Samira hesitated, her body aching with a bone-deep exhaustion that craved the silence of her apartment far more than the pulse of a crowded bar.
"You know," Trinity said, her tone dripping with teasing mischief, "life isn’t all trauma bays and charting. What are you, a nun? You never come out. Do you even know how to have fun?"
The label stung; not because it was malicious, but because it felt uncomfortably close to the truth. Samira opened her mouth to snap back, to defend her focus and her professional discipline, but the words withered in her throat. She bit her lip, the sharp retort dying before it could take flight.
"Is that how I come off?" Samira asked, her voice dropping, the rehearsed sarcasm draining away until only a quiet, raw uncertainty remained.
Princess leaned in, her expression softening. "What Trinity is trying to say; in her own graceful way, is that you push yourself to the breaking point. You’re allowed to just... exist, Sam."
"I have fun!" Samira insisted, though she sounded defensive even to herself.
Trinity let out a dry laugh. "Reading medical journals on your couch isn't 'fun,' Samira. It’s an extension of the shift."
"No, but… it is to me," Samira countered, turning to face her fully. "You’re making me sound like I’m boring."
Was it that obvious? she wondered. Is that all everyone sees? A woman too sad to do anything but exist in the margins?
Trinity shifted her weight, a flicker of genuine affection breaking through her teasing veneer. "I wouldn't call you boring, exactly." She rolled her eyes, then grinned. "Okay, fine… I would. But that’s why you’re coming tonight. You’ve been acting like you aren't allowed to have a life until you’re perfect. It’s exhausting just watching you."
Samira stared at her, feeling a complex mix of frustration and hurt.
"Come on," Trinity pressed, tapping her pen against the desk for emphasis. "It’ll be a blast. Even Mel finally caved."
Samira tilted her head, her skepticism fighting the sudden, quiet hope that maybe she didn't have to be so guarded tonight. "Who’s actually confirmed?"
Trinity began a triumphant tally on her fingers. "You, obviously. Me, Mel, Crash, McKay, Jessy, Perlah, and Princess. I’ve got Dana almost convinced, Garcia is calling Dr. Abbot, and Robby is still on the fence. And I’m dragging Huckleberry along whether he likes it or not."
Samira shrugged, but her resistance was visibly fraying at the edges. "Maybe."
"We’re going to have fun," Trinity promised, her voice softening into a persuasive hum. "We’ll dance, we’ll drink, and we’ll completely forget this hell of a shift."
Before Samira could muster a retort, the double doors swung open. A surge of chaotic noise and motion cut the conversation short as the paramedics rushed in, manoeuvring a gurney through the hallway with a car crash victim in tow. Samira didn't hesitate; she pivoted, the exhaustion in her limbs instantly eclipsed by the sharp, familiar adrenaline of trauma work.
Hours later, when she finally punched out, the earlier talk of the bar had faded into a dull background noise.
She made it to her car, the cool night air hitting her flushed skin like a physical benediction, and drove home in a meditative daze, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold against the windshield.
By the time she stepped into the sanctuary of her apartment, the world felt blissfully, aggressively quiet. She stood under a long, scalding shower, letting the water scour away the grime of the trauma bay until the tension knotted in her neck finally began to surrender. Wrapped in a heavy robe, she heated up some leftovers, the smell of food filling the small, dark space. She settled onto her couch, the cushions familiar and welcoming, and began aimlessly scrolling through streaming services, searching for a mindless distraction to anchor her mind before sleep could finally claim it.
That was when her phone shattered the silence, vibrating aggressively against the coffee table.
Samira froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. She stared at the screen. For a heartbeat, she entertained the thought of letting it ring into oblivion, tempted by the seductive promise of an uninterrupted night of solitude.
But, ignoring a call from Dr. Abbot was, quite frankly, a professional impossibility; or at least that was the lie she told herself to justify why her pulse spiked the second his name lit up her screen. With a sharp exhale, Samira swiped to answer, her thumb trembling ever so slightly, a reaction she ruthlessly categorized as mere caffeine jitters rather than the traitorous flutter of her own heart.
“Dr. Mohan,” Abbot’s voice came through, characteristically clipped. “I heard you were in need of a ride to the bar.”
Samira frowned, “What?”
“The gathering…?” He hesitated, his voice dropping an octave, sounding uncharacteristically unsure.
Shit.
The memory of the hospital ward and Trinity’s relentless cajoling hit her all at once. She had completely blanked on the entire plan. “Oh… I… who told you that?”
“Dr. Santos,” he answered.
Samira squeezed her eyes shut, a flash of irritation burning behind her lids. That little meddler. Trinity really had pulled out all the stops.
“No, Dr. Abbot, I’m not going,” she said, trying to nip the situation before it gained any more momentum.
There was a beat of silence on the other end, followed by the faint, rhythmic rumble of a car engine idling.
“That is… unfortunate,” he murmured, his tone shifting from professional to something uncomfortably persistent. “Especially since I am currently parked directly in front of your building.”
Samira’s breath hitched, her heart giving an unhelpful, traitorous lurch against her ribs.
He what?
“Oh,” she managed, her voice tight.
“Yeah… oh,” he echoed, his voice dropping into that low, casual register that always made her pulse spike.
Samira cursed Trinity Santos into the afterlife. It was a setup, plain and simple; and she had fallen for it, even as she sat there in her pajamas, half-finished dinner still on the table.
“Give me ten,” she said, forcing her voice into a mask of professional indifference to hide the frantic scramble already taking hold.
“Take whatever time you need,” he replied, and she could practically hear the faint, infuriating hint of smugness in his tone.
She ended the call and stood frozen for a second, staring at the screen. Get a grip, Samira, she told herself firmly.
She bolted into her bedroom, shedding her pajamas in a flurry of movement. She scrambled through her closet, shoving hangers aside with unnecessary violence. Why was she so nervous? It was just drinks. A group outing.
Catching her reflection in the mirror; hair dishevelled, skin flushed, she quickly looked away, annoyed by her own reaction. It’s a dumb, forced social obligation, she lied to her reflection while pulling a cute top over her head. But the lie tasted bitter. Deep down, she knew the truth: Dr. Abbot was waiting downstairs, and that simple fact had transformed her quiet evening into a minefield of anticipation.
She combed through her hair, smoothing it into something presentable, and applied a quick swipe of eyeshadow and lipstick. There. That was enough. She didn’t need to look like she was trying, even if her heart was racing a marathon in her chest.
Grabbing her bag and phone, she strode toward the entrance with newfound resolve, already rehearsing her cool, indifferent greeting. She reached for the doorknob, but her foot caught on the edge of the rug, and she stumbled, finally glancing down.
Dammit. She was still wearing her fuzzy slippers. The sight of them; ridiculously out of place against her outfit; felt like a slap of reality. She let out a sharp, frustrated breath, pivoting back toward the hallway to frantically hunt for her nice shoes.
Dr. Jack Abbot was leaning against his vehicle; a massive, imposing pickup truck that felt quintessentially him. Samira didn’t know much about cars, but she could appreciate that this one was undeniably impressive. Her nerves, which had been frayed to the point of snapping only minutes ago, settled slightly as she realized he wasn’t alone. Dana was standing beside him, a sight that turned Samira's internal panic into genuine relief.
She approached them with a smile that felt significantly more natural than the one she had practiced in the mirror.
“Dana! You’re coming, too?” Samira asked, genuinely pleased.
Dana beamed, her expression bright. “Yes… these fools finally got to me. And Dr. Whitaker made the most ridiculous puppy eyes at me until I cracked,” she laughed.
Samira’s gaze drifted toward Abbot. He was watching her, his arms crossed over his chest, his crisp white T-shirt pulled taut across his broad shoulders, dark blue jeans that fit him just a little too well. That lopsided smile playing on his lips made her stomach do a slow, traitorous somersault that she desperately tried to suppress.
“Good evening,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that seemed to vibrate right through her. He gestured toward the truck. “Mikey’s waiting on us.”
Samira took a steadying breath, fighting to keep her expression neutral as she walked past him. The scent of his cologne; something crisp and clean, trailed after him, clashing with the cool night air that did absolutely nothing to dim the sudden, scorching heat creeping up her neck. She climbed into the high cab, careful to keep her movements composed, though she felt his gaze lingering on her all the way up.
“I’m not staying long,” Dana warned from the back seat, her voice firm. “My husband is coming to pick me up as soon as he gets off work.”
Abbot chuckled, shifting the truck into gear with effortless grace. “I’ll convince him to have a drink with us while he’s here.”
Dana rolled her eyes, leaning back against the leather seat. “Yeah, as if that will work.”
Samira watched Abbot out of the corner of her eye as he steered them onto the main road with practiced confidence.
“So,” Samira started, deciding to focus on the logistics to distract herself from his proximity. “Who pointed a gun at Dr. Robby to get him to agree to this? Because there is no way he did that voluntarily.”
Abbot’s lips quirked into a smirk, his eyes momentarily flicking toward her before returning to the road.
“Let’s just say Trinity has developed some very persuasive techniques since the start of her shift…” Dana snorted from the backseat.
Samira glanced in the rearview mirror and caught Dana’s expression; a knowing, smug glint that suggested she was privy to secrets Samira was definitely not. Unsettled, Samira looked back through the windshield.
Abbot pulled into a tight spot and killed the engine. As they climbed out, Samira caught sight of Dr. Robby stepping out of his own vehicle nearby. He spotted them immediately and began walking over, pausing to wait for them to close the distance.
Samira took in the Booze Nook with a grimace.
From the outside, the warped wooden doors and flickering pink neon sign had suggested a charming, rustic saloon; inside, it was a sensory assault. The place felt trapped in a sweaty 90’s time warp. The music was less of a soundtrack and more of a physical threat; the bass was a relentless thumping that vibrated through the floorboards and pressed uncomfortably against her chest.
She instinctively lingered near the entrance, scanning the crowded room, she finally spotted them. They had done a surprisingly good job of carving out a space, having pushed several mismatched tables together in a distant corner to form a makeshift island in the chaos.
As they neared the corner, the group erupted in a wave of boisterous noise.
"Finally!" Donnie yelled, brandishing a half-empty pitcher like a trophy as they drew closer. Mel offered Samira a warm, genuine smile that eased some of the tension in her shoulders. Samira grinned back; maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.
Before she could settle in, Trinity appeared like a force of nature, pressing a condensation-slicked bottle of beer into Samira’s hand with a mischievous, knowing wink.
"Drink up, nun! You’re not here to analyze the floorboards," she commanded, before spinning around to snag a protesting Dr. Garcia and hauling her toward the strobe-lit chaos of the dance floor.
Samira took a sip, the cold, sharp bite of the beer soothing her dry throat. She retreated to the only empty chair at the corner booth, finding herself abruptly sandwiched between Dr. Langdon and Dr. Abbot.
They were deep in a heated, technical argument about football; something about defensive line schemes and blown coverage… but Samira barely registered the words. Her attention was entirely hijacked by the proximity of the man to her right.
Dr. Abbot was leaning in, his shoulder occasionally brushing hers as he gestured. He looked impossibly good out of his scrubs; a simple white T-shirt that clung to his frame in a way that felt entirely too distracting. The crisp fabric hit his shoulders perfectly, and the way the sleeves hugged his biceps; hinting at the strength he used daily in the trauma bay; made her heart stutter.
Yes; maybe she was harbouring a crush. A quiet, carefully buried infatuation that had taken root in her first week at the hospital. She’d spent months sealing it behind a wall of clinical detachment. Seeing him like this felt… wrong. Or at least forbidden. Like she’d stumbled onto a version of him she wasn’t meant to see.
“You’re awfully quiet, Samira,” Jack said, leaning in just enough for his voice to slip beneath the roar of the music. The sudden attention made her breath catch. “Don’t tell me you’re not a football fan either.”
“I… I prefer when the stakes are a little less abstract,” she said, aiming for lightness and not quite finding it.
A low chuckle rolled from him, warm and unhurried. “A pragmatist. I should’ve known.” He held her gaze a beat too long, hazel eyes catching the neon blues and purples around them.
Heat crept up her neck, sharp and immediate. She looked away, focusing on the rest of the group.
Dana had claimed a seat beside Dennis, who was wearing an out of character T-shirt. As Samira watched them, she caught his gaze flickering; sharp and longing, to the left. She followed the line of his sight, her eyes landing on Dr. Robby, who was currently doubled over, laughing at something Jack Abbot was saying.
When Samira glanced back at Dennis, he looked uncharacteristically sheepish, his posture stiffening as if he’d been caught in a crime. She tilted her head, a slow realization dawning on her. Oh, poor boy. That looked like a disaster in the making.
The night was turning out to be a graveyard of professional boundaries.
She looked from Dennis to Robby, then back again, before her eyes involuntarily drifted to Jack. As if he had a sensor for her specific brand of attention, he looked up and caught her mid-stare. Instead of looking away, he offered a slow, deliberate wink that felt like a physical touch.
Her breath hitched, the air suddenly stuck in her lungs.
Across from him, Robby began to turn his head, sensing Jack’s shift in focus. Panic flared in Samira’s chest; she wasn't ready to be the subject of that particular spotlight. She pivoted faster than she ever had in a trauma bay, her gaze darting away to focus with intense, fake interest on whatever Perlah and Princess were discussing across the table. Her heart hammered a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs.
Hypocrite, she scolded herself. She was sitting there judging Dennis for his hopeless pining when she was doing the exact same thing. Dennis didn’t stand a chance for sure; Robby was unreachable; the kind of man who lived in a different stratosphere of work and depression.
Was Jack like that, too?
Just a gravitational pull she was too weak to resist, even though she knew the crash would be fatal?
Shit. Samira, no.
The cold beer suddenly felt like a very bad idea. She should have stayed home with her medical journals and her quiet, safe apartment.
Looking at Jack Abbot in a simple white T-shirt was dangerous, but knowing he was looking back was worse.
She definitely should have stayed home.
The table turned into a chaotic rotation of empty glasses and fresh rounds. Samira stopped counting somewhere between the second beer and the third round of tequila. When Abbot slid a shot of something gold and lethal toward her, he didn't even have to say a word; she just caught his eye, tipped her head back, and let the burn settle into a warm, buzzing glow.
Suddenly, dancing didn't just seem like a good idea; it seemed like the most logical thing she’d ever been asked to do. The "nun" had officially left the building, replaced by a version of Samira that actually remembered how to move.
“Let’s drag Huckleberry onto the floor! He’s being way too quiet!” Trinity declared, her energy practically crackling. She spun around, levelling a finger at the corner of the booth. “And you! You’re coming too, Dr. Robby!”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Robby groaned, raising his hands in a gesture of total surrender, his beer bottle still clutched like a shield. Beside him, Abbot leaned in, his shoulder shaking as he laughed at his friend’s misery.
Emboldened by the warm, golden hum of the alcohol, Samira didn’t wait for another invitation. She surged to her feet, joining the pack of women already closing in on the booth. With a mischievous grin, she reached out alongside them to snag a startled Dennis, yanking him up from his seat and hauling him toward the pulsing, neon heart of the dance floor.
And then, they just... let go.
They laughed until their lungs burned, shouting the lyrics to cheesy 90s anthems at the top of their lungs like it was a sacred rite. It was exhilarating; a sharp, electric kind of fun that made Samira realize just how dangerously rusty she’d become at actually living. Even Dennis, who looked like he’d been kidnapped for the first three minutes, eventually found his rhythm. Soon his arms were up, his inhibitions down, and Samira was right there with him, losing herself in the blur of the night.
Eventually, the heat of the crowd and the weight of the booze started to catch up. Her skin was prickling, and the room was spinning just a half-turn too fast. She was done with the alcohol; what she needed now was something drowned in ice and heavy on the sugar.
She ducked into the bathroom first, splashing cool water on her face until the world stopped wobbling. After patting her skin dry with a rough paper towel, she headed for the bar, leaning against the slightly sticky counter to flag down the bartender.
She didn't even have to turn her head to know the air had shifted.
The scent of him reached her first; something woodsy and sharp, like cedar and a hint of mint; preceding him like an atmospheric change. Abbot was suddenly right there, his shoulder nearly brushing hers as he leaned in to catch the bartender's eye.
The "nun" might have been gone, but the crush? That was still very, very much alive.
“Good to see you relax,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register that seemed to cut right through the thumping music.
“I didn’t want to come,” she admitted, clutching her cold glass of Coke like a shield.
He smirked, his eyes darkening as they traced the line of her face. “What changed your mind?”
Samira shifted on her feet, the sudden intensity of his gaze making it hard to breathe. She wasn't about to tell him the truth: that he hadn’t really given her a choice by parking that massive truck in front of her building, or that the real problem was her own inability to say no to him. She just shrugged, trying to keep her cool.
“I don’t regret it,” she said, offering a small, guarded smile.
He nodded, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression as the bartender slid a fresh beer across the wood. He took a slow, deliberate sip, never once breaking eye contact.
“Glad to hear it,” he murmured. “The group was saying it was a particularly brutal shift today.”
“Yeah,” she sighed, leaning back against the bar, her resolve wavering as the proximity of his arm, bare and solid in his white t-shirt, teased her senses. “I mean… when is it ever not?”
He let out a low laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Fair point.” He lingered there, comfortably close, and Samira found herself wishing the conversation would last for hours, even as her brain screamed at her to retreat to the safety of the dance floor.
“Sometimes I feel like...” she sighed, her gaze dropping to the condensation dripping down her glass. “I don’t know… like I’m just barely keeping my head above water.” She shook her head, feeling foolish for the sudden vulnerability.
“You’re too hard on yourself,” he said, his voice dropping, lose enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. “I’ve seen you work, Samira. You’re good at what you do; better than most.”
Samira offered a sheepish smile, fighting the urge to look away. He always did that; tossed out genuine, heavy compliments as if they were simple, casual observations. It was infuriating, mostly because she desperately wanted to believe every word.
“Thank you,” she murmured, the sincerity in his gaze hitting her harder than any of the drinks she’d had tonight. She gripped her glass tighter, trying to anchor herself before she got lost in the way his eyes seemed to track every movement she made. “I just find it hard to believe when others tell me I’m too slow… or… not keeping up.”
“Oh, screw them,” he said, his voice dropping, stripped of his usual casual tone.
Samira looked down, nervously tracing the rim of her glass. “Maybe the ED just isn’t for me.”
“We’ve been over this,” he countered, a firm shake of his head silencing her doubt.
“Yeah,” she conceded with a shrug, though the insecurity lingered. “But I have to look at my options.”
He tilted his head, his gaze demanding her attention until she was forced to look back up. “Then you analyze, you weigh your strengths, and you decide,” he said, his tone resolute. “But know this: if you walk away, the department loses a hell of a doctor.”
Samira shook her head, feeling a flush that had nothing to do with the bar’s humidity. “I appreciate that, Dr. Abbot…”
“Jack,” he corrected, a gentle, insistent edge to his voice.
She felt her resistance crumbling. He was standing close enough that she could smell the faint scent of mint and cedar on his skin, and the way he looked at her; as if she were the only person in the room, made her knees feel dangerously weak. She gave him a soft, tentative smile, the name tasting foreign and intimate on her tongue.
“Jack,” she repeated quietly.
His eyes deepened, and for a heartbeat, the thumping bass and the chaotic crowd seemed to vanish entirely, leaving only the two of them in the amber haze.
She pulled her gaze away from his, needing a second to steady herself before she lost her footing entirely. The man was dangerously distracting. Her eyes drifted across the bar in search of something; anything, familiar, and caught on Dennis and Dr. Robby at the far end of the counter.
She blinked, caught off guard. Huh.
They stood closer than she would’ve expected. Not doing anything overtly inappropriate, but the way they leaned in, voices low over their drinks… it felt oddly intimate.
Unexpected.
She glanced back at Jack, wondering if he’d noticed; and found him already watching her.
His gaze flicked in the same direction, nose scrunching slightly in quiet amusement. When he looked back at her, a crooked, playful smile tugged at his mouth, shoulders lifting in a casual shrug. I know nothing about that.
The gesture was so effortless it almost made her laugh, the tightness in her chest easing just enough for her to breathe again.
For a moment, it felt like they were in on something together; a small, unspoken secret that lingered between them, more intimate than anything the noise of the bar could touch.
“So… do you have plans?” he asked. The question was casual, but the way his gaze intensified suggested he was genuinely interested in the answer.
Samira sighed, her thumb brushing over the cool glass of her Coke. She stared into the amber-lit chaos of the bar, feeling the weight of the question settle between them.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice nearly lost beneath the pulse of the music. “I always thought I’d end up back in New Jersey… like it was just a matter of time. But now…” She let out a small breath, shaking her head. “I’m not so sure anymore.”
“There are options,” he said, quieter now, his focus settling fully on her. “You’re just not looking at all of them.” His gaze lingered; this time on purpose. “And if you decide to…” A small pause, like he was choosing his words more carefully than usual. “I’d be very interested in helping you figure that out.” The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. Then, almost as if remembering himself, he cleared his throat. “I can write you a strong recommendation. Robby would too.”
Samira rolled her eyes, the familiar flicker of annoyance breaking through. “I don’t know about that…” she said, hesitating as she searched for something safer to say. Calling Dr. Robby a dick; an arrogant asshole, hovered right there on her tongue, but she swallowed it. They were close. She wasn’t about to overstep. “I’m fairly certain Dr. Robby tolerates me at best.”
Jack seemed to catch the thought before she could voice it. He tilted his head, his expression softening. “Maybe he’s just hard on you because he knows what you’re capable of,” he said. “Because he knows you can do better.”
Samira let out a quiet snort, shaking her head as she took a long pull of her drink. “Maybe.”
She didn’t want to give Robby that kind of credit; even if a small, stubborn part of her wanted to believe Jack was right. Not just about her potential… but about what he seemed to see in her.
The way he was looking at her now; steady, intent, made the noise of the bar fade into something distant, almost irrelevant.
She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more: the idea of staying and failing, or the quieter, more dangerous thought that leaving might mean walking away from something she hadn’t yet found the courage to name.
She finished her drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass, and shifted in her seat, searching for something that felt like balance.
Fuck it.
“Want to dance?” she asked, the impulse sudden; an attempt to close the space between them.
He huffed a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “Nah, not tonight…” He shifted his weight slightly. “Slow dancing’s more my speed.”
“Maybe next time,” she said, softer now, a hint of disappointment slipping through before she could catch it.
“Maybe,” he echoed, nodding once. His gaze lingered; dark, unreadable.
The weight of it felt almost physical, like standing too close to a fire. Heat crept down her spine, her pulse turning uneven.
“I need air,” she muttered, turning before she could do something reckless; like reaching for him.
Or worse.
But he was faster. His fingers closed lightly around her elbow, firm enough to stop her. “It’s loud as hell in here anyway. Let’s get you some breathing room.”
He didn’t let go. Instead, his grip shifted, his other hand settling at the small of her back; a steady, grounding warmth. As they moved through the crowd, Samira’s gaze flicked across the room, catching, with a brief spark of curiosity, that both Robby and Dennis had disappeared from their corner.
Jack held the heavy, warped door open for her, waiting until she stepped out into the night before following. The transition was jarring; the roar of the bass died away, replaced by the cool, hushed stillness of the parking lot. Samira took a sharp, grateful breath of the night air, the chill finally settling the frantic flutter in her chest.
She leaned back against the cool brick of the building, the rough texture a sharp contrast to the warmth still radiating from where his hand had been on her back. He settled beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers; a small, static-charged contact that made her breath hitch.
She caught herself staring. It would have been infinitely easier if he’d stayed inside, buried in the noise and the crowd, instead of standing here in the quiet where every small detail seemed magnified. Even his profile in the moonlight was unfairly attractive; the sharp line of his jaw, the slight bridge of his nose, and the way his grey-streaked hair fell in soft, restless waves.
He was older, a seasoned attending with a life and a reputation that felt light-years away from her own uncertainty. And yet, she could no longer hide from the reality of it. The chemistry between them wasn't just a figment of the bar's loud music or the alcohol; it was a humming, undeniable frequency that made it nearly impossible to look away.
As if sensing her scrutiny, Jack shifted, turning his body fully toward her. He closed the distance between them, leaning a forearm against the wall beside her head, effectively boxing her in. He looked down at her, his expression shifting from casual to something far more piercing. He didn't move back.
“You’ve been staring at me for a full minute, Samira,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that made her insides coil. He traced her face with his gaze, challenging and soft all at once. “Is there something on my face, or are you just trying to decide if I’m worth the trouble?”
The air between them felt thick, charged with the kind of honesty that terrified her. She knew he wasn't just making conversation; he knew exactly what the look in her eyes meant, and the fact that he was leaning into it; rather than stepping back to preserve their professional line; suggested he might be feeling the exact same pull.
“That’s a really good question,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She looked up at him, fully aware of the risk, and let her hand move without conscious thought. Her fingertips brushed the side of his face, then settled on a small, stray curl near his ear.
He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let out a slow, steady exhale, his eyes drifting shut for a fraction of a second as he leaned into her touch. It was a surrender that surprised them both, a silent admission that the distance they’d been trying to maintain had completely dissolved.
“It’s late…” he murmured, his voice sounding rougher, closer to a rasp than a whisper. He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his hand sliding from the wall to rest near her shoulder, thumb grazing the strap of her top. “Want me to take you home?”
Samira’s breath hitched, her eyes widening as the question hung in the cool night air. The sudden shift in tone felt like a splash of ice water. Oh. Was this it? Was he offering her an out, or was he already regretting the spark they’d just fanned into a flame? Her mind raced, the exhilarating heat of the moment curdling into a sharp, painful sting of rejection.
But then, he leaned closer, his proximity turning the cool night air hot again. His eyes searched hers with a deliberate, hungry intent that left no room for misunderstanding.
“You could offer me a cup of tea…” he murmured, his voice dropping low enough that it seemed to vibrate through her skin. “And I would accept it. And we would ignore the tea.”
Oh.
The sting of rejection vanished as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by a sudden, dizzying rush of adrenaline. Her heart hammered against her ribs, no longer with anxiety, but with a terrifying, wonderful certainty. The professional boundary wasn't just blurred; it was non-existent.
“I… think I might be out of tea,” she managed to breathe, a shaky, breathless smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Jack’s gaze darkened, his hand coming up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against the sensitive skin of her neck.
“Coffee?” she whispered.
“Coffee works too…”
The sudden, frantic need to get him behind closed doors eclipsed every lingering doubt. She pulled away from the wall, her hand finding his; his palm rough, warm, and steady, and she led him toward where his car was parked.
As they passed the mouth of the alleyway that cut perpendicularly to the bar, a movement in the shadows caught Samira’s eye. Someone was pressed hard against the brick, caught in a frantic, desperate kiss. Jack caught her glance and followed it, a knowing, rakish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“The attendings are on fire tonight,” he mumbled, his voice a low, teasing vibration against her ear.
Samira slowed her pace, squinting into the gloom. She shot him a confused look, but then she glanced back over her shoulder, the mouth of the alley slightly further away now. She looked again, focusing on the silhouette of the man pinning someone against the wall. The broad shoulders, the way he carried himself; yep. That was definitely Dr. Robby, and he was currently receiving a very enthusiastic, hands-on kiss from someone whose fingers were tangled deep in his hair.
Damn. Was it?... wait…
The absurdity of it, combined with the electric thrill of her own secret, hit her all at once. She looked back at Jack, her grin widening into something mischievous and genuinely bright. She didn't say a word, just squeezed his hand tight before climbing into the passenger side of his car.
Samira sat back, watching the streetlights stretch into long, blurry streaks as he drove.
She had never planned for this. Her life had been constructed like a surgical procedure: sterile, ordered, and strictly contained. She had repeated the mantra to herself until it was law; that relationships were nothing more than a distraction.
But as Jack shifted the car into gear, the low rumble of the engine vibrating through the cabin, that meticulously crafted plan felt less like a blueprint and more like a flimsy, transparent lie.
As she clicked the lock shut on her front door, the reality of the situation hit her. She stood in the small entryway, breath hitching, while Dr. Jack Abbot stood in the middle of her living room.
He wasn't rushing; he was looking around with a slow, curious intensity that made her apartment feel suddenly small and exposed.
Her eyes darted to the coffee table. Her half-eaten leftovers sat there, pathetic and cold, a stark reminder of her solitary night before he’d called. She winced, the image of it cringing in her mind.
"I was having dinner," she blurted out, gesturing vaguely toward the plate, "when you called."
Jack turned to her, his expression softening into a slow, crooked smile. "I can see that. I’m just glad you decided to leave it behind."
"Yeah…" she whispered. Seeing him standing in her private space felt surreal, and suddenly, the air turned heavy with a new kind of awkwardness. Was this a mistake? "Why did you want to come here? With me?"
He watched her for a long moment, then shifted his weight "So," he murmured, his voice low and testing the water. "We are going to address the fact that I’m older than you and, more importantly, your attending, right now?"
"Maybe we should," she countered, though her voice lacked any real conviction.
"I’ve been flirting with you for a long time now," he said plainly.
Her breath hitched, leaving her lungs in a sudden rush. He had? The realization hit her like a physical blow. Oh. Oh. Damn. She bit her lip, suddenly hyper-aware of his presence;
She’d had a crush on him, a secret she’d safely tucked away as an impossibility. But now, with his confession hanging in the air, the pieces fell into place with dizzying clarity. The lingering smiles, the specific, heavy way he’d offer praise, the way he seemed to hover just a second too long near her… it hadn't been her imagination. It was all right there, vivid and undeniable.
Jack Abbot was a force of nature: magnetic, hyper-competent, and a war veteran who balanced his shifts at the Pitt with work as a SWAT physician for the Pittsburgh PD. He was a handful in every sense of the word.
She looked at him, searching for the joke, but found only a quiet, steady resolve. How could a man like that possibly take her seriously?
“Why?” The word slipped out before she could stop it.
Jack took a few measured steps toward her, the space between them shrinking until the atmosphere felt charged, humming with the intensity of his focus.
“Why?” He shook his head, his brow furrowing as if the question itself was the most confusing thing he’d heard all night. “You’re this… beautiful intelligent woman.”
His hand lifted slowly, reaching out as if to cradle her face. He paused, his fingers hovering just a breath away from her skin, trembling with a restraint that felt more intimate than a touch.
“You’re headstrong, funny… competent,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, resonant register that seemed to pull the air right out of the room. He held her gaze with an intensity that laid her defences bare.
“And I…” He broke off, a flicker of self-deprecation crossing his features before his hand fell back to his side. He offered her a soft, tentative smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. “I’m the one who should be wondering why you asked me for tea in the first place.”
“Coffee…” she corrected, her voice barely a breath.
“Coffee,” he nodded, his expression hardening into something more grounded. “Yes, I am older. Yes, I am an attending. Yes, this is an HR nightmare.” He shrugged, his shoulders broad and steady, as if he were discussing a diagnosis rather than his own reckless choices. “But if you’re asking me if I’m going to walk away from this because of a policy manual…” He took a step forward, closing the final inch of space between them. “The answer is no.”
Her breath hitched, a jagged sound in the quiet room. This was real. The man who commanded the night shift with precision was standing in her living room, unravelling.
“I don’t do hookups,” she managed to say, her voice barely steady.
He tilted his head, his gaze searching hers with an intensity. “I’m too old for games,” he agreed, his voice a low gravel. “But I’m not going to pretend this is easy. I would love to; God, Samira, I want to, but I am painfully aware that we’re slow dancing in a burning room.”
She stared at him, stunned by the raw admission. “Is that a song?”
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Maybe.” He shrugged, his shoulders broad and imposing in the dim light. “I’m not usually a jealous man, but I am possessive, and I am protective. You need to know that. If you decide to do this, you’re mine. As I am yours.”
The weight of his words slammed into her, and her heart skipped, then hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. “Isn’t that a bit early to decide…?”
“Yeah” His eyes darkened, locking onto hers with a possessive heat that left no room for doubt. He reached out, his thumb brushing along her jawline; a touch that felt like a searing brand. “But we’re both adults. We’ll just have to keep on communicating about it.”
Samira nodded, her heart racing. It was terrifying, yet the desire to be closer to him was an ache she could no longer suppress. She reached out, finding his hand and pulling him toward the living room. Before he could settle, she hurried to the kitchen to dispose of her pathetic plate of leftovers, desperate to clear the remnants of her solitary life before returning to him.
When she walked back in, Jack was waiting. But instead of sitting beside her on the couch, he took a seat on the coffee table directly in front of her, closing the distance until their knees were touching.
“I need you to understand one more thing,” he said, his voice dropping to a raw, vulnerable register that she’d never heard.
Samira searched his face, seeing a shadow of something deep and jagged beneath his surface. “Okay,” she whispered.
He looked away for a heartbeat, his jaw tightening as if bracing for impact. “I lost my wife years ago. It’s… something that stays with you. It changes how you see the world.”
She knew. The whispers and rumours had circulated through the ED hallways, though they were always hushed in his presence.
He locked eyes with her again, his gaze piercing. “I don’t hold on to things lightly, Samira. I don’t jump into this on a whim. If I’m here, in your living room, crossing this line… it’s because I’ve already decided you’re worth the risk.”
The weight of his confession hung between them, heavy and sacred. He wasn't just talking about a fleeting attraction; he was exposing the history he kept locked behind his professional mask and the profound fear that came with the prospect of opening up again.
Samira held his gaze, her heart hammering against her ribs. She needed to be sure; for both of them.
“As long as you don’t treat me as a replacement,” she whispered, the vulnerability in her voice surprising even her.
Jack leaned forward, the distance between them almost vanishing. His expression shifted from guarded to fiercely intent, his eyes searching hers as if memorizing every detail of her face.
“Never,” he breathed, his voice a low, gravelly vow that resonated in the quiet room.
The single word carried the weight of a thousand promises. He didn't offer a platitude or a quick reassurance; he offered the truth. It was a terrifying, beautiful moment of clarity; a realization that, despite the risks, the hospital politics, and the ghosts of their pasts, he was choosing her.
She reached for his hand without thinking, her fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm, calloused, but firm, he opened his palm to her.
"Like you said… we communicate…” she whispered. He nodded, smiling.
TBC