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* * *
It’s been a week since Robby encouraged you to switch to the night shift at PTMC.
Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Just the sleep deprivation and the usual ER night-shift chaos. But your circumstances aren’t exactly normal.
Mainly because your completely reasonable, totally manageable crush on the night attending has only gotten worse.
That evening, you arrive right on time for your shift. Robby greets you with a tired but friendly smile, the kind that suggests the day shift has been as relentless as ever.
Abbot hasn’t arrived yet.
You sigh and try very hard not to look like you’re waiting for him.
While you scan the monitor listing admitted patients, mentally preparing for whatever the night might throw at you, Robby’s voice cuts through your concentration.
“What did you do to him?”
“To who?”
“To Abbot.”
You stare at him, genuinely confused.
“He’s glowing,” Robby says, eyeing you carefully. “Abbot’s been in a suspiciously good mood all week. And the only thing that’s changed around here… is you joining the night shift.”
Heat creeps up your neck.
Is Jack really different since you started working nights?
The thought that you might have anything to do with his mood makes your pulse race.
As if that weren’t enough, your mind keeps replaying the events of the past week.
Accidentally stumbling in on him half-dressed while he was changing his scrubs. Accidentally, you insist to yourself, hugging him on the rooftop, after helping a young boy who was about to lose his leg. Just like Abbot once did.
In a very short time, your dynamic has shifted at an alarming speed. And with every passing moment, it’s getting harder to hide how you feel about him.
“We… get along well,” you say carefully.
Robby hums, unconvinced.
“But I’m still your favorite attending, right?”
“Of course, Robby.”
From behind you, a familiar voice cuts in.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
You turn around. Jack is standing in front of you, leaning casually against the counter.
He looks at you and then at Robby.
“Maybe you're his favorite. But it’s pretty obvious I’m the good-looking one.”
You scoff before you can stop yourself.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Dr. Abbot.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying your face in that quiet, unsettling way he has.
The way that always makes you feel like he’s noticing things you would very much prefer stayed unnoticed.
“Sunshine,” he says softly, “the eyes never lie.”
You frown, heat rising to your cheeks.
You curse the moment he started calling you that stupid nickname he picked up from Dana.
And you curse the moment you walked in on him half-dressed and caught yourself staring at his unfairly attractive freckled chest.
“Don’t you have patients to see?” you snap, flustered.
“Plenty,” he replies calmly, as he gestures lightly toward nearest room. “Are you coming?”
You sigh, already knowing resistance is pointless.
“Unfortunately.”
Standing up, you adjust your scrubs and grab your tablet.
You follow him in silence, and the frantic rhythm of the ER soon pushes both of you from one consult to the next.
There are brief exchanges of glances between you, but the atmosphere quickly settles back into something that looks, at least on the surface, entirely professional.
Still, a part of you can’t help wondering if what Robby said is true.
“Robby said you're in a good mood lately.”
You say it casually, as if it doesn’t matter much, while pulling fresh a pair of gloves from the box.
The moment the words leave your mouth, you can feel his gaze settle on you.
“He said that?” he replies calmly. “Maybe I am.”
You don’t look at him, but you hear him grab a pair of gloves as well.
“How come?”
You ask again, adjusting the gloves over your hands.
“I’ve been thinking about that hug you gave me on the rooftop.”
“You have?”
“Hard not to.”
“Why?”
You finally look up, and when your eyes meet his, you realize you’re in deeper than you thought.
“Well,” he smiles at you, “turns out I liked it.”
* * *
It’s been ten hours into your shift.
Which means there are two more to go. Two long, endless hours until the morning shift arrives to take over.
You’ve spent the entire night throwing yourself into cases. Sutures, scans, a dislocated shoulder, an elderly patient in respiratory distress. Anything to keep your mind busy. Anything to avoid thinking about him.
About those five stupid words.
Turns out I liked it.
The way your chest tightens every time you replay them makes you feel like an idiot.
What exactly had he liked? The hug? That’s ridiculous. He was probably just teasing you, playing with you.
You shouldn’t let yourself get your hopes up, you remind yourself.
As you pass the command center, walking a little heavier than usual, you feel Whitaker’s gaze lift from the computer screen.
He’s been putting in extra hours to save up for tickets home, so he can visit his family in Nebraska. His presence is always oddly comforting. Whitaker is the kind of coworker who’s easy to trust.
“You alright?” he asks.
“Absolutely.”
“You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” you say, forcing a small smile. “Just still getting used to being awake overnight.”
Some nights are harder than others, and this is definitely one of them.
“Right now everything’s unusually quiet.”
Whitaker says, glancing around the near-empty floor.
“I sometimes… use one of the call rooms and take a quick nap,” he adds, lowering his voice. “I would, if I were you. Before it all turns chaotic again.”
You hadn’t even considered the possibility of sneaking away for a short break.
A conspiratorial look passes between the two of you.
“That actually sounds like a good idea,” you admit. “Where could I go?
“North 16 is usually empty.”
“Thanks, Whitaker.” You turn, already heading that way, but then pause for a second. “And…”
“I won’t tell Abbot.”
* * *
The room has a couple of small beds, the sheets perfectly made, and the walls plain and white. As soon as you pull the door almost closed, the constant murmur of the hospital fades into something distant.
You barely remember lying down. You only remember how heavy your eyelids felt.
Sleep takes you quickly.
It never stays gentle.
The nightmare always begins the same way. With the harsh white fluorescent lights of the operating room blinding you, the shrill beeping of the vital signs monitor ringing in your ears, and the crying.
The crying is the worst part.
It makes your chest feel heavy, your breathing uneven, like the air in your lungs suddenly isn’t enough.
You look down at your hands and see them trembling. And all you can hear are the cries of the family of the first patient you ever lost. The pain, the loss, and the guilt all crash down on you. All of it lands heavily on your shoulders, pressing down until it feels impossible to breathe.
It’s like being pulled back into that terrible moment again. And then the nightmare tears you out of it, like a hand yanking you up from deep water.
You wake with your breathing ragged, trying to focus your vision and remember where you are.
Soon you realize you’re in a call room in the ER, and your nerves ease slightly.
Then a firm hand settles on your shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
Jack’s voice is steady.
Wait.
It's Jack’s voice. Unmistakably calm and familiar. And it’s Jack’s hand resting gently on your shoulder.
What is he doing here?
Your stomach twists.
Whitaker must have told him where I was. Shit. He’d promised you he wouldn’t.
Had he noticed something? Did I cry?
You force your breathing to slow. Maybe you only startled awake. Maybe that’s all he saw.
“It’s fine,” you say, but your voice betrays you.
Damn it, you scold yourself. Calm down.
“No, it’s not,” he replies, and you feel him move closer. “You’re shaking.”
Before you can argue, he pulls you into him.
“Come here.”
The mattress shifts as he moves, and a moment later his warmth surrounds you, his body grounding you in the circle of his arms.
Your body is still trembling, but it begins to settle against his chest. Without realizing it, you adjust slightly, fitting yourself more comfortably against him.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
You know this is wrong. Being wrapped around him like this is something you shouldn’t allow.
But it feels like the safest place you’ve ever been.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks quietly. “I can leave if you want.”
“No,” you whisper. “Jack, can you… stay with me? Please.”
You go very still, as if that might prevent him from letting go. He doesn’t. Instead, his hand moves, gentle fingers threading through your hair.
“I’ve got you.”
You close your eyes, and sleep claims you again, warm and deep. Only then you realize it’s the first time you’ve called him Jack.
When you wake up again, this time it is peaceful. No terrifying nightmare dragging you awake, only a slow return to a gentle warmth.
As your mind clears, you realize you are still wrapped around Jack.
His arms are around you in a firm embrace, your head resting against his chest. You feel the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the steady echoes of his heartbeat.
He’s still asleep.
A soft knock breaks the quiet. It’s followed by a nurse’s voice from the other side of the door.
“Dr. Abbot, we need you in Trauma 2.”
At the knock, Jack exhales a low grunt and gently pulls away from you. The warmth that had been wrapped around you vanishes too quickly.
He sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand over his face.
“God,” he sighs. “I dozed off.”
“It’s okay,” you say, sitting up as well. “I did too.”
A faint smile curves his mouth.
“Guess we both needed the sleep.”
“Yeah.”
He glances back at you, and his eyes hold a softness you’ve never seen before.
“Whitaker told me you were here taking a nap,” he explains. “I came to check on you, and I found you shaking.”
You swallow.
You’d suspected Whitaker had given you away.
“But when I held you,” he adds, “you weren’t cold.”
Of course.
He must have thought you were cold at first. That the trembling was just that, shivering from the chill.
Pulling you closer had probably seemed like a purely practical move to him.
“No,” you admit quietly. “It was… a nightmare.”
You could have lied. Perhaps you should have. Said you were cold, even if it wouldn’t have sounded very convincing.
But you decide not to hide this part of yourself from Abbot, even if it terrifies you.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Yes.
No.
“I’m already embarrassed enough.”
"There's no reason to.”
In that moment, a thousand reasons to be embarrassed rush through your mind.
How can he not see them?
How is he capable of making you feel so calm?
You think of something to say, but the words escape you. You smooth the wrinkles of your scrubs in silence, scanning for your stethoscope among the jumble of sheets.
“Listen,” he adds, “I know I’m not Robby, but I suppose I’m something of an expert in nightmares. You know, because of the PTSD. If you want to talk, you can reach out anytime.”
You lift your gaze and study him carefully. The shadows under his eyes, the steadiness he wears so effortlessly.
It must be so hard to carry everything he does and still remain… himself. You take a deep breath, ready to say something.
The knock comes again, louder this time, insistent.
“Dr. Abbot. Trauma 2. Now.”
He stands up, slipping his stethoscope around his neck. He doesn’t bother adjusting his scrubs, still slightly wrinkled.
“I’m heading back to the battlefield,” he says gently. “Take your time.”
He pauses at the door.
“And don't forget you're doing great, Sunshine.”
* * *
When you step out of the call room and return to the command center, Whitaker meets your gaze with that defeated look in his enormous ocean-blue eyes. Guilt clings to him like a second skin.
Beside him, Robby stands with his arms loosely folded, eyes studying you with an unmistakable hint of amusement.
And just like that, you know exactly what happened.
You check the time. 6:30 a.m. Robby must have arrived early for the shift change. He probably pried it out of Whitaker easily. Robby is an expert at reading people, and Whitaker clearly has a soft spot for him.
You can’t really blame him.
“I’m sorry,” Whitaker blurts immediately. “Abbot asked about you. He looked worried, and I told him I didn’t know where you were. But then Robby showed up and… apparently my face gave it away.”
You give him a small, forgiving smile.
“It’s okay. Really.”
Robby steps a little closer, tilting his head with that teasing smirk you know too well.
“Taking a nap during your shift isn’t a crime.”
Then he glances at the clock on the wall before looking back at you.
“Although,” he says, “I’m not going to ask why it took Abbot forty minutes to come back after going to find you.”
Robby’s gaze lowers briefly to your chest.
“And I’m definitely not going to ask,” he adds calmly, “why you’re wearing his stethoscope.”
You look down, and the realization hits you. A black-tubed stethoscope, hanging comfortably around your neck, initials engraved in it.
J. A.
Damn it.
Somehow, in the chaos of waking up tangled in him, you’d grabbed his stethoscope instead of your own.
Which means…
You glance at Jack.
He’s at the end of the hall, talking with a patient who’s about to be discharged. Around his neck hangs a blue stethoscope. Your stethoscope.
“It’s not what it looks like,” you say quickly.
Robby raises an eyebrow.
Whitaker’s eyes dart between the two of you, clearly taking in every awkward detail.
“Looks like you two are getting along very well,” Robby says.
“We…” you hesitate. “This is a completely professional, accidental stethoscope swap.”
“Uh-huh.”
Robby replies, unconvinced.
“Excuse me,” you mumble quickly.
You slip past Robby and Whitaker before either of them can say anything else.
Jack is pulling off his gloves when you reach him.
“Dr. Abbot, do you have a minute?”
You say, keeping your voice low.
“I do for you.”
Jack responds calmly, completely unaware of what had just happened or how it might appear. You guide him to the nearest empty patient room and draw the curtains.
He watches you expectantly.
“We swapped,” you say, pointing to your neck. At his stethoscope.
He glances down at the stethoscope around his own neck, noticing for the first time that it’s yours.
Without further word, you step closer to swap them back, trying very hard not to notice how close that makes you stand.
Inevitably, the closeness sets your chest fluttering, as if you hadn’t just been pressed against him only moments ago.
You rise onto your tiptoes and lean slightly toward him, your fingers brush when you untangle the tubing. It’s the lightest contact imaginable, but it sends a quiet spark in your chest.
With a precise gesture, Jack settles his stethoscope back around his neck and smirks.
“I think yours suits me better,” he says. “Don’t you agree?”
“You’re unbearable, Dr. Abbot.”
You mutter, rolling your eyes.
“So I’m Dr. Abbot again?” He quirks an eyebrow. “I remember you calling me Jack in the call room.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
“About that… I didn’t mean—” you rush to explain. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you to stay. That was inappropriate and unprofessional.”
“I don’t care about inappropriate,” he says. “Or unprofessional. I care more about whether you’re okay. Still,” he adds softly, “We can pretend it didn’t happen if that makes you uncomfortable.”
No.
You don’t think you could ever pretend it didn’t happen.
You want it to have happened.
“It doesn’t,” you say quietly, meeting his eyes.
“Good.”
“Back there… you helped me with the nightmare,” you add, your voice firmer this time. “I… maybe I want to tell you about it. If it’s okay with you.”
“If it can be of any help, I’d like to hear it,” he replies.
You begin to tell him how the nightmares started, what they represent. The way your nights are haunted by guilt and regret. You avoid saying that sometimes they feel so real, they make you doubt whether you’re cut out for this, but you see in his eyes that he already knows.
“What should I do?” you ask quietly.
“For a long time, I used to bury feelings like that. The kind that crawl under your skin and refuse to leave. I’d shut down and convince myself I was handling.” He pauses, his gaze fixed on you. “That’s the worst option you can pick.”
You picture him spiraling inside himself. The thought that he went through that twists your chest, and for a moment you realize you might end up the same way if you keep going like this.
“Let it out,” he continues “Lean on the people around you. Colleagues, friends, someone you trust, a lover…”
He pauses, his gaze unreadable.
“Even your attending,” he finishes. You smile at his words. “But don’t keep it all inside. Because if you do, it doesn’t just disappear. It spreads. Like an infection that will hurt you endlessly.”
You nod, letting his words sink in.
“And I don’t want that to happen to you,” he says.
Then you realize you won’t end up like that.
You have your colleagues, your friends, and you have him.
“I’ll do my best,” you reply, voice firm with determination. “Thanks for looking out for me, Jack.”
“Anytime, Sunshine.” His lips curl into that infuriatingly perfect smile. “And… glad to be Jack again.”