Chapter Text
Jack Abbot was not nervous.
That was the official position.
It was a position supported by years of evidence, actually. Jack had worked codes with blood on his shoes and someone else’s panic in his ear. He had delivered bad news in rooms where the air felt too small. He had put his hands on people who were trying very hard to die and told everyone around him, calmly, what needed to happen next.
He did not get nervous.
He got irritated. He got tired. He got hungry in a way that made him personally resent anyone who said the word snack without producing one.
But nervous? No. Absolutely not.
“Room six is waiting on a repeat troponin,” Robby said, leaning against the central desk with the haunted relief of a day-shift employee close enough to freedom to taste it. “Room nine wants to leave AMA, but only because he wants a cigarette.”
Jack scanned the board with his arms folded over his chest. “Inspiring commitment to pulmonary medicine.”
Santos, already halfway into her jacket, snorted from the other side of the workstation. “He asked if nicotine patches come in extra strength.”
“Tell him the cigarette will still be there after his labs,” Jack replied.
Robby pointed at him with a discharge packet. “See? This is why patients love you.”
Jack gave him a look.
Robby smiled back. The ER moved around them in its usual shift-change disorder: monitors chirping, phones ringing, a resident speed-walking with a chart tucked under one arm, someone down the hall calling for more gauze. Beyond the ambulance bay doors, Pittsburgh had already gone dark around the hospital, city light smeared gold against the windows.
Jack usually liked the moment after shift change. Not the shift change itself. Shift change was a crime committed by people holding clipboards. But after. When the day shift cleared out, the night shift settled in. When the ER turned stranger, leaner, more honest. Jack understood tired people doing necessary things under bad lighting. He understood the rhythm of night work. The practical ugliness of it. The steadiness required.
Then the staff doors opened.
Robby glanced over first.
Jack did not look because Robby looked.
That would have been pathetic. He looked because the door opened. Because motion in an emergency department mattered. Because he was an emergency physician, noticing his environment was part of his job.
That was all.
You came in with your bag over one shoulder, badge clipped at your waist, coffee in hand, as if you had already made peace with whatever the next twelve hours intended to do to you. Navy scrubs. Hair pulled back, though a few pieces had already slipped loose near your face. Like, even your hair had decided it did not need to try that hard to look pretty.
Which was rude.
Honestly.
Jack looked back at the board. Immediately. Mostly.
“Hey, Robby,” you said. Friendly. Bright. Easy.
Robby lifted the discharge packet in greeting. “Hey, sunshine.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed before he could stop them.
Sunshine. Ridiculous nickname. Too accurate.
You smiled at Robby, and the ER seemed to get a little less miserable around the edges. Not because you were naïve. You weren’t. You were a nurse practitioner on night shift in a Pittsburgh ER; you knew exactly how ugly things could get. But you had this warmth about you anyway. This stubborn, impossible brightness that made people loosen their shoulders when you came near. It was one of the things Jack found most inconvenient about you. The warmth. The pretty was bad enough. The warmth was worse.
“You look like the day shift tried to kill you,” you told Robby.
“Day shift did try to kill me,” Robby said. “I survived out of spite.”
You pat his shoulder, “Proud of you.”
“Thank you. That means more from you than it ever could from him.” Robby tipped his head toward Jack.
Jack did not look up. “I’m moved.”
“You’re something,” Santos muttered.
You laughed. Small. Quick. Sunny.
Jack kept his eyes on the board with the discipline of a man who had, at one time or another, possessed self-respect.
Then you turned toward him. That was the problem. It was always the turning. The moment your attention found him and stayed. It was not dramatic. No music. No soft hospital lighting, because the ER lights were personally committed to making everyone look like they owed money to a corpse. You just turned. And your smile changed. Barely. It warmed. Softened. Went a little private around the edges, like seeing Robby was nice, but seeing Jack was something else. Something you were pleased about.
“Hey, Jack.” There it was. His name. One syllable. One very normal syllable that had belonged to him for fifty years without ever once causing cardiovascular instability.
Until you.
God, you were pretty.
Pretty smile. Pretty mouth. Pretty eyes looking right at him like he was not a difficult man under fluorescent lighting with a bad attitude and three pens in his pocket. Like he was someone you were genuinely happy to see.
Jack’s brain supplied one clean, professional thought:
Oh no.
Then nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Robby stopped talking. Santos stopped putting on her jacket. Jack became aware, with sudden and humiliating precision, that he was holding a pen between two fingers and had no memory of picking it up. He was fifty years old. Fifty. He was not doing this. He was not standing in the middle of an emergency department getting a schoolboy crush because a pretty nurse practitioner smiled at him with an extra half-degree of warmth. Except apparently he was.
“Hey,” Jack said.
One word. A simple word. A word he had used successfully for decades. It came out half a beat late. Your smile deepened. Not enough that anyone else should have noticed. Robby noticed. Of course, Robby noticed. Robby had the survival instincts of a raccoon and the observational skills of a gossip columnist.
“You good?” Robby asked.
Jack looked at him. “Fine.”
Robby’s brows lifted. “That was delayed.”
“It was not,” Jack said instantly.
Robby gave him a look, “You buffered.”
Santos looked down at her bag like it contained the secrets of the universe.
You stepped closer to the board, coffee in hand, eyes bright with amusement. “Long night already?”
Jack forced his attention back to the screen. Work. Work was safe. Work had lab values and imaging results, and patients who said things like, "It’s probably nothing," while it was actively becoming a problem. Work did not smile at him as if he were cute.
Were you smiling at him like he was cute?
No.
Probably not.
Maybe.
Jack hated this.
“It’s shift change,” he said. “So yes.”
You hummed. “That sounded almost cheerful.”
“That’s because you’re new to my range,” Jack replied.
Robby made a soft sound.
Jack felt your eyes flick back to him.
“Oh, I’m learning it,” you said.
That should not have done anything to him. It did. It did several things. Jack looked harder at the board, as if the board might open up and swallow him with dignity.
Santos slid her bag higher onto her shoulder. “Room four is yours, too, by the way. Kid with a forehead laceration from falling into a coffee table. Parents are nice, just nervous.”
Your focus shifted instantly. “How old?”
“Seven,” Santos answered.
“Bleeding controlled?” You asked.
She nodded. “Yeah. Topical anesthetic is on. He’s mostly mad we wouldn’t let him watch YouTube during triage.”
You smiled. “Valid.”
Jack looked at you before he could stop himself. That was another problem. You were pretty all the time, which was already unnecessary, but you were especially pretty when your face changed like that. When the smile stayed, but your eyes sharpened. When the sunny warmth became competence, it made him want to watch you work. It made him want to stand beside you. It made him want to say something so dry and clever you would laugh again.
He was obsessed.
Not in a concerning way.
Probably.
Professionally adjacent at worst.
You scanned the board, already settling into the rhythm of the night. “Room eight still waiting on lac repair?”
Jack blinked once. Room eight. Right.
Robby answered, “Knife slip. Bagel injury. No tendon involvement. Tetanus updated. Easy repair if the patient stopped describing the bagel as 'the aggressor.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Left thumb. Bagel won.”
Your mouth curved. “Bagels remain undefeated.”
Robby pointed between you and Jack. “That is exactly what he said earlier.”
Jack looked at him sharply. “No, it isn’t.”
Robby shrugged, “It basically is.”
“It was more concise when I said it,” Jack said to Robby.
You glanced at Jack, smile brightening. “You said bagels remain undefeated?”
Jack looked back at you, “I said the bagel had a clean record and motive.”
You laughed.
Jack’s grip tightened around the pen. There it was again. That laugh. Not loud. Not performative. Just yours. Warm and quick and pleased, and Jack immediately wanted to say something else. Anything else. Whatever it took to make it happen again.
Which was pathetic.
Which was none of Robby’s business. Which Robby absolutely noticed.
Jack looked at the board as if it had personally asked him to maintain professionalism.
“You can take room eight if you want,” Jack said. “Unless you want the forehead lac.”
“I’ll start with room eight.” You set your coffee down and reached for gloves. “I have a long-standing grudge against bread-related injuries.”
“That common for you?” Santos asked.
You pulled one glove free. “You’d be surprised how many people lose fights with brunch.”
Robby nodded gravely. “Medicine is about patterns.”
You pointed a finger at him, “Exactly.”
Jack watched you tug the glove halfway over your fingers, then pause as you looked around the counter.
“Pen?” you asked.
There were six pens within reach. Jack knew this because he had eyes, and because he had spent the last ten seconds attempting not to use them on you.
You reached for the one in his hand.
His hand.
The pen he had apparently been holding like a fool since the moment you walked in and turned the word Jack into a workplace hazard.
You plucked it neatly from between his fingers. “Borrowing this,” you said.
Jack looked at your hand. Then at you. “That’s mine.”
“I know.” You said it lightly. Casually. With the tiniest flicker of mischief, like you knew exactly what you were doing and had decided to be adorable about it.
Adorable.
Great.
Excellent.
Now he was using words like adorable in his own head.
He was going to walk into traffic.
Robby inhaled. Santos turned away, smiling into her collar.
Jack could have taken the pen back. Easily. He was a grown man. A physician. A professional. He had opposable thumbs and authority. Instead, he stood there and let you clip it to the V-neck of your scrub top, as if it belonged to you now.
Which, apparently, it did. Along with his attention. And possibly his remaining dignity.
“You always steal from attendings?” he asked.
“Only my favorites.”
His chest did something stupid. Immediate. Bright. Embarrassing. Like a dog hearing the word walk.
Jack stared at you.
You stared back, smiling like you had said nothing more dangerous than the weather forecast.
Robby made a sound that might have been a sound of pain.
Jack recovered late. Too late. “I’m your favorite attending?”
Your eyebrows lifted. “One of my favorites.”
“One of.” He echoes.
You grin, “Don’t get greedy.”
God.
God, you were cute.
You were cute when you teased him. Cute when you smiled. Cute when your eyes stayed on his like you were waiting to see what he would do with the line you had handed him. He wanted to do something with it. He wanted to be smooth. Normal. Jack Abbot, competent flirt, fully operational.
Instead, he said, “I’m not greedy.”
Robby coughed.
Santos muttered, “Wow.”
Your smile turned delighted.
Jack felt heat climb the back of his neck. He was fifty years old. Fifty. He had back pain if he slept wrong. He owned a real winter coat. He had strong opinions about hospital coffee and residents who said “quick question” before ruining his night. He was not blushing because a pretty woman implied he was her favorite.
Except he absolutely was.
A little.
Maybe.
Medically insignificant.
You tucked the chart for room eight against your side. “I’ll return your pen.”
His eyes narrowed, “People always say that before committing theft.”
You lay a hand over your heart, “You wound me, Jack.”
His name again. Soft. Teasing. Sunny.
He was not going to survive this shift.
There were witnesses. There were patients. There was a seven-year-old in room four with numbing gel on his forehead and probably a stuffed dinosaur waiting at home. Jack needed to behave like a person whose nervous system had passed basic inspection.
He gave you a flat look. “Go fix the bagel injury.”
“Yes, doctor.” You turned away before he could decide whether the title helped or made it worse.
It made it worse.
Obviously.
You started down the hall, walking with the easy purpose of someone who liked her job even when the job was absurd. His pen was clipped to your scrubs. Your coffee sat abandoned at the desk. Your hair had slipped a little more toward your cheek.
Jack looked away. Then, because he was weak, he looked back.
You glanced over your shoulder. Smiled. At him. Again.
Jack’s brain supplied one helpful observation:
Pretty.
Then, slightly louder:
Oh, that’s bad.
You disappeared into room eight.
Robby waited exactly two seconds. “Oh,” he said, voice low and delighted. “This is bad.”
Jack kept his eyes on the board. “Go home.”
“This is really bad.” Robby beamed.
Jack glared, “Robby.”
Robby lifted both hands, discharge packet still trapped in one of them. “I’m leaving. I’m gone. I just want to say I support whatever this is.”
“There is no this,” Jack replied.
Santos slipped past them toward the staff doors, still smiling. “Sure.”
Jack turned his head. “Do not encourage him.”
“I’m not encouraging him.” Santos pushed the door open with her shoulder. “I’m observing.”
“That’s worse.” Jack sighed.
Robby started backing toward the exit, grin spreading like a disease. “For the record, I always knew it would take someone terrifyingly cheerful to ruin you.”
Jack’s stare sharpened. “She is not terrifyingly cheerful.”
Robby stopped. His grin got worse.
Jack realized his mistake.
Santos, already through the doorway, poked her head back in. “Oh, Abbot.”
“Leave,” Jack said.
Robby laughed and followed her toward freedom. “Good luck, man.”
“I don’t need luck,” Jack said.
Robby shook his head, “Sure.”
From down the hall, your voice carried back toward the desk. “I heard that.”
Robby disappeared through the staff doors, laughing.
Santos followed, shaking her head.
Jack stood at the board with one less pen, one thoroughly compromised sense of composure, and the lingering sound of your voice still sitting somewhere behind his ribs.
You had been in the building for less than four minutes. You had greeted Robby like a normal person. You greeted Jack as if you were happy he existed. You had stolen his pen, called him one of your favorite attendings, smiled over your shoulder, and walked away as if he were supposed to continue living a normal life afterward.
Jack looked back at the board and tried to remember what he had been doing before you arrived. Room six, troponin. Room nine, cigarette. Room four, forehead lac. Room eight, you.
No.
Not room eight, you.
Room eight, thumb laceration.
Jack exhaled slowly through his nose. He was fifty years old. He was not doing this. Then, from inside room eight, you laughed at something the patient said, bright and warm enough to reach the desk. Jack closed his eyes.
He was absolutely doing this.
Robby and Santos left. Technically, they left. Physically, they exited through the staff doors, took their day-shift exhaustion and their smug little witness statements with them, and vanished into the Pittsburgh night like responsible adults with normal sleep schedules. Emotionally, unfortunately, Robby remained. Specifically, Robby’s voice remained in Jack’s head, delighted and insufferable.“This is really bad.”
Jack glared at the patient board. The board did not deserve it. Probably. Room six still needed a repeat troponin. Room nine still wanted a cigarette badly enough to make leaving against medical advice sound like a lifestyle choice. Room four had a seven-year-old with numbing gel on his forehead and parents who were probably Googling “forehead scar childhood trauma permanent” in the corner. Room eight had you.
No.
Room eight had Darren. Thumb laceration. Bagel-related. No obvious tendon involvement. Vitals stable. Tetanus updated. Room eight also had you, but that was not a clinically relevant detail. Jack wrote something on the back of a folded patient sticker with a pen that was not his favorite pen because you had stolen his favorite pen and clipped it to your scrubs like a tiny flag of conquest. He stared at the words he had just written. They were illegible. Great. Excellent. Very physician of him.
From room eight, your laugh carried into the hall.
Jack stopped writing.
Not for long.
Half a second, maybe.
A medically insignificant pause.
But there it was again, that quick, warm sound that seemed to slip through all the noise of the ER and find him anyway. Monitors could beep. Phones could ring. Someone could yell for a blanket warmer key that had been missing since 2019. It did not matter. You laughed, and Jack heard it. He was fifty years old. He was not standing at the central desk waiting to hear a pretty nurse practitioner laugh from inside a treatment room.
That would be embarrassing.
That would be juvenile.
That would be exactly what he was doing.
“Abbot.”
Jack looked up.
Ellis stood across the counter with a tablet in one hand and the expression of someone who had been waiting just long enough to become suspicious.
“What?” Jack asked.
Ellis blinked at him. “Room four. Forehead lac. Do you want me to bring the suture tray, or are we doing glue?”
“Depends on depth,” Jack said, automatically. “I’ll look after topical has had enough time if it approximates cleanly, glue. If not, sutures.”
Ellis nodded, then glanced past him toward room eight.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
Her gaze returned to him, innocent in a way no one on night shift had ever been innocent. “I didn’t say anything.”
From room eight came Darren’s voice, aggrieved and carrying. “I’m just saying, nobody warns you about bagels.”
Then your voice, bright and steady, “That’s because people who survive them are too ashamed to speak publicly.”
Ellis looked toward room eight again.
Jack looked at the board like it might save him.
It did not.
Your laugh came again, softer this time, and something in Jack’s chest sat up like a golden retriever hearing its favorite person come home.
Absolutely not.
He was not doing golden retriever metaphors now. He was a grown man. He had a mortgage. He had lower back pain if he sat in the wrong chair for too long. He was not wagging internally because you laughed at a bagel joke.
Ellis tapped the counter with the side of the tablet. “You good?”
Jack pointed at the hallway without looking at her. “Room four.”
“Right.” She took two steps back, still smiling. “Glue or sutures.”
“Ellis.”
“Going.” She went.
Jack exhaled through his nose and forced himself to check the next column on the board. Normal. He was normal. Everything was normal.
Then you appeared in the doorway of room eight. “Jack?”
His head lifted too fast.
Too fast.
God.
Your smile flickered, like you noticed. Of course, you noticed. You noticed everything. You were terrible that way. And pretty. Also terrible that way.
Jack looked at your face for exactly half a second too long. Hair slipping a little more around your face now. Eyes alert. Mouth curved just enough to make him think you were trying not to smile at him.
Were you trying not to smile at him?
Was that a thing that was happening?
No.
Maybe.
He needed a CT.
“Yeah?” he said.
Good. Fine. One syllable. Reasonably normal.
You held up your gloved hands slightly. “Can I borrow your eyes for room eight? I’m not worried about the tendon, but I’d like one more look before I close.”
Jack liked that. He liked it immediately and deeply, which was annoying. You were confident. That was the thing. You did not ask because you were unsure of yourself in a way that needed rescuing. You asked because you were good enough to know when a second set of eyes mattered. No ego. No performance. No pretending a thumb laceration was beneath you or above you.
Just good medicine.
Competence looked unfairly pretty on you.
That was becoming a theme.
“Yeah,” he said, pushing away from the desk. “Let’s look.”
You waited for him at the doorway, and he had to pass close enough to catch the scent of your coffee and something clean underneath it. Soap, maybe. Shampoo. Whatever it was, it was not loud. It was just there, warm and human and yours. Jack kept his eyes forward with the determination of a man walking past an active hazard.
Darren sat on the stretcher in room eight with his left hand resting on a blue surgical towel, his thumb wrapped loosely in gauze. He was somewhere in his thirties, pale under the room lights, wearing a Penguins hoodie and the grim expression of a man forced to confront his own mortality by breakfast food.
He looked up as Jack entered. “Are you a doctor?”
“This is Dr. Abbot,” you said, coming around to Darren’s injured side. “He’s going to take one look and confirm your bagel didn’t do anything impressive.”
Darren’s eyes widened. “It did plenty impressive.”
Jack stepped to the sink and washed his hands. “Most bagels lack surgical ambition.”
You laughed under your breath.
Jack nearly dropped the paper towel.
Not visibly.
Internally, yes.
Internally, he was a disaster scene with a triage tag.
Darren looked between you and Jack. “I don’t know. This one had bad intentions.”
You lifted the edge of the gauze gently. “Darren believes the bagel had motive.”
“The bagel had opportunity,” Darren said. “Means. Motive. A serrated knife nearby. That’s basically a conspiracy.”
Jack moved beside you and looked at the wound. Clean laceration across the thumb pad. Bleeding controlled. No gaping tendon. No obvious contamination beyond the usual indignity of bread crime. You had already irrigated it well.
“Can you bend it for me?” Jack asked.
Darren obeyed, wincing dramatically before the movement even started.
You watched the thumb, not Darren’s face, your expression focused and calm. “Good. Now straighten.”
Darren straightened it.
Jack glanced at you. “Sensation?”
“Intact on both sides,” you said. “Cap refill good. Full range. Strength limited by pain, but not function.”
He nodded. You were right. Of course, you were right. You usually were, which would have been less attractive if you were smug about it. But you were not smug. You were just steady. Warm. Sunny, yes, but not careless with it. You brought brightness into the room without making anyone feel like they had to perform being okay. Jack had seen you do it with crying parents, drunk college kids, scared older women with chest pain, construction workers who only admitted pain when their wives threatened them, and now Darren, who a bagel had emotionally bested.
You made people feel less stupid for being afraid.
God, he liked that about you.
God, he liked you.
No.
Absolutely not.
Dangerous wording.
He was attracted to you. That was all. He admired your clinical style. He enjoyed your company. He noticed your laugh because it was loud enough to be heard through a door.
It was not that deep.
You smiled down at Darren and said, “Good news. You still have a very functional thumb.”
Darren looked relieved for approximately one second, then suspicious. “But will it be ugly?”
Jack opened his mouth.
You got there first. “Darren,” you said seriously, “you fought a bagel and lived. A tiny scar gives you credibility.”
Darren considered that.
Jack looked at you.
Mistake.
Your face was bright with barely contained amusement, but your hands were steady as you adjusted the towel beneath Darren’s thumb. The room lights should have been terrible on everyone. They were terrible on Jack. He knew this. They made him look like he had been assembled from old coffee grounds and regret.
On you, somehow, they softened.
Or maybe he was just too far gone to be objective.
Probably that.
Definitely that.
You glanced up and caught him looking.
Jack’s brain threw itself down a stairwell.
You did not call him on it. Not exactly.
Your mouth just curved. Tiny. Knowing.
Pretty.
He looked back at Darren’s thumb like it contained answers. “Closure is fine,” Jack said. “I agree. No tendon involvement.”
You nodded once. “Okay.”
“Good call checking before you closed.” The words were clinical. Normal. Reasonable.
You looked up at him again, and your smile warmed so quickly it was like watching sunlight hit glass. “Thanks, Jack.”
There.
That.
His name in your mouth, paired with that smile, soft and pleased and too sincere for his survival.
Jack had been complimented before. He had been thanked before. He had been flirted with by people significantly less subtle than you in places significantly less appropriate than a treatment room.
None of that had prepared him for “Thanks, Jack”.
He was fifty years old.
He was not going to get flustered because a pretty woman accepted a professional compliment.
Except he had.
He was.
He could feel it happening.
Darren looked between them again. His eyes narrowed. “Oh,” Darren said.
Jack looked at him. “Do not.”
Darren raised his uninjured hand. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You said ‘oh.’” Jack replied.
Darren looks at you, “That’s barely a word.”
You pressed your lips together, clearly fighting a smile.
Jack pointed at you without thinking. “Don’t encourage him.”
Your eyes widened with perfect innocence. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Jack glared.
“I’m preparing to repair his thumb.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed, “You’re smiling.”
“I smile while providing care.” You replied with a shrug.
Darren nodded. “She does. It’s very comforting.”
Jack gave him a flat look.
Darren leaned back against the stretcher, emboldened by gauze and your approval. “Honestly, Dr. Abbot, you could try it.”
You made a sound. Not a full laugh. Worse. A little choked, delighted thing that you tried to swallow and failed. Jack’s entire chest lit up like an idiot. That sound. He wanted to earn that sound again, too. Apparently, his wants were now very simple and very embarrassing. Make you laugh. Hear you say his name. Get his pen back.
Maybe.
Actually, no.
You could keep the pen.
What was happening to him?
“Darren,” Jack said, voice even, “I’m going to let her stitch you up now because she’s better company.”
Darren brightened. “See? That was almost a smile.”
“It was not,” Jack answered.
You tilted your head at Jack. “It was close.”
“It was not close,” Jack said, stripping off his gloves.
You shrug a shoulder, “Adjacent.”
“Don’t start.” He sighs.
Your grin turned quick and sunny. “Too late.”
He should have left right then. He had confirmed the wound. His work here was done. There were other patients, other rooms, other legitimate reasons to remove himself from the immediate vicinity of your face. Instead, he lingered for one second too long while you reached for the suture kit. Your gloved fingers moved carefully over the sterile packaging. Competent. Efficient. Gentle. You explained the local anesthetic to Darren in plain language, no condescension, no rush.
“Tiny pinch and burn first,” you said. “That sucks, but it's quick. After that, your thumb should stop yelling at you.”
“My thumb has a lot to say,” Darren said.
“I respect that. We’re going to lower the volume.” You nodded seriously.
Jack stared at you. Not obviously. Probably obviously. You were pretty doing nothing. That had been bad enough. You were prettier working. Focused. Warm. Sure of your hands. Laughing with a patient without ever losing the thread. Making the room easier to be scared in.
Jack was obsessed.
There it was.
Fine.
He could admit it privately.
He was obsessed.
Not in a concerning way. In a normal, adult, professionally disastrous way.
“Abbot?”
He blinked.
You were looking at him, eyebrows slightly raised.
Right. He was standing there like furniture. “Yeah?”
Your mouth twitched. “You need something?”
Several answers presented themselves. Most of them were inadvisable. All of them were insane.
“My pen,” he said, because apparently that was the best his brain could do.
You glanced down at the pen clipped to your scrub top, then back at him. “This pen?”
“My pen.” He repeated.
You clicked your tongue, “I’m using it.”
“You are not currently using it.” Jack pointed out.
“I’m emotionally using it.” You replied, not looking up.
Darren nodded. “That sounds valid.”
Jack slowly turned his head toward him. Darren looked away.
You smiled down at the suture tray, and Jack was once again furious about how cute you were. Not in a rational way. In a deeply inconvenient, puppy-love, ‘did she just smile because of me?’ a way that made him want to leave the room and also never leave the room again.
He was too old for this.
He was absolutely too old for this.
He was also, tragically, enjoying himself.
“You’ll get it back if my sutures impress you,” you said.
Jack folded his arms. “That sounds like extortion.”
“Motivation.” You correct him with a smile.
“I don’t negotiate with pen thieves.” He replied.
You shake your head sadly, “Shame. I’m very persuasive.”
Jack looked at you. You looked back. The moment lasted half a second. Maybe less. Just your eyes on his, amused and warm and a little challenging.
Then Darren cleared his throat. “Is this part of the treatment?”
Jack looked at him. “Unfortunately.”
You laughed.
Full laugh this time.
Bright enough to warm the whole ugly little treatment room.
Jack should not have been proud.
He was.
That was his laugh. He had earned that one. Darren had helped, technically, but Jack was willing to accept partial credit. You shook your head, still smiling as you picked up the syringe for the lidocaine. “Okay, Darren. Eyes on me if you don’t want to look. Tiny pinch.”
Darren turned his head away from his hand. “I’m brave, but I’m not that brave.”
“Reasonable.” You agreed.
Jack stepped back toward the door. “You’re good here.”
You glanced over your shoulder. “Yeah. Thanks.”
There it was again. Warm. Simple. Easy.
Jack nodded once, because nodding was safer than speaking, and left before he could do anything else embarrassing, like ask if you needed help opening a Band-Aid. The hallway felt cooler. Louder. Less you. He made it three steps before he stopped beside the supply cart and looked down at his hands.
Empty.
No pen.
No composure.
Very little dignity.
From inside room eight, he heard Darren say, “You have a very soothing voice. Has anyone told you that?”
Jack’s head turned before he could stop it.
Your laugh followed. “Not usually during hand repair.”
“I’m just saying. Very calm.”
“Thank you, Darren.” You replied, accepting the compliment.
A pause. Then Darren, lower but not low enough, said, “Does he always look at you like he’s trying to remember how words work?”
Jack closed his eyes.
Your laugh came next, amused and fond. “Dr. Abbot? He’s usually a lot smoother than that.”
Usually.
Jack stared at the wall.
Fantastic.
He was going to think about that for the next six hours. He went back to the board, picked up a different pen from the counter, and immediately hated it. Too light. Bad ink flow. Inferior in every measurable category.
Because you had his pen.
Because you had smiled at him.
Because you had called him Jack, and one of your favorites.
This was becoming a hostile work environment.
Jack scanned the board. Room six, troponin. Room nine, cigarette. Room four, forehead lac. Room eight, Darren. Room eight, you.
He corrected himself immediately.
Thumb laceration. Darren. Sutures underway.
Behind him, your laugh rang out one more time, sunny and easy and completely unfair.
Jack closed his eyes.
Fine.
He was obsessed.
Professionally adjacent, but obsessed.
By the time you came back from room eight, Jack had almost convinced himself he had recovered. Almost. Not fully. Not enough to pass a stress test. But enough to function as a physician, which was the bar he had decided to clear tonight. He had checked room six’s repeat troponin, redirected room nine from beginning a cigarette-based escape plan, and reviewed the note Ellis had started for room four’s forehead laceration. Adult behavior. Professional behavior. Evidence, frankly, of resilience.
Then you appeared at his elbow and set his pen down on top of the chart he was reading.
Jack looked at it.
Then at you.
You smiled, bright and easy. “Your pen survived.”
“Generous,” Jack said, picking it up. “Considering it was kidnapped.”
“Borrowed.” You correct him.
“Against its will.” He grumbled.
You shrugged, “It liked me better anyway.”
Jack looked at you. You looked back, entirely too pleased with yourself. Unfortunately, he believed you. Everything seemed to like you better. Patients. Nurses. Men named Darren who had recently lost battles with bagels. His pen. Probably the coffee machine, if given the chance. Jack clicked the pen once and looked back at the chart before his face betrayed him.
“It has terrible judgment,” he said.
Your smile widened. “No, it doesn’t.”
God.
There it was again. That sunny little confidence, like you knew exactly where the line was and had decided to dance on it in comfortable shoes.
Jack was fifty years old. He was not getting flustered over office supplies.
Or your smile.
Or the fact that you had said his pen liked you better, and some humiliating part of him had thought, same.
“How’s Darren?” he asked, because medicine was safer.
You leaned one hip against the counter beside him, close enough that his attention immediately and embarrassingly registered the distance.
“Four sutures,” you said. “Clean edges. He asked if scars make people mysterious.”
“And?”
“I told him it depends on the person and the lighting.” You answered.
Jack looked at you.
You looked back, mouth twitching.
Cute.
You were so damn cute it felt medically inadvisable.
“Nice closure,” he said.
Your face changed. Not dramatically. Just enough that he saw it: the tiny lift of pride, the pleasure you tried to tuck away because you were at work and grown and competent and not supposed to glow over a compliment. You glowed anyway.
Jack’s chest did something embarrassing.
“You checked?” you asked.
“I reviewed the repair.” He answered.
“You checked.” You said, smiling.
Jack narrowed his eyes, “I supervised the standard of care.”
“That sounds like checking.” You replied.
“It was a clinical glance.” Jack corrected.
You sighed dramatically, “A clinical glance at my sutures.”
Jack gave you a look. “Do you want the compliment or not?”
Your smile spread, sunny and victorious. “I do, actually.”
He should have been prepared for that. He was not. There was something disarming about the way you accepted kindness. No deflection. No awkward shove away. You just let yourself be pleased, and somehow that made giving it to you feel dangerously good.
“Then take it,” he said.
“I am.” You picked up Darren’s discharge paperwork from the printer tray and tucked it under your arm. “Thank you.”
Soft. Simple. Aimed right at him. Jack looked down at the chart before his face made any choices without supervision.
You did not leave right away. Of course you didn’t. Apparently, your purpose tonight was to linger in his personal orbit and slowly reduce him to a man with one functioning thought.
Pretty.
Pretty smile.
Pretty voice.
Pretty everything.
“You have room four next?” you asked.
Jack nodded, “Forehead lac.”
“The seven-year-old?”
Jack nodded again. “Topical’s had enough time.”
“Want backup?” You asked, tilting your head.
He looked at you. That was a normal offer. Professional. Helpful. Room four had anxious parents and a small child who probably did not want a stranger gluing his forehead shut. Having you there made sense. It made a lot of sense. Still, his brain, traitorous and deeply unserious, supplied:
She wants to come with me.
He shut that down immediately. “Sure,” he said.
One word. Normal. Excellent.
Your smile brightened.
Oh, that was bad.
You liked being useful. You liked being in the room. You liked the work, even when the work involved blood and fear and exhausted parents and children who had learned the hard way that coffee tables had edges. Jack liked that you liked it. He liked the way you stepped into ugly little moments with your sleeves pushed up and your face open, ready to make things less awful by inches.
You started toward room four, then glanced back. “Bringing the sacred pen?”
Jack looked down at it. Then at you. “Don’t make me regret complimenting your sutures.”
You grinned. “Too late.”
He followed you down the hall. That was another thing he was handling badly: the walking.
Not your walk specifically.
Well.
Yes, your walk specifically.
Not in an inappropriate way. Not in a way he let himself linger on. Just the rhythm of you moving through the department like you belonged to the night shift and somehow liked it. Like the ER could be chaotic and underlit and smelling faintly of antiseptic and old coffee, and still you found little places inside it to be happy.
You greeted Ellis as you passed. You tapped two fingers against the counter when Shen handed you a roll of tape without being asked. You smiled at an older woman on a transport stretcher, just a small passing smile, and the woman smiled back. Warm. Sunny. Easy to like.
Jack was not sure whether he wanted to kiss you or install warning signs around you.
Possibly both.
Room four was dimmer than the hall; the overheads softened slightly because someone had blessedly remembered that children did not need the full interrogation-light experience. The seven-year-old sat on the stretcher with his legs stretched out, sneakers blinking faintly every time he kicked his heels against the mattress. A strip of numbing gel sat over the cut near his hairline.
His mother stood beside him with one hand on his ankle, pretending not to be scared.
His father hovered near the wall.
The boy, Milo, looked at Jack and immediately frowned. “Are you the glue guy?”
Jack paused in the doorway. You made a tiny sound beside him. Jack glanced at you. Your mouth was pressed together, eyes bright. Do not laugh, he thought. You looked like you were absolutely going to laugh.
Jack turned back to the child. “I’ve been called worse.”
Milo squinted. “Are you good at it?”
Jack nodded, “Very.”
“That sounded braggy,” Milo said, sounding suspicious.
“It was accurate.” Jack replied.
This time you did laugh, softly, under your breath. Jack felt it land in the center of his chest.
Great.
Fantastic.
Now he was showing off for a seven-year-old because you were in the room. His life had taken several turns.
You stepped around him with a gentleness that shifted the room immediately. “Hi, Milo. I’m the person who makes sure the glue guy doesn’t get too full of himself.”
The boy looked at you.
And then he just… stopped.
His eyes went a little wide. His mouth parted slightly. His cheeks went pink beneath the ugly room lights.
Jack noticed immediately. The kid was looking at you like you had descended from the heavens with gauze, a pretty smile, kindness, and a very official air of medical authority.
Jack stared at him. Oh, good. Fantastic. He recognized that expression.
Same, kid. Deeply, humiliatingly, same.
Milo ducked his chin, suddenly very interested in the dinosaur’s tail. “Can she stay?” he asked.
His mother made a soft, embarrassed sound. “Buddy.”
You only smiled, gentle and bright, as if being adored by a seven-year-old in light-up sneakers were a perfectly normal part of patient care.
“I can stay,” you said. “Dr. Abbot is the glue expert, but I’m happy to provide moral support.”
Milo nodded gravely, still not quite looking at you directly.
Jack snapped on his gloves and looked at the ceiling for half a second. He was fifty years old. Fifty. And somehow, he was emotionally aligned with a child who probably still needed help opening applesauce pouches.
Excellent. Wonderful. Very dignified.
“What’s your dinosaur’s name?” you asked.
Milo’s fingers tightened around the toy. “Gregory.”
“Strong name,” you said.
Milo’s face brightened. “He’s brave.”
“I can tell.” You replied with a soft smile.
“He has to watch first,” Milo said. “To make sure it’s safe.”
Jack set the dermabond supplies on the tray. “Gregory is welcome to supervise.”
Milo considered this. “Does he need gloves?”
You looked at Jack. Jack looked back. Do not. Your lips parted. Do not make this adorable.
You turned to Milo. “We can give Gregory a very official bandage.”
The boy sat up straighter. “Really?”
“Absolutely.” You nod.
Jack stared at the tray. A very official bandage. Of course. Of course, you were going to give the dinosaur a bandage. Of course, the child was now looking at you like you had personally saved civilization. And of course, Jack was standing there thinking, with the full sincerity of an idiot: She is so cute.
He picked up a small piece of gauze and handed it to you. Your fingers brushed his. Barely. A nothing touch. A contact so brief it did not deserve acknowledgment. Jack acknowledged it internally like a cathedral bell.
You glanced at him, smile quick and pleased, then wrapped the gauze around Gregory’s tail with the seriousness of a surgeon. “There,” you said. “Medically prepared.”
Milo inspected the dinosaur with reverence. “He looks brave,” he said.
“Very brave,” you agreed. “And so are you.”
Milo looked up at you again. The same wide-eyed wonder crossed his face. Jack nearly laughed, which was rich, considering he had no room to mock anyone.
Get in line, kid.
The thought arrived before Jack could stop it. He looked away immediately. No. No, he was not doing that. He was not competing with a seven-year-old for the attention of the sunny nurse practitioner currently bandaging a dinosaur.
That was absurd.
Also, the kid was winning.
You leaned lightly against the rail, still smiling down at him. “Gregory can watch. I’ll stay right here.”
Milo nodded. “Okay.”
Jack crouched slightly beside the stretcher, bringing himself closer to the boy’s eye level. “I’m going to look first. No glue yet.”
Milo clutched Gregory’s bandaged tail. “Okay.”
Jack removed the numbing strip carefully and examined the cut. Shallow. Clean. Edges approximated well. Glue would be fine.
“Well, I’ve got good news,” Jack said.
Milo narrowed his eyes. “Good for me or good for you?”
“Both. Mostly you.” Jack answered.
You smiled. “He means no stitches.”
Milo’s whole face changed. “Really?”
“Really,” Jack said. “Glue, a few strips, and your forehead gets to keep its dramatic story without needles.”
The mother exhaled. The father’s shoulders loosened. You caught it. Jack saw you catch it. Saw your eyes flick to the parents, then back to the child, taking in the whole room instead of just the injury. Competent. Kind. Pretty.
God, this was becoming unmanageable.
Jack cleaned the area while you kept Milo talking. You asked him about the coffee table. He explained, with increasing outrage, that he had not fallen into it so much as attempted to jump near it and been betrayed by physics.
“Physics does that,” you said.
Jack aligned the skin edges. “Constantly.”
Milo looked between you. “You guys know about physics?”
“Against my will,” Jack said.
You laughed again, and Jack nearly smiled before he could stop himself. Nearly. Maybe not nearly. Maybe he did smile. A little.
Milo pointed at him. “You smiled.”
Jack froze.
You turned your head slowly toward him, delight already blooming on your face.
Traitorous child.
“I did not,” Jack said.
“You did,” he insisted. “It was small, but it happened.”
You folded your arms, looking far too pleased. “Interesting.”
Jack kept his focus on the glue. “Nothing interesting occurred.”
“No, no.” Your voice had gone warm with mischief. “I think we need to acknowledge the event.”
“There is no event,” Jack replied.
“Jack.”
His hand paused for half a second. His name again. Soft with laughter this time. Terrible. Wonderful.
He did not look up. “Do not narrate my face while I’m holding medical adhesive.”
The boy giggled. The mother smiled into her hand. You leaned a little closer, voice dropping like you were telling the room a secret. “He smiles. Rarely. But it happens.”
Rarely.
You had noticed. You had categories for his face.
Jack’s heart did something so undignified that he was glad no one had a monitor on him. He finished the glue with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb.
“You keeping an inventory?” he asked.
“Only of rare things.” You answered him. There it was. The line did not hit him hard. It hit him soft. That was worse.
Rare things.
You said it lightly, like a joke, like a sweet little tease tossed into a pediatric room over a tray of dermabond and dinosaur gauze. But Jack felt it settle somewhere dangerously tender.
You noticed when he smiled.
Not because everyone noticed him. Not because he was loud or easy or open.
Because you were paying attention.
He was fifty years old.
He had a mortgage, a bad shoulder, and a disturbing number of takeout menus in his kitchen drawer.
He was not going to stand in room four getting butterflies because you noticed his smile.
Butterflies. No. Absolutely not. That was too far.
He was not doing butterflies.
He was doing something medically adjacent to butterflies but more mature.
Palpitations, maybe.
He placed the last steri-strip and sat back. “Done.”
Milo’s eyes widened. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” Jack nodded.
Milo almost smiled, “No stitches?”
“No stitches,” Jack answered.
Milo looked at you. “Gregory helped.”
“He did most of the emotional labor,” you agreed.
Jack stripped off his gloves and glanced at the parents. “Keep it dry for twenty-four hours. The strips will fall off on their own. No picking at it. No jumping near coffee tables.”
Milo groaned. “That was one time.”
“One medically documented time,” Jack said, tilting his head towards Milo.
You smiled at the parents. “We’ll bring discharge instructions in a few minutes. He did great.”
The mother looked genuinely relieved now. “Thank you. Both of you.”
Jack nodded once.
You touched the edge of the bed lightly. “Gregory too.”
Milo lifted the dinosaur. “Thank you, Gregory.”
You and Jack stepped out into the hall together. For three whole seconds, he thought he might make it out without further incident. Then you looked up at him. Your smile was softer now. Still amused, still bright, but something gentler underneath.
“You really did smile,” you said.
Jack walked toward the desk. “Children are unreliable witnesses.”
“You’re very committed to denying joy.” You grumble.
“I experience appropriate levels of joy.” Jack corrected you.
You raise your brow, “Do you?”
“Yes.” He answered instantly.
“When?” You asked.
Jack glanced at you. Mistake. Your eyes were on him, teasing but warm. Your hair had loosened another fraction around your face, and the hallway lights caught on your cheek in a way that made him forget the answer to a question as simple as when do you experience joy?
Apparently, the answer was right now, because you are walking beside me and smiling like that.
Unacceptable.
He looked forward. “When residents read the chart before asking me questions.”
You nodded solemnly. “So never.”
“Rarely,” Jack confirmed.
You point at him, “There it is again. Rare things.”
Jack exhaled through his nose. “You’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am.” You agreed.
Jack sighed, “At my expense.”
“A little.” You admit.
He should have had a comeback. He had several, probably. Somewhere. Unfortunately, you looked happy. That was all it took. You walked beside him with your hands tucked into your scrub pockets, smiling at the floor like teasing him had improved your entire night. Warm. Sunny.
So damn pretty it bordered on unprofessional.
He was obsessed. He was aware. He was choosing not to examine it until necessary, which was a valid adult strategy and not denial.
At the desk, Shen passed behind them, carrying a stack of blankets. His eyes moved from your smile to Jack’s face. Jack saw the assessment happen in real time. Shen wisely kept walking. Almost.
Then he said, without turning around, “Congratulations on the smile, Abbot.”
Jack stopped. You stopped too. Your face lit with pure delight.
Jack closed his eyes. “Shen.”
“Didn’t see anything,” Shen called, already halfway down the hall.
“You literally commented on it.” Jack groaned.
“Anonymous report,” Shen said over his shoulder.
You pressed your lips together, but the laugh escaped anyway.
Jack opened his eyes and looked at you.
You were trying very hard not to laugh too much. Failing. Beautifully. Your shoulders lifted with it, your face bright, and Jack had the sudden, stupid thought that he would gladly be mocked by every member of night shift if it kept making you look like that. Dangerous. Absurd. True.
“Sorry,” you said, not sounding sorry at all.
“No, you’re not.” He replied.
“No.” You grinned. “But I like that you thought I might be.”
Jack picked up his chart from the counter and pretended to read it. He got through exactly four words. None of them stayed in his head. You reached for your coffee, where you had left it earlier, took a sip, and immediately made a face.
Jack looked up despite himself. “What?”
You swallowed with visible regret. “This is cold.”
Jack nodded, “You left it here an hour ago.”
“I was busy saving thumbs and supervising rare smiles.” You said.
Jack shrugged, “Cold coffee is the natural consequence of poor planning.”
You looked at him, eyes narrowing playfully. “That was almost mean.”
“It was educational.” He corrected you.
“It was cruel.” You insisted.
Jack rolled his eyes, “You’ll survive.”
You set the cup down and sighed as if the loss were personal. “I know. I just had hope.”
Hope.
You said it about terrible hospital coffee, and somehow Jack’s entire brain still went soft around the word. This was embarrassing. This was possibly terminal.
A call light went off down the hall. Ellis appeared near room six, waving him over with two fingers. Jack pushed away from the desk. “Duty calls.”
“Go save lives, Dr. Abbot.” You replied.
He shot you a look over his shoulder.
You smiled at him.
Again.
Like it was easy.
You kept looking at him like there was something in him worth smiling at.
That was the part that got under his skin.
Not just that you were pretty, though God knew you were. Not just your mouth or your laugh or the way your eyes stayed on him when you teased. It was the warmth. The casual, relentless warmth. Like you had decided Jack Abbot was not a problem to solve or a reputation to respect from a distance.
Just a man.
Maybe even a man you liked.
His brain snagged on that thought so hard he nearly missed Ellis waving again. “Abbot?”
“Coming,” he said.
He made it down the hall, handled room six, checked the lab result, adjusted the plan, answered two questions from a resident, and redirected room nine before the man could begin negotiating with his own IV pole. He was competent. Efficient. Calm. A credit to his profession.
And when he got back to the central desk twenty minutes later, your coffee was still sitting there, abandoned and cold, exactly where you had left it. Jack looked at your cold coffee. Then toward you. You were across the department with Crus, one shoulder leaning lightly against the counter, brow furrowed as you reviewed something on a tablet. Focused again. Pretty in that unfair, work-absorbed way that made Jack briefly forget he had ever known peace.
Then you laughed at something Crus said. Jack looked back at the coffee.
No. Absolutely not. He was not doing this. He was not making you coffee because you had smiled at him, called his smile rare, and looked genuinely mournful over the abandoned caffeine.
That was ridiculous. That was transparent. That was—
Jack glanced at the board.
Room six was stable. Room nine had stopped threatening to leave. Room four was waiting for discharge instructions. No new ambulance notes. No one needed him for the next three minutes.
Great.
Now he had no excuse.
He picked up your cold cup, threw it away, and headed for the break room. The pot was empty, because of course it was. Night shift coffee existed in only two states: gone or burnt beyond ethical use. Jack dumped the old grounds, replaced the filter, measured out coffee, and started a new pot. Normal. Practical. A public service, really.
Then he stayed there while it brewed.
Because the first cup from a fresh pot was different, everyone knew that. The first cup was drinkable. The second cup was acceptable. After that, it became a test of character. He stood beside the counter with his arms crossed, listening to the machine hiss and drip as if he were supervising a procedure. Halfway through, Shen appeared in the doorway. His eyes moved from Jack to the coffee maker. Jack looked at him.
Shen paused. “Am I interrupting something?”
“No,” Jack answered.
“Are you… watching coffee brew?” Shen asked.
Jack looked at the coffee maker, then back to John. “I’m making coffee.”
“I see that.” Shen nodded.
Jack held his stare.
Shen looked at the empty disposable cups stacked beside the machine, then back at Jack. Understanding arrived slowly and with visible delight. “Oh.”
“Don’t,” Jack said immediately.
John grinned, “I said nothing.”
Jack just glared at him.
Shen lifted both hands and backed away. “Wouldn’t dream of touching it.”
Jack nodded once. “Good.”
The second the pot finished, Jack took a disposable cup from the stack and poured the first cup. Not too full. Enough room for creamer. The amount you liked, because apparently his brain had filed that information somewhere between airway management and chest pain protocols. He added the creamer. Then he paused. Looked at the cup. Looked at the marker sitting beside the sugar packets.
He was fifty years old.
He was not writing your name on a coffee cup, so no one else would touch it.
That was absurd. Possessive, almost. Juvenile. Embarrassing.
Jack picked up the marker and wrote your name anyway.
Just your name.
No heart. No smiley face. He had limits.
Probably.
He capped the marker, picked up the cup, and stared at it for half a second.
Fresh coffee. First cup. Your name written in his handwriting.
Wonderful. Excellent. Very normal.
Then he carried it back into the ER like he had not just performed a small act of devotion in a break room with bad lighting and institutional creamer.