Chapter Text
The night shift at PTMC ran on caffeine, poor decisions, and the shared belief that the sun was a rumor the day shift invented to feel superior.
By two in the morning, you had already been vomited on once, threatened with a lawsuit by a man who tried to remove his own IV because he believed it was stealing his electrolytes, and asked by a drunk college student if nurses got discounts on “the good drugs.”
It was, by all measurable standards, a normal night.
You stood at the nurses’ station, finishing a wound care note in the EHR while the digital board refreshed above you. Room six was waiting for discharge. Room three needed repeat vitals. Room eight’s family had asked for “just one quick update” four separate times, which meant no part of it had been quick.
Shen typed at the workstation beside you with the grim focus of a man composing an obituary for his own patience.
Ellis stood near the counter, scanning lab results on a tablet.
Crus leaned back in his chair, watching the waiting room numbers climb as if they had personally offended him.
Lena, charge nurse and patron saint of not putting up with anyone’s nonsense, stood under the board with one hand on her hip.
Jack Abbot appeared at your side and set a to-go coffee cup beside your keyboard.
You looked at it.
Then you looked at him.
Jack’s expression stayed medically neutral in a way that meant it was not neutral. “Preventative medicine.”
You wrapped one hand around the cup. “For me or for everyone else?”
Jack leaned a hip against the counter. “Everyone else. You’re less likely to commit a felony when properly caffeinated.”
You lifted the cup. “Bold of you to assume caffeine prevents anything. It mostly improves my aim.”
Jack glanced toward Shen. “Good. Then I’ll stand behind Shen.”
Shen kept typing. “I would prefer to be excluded from whatever this is.”
Jack looked at Shen. “This is teamwork.”
Shen did not look up. “This is harassment over ice.”
You took a sip and sighed before you could stop yourself.
Jack’s eyes flicked to your mouth.
Only for a second.
Barely that.
Still, your stomach did something inconvenient.
You lowered the cup and forced your face into something less revealing. “This is the only reason Dr. Abbot gets to live through the hour.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Just the hour?”
You turned back to your note. “I like to keep my options open.”
Jack looked at your screen. “That’s wise. Attachment makes people sloppy.”
Your fingers paused on the keyboard.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
Jack probably noticed.
Jack always noticed.
That was the problem with Jack Abbot. He never did enough to make the thing between you obvious. He folded it into sarcasm, into coffee, into timing, into standing a little too close at two in the morning when everyone else was too tired to care. He remembered your order. He challenged you in trauma bays. He looked at you sometimes like he had thought of saying something honest and decided against it at the last second.
It was impossible to accuse him of flirting.
It was impossible not to feel flirted with.
Lena tapped the digital board beside room six. “If the two of you are done turning caffeine into foreplay, room six needs discharge instructions pushed to the portal.”
You choked on your next sip.
Jack’s face did not change. “That was a clinical intervention.”
Lena looked at the cup. “It was a medium iced coffee.”
Jack picked up his tablet from the counter. “Medicine evolves.”
You reached for the workstation on wheels. “I’ll handle room six.”
Jack stepped out of your way. “Heroic.”
You pushed the workstation forward. “Try not to miss me.”
Jack’s voice followed you down the hall. “I’ll document through the pain.”
You smiled despite yourself.
It was easy to smile when Jack was like this.
That was another problem.
You sent the discharge instructions to the patient portal, answered three questions from room six’s wife about wound care, retrieved a replacement blanket for room eight, and stopped room three from walking toward radiology with his gown open in the back before you made it back to the nurses’ station.
Ellis looked up when you returned. “So, are you still going out with Trent?”
Jack’s hand did not pause on his tablet.
That annoyed you.
Which was stupid.
You did not want him to pause.
You wanted him to be a normal coworker with normal coworker reactions to your normal dating life.
Unfortunately, Jack Abbot had never been normal in your life.
Crus swiveled in his chair. “Trent who?”
You reached for your coffee. “Trent from the dating app.”
Shen finally glanced up. “There was a Trent?”
Ellis nodded. “Tech guy.”
You corrected her automatically. “Cybersecurity, technically.”
Jack kept his eyes on the tablet. “Naturally.”
You looked at him. “What does that mean?”
Jack’s thumb moved over the screen. “Nothing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounded like something.”
Jack looked up at last. “I’m sure he’s very stable. Very ergonomic.”
Crus snapped his fingers. “Cybersecurity Trent sounds like he owns more than one quarter-zip.”
Shen returned to typing. “And a standing desk.”
Jack nodded once. “Naturally.”
You lifted your coffee. “You all realize none of those things are crimes.”
Crus leaned back farther. “Depends on the quarter-zip.”
Ellis laughed.
You tried not to.
Jack saw you fail.
His mouth twitched like he had won something.
Ellis rested her elbows on the counter. “So are you still seeing him?”
You shook your head. “No, we went on three dates, then I ended it.”
Shen didn’t look up. “Somewhere, a standing desk has been lowered to half-mast in grief.”
You smiled, holding back a laugh.
Jack’s eyes came back to you. “You ended it.”
You looked at him. “That is what I said.”
Jack set his tablet down. “It was only three dates.”
You stared at him. “Why did you say that like a diagnosis?”
Jack folded his arms. “Three dates is enough time to develop a personality.”
You lifted one shoulder. “He had a personality.”
Jack’s brow lifted. “Did he?”
Lena pointed toward the trauma rooms without looking away from the board. “Careful, Abbot. You’re one sarcastic comment away from getting the next toe injury.”
Jack turned his head toward her. “I think I’ve earned better than toes.”
Lena tapped the board again. “You’ve earned documentation. Be grateful.”
Ellis looked at you. “Did he do something, or was there just no spark?”
You considered the question. Then you shrugged. “No spark. He was fine.”
Jack repeated the word. “Fine.”
You looked at him again. “Don’t say it like that.”
Jack spread one hand. “I repeated your endorsement.”
You took another sip. “You made it sound pathetic.”
Jack’s face stayed calm. “I didn’t have to.”
You pointed at him. “See, that is exactly the kind of comment that gets you toes.”
Jack leaned closer by a fraction. “I’m willing to risk it.”
Your face warmed.
You hated him a little.
Not enough.
Ellis grinned. “Fine is kind of the dating app dream, though.”
You turned gratefully toward her. “Thank you.”
Crus looked skeptical. “Is it?”
You nodded. “Yes. The apps are rough.”
Jack’s gaze sharpened with interest despite himself. “Rough how?”
You looked at him. “You want examples?”
Jack’s answer came too quickly. “No.”
Lena’s answer came at the same time. “Yes.”
Crus pointed toward Lena. “Charge outranks attending.”
Shen nodded without looking up. “Rarely in policy. Always in spirit.”
You leaned against the counter and counted on your fingers. “There was the guy who spent an entire dinner explaining pickleball strategy to me and did not ask me one question about myself.”
Shen looked briefly pained. “Tragic acquisition of knowledge.”
You nodded. “I know the difference between indoor and outdoor balls now, and I did not consent to that education.”
Crus sat up. “There are different balls?”
Lena held up one hand. “Do not make her relive it.”
You lifted a second finger. “There was the guy who sent me a dick pic while we were making plans for drinks.”
Jack’s hand stilled on the tablet.
Lena’s eyes narrowed. “Unprompted?”
You nodded. “Completely unprompted. I asked what time worked for him.”
Jack’s jaw shifted once.
Then his voice went deadpan. “And they say romance is dead.”
You looked at him. “I blocked him.”
Jack’s response was immediate. “Good.”
Too fast.
Too firm.
It did something strange in your chest.
You looked away first and lifted a third finger. “Then there was the guy who asked if being a nurse meant I was good with my hands.”
Lena closed her eyes. “Of course he did.”
You nodded. “And then he asked if I could give him an anatomy lesson.”
Crus grimaced. “Men really are out here making choices.”
Lena opened her eyes. “Bad ones.”
Jack looked at you. “So Trent cleared the bar by not being actively terrible.”
You pointed at him with your coffee. “Exactly.”
Jack shook his head. “That’s not a bar. That’s a line painted on the basement floor.”
Ellis made a sound as if she were trying not to laugh.
You looked at Jack over the lid of your cup. “He was nice.”
Jack went still.
It was subtle.
A quieting around his eyes. A tightening at the edge of his mouth.
You hated that you saw it.
You hated more that part of you wanted him to care.
You rushed to fill the space. “He asked about my job. He remembered my coffee order.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the cup in your hand.
You realized what you had said too late.
Your hand tightened around the plastic.
“That’s different,” you said quickly.
Jack looked back up. “Is it?”
You opened your mouth.
Nothing useful came out.
Because it was different. Jack was different. Jack remembering your coffee order felt like being known. Trent remembering it had felt nice at first, then too pointed after you ended things. But there was no normal way to say that aloud in the middle of the nurses’ station with Shen pretending not to listen three feet away.
You inhaled sharply, “It is. You’re…” You didn’t know how to finish that sentence.
Jack tilted his head. “I’m?”
You exhaled. “Annoying.”
Jack’s expression warmed. “There she is.”
Your phone buzzed in your scrub pocket.
You should not have reacted.
It was just a phone.
People’s phones buzzed all the time.
But your smile slipped before you could catch it.
Jack’s eyes moved from your face to the phone in your hand.
You pulled your phone out, angled the screen toward yourself, and saw Trent’s name.
Trent: Hope your shift isn’t too awful tonight.
You stared at it for half a second too long.
Then you locked the screen and slid the phone face down on the counter.
Jack’s eyes moved from the phone to your face. “What?”
You picked up your coffee. “Nothing.”
Jack leaned one forearm against the counter. “Convincing.”
You reached for the workstation. “I need to finish room eight’s note.”
Jack did not move. “So Trent from cybersecurity is still texting.”
You kept your eyes on the screen. “Apparently.”
Jack’s voice stayed light. “Did the breakup not download correctly?”
A laugh almost made it out. Almost.
You typed your password into the workstation. “Maybe the Wi-Fi was bad.”
Jack watched you. “You okay with that?”
You clicked into the chart. “Yeah.”
Jack’s answer came quietly. “That was fast.”
You kept typing. “I’m efficient.”
Jack’s voice went lower. “Efficient is not the same as convincing.”
You looked at him then. “You interrogate all your nurses like this?”
Jack held your gaze. “Only the ones committing emotional malpractice at my nurses’ station.”
Something in your chest pulled tight.
It was easier to breathe when Jack was close.
That was not fair.
That was not useful.
That was definitely not something you were going to think about with Trent’s text sitting face-down beside your keyboard.
You turned back to the screen. “It’s fine. He’s probably just disappointed.”
Jack repeated the word carefully. “Disappointed.”
You shrugged. “It was three dates.”
Jack’s face gave nothing away. “Right.”
You looked at him. “Three dates, Jack.”
Jack nodded. “That’s what you said.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re making it sound dramatic.”
Jack lifted one shoulder. “I didn’t make it sound like anything.”
You pointed at him. “Your face did.”
Jack’s brow lifted. “My face is medically neutral.”
You scoffed. “Your face has never been neutral once in your life.”
The ambulance bay doors opened.
Lena looked up at the board, then toward the hall. “All right, reset. Shen, Ellis, room three.” She turned to you, “You’re with Abbot in trauma two.”
You clicked out of the chart and reached for gloves from the box near the wall.
Jack picked up his tablet. “You ready?”
You looked at him. “For trauma two?”
Jack stepped beside you. “For whatever bad decision is about to come through that door.”
You pulled on the gloves. “Always.”
Jack’s face softened for one second.
Then Dr. Abbot was back: focused, precise, unshakable.
You followed him into trauma two, and for a while, you got to be yourself again.
The patient was twenty-eight, drunk, bleeding from a deep laceration in his right thigh, and deeply committed to the idea that the concrete planter outside a bar had wronged him personally.
Two paramedics rolled him in while he gestured dramatically with one hand.
The patient lifted his head from the stretcher. “I almost cleared it.”
Jack pulled on gloves. “Gravity disagrees.”
You moved to the monitor. “Gravity usually does.”
The patient squinted at you. “You should’ve seen it.”
Jack stepped to the side of the stretcher. “I’m seeing enough.”
You connected him to the monitor while Ellis took position near the supply cart, and Crus logged in to the workstation mounted on the wall.
Lena appeared in the doorway. “Vitals?”
You watched the monitor. “Pressure is holding. Heart rate one-twelve. Sat ninety-nine.”
Jack glanced at the wound. “Good enough to keep annoying us.”
The patient lifted one hand. “I can hear you.”
Jack reached for gauze. “That’s how I know your airway works.”
The patient frowned. “Are you always this comforting?”
Jack held out his hand. “Pressure dressing.”
You placed it into his palm. “Already there.”
Jack glanced at you. “Show-off.”
You reached for saline. “Slow doctor.”
Jack pressed the dressing to the wound. “Careful. I’m sensitive.”
You checked the IV line. “That has not been clinically observed.”
Lena looked between you. “Focus, both of you.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the wound. “We are focused.”
You adjusted the monitor lead. “Deeply.”
The patient groaned. “Ow.”
Jack’s voice softened instantly. “I know. Hold still.”
That was the thing about Jack.
He could be dry enough to cut glass and gentle enough to make people listen through pain.
He could joke in the middle of chaos and never once lose track of what mattered.
You hated how much you noticed.
You hated that you had noticed for months.
The case moved quickly after that. Bleeding controlled. Imaging ordered through the EHR. Tetanus added. Pain meds administered. The patient stopped insisting the planter had “come out of nowhere” and started asking whether he could still go to brunch.
By the time transport came to take him to imaging, the room had settled back into something resembling order.
At the sink outside trauma two, you stood shoulder to shoulder with Jack, washing your hands.
Jack reached for a paper towel. “Nice work.”
You looked over at him. “Careful. That almost sounded like praise.”
Jack tossed the towel into the bin. “I said nice. Don’t get greedy.”
You turned off the water with your elbow. “Too late. I’m telling Lena you experienced personal growth in trauma two.”
Jack grabbed sanitizer from the wall dispenser. “Lena will never believe you.”
You stepped back, still smiling. “She would if I said it was brief and medically concerning.”
Jack’s mouth curved before he could stop it.
His voice went quieter. “That sounded more like you.”
Your smile faltered.
Not much.
Enough.
Jack noticed that too.
You looked away, reaching for a clean pair of gloves you did not need yet. “What can I say? Blood loss brings out my charm.”
Jack watched you for one extra beat. “Apparently.”
Your phone buzzed in your pocket.
You hated that your whole body went tight when it did.
Jack’s eyes moved to your scrub pocket.
You kept your face neutral and stepped around him. “I need to finish that note.”
Jack did not stop you.
That somehow made it worse.
At the nurses’ station, you pulled out your phone.
Trent’s name waited on the lock screen.
Trent: I know you said you don’t want to keep seeing each other, but I don’t think three dates is enough to really know.
The words sat in your hand like something heavier than a text.
You locked the phone again.
Jack’s voice came from beside you. “Still medically neutral?”
You looked up fast. “Your face or my night?”
Jack’s gaze flicked to your phone. “Both have concerning findings.”
You slid the phone into your pocket. “It’s nothing.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on you. “That nothing has bad timing.”
You clicked into the EHR because looking at the screen was easier than looking at him. “He’s just disappointed.”
Jack leaned one hand against the counter. “He can be disappointed without making it your problem.”
You swallowed.
The words hit harder than they should have.
Probably because they were true.
Probably because you had spent your whole life making other people’s disappointment your problem.
You forced a shrug. “It’s fine.”
Jack’s voice stayed even. “You keep saying that.”
You looked at him. “Because you keep asking.”
Jack held your gaze.
For a second, you thought he might push.
For a second, part of you wanted him to.
Then room eight’s call light went off again, and the moment broke.
Lena looked over. “Someone please tell room eight that asking the same question six different ways does not unlock a secret answer.”
You stepped back from the workstation. “I’ll go.”
Jack did not move immediately.
When you passed him, his hand brushed the edge of the counter like he had almost reached for you and decided against it.
You told yourself you were relieved.
You were a terrible liar.
Jack did not ask again.
That was somehow worse.
He gave you room to pretend, but not enough room to disappear.
Forty minutes later, while you were hunched over the workstation finishing room eight’s update, something cold appeared beside your keyboard.
Your water bottle.
Full.
You stared at it.
Jack stood on the other side of the counter, already looking back down at his tablet like he had not done anything worth noticing.
You wrapped your hand around the bottle. “Did you refill my water?”
Jack’s thumb moved over the screen. “No.”
You lifted the bottle slightly. “So it hydrated itself?”
Jack did not look up. “Stranger things have happened in this department.”
You twisted the cap open. “That was almost nice.”
Jack glanced at you. “Don’t worry. I filled it from the fountain in the lounge.”
Your brows pulled together. “Why would I worry?”
Jack’s eyes returned to the tablet. “Because you’re ridiculous and think it tastes better.”
You paused with the bottle halfway to your mouth.
It was stupid.
Such a small thing.
The kind of thing anyone could have noticed if you said it enough times.
Except you were almost positive you had said it once, weeks ago, half-delirious near the end of a bad shift while complaining that the water from the nurses’ station dispenser tasted like someone had filtered it through a battery.
You took a drink.
The lounge fountain did taste better.
Jack did not look up when he spoke again. “You’re welcome.”
You lowered the bottle. “I didn’t say thank you.”
Jack’s mouth moved faintly. “You were about to.”
You hated that he was right.
You hated more that you almost smiled.
The rest of the shift did not get worse, exactly.
It got quieter.
That was worse in its own way.
Quiet left too much room for your brain to start arranging things into patterns.
Trent’s first text had been normal enough. Friendly. Almost considerate.
The second text had been annoying.
The ones before tonight had been annoying too, at first.
Trent: I still think we had something, though.
Trent: Maybe you’re just tired from work.
Trent:I can be patient.
The coffee shop had been easy to dismiss the first time. People went to coffee shops. The second time had made your stomach twist, but you had told yourself he worked nearby. Maybe he did. You had not asked enough questions to know for sure.
The grocery store had been the hardest one to explain away.
He had appeared near the pasta sauce, holding a basket with two things in it, smiling like the universe had done something charming.
You had laughed too brightly.
You remembered that now.
You remembered laughing because not laughing would have made it feel strange.
You remembered the way he had said your name.
Like he had found you.
You did not tell Jack.
Not during the next hour, while you documented, answered call lights, and updated the portal for room eight’s family.
Not when he passed behind you with his tablet and paused long enough to ask if you needed anything.
Not when you said no.
Not when he looked like he did not believe you.
At 6:56, the ED settled into the fragile pre-dawn hush that always felt like tempting fate.
Lena stood at the board, arms crossed. “If anyone says the word quiet, I’m assigning them every rectal foreign body for the next month.”
Crus looked up from his workstation. “Can you do that?”
Lena turned her head slowly. “Do you want to find out?”
Crus looked back at his screen. “No.”
Shen typed without looking over. “A rare moment of wisdom.”
Ellis stretched beside the counter. “I’m clocking out before the universe hears us.”
You logged out of the workstation and reached for your jacket from the back of your chair.
Your phone buzzed again.
You froze with one arm halfway through the sleeve.
Jack saw it from across the station.
You did not look at him.
You pulled out your phone.
Trent’s name lit up the screen.
Trent: I know you’re probably getting off soon. Can we talk?
Your breath changed.
Just a little.
Just enough.
Jack crossed the space between you without making it obvious. He did not rush. He did not announce himself. He simply appeared at your side, close enough that you could feel him there.
Jack looked from your phone to your face. “Him?”
You locked the screen. “It’s nothing.”
Jack’s voice stayed low. “You keep saying that.”
You slid your phone into your pocket. “Because it is.”
Jack glanced toward the clock on the monitor, then back to you. “He knows when you get off.”
You pulled your jacket fully on. “I told him I work nights.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on your face. “Did you tell him exactly when you leave?”
You only shook your head.
That told him what he needed to know.
Lena looked over from the board. “If you’re clocking out, go before the next ambulance decides to turn this into a hostage situation.”
You reached for your bag. “Gladly.”
Jack picked up his jacket from the back of a chair.
You looked at him. “Where are you going?”
Jack slipped one arm into the sleeve. “Parking garage.”
You frowned. “Your car is not in the parking garage.”
Jack looked at you. “I can be.”
Your mouth opened.
No argument came out.
Because you wanted to argue.
You wanted to tell him you did not need an escort to your own car. You wanted to make a joke sharp enough to turn this back into something normal. You wanted to say a man you had gone out with three times did not get to make you feel ridiculous in front of Jack Abbot.
But your phone felt heavy in your pocket.
And Jack was standing there with his jacket on, waiting like he had all the time in the world.
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Fine.”
Jack’s mouth twitched faintly. “Glowing endorsement.”
You pushed through the employee exit ahead of him. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Jack followed beside you. “I wouldn’t dare.”
The hallway outside the ED was colder than the department.
Quieter, too.
Your shoes sounded too loud against the floor.
Jack walked beside you, not behind you, and not in front of you. He did not crowd you. He did not make it a production. He matched your pace like this was normal, like walking you to your car after a text from a man who would not stop contacting you was a thing people did casually at dawn.
You tried to joke because silence felt dangerous. “This is either chivalry or an insult to my ability to locate my own car.”
Jack kept his eyes ahead. “Could be both.”
You looked over. “Versatile.”
Jack’s mouth moved faintly. “I try.”
The elevator doors opened.
You stepped inside.
Jack followed.
The doors slid shut, and your reflection appeared in the metal between you.
You looked tired.
Not night-shift tired.
Something else.
Jack noticed your reflection at the same time you did.
His voice was quiet. “Tell me what happened.”
You looked at the floor indicator. “Nothing happened.”
Jack did not answer.
Somehow, that worked better than him calling you on the lie.
You exhaled. “I went out with him three times.”
Jack’s gaze stayed on the elevator doors. “Okay.”
You adjusted your bag again. “I told him I wasn’t interested. Clearly. Kindly. Very mature of me, actually.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Heroic.”
You shot him a weak look. “Don’t make me laugh right now.”
Jack’s expression sobered. “I won’t.”
Your throat tightened.
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened onto the parking level.
Neither of you moved for half a second.
Then Jack stepped out with you.
The garage smelled like concrete, cold air, and exhaust. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A few cars sat scattered across the rows. Somewhere below, a door shut hard enough to echo.
You kept walking.
Jack stayed beside you.
You heard yourself keep talking because stopping felt worse. “He said he understood. At first.”
Jack looked around the garage as you moved. “And then?”
You swallowed. “Then he kept texting.”
Jack’s voice stayed controlled. “Tonight?”
You shook your head. “Before tonight.”
Jack’s gaze cut to you.
You looked straight ahead. “He showed up at my coffee shop.”
Jack’s steps slowed by a fraction. “Showed up.”
You hugged your arms around yourself. “It’s a public place.”
Jack’s voice did not change. “Your coffee shop.”
You stared toward the row where your car was parked. “People drink coffee, Jack.”
Jack’s answer came quietly. “How many times?”
You hated the question.
You hated that he knew to ask it.
You kept walking. “Twice.”
Jack did not speak.
You rushed on. “And I saw him at the grocery store once, but that could have been nothing.”
Jack’s gaze moved across the row of cars. “Could have been.”
You looked at him. “You don’t believe that.”
Jack looked back at you. “I believe you don’t.”
Your mouth closed.
That landed too hard.
Because he was right.
You had been calling it a coincidence since the first time Trent appeared near the pickup counter at your coffee shop, smiling like fate had done something sweet instead of something that made your stomach turn cold.
You had called it a coincidence again when he showed up there two days later and remembered your order.
You had called it a coincidence at the grocery store because calling it anything else felt dramatic.
It felt like giving the whole thing shape.
It felt like admitting that your regular places no longer belonged only to you.
You turned down the row toward your car.
Then you saw it.
The rose came first.
A single red rose, tucked beneath your windshield wiper.
The stem was pinned awkwardly against the glass, the bloom bent slightly to the side, as if it had been placed there carefully and damaged anyway.
A folded note sat beneath it.
For one stupid second, your brain tried to make it ordinary.
Someone else’s car.
A mistake.
A romantic gesture meant for someone who wanted one.
Anything else.
Jack stopped beside you.
The air in the parking garage seemed to change.
He did not speak at first.
He looked at the rose.
Then he looked past your car.
His gaze moved across the row of parked vehicles, the concrete pillars, the stairwell door, the elevator bank, the dark gap near the far corner where one of the overhead lights had gone out.
You noticed the shift in him instantly.
Not panic.
Not anger, not yet.
Assessment.
You had seen him do it in trauma bays, in patient rooms, in the split second before a bad situation became something worse.
Jack stepped closer, not crowding, just near enough that you were no longer standing alone.
His hand came to your back, light and careful.
Jack’s voice was low. “Stay here for a second.”
You looked at him. “Jack.”
Jack glanced at you, and whatever he saw on your face made his hand still against your back.
Jack’s voice softened. “Just a second.”
His hand left your back as he moved around the front of your car.
You hated how quickly you noticed.
He checked the row beside yours first, then the space behind the nearest pillar. He looked toward the stairwell again, then crouched briefly near the front bumper and checked beneath the car.
Your stomach dropped.
Not because of the rose.
Not really.
Because Jack was looking.
Because Jack Abbot, who made jokes through blood and screaming and bad odds, had gone quiet in the parking garage because something about this did not feel like nothing.
He stood again and came back to your side.
Jack’s eyes moved once more across the garage before they settled on you. “Does he know your car?”
You swallowed. “Maybe.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Maybe?”
You wrapped your arms around yourself. “I don’t know. Maybe he saw me get into it after one of the dates.”
Jack looked at the rose again. “Maybe.”
You heard it then.
The difference between your maybe and his.
Yours was desperate. A way out. A possible explanation that could make this less frightening if you held it tightly enough.
His was flat.
Unconvinced.
You reached for the note and rose with fingers that did not feel entirely attached to your hand.
Jack watched the garage while you lifted the windshield wiper and pulled them free.
The rose dragged lightly against the glass.
One petal fell onto the hood.
You unfolded the note.
Only two lines were written inside.
I want to see you again.
I’m not giving up.
For a second, everything in the garage went too quiet.
The elevator dinged somewhere behind you, and you flinched so hard your shoulder brushed Jack’s arm.
Jack’s eyes went immediately to the elevator.
A woman in scrubs stepped out, glanced down at her phone, and walked toward the opposite row without looking at either of you.
Jack stayed still until she passed.
Then he looked back at you.
Your voice came out thin. “It could mean anything.”
Jack’s expression did not change. “No.”
You looked down at the note. “He might just mean—”
Jack cut in quietly. “No.”
You stopped.
He had not raised his voice.
He had not moved closer.
Still, the word landed like a hand on a door, keeping something out.
Jack looked at the note in your hand. “You ended it.”
You nodded once. “Yes.”
Jack’s eyes came back to your face. “You told him you didn’t want to keep seeing him.”
You pulled in a breath. “Yes.”
Jack’s voice stayed low. “Then this means exactly what it says.”
Your throat tightened.
You hated that.
You hated all of it.
You hated the rose. You hated the note. You hated the garage. You hated the fact that you had gone out with Trent three times and now Jack was standing beside your car, scanning the shadows like this was something real.
You crossed your arms tighter, crushing the rose slightly against your jacket. “This is so stupid.”
Jack’s head turned sharply toward you. “No.”
You blinked.
Jack’s voice stayed low, but something rough had entered it. “No. He doesn’t get to scare you and make you feel stupid for being scared.”
You looked away fast.
Because if you kept looking at him, you might cry.
And you were not going to cry in the parking garage over a man you had gone out with three times.
Jack looked around the garage again, then back at you. “We’re going back inside.”
Your instinctive protest rose immediately. “Jack—”
Jack caught himself before he could make it an order.
You saw the exact second he did.
His shoulders shifted. His jaw unclenched by force.
His hand came back to your back, gentle this time.
Asking, not pushing.
Jack tried again, softer. “Please. Come back inside with me.”
That got through in a way the firmer version would not have.
You looked at the note in your hand. “What about my car?”
Jack glanced at it. “It stays here for now.”
You hugged the rose and note closer, then hated yourself for hugging either of them at all. “I need to go home.”
Jack looked back at you. “I know.”
You hated how calm he sounded.
You needed him calm.
Jack nodded toward the ED entrance. “We’ll figure that out inside.”
You stared at him for another second.
Then you nodded.
Jack did not guide you forward.
He only walked beside you as you turned back toward the hospital, close enough that the space between your shoulder and his arm felt deliberate.
Close enough that your lungs remembered, shakily, how to work.
Behind you, your car stayed where it was.
The rose stayed in your hand.
The note stayed folded against your palm.
And for the first time all night, you stopped telling yourself it was nothing.