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* * *
Dr. Robby rubs his hands together for the seventh time that morning, the sharp scent of hand sanitizer slipping into your nose.
As he does, he lifts his gaze toward you.
“How are you feeling about working nights for a month?”
The question catches you off guard.
For months now, since joining PTMC, you’ve worked nothing but day shifts.
The rhythm of the emergency department has fallen into sync with you, and the atmosphere your colleagues create, especially under Dr. Robby’s mentorship, has adjusted to you with the comfort of familiarity.
By now, you’re fully integrated. You’re another essential cog in the vast, humming machinery that is the ER.
“You’re one of my best residents,” Dr. Robby continues. “Lately I feel like I don’t have much left to teach you. A different environment might challenge you.”
He’s right.
Over the past few days, Robby has struggled to find questions to throw at you while you handle incoming cases.
More and more often, the two of you work in silence. Many times, a glance is enough. A subtle nod means you are going to check the labs, or that you are on your way to retrieve the medications, or that you already know the next order that needs to be carried out.
You anticipate what he needs before he says it.
How are you feeling about working nights for a month?
You replay the question in your head.
You could tell yourself that the quickening of your pulse at the idea of working the night shift is excitement. That it appeals to you because of the challenge, the pressure, the unpredictability.
But you know the real reason your heart is beating faster than usual has a name. And a last name. And a doctor’s title in front of it.
Dr. Jack Abbot.
The main attending on nights.
The doctor you have developed a painfully inevitable crush on during your months of residency here.
Since you arrived at the hospital, your encounters with him have been fleeting, mostly at shift changes, or on the rare mornings when he covered for someone who was out.
The interactions between you two have been brief and professional. You have handled yourself well every time, composed and competent, even when his eyes linger half a second too long or his voice drops into that low, steady register that makes it difficult to remember your own name.
And yet, the way your pulse spikes now, sitting across from Robby as he lays out the proposal, makes it clear your feelings have not faded. Not even close.
Why does he make you feel this way?
He is just another attending. You barely know him. Yes, he is attractive. But he is probably nearly twice your age.
So what is it?
You try to find an escape from your own thoughts, something that tells you this is nothing more than a foolish crush. But instead, you find an answer that hits your fragile little heart.
Maybe it’s the profoundly human way he treats his patients.
The quiet insistence with which he prioritizes their well being above all else, even when it means bending a rule or stepping slightly outside the lines drawn by hospital protocol.
You still remember the first thing you ever learned about him, before you had even seen his face, because you had started on a morning shift that day.
Together with Robby, you had spoken to the widow of a war veteran who had passed away during the night. Abbot had tried to save him, without success. Before ending his shift, he had left a letter for the widow.
That heartbreaking letter.
The widow had asked you to read it to her, eyes full of tears, hands too unsteady to hold the paper. The words Abbot had written left you devastated. They were thoughtful, deliberate, and unbearably gentle. Words of comfort and forgiveness, written not as a physician hiding behind clinical language, but as a man acknowledging loss, honoring a life, and apologizing for the limits of his own hands.
Later, when you finally met him, and in every encounter that followed, you knew you were hopelessly drawn to him.
And now you know that seeing Jack for twelve hours straight instead of crossing paths for a few accidental minutes or hours would make your carefully constructed plan of burying those reckless, unprofessional feelings deep inside yourself significantly harder.
Dangerously harder.
“So?”
Robby insists, one eyebrow arching.
You have to give him an answer.
“It’s fine. I’d like to work nights,” you say, trying to smooth out the anticipation tightening your chest. “But we should ask Dr. Abbot if he’s okay with—”
“I already told him,” Robby cuts in. “He said it’s fine. I must warn you, Jack is not as cool as me, but you’ll survive.”
“I heard that, Dr. Robinavitch.”
At that very moment, Jack Abbot arrives to take over the shift. He looks at Robby with his usual calm, unreadable expression.
Robby grins.
“Didn’t mean to keep it secret.”
Jack ignores him deliberately and turns his gaze to you.
“Then,” he says evenly, voice low and steady, “you’re joining the night pit?”
Your throat feels suddenly dry.
“Yes, sir.”
His brow darkens just slightly at sir.
“Jack is fine.”
The correction is quiet, but it lands with weight.
It feels like an invitation to an intimacy you are not ready for. Not when your heart is already slamming violently against your ribs.
With a soft sigh, Robby stands and claps Jack on the shoulder.
“Take care of her, Abbot. She’s one of my brightest residents.”
Then Robby looks at you, and you catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Nostalgia, maybe. He is going to miss you.
But he also wants you to grow.
“Take the day off tomorrow. You’ll need to be well rested for your first night shift.”
You nod, excitement shining in your eyes.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
* * *
It started innocently enough.
Ever since you started working nights, Dana had begun calling you Sunshine.
A harmless nickname, born from your origins on the day shift. From the simple fact that you came from daylight, and from the energy you used to radiate like a bright morning.
Every time Dana called you that, it pulled a smile from you and gave you a small boost of energy. A quiet reminder of who you were before the fluorescent lights and 3 a.m. exhaustion settled into your bones.
“Sunshine, could you grab the labs for me?”
Nearby, Jack Abbot is finishing a chart when Dana’s voice carries across the nurses’ station. He tilts his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Sunshine, huh?” he says, looking at you steadily. “It suits you.”
Your heart betrays you instantly.
What does that even mean? Coming from him, it could mean anything.
The quickening of your pulse feels dangerous, like proof that you are reading too much into it, letting your imagination run somewhere it absolutely should not.
So you take the easy way out.
You quickly fix your attention on the task Dana has given you, collecting the lab results for the patient in South 15. As you review the lab values, you can feel Jack’s gaze following your movements.
You don’t dare look up to check if his smile remains. Instead, your eyes scan the results in silence, your brow furrowing at the numbers.
A presence steps closer.
“What do we have?”
Jack’s eyes move over the sheet in your hands, his shoulder close to yours. Too close.
You are suddenly aware of how easily he has stepped into your space. And how completely at ease he seems with it.
“Fifty-four-year-old male. Three hours of abdominal pain and nausea. No fever. Mild tachycardia on arrival. His pressure’s starting to drop.”
There is a brief silence.
When you lift your gaze toward Jack, you notice the small crease forming between his brows, the one that appears when he is fully focused.
He's carefully weighing every word you have said.
“Could this just be sepsis? Lactate’s up. White count’s elevated,” he assesses.
Sepsis? You are not sure. Something about the labs does not sit right with you. The pattern feels wrong.
At first, you hesitate. Disagreeing with Jack is not like presenting a case to Robby, with whom you already have complete trust and no fear of being wrong.
With Jack, the thought of saying something foolish makes your stomach twist. You are terrified of sounding inexperienced in front of him.
But your instincts are persistent. And you have learned to respect them.
“Maybe. But the pattern doesn’t quite fit.”
Jack looks at you in silence.
He is not dismissing you. He is not interrupting. If anything, his expression urges you forward, inviting you to challenge him in a quiet, respectful way.
So you take the leap.
“Potassium’s high. Sodium’s low. Glucose is low. He’s acidotic, and now hypotensive. That combination points more toward adrenal crisis. Possibly steroid withdrawal.”
His eyes sharpen slightly.
“So you’re ruling out sepsis?”
“No. We’ll cover for it. But if this is adrenal insufficiency, fluids and antibiotics won’t be enough.”
You glance at the nurse nearby, your voice steadier now.
“Draw cortisol and ACTH. Start stress-dose hydrocortisone now.”
“Impressive,” Jack says softly. "Keep it up, Sunshine.”
“I… thank you, Dr. Abbot.”
And just like that, Jack starts calling you Sunshine too.
And it is no longer innocent, because the way he makes you feel every time he says it unearths all the emotions you hide so well behind professionalism and duty.
* * *
They call it in over the radio first.
There’s been an accident in the mountains. A pair of hikers, a mother and her teenage son, have been injured by a rockfall. Rescue teams are already on their way down, and a helicopter is bringing them straight to the hospital.
It sounds serious.
Serious enough that someone tells you to find Abbot immediately.
You scan the ER, but at first glance he’s nowhere to be seen.
“Have you seen Dr. Abbot?” you ask a nurse.
“I saw him in South 4, I think.”
With determined steps, you head that way, pull back the curtain without overthinking, and step inside.
“Dr. Abbot, they need you for—”
Behind the curtain, you stumble upon a half-dressed Jack Abbot.
His clean scrubs lie neatly folded on the gurney, while the old, completely blood-stained ones are discarded in the biohazard container.
You stop short.
If he hadn’t still been standing there in nothing but his boxers, you might not have noticed that he’s missing a leg. In its place, starting at the knee, there’s a prosthetic.
Your eyes take it in briefly before he turns toward you, still pulling a clean shirt over his bare chest. Then your attention drifts inevitably to his chest, broad and lightly freckled.
His skin has a certain glow, and the muscles beneath are firm. He stops halfway through pulling the shirt on, clearly aware of your gaze, and leans back against the gurney as if standing half-dressed in front of you is the most ordinary thing in the world.
“You know, the leg usually gets all the attention,” he says casually.
Your eyes snap up to his face, mortified that he caught you staring at his perfectly build chest.
“I guess I’m flattered,” he continues, a smirk forming on his lips. “It’s nice to know I haven’t lost all my appeal.”
“I wasn’t—” you start, already realizing that whatever you say next will only make it worse.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Sure.”
You hesitate, then decide retreat would be worse. And then the thought comes.
The leg.
Jack is missing a leg.
Honestly, considering his past as a veteran, it doesn’t completely surprise you, but it still hits you. While that thought settles in your mind, you force yourself not to look at the leg again.
You drop your gaze.
“I didn’t know that you were missing a leg.”
Your words land in a short and deep silence. But when Jack replies, his voice is gentle.
“Of course you didn’t. Not many people do. Not that it’s a secret or anything,” he says, shrugging it off. “People are just uncomfortable talking about it.”
“I’m not uncomfortable,” you say before you can read too much into it.
At least, not in that way. Not in pity, not in… whatever else he might be used to seeing in people. You feel him searching your face, maybe for a flicker of compassion or disgust.
He doesn’t find it.
“Good,” he says, finishing pulling the shirt into place, “because, whether you like it or not, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together this month.”
That’s the deal, isn’t it? A whole month working side by side with him.
He clearly has no idea what that means to you.
“Lucky me,” you reply, teasing him with a hint of irony. “I came to tell you that they need you in Trauma 1, Dr Abbot. Whenever you’re ready.”
Jack slides the clean scrub pants over his hips, his prosthetic leg once again covered up to the ankle, so seamless it’s almost impossible to tell.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
The helicopter arrives with a roar that rattles the trauma bay doors.
The teenager is rushed in first, mud and dust still clinging to his clothes. One leg is crushed beyond recognition, the limb wrapped in blood-soaked gauze that keeps darkening by the second. Behind him, paramedics guide his mother on a stretcher, dazed, a head bandage already stained red.
Jack's voice cuts cleanly through the chaos.
“Shen, Ellis, you’ll go with the mother.”
He turns toward you for a second before shifting his gaze back to the stretcher.
“We’ll take the kid.”
When the boy is wheeled into the trauma room, you realize he’s still conscious. His eyes dart around as the staff move quickly around him.
The entire team focuses on cutting away the fabric of his clothes, attaching monitors, and preparing medication.
Every second counts.
“We were in the mountains and suddenly the rock broke loose and fell on me and—” the boy blurts out, his voice cracking. “Am I going to lose my leg?”
The silence stretches just long enough for panic to bloom.
Then Jack steps closer and lowers himself beside the stretcher so he’s at eye level with the boy.
“Hey. What’s your name?”
His voice is steady, calm in a way that somehow quiets the storm around you.
“Sam.”
“Sam. I’m Jack.”
The boy swallows hard.
“They said… they said it’s really bad.”
Jack glances once at the crushed leg, then back at the boy’s eyes. He places a hand lightly over Sam’s. The boy immediately grips it in return.
“Yeah. It is.”
Your chest knots up at the unflinching honesty.
But Sam seems to relax slightly at the lack of false comfort.
“Does that mean—”
“It means,” Jack says carefully, “that the most important thing right now is keeping you alive. That’s what we do best. You and your mother are in good hands.”
Sam nods weakly, and you see tears starting to well in his eyes.
“But… if I lose it… my life is over.”
Jack exhales softly.
“Sam,” he says, his tone shifting slightly, “can I tell you something?”
The boy nods. Jack reaches down and taps lightly against his own prosthetic leg.
“Look. I lost mine too, a long time ago.”
Sam stares at him, stunned.
“But you’re… you’re a doctor.”
“Last time I checked,” Jack replies, and Sam lets out a shaky laugh. “This can happen to anyone, bud.”
Sam studies him with a new expression. Gone is fear, gone is pity; what remains is something like recognition, maybe even hope.
“And… do you miss it?”
“Sometimes,” Jack admits. “But I promise you, life goes on. It reminds me that I’m still here, and why I’m still here. To keep helping people. To keep making a difference in this messed-up world.”
A silence falls after his words. Of course he misses his leg—if he said he didn’t, it would be a lie. Yet the resilience with which he faces it is part of what you admire most about him.
“I need you to be brave, Sam.” Jack squeezes his hand lightly. “You’re going to get through this. Do you trust me?”
“I do.”
* * *
The surgery team takes over soon after. You step out into the corridor with Jack once the doors close.
Your mind is still spiraling, replaying the calm certainty with which Jack handled the situation and reassured the frightened boy. For a moment, neither of you says anything.
Then Jack exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I need a minute.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He nods once. “I just need some fresh air.”
You hesitate, unsure if he meant that he needs a moment alone, so you stay where you are.
He glances back at you.
“Are you coming?”
Before you can even nod, he starts walking down the corridor, heading toward a side stairwell and up a narrow flight of steps.
When he pushes open the door at the top, cool night air rushes in. You step out onto the hospital rooftop, and far below you the city hums quietly beneath the dark sky.
Jack leans his arms on the railing.
“This is where I come when it gets too loud down there. Not many people come up here. Robby does, sometimes.”
You step closer to the railing and glance over it, suddenly aware of how high you are.
The noise of the city below reaches you only as a distant murmur, traffic reduced to scattered lights drifting through the darkness. A brief wave of dizziness washes over you. And with it, an unsettling thought.
Does he ever stand here and think about jumping?
You don’t dare ask.
“I haven’t had those thoughts in a long time.”
Jack says it quietly, as if he had reached into your mind and pulled the thought straight out.
“I didn’t—”
Your throat tightens.
“There was a time when being up here felt… dangerous,” he continues. “Therapy helps. More than I expected it to.”
“I’m glad,” you whisper.
“I’m stubborn. But not that stubborn.”
The wind wraps around the two of you. You step beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
“You did well with that kid,” you say softly. “More than well. You were honest with him, but kind.”
He lets out a quiet breath.
“Kindness won’t give him his leg back.”
“No,” you say gently. “But he’s alive. He’ll manage. Just like you did.”
Jack shakes his head faintly.
“I was a lot older than he is when I lost mine. He still has his whole life ahead of him.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know.” He pauses. “But it’s still unfair.”
“You didn’t promise him his life would be easy,” you say. “You promised it would still be a life.”
The tension in his shoulders loosens slightly, though his gaze drifts back to the city lights. Even so, you can feel that he’s holding onto your words.
The sudden intimacy of the moment feels overwhelming, and a flicker of doubt creeps in.
Have you crossed a line? Uncertain, you take a small step back, starting to turn away.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I didn’t mean to pry. I can go if you—”
“Don’t go yet.” His voice is quiet, but firm. “Stay with me a minute.”
The words hit you somewhere deep in your chest.
Before your mind has time to think, your body moves. You step forward, closing the distance between you. Your arms wrap around him in a sudden, impulsive motion, pulling him close and pressing your body against his.
For one terrifying half-second, you wonder if you’ve made a catastrophic mistake.
Then his hands find you.
One settles firmly between your shoulder blades, steady and grounding, pulling you closer. The other lifts more slowly, almost hesitant at first, fingers brushing the back of your head before sliding gently into your hair. The touch sends a quiet shiver through your body.
For a moment, the world narrows to the pressure of his arms around you, the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of your scrubs, the slow rhythm of his breathing beneath your cheek.
It feels unexpectedly right.
Then reality crashes back in. You are hugging your attending on the hospital roof at 3 a. m.
You pull away abruptly, staring down at the ground, your face burning.
“Shit—sorry,” you blurt. “I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay.”
You look up. He’s still standing close to you. He doesn’t look annoyed, or confused. If anything, the tightness that had been sitting in his expression earlier has softened.
“Thank you, Sunshine,” he says quietly.
There’s a warmth in his voice that has nothing to do with professionalism, and it sends a small electric ripple down your spine.
Then his pager suddenly bleeps. There's a new patient incoming.
Jack glances down at it, sighing softly.
“Well,” he mutters. His eyes meet yours again. “Time to go save some lives.”
* * *
The rest of the shift is intense, chaotic.
There are so many patients to attend to that you barely find a moment to process the abrupt hug with Abbot. Your mind keeps spinning on every gesture, every fleeting touch, while adrenaline keeps you moving.
Shortly before the end of the shift, you’re told Sam has come out of surgery and is conscious.
You and Abbot meet at the doorway, and he enters first, followed by you, his usual confident aura intact despite the nearly twelve-hour shift behind both of you.
“The surgery was a success,” Jack says, and you notice Sam’s expression brighten at the sight of him. “How are you doing, Sam? Any pain or discomfort?”
“Not much… I… I’m feeling okay,” the boy replies, cautious but clearly relieved.
“Great. That was incredibly brave of you, Sam.” Jack says, with that mix of authority and warmth that makes anyone trust him instantly.
A brief silence follows, and then Sam hesitantly speaks up.
“There’s… something I wanted to ask you, Dr. Abbot,” he says. “It’s not medical,”
“Shoot,” Jack replies.
“At school… there’s a girl. I like her a lot, but I haven’t told her. Do you think… maybe after what happened to me, she won’t…?”
Sam’s words surprise you, but not entirely.
He’s lost a leg, but he’s still just a teenager. Right now, his whole world is reduced to that girl and that sweet and innocent feeling.
You watch the scene with quiet tenderness.
“Oh, I don’t know her, but he might not care about it,” Jack says softly and reassuring. “And if he does… don’t worry. You’ll find a pretty girl who will see past a missing leg.”
Sam frowns slightly, skeptical.
“You promise?”
Jack glances at you briefly, then returns his attention to the boy.
“I’m pretty confident.”
Sam nods slowly, and you notice a small spark of hope in his eyes.
* * *
The first week of night shifts passes quickly. Without incident.
If you don’t count running into Abbot half-dressed and that impulsive hug on the rooftop. You never speak about it again, but somehow your relationship doesn’t feel strained.
If anything, it feels steadier, like something quiet and trusting has settled between you. Even a small routine begins to take shape.
Every night around midnight, Jack brings you a cup of coffee. And for a few minutes, the two of you share a quiet pause together, sipping the bitter but comforting brew.
So you’re confused when, at 2 a.m., he brings you another one.
“You didn’t have to.”
The warmth of the cup seeps into your hands.
He watches you over the rim of his mug.
“You look like you could use it.”
“That’s… a polite way of saying I look horribly sleepy,”
Jack frowns slightly.
“You never look horrible.”
Your pulse stutters.
You give him a small smile, and notice he doesn’t leave. That’s when you realize this isn’t about caffeine.
He leans back against the counter, arms loosely crossed.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he says.
Just as you suspected.
You meet his gaze, silently urging him to speak, while trying to hide the flutter of worry that maybe you’ve done something wrong.
“How are you feeling about nights so far?”
Okay… this isn’t what you expected him to ask. You pause, letting your mind run through the days you’ve spent on the night shift.
“I have to admit they’re more challenging than days,” you say. “Patients are more nervous. More worried. It’s like the darkness makes everything feel worse. But I think I’m handling it well.”
“Good.”
You look down at your coffee for a second before speaking again.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For asking how I’m doing.”
“Of course.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “I’d hate to think you were counting the days.”
You glance up.
“Counting the days until what?”
His gaze lingers on yours a moment too long.
“Until the month ends.”
The thought that Abbot might think you’re eager for your night shift rotation to end throws you off.
The truth is, it’s the last thing you want.
“That’s not happening,” you say quickly. “I actually like the night shift. You let me think, and you let me try, even when my ideas sound like a disaster. And when it gets messy, you’re always there to help. And when it goes badly… you don’t let me drown in it.”
“That’s the easy part,” he says. “Robby was right about you. You’re bright, Sunshine.”
Those words fill your chest with a warm glow, and that’s when you realize you are indeed counting the days. But not for the reason he thinks. You don’t want the month to be over.
You’re counting them because part of you is already dreading the moment it ends.