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* * *
After more than two weeks, you still haven’t adjusted to sleeping during the day and working at night.
A part of you thinks you might never get used to it. The other part doesn’t mind, because working the night shift means spending twelve hours with the night attending, Jack Abbot.
It’s hard to believe it’s only for a month. And that you’re already more than halfway through. It feels like something you’d want to hold onto a little longer… even if you know that sooner or later, what you feel for him will refuse to stay buried.
And because it's temporary, you find yourself wanting to do your best while you’re still working nights. While you're still side by side with him. Not that you’ve been doing badly so far, in fact, you’ve built a solid professional reputation. That’s not the problem.
The problem is everything that isn't professional. It’s everything you feel just from being near him.
Every time your hands brush, even when he’s just passing you an instrument, his touch makes your whole body come alive. If he were just attractive, it would be easy to ignore the flutter in your stomach every time it happens. The problem is that beneath the flirt, he’s disarmingly kind. And recently, you’ve realized something worse.
His arms feel like the safest place you’ve ever been.
The rooftop hug lingers in your mind, just like the brief, clandestine nap you ended up sharing in a call room a week ago.
That part of you, the same part that doesn’t want these night shifts to ever end, aches for his touch.
You try to push those thoughts aside as you arrive at PTMC that evening. You check the time as you walk in. 7:10. Shit. With a bit of luck, no one will notice you slipping in late. You don’t want anyone to notice, especially not when the reason is your messed up sleep schedule, and the nightmares that often break through your already fragile sleep.
You make your way toward the lockers, careful not to be seen. But as you quietly put your things away and take out a clean set of scrubs and the equipment you need, you hear a voice behind you.
“You’re late, Sunshine.”
Of course it has to be him.
“I missed the bus.”
You offer the poorly executed excuse as you turn toward Abbot. He is leaning casually against the lockers, with the relaxed, effortless posture of someone who’s been working nights for years.
“I could’ve given you a ride.”
His tone is light, almost harmless. Almost. For you, it isn’t harmless at all.
“That’s not… really necessary.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“You don’t trust a one-legged driver?” he says, and then a smile slips onto his lips. “I’m actually better than Robby, and he’s got two legs.”
A small smile tugs at yours in return. It’s almost overwhelming, how easily he can make you smile.
“I do. It’s just… I’m fine.”
Still, you notice the way he studies your face, more closely than before.
“Good,” he replies. Then, after a brief pause, he adds, “How are you doing with the nightmares?”
The shift in tone catches you off guard.
During that shift when you woke up shaking in the call room, you had told him about them. Talking to him had helped, at least a little.
Nothing had helped as much as the way he had pulled you into his arms.
“Better,” you say. “I think.”
“Glad to hear that.”
You don’t look away from him, and although he holds a relaxed posture, the shadows under his eyes betray him. You know he’s fighting his own demons too.
That’s when a thought settles in your mind.
“Do they… ever go away?”
Jack holds your gaze.
“They do.”
“Did yours?”
“No,” he admits. “But I still think they will.”
His words give you a glimmer of hope.
“Though,” he adds more casually, “if you need some cuddles, you know where to find me.”
Your mind goes blank for a few seconds.
After that brief pause, you feel heat rising to your cheeks, so you turn your face away before he can see it and head toward the ER hall.
You knew it was a mistake, agreeing not to pretend that night hadn’t happened. Abbot bringing it up is completely mortifying.
“I changed my mind,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “Let’s just forget it ever happened.”
“Too late,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Besides... Didn’t seem like you hated it.”
The heat doesn’t stop rising to your face. In fact, you can feel your pulse pounding in your head.
You quicken your pace slightly, keeping Jack a step behind you.
“I would cuddle a trauma dummy before I cuddle you.”
“I rank below a trauma dummy?” he says, mock-offended. “That hurts.”
“You’ll survive.”
“At least I rank above Shen, right?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
You don’t look him in the eyes. You can’t. Not when you know exactly what he’ll see there.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he complains. “I bring you coffee every night. And I’m objectively better company.”
You let out a breath, trying not to smile. And trying very hard not to turn and face him.
“You’re impossible.”
As you round the corner into the main ER hall, Jack steps in front of you. His gaze meets yours briefly, and then that smirk appears.
“And you,” he replies, “are definitely blushing.”
Damn it.
“Shut up, Abbot.”
You brush past him, heading quickly toward the command center, scrubs and stethoscope clutched against your chest. It feels like your heart might burst out of your ribs at any moment.
Dana lifts her gaze as you walk by.
“Abbot,” she calls, intriged. “Are you messing with Sunshine again?”
Jack turns to her, hands raised in innocent surrender.
“I would never.”
You look at Dana, desperately searching for an escape from the inevitable consequences of Jack Abbot’s relentless flirting.
“Do you have anything that could keep me away from him?”
Abbot crosses his arms at your words, still wearing that infuriatingly attractive expression of amusement.
“And here I was told you two were getting along well,” Dana replies.
You frown.
“Who told you that?”
“Robby.”
* * *
The first hours of the shift, you keep your distance from Jack, attending to a patient Dana assigned to you.
It’s a complicated case, one that demands your full attention, so you immerse yourself in it, ignoring the knot in your stomach every time Jack passes by.
As you step out of the patient room, your phone buzzes in your scrub pocket.
It’s unusual, as no one usually calls you during shifts. You fumble for it, your heart skipping when the screen lights up with a name you haven’t seen in ages.
Your ex.
A curse slips under your breath.
What the hell is he doing calling me during my shift?
Though, chances are he doesn’t even know you’re on nights now. Several months have passed since your breakup.
You hesitate for half a second, then sigh and answer anyway.
“Hello?”
But the voice on the other end isn’t his.
“This is Dr. Abbot from PTMC. We’re calling because—”
Your breath catches.
“Abbot?” you cut in, confusion tangling your words. “Wha... Wait, why are you calling me from this number?”
But deep down, you already know the answer. There’s only one explanation for why the hospital would be calling you from his phone.
“Shit,” he mutters, and you can hear the sharp edge in his tone. “Come to Trauma One. Now.”
* * *
When you step into the trauma bay, the atmosphere hits you like a wave. The lights are blinding, monitors beep incessantly, and there he is, on the stretcher.
Your ex lies there with his eyes closed, an IV connected, and a nurse drawing blood. He’s not moving.
What...?
Before you can take another step, Jack stands in front of you, blocking your way, as his expression turns serious, filled with concern.
“They found him unconscious,” he explains. “We called his emergency contact, and... ”
“... and that was me,” you finish.
“Exactly,” he replies. “I assume you two know each other?”
His expression now as he stares at you is impossible to read, though his gaze reflects that he's considering the most obvious answer: That the guy on the stretcher might be your boyfriend.
“Yes.” You pause, your voice tight. “He’s… my ex.”
“I see,” Jack says, his eyes flicking to him, then back to you. “Then I need you to decide something.”
“Go on.”
“This is personal for you,” he says. “You can choose not to handle this. I can take over. Or you can decide to get involved and take him on as your patient.”
Your answer is crystal clear.
You straighten up, already reaching for a fresh pair of gloves.
“I want him as my patient.”
“I suspected you’d say that,” Jack says, with a look that suggests he knows you better than you’ve allowed him to. “Alright. Let’s get to it. Let’s save him.”
You slip on your gloves, adrenaline sharpening your focus.
“Patient has fever, temp 102°F, HR 122, and RR 26,” the nurse tells you while drawing blood. “BP’s dropping every moment...”
As you examine him, Jack takes the chart and asks you the standard questions: medications, allergies, prior conditions. His voice is calm, but there’s a subtle tension in his eyes, the kind that comes from knowing that the reason you know all that about him is because you were involved.
You respond with precision, already calling for labs, initiating IV antibiotics, coordinating with the rest of the team in the trauma bay.
“Everything points to sepsis. With the antibiotics started, we should see improvement in his fever. We’ll wait for the lab results and culture. He should wake up soon,” you say, your confidence building with the rush of adrenaline. “Let me know when he does.”
Jack stands back slightly, hands folded, observing. There’s admiration in his gaze, and maybe… a flicker of concern.
Once all the procedures are underway, you remove your gloves and notice your hands are shaking. You shove them into your pockets, stiffening your posture and stepping out.
Now, it’s just a waiting game.
“You’re doing well,” Jack says behind you.
You meet his eyes for a fraction of a second, feeling that undercurrent of something unspoken between you.
Then you turn back to check on another patient.
* * *
You drum your fingers on the desk while you wait for your patient’s results.
Your ex-boyfriend’s results.
On your computer screen, there’s a medical protocol open that you’re not reading. You can’t focus.
A paper cup appears in front of you.
The aroma of coffee wraps around you, soothing, and when you look up, Jack is standing in front of you holding his own cup. Since you started your night shift rotation, this routine has formed between you. He always brings you coffee at midnight, and you share a quiet moment together.
“Is it only midnight?” you say as you reach for your coffee. It’s hot. “I need this shift to end already.”
“Two weeks and you’re starting to sound like me.”
You know Jack is trying to lift your spirits with a small joke. Even though a smile still finds its way onto your face, you remain silent, holding the cup tightly.
He then sets his cup down on your desk and steps a little closer to you.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say automatically. Then you reconsider. “I mean… I don’t know.”
“That’s a fair answer.”
A brief silence settles between you. The kind that makes it feel okay not to be okay all the time.
“You didn’t have to take that case,” he adds. “I meant what I said. You could’ve stepped away and I would’ve handled it. However, I wouldn’t have let you do it if I thought you couldn’t handle it.”
“I know,” you say. “I appreciate it.”
You hesitate, unsure of how to continue. Your gaze drifts down the hallway, as if you could still see the trauma room from here.
“I… it’s not that I don’t trust you all,” you say, worried that Jack might think you doubt his judgment. “I just couldn’t walk away.”
“I figured.” His gaze meets yours. “You want to tell me what happened between you two?”
The way he asks the question carries no pressure, no demand. It’s intimate, but you don’t feel uncomfortable sharing it with him. The ease he carries with him makes you feel safe in a way you can’t quite explain.
“We broke up months ago, after I realized that he didn't love me,” you admit quietly. “He loved the idea of me. But he wasn’t willing to deal with what it actually means to be with me.”
“And what does that mean?” Jack asks, steady.
“You know,” you shrug, trying to make it sound lighter than it feels. “The nightmares. The stubbornness. The way I can be… intense. All of it.”
A crease forms between his brows.
“Sounds like bullshit to me.”
A small breath escapes you, almost a laugh, but not quite.
A warm sensation swirls in your chest at the thought that all those things that once shattered your self-esteem and hurt you could sound absurd to Abbot.
“Well, it’s what happened,” you say, taking a small sip of your coffee, which suddenly doesn’t taste bitter at all. “He’s probably still mad at me, since I’m the one who ended it. But our relationship was hurting me so much. I was hurting myself trying to be someone I’m not.”
“You did the right thing,” he says. “And now, he’s in good hands. In your hands.”
Then Jack does something unexpected.
He reaches for your free hand, the one not holding your paper cup, and gently wraps his fingers around it. Tenderly, he rubs your fingers with his thumb.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” he says.
And in that moment, you believe him.
* * *
Half an hour later, you’re told he’s awake. They’ve moved him to a regular patient room since he’s no longer at risk. In fact, the suspected sepsis has been confirmed and successfully treated, and he’ll be discharged soon.
When you reach the door, Jack is standing outside, watching you carefully.
“Do you want to go in by yourself?”
“No,” you answer. “Stay with me.”
There’s a brief pause, during which you feel those words land somewhere deeply intimate.
“Fine.”
As you walk into the room together, your ex looks up. The weight of his gaze makes you uncomfortable, pulling up unpleasant memories and buried insecurities.
You take a deep breath and build a mask of professionalism.
“Hi. I’m your doctor, and this is Dr. Abbot,” you gesture toward Jack, his gaze reassuring. “You were admitted with sepsis. Now that we have the culture results, we’ve started you on antibiotics, and you’re recovering. You can be discharged; you’re out of danger.”
After a heavy silence, you add:
“Any questions?”
He stands up and takes a step toward you.
“Sweetheart—”
You don’t react, forcing yourself not to step back.
“I’m doctor here,” you reply calmly. “And before you leave, I’ll need you to change your emergency contact. I understand why you had me listed before, but now it should be someone else. Your brother, your mother. Just… not me.”
His eyes flick to Jack, then back to you.
“I was hoping we could talk in private.”
You know he means Jack leaving you alone. And that's not happening.
“He’s my attending. He’s staying,” you say evenly. “Talk.”
Your ex sighs dramatically.
“I wanted to apologize for being an asshole. Maybe we could… try again.”
You knew he probably wanted to talk about this, and you’re already certain of how the conversation will end. You’re not going back to him.
“We’re not getting back together.”
“But… don’t you feel lonely? Don’t you miss me?” he insists, his tone growing increasingly unpleasant and less pleading. “We had something good, we can get it back if you just—”
No. You don’t feel lonely. You don’t miss him.
“Cut it off.” You interrupt him. “I’m... actually seeing someone.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jack shift. His gaze snaps toward you, shoulders tightening ever so slightly.
“Is he from the hospital?” your ex scoffs. “Where is he?”
Of course, there is no he. It’s a lie. You just want him to leave you alone. You hope that maybe, by saying this, he’ll finally understand that you don’t miss him at all, that you don’t even think about him anymore.
God. You just want this day to end.
“Listen, darling…” Your ex’s voice drops, sending a chill down your spine. You recognize that tone. “Does the guy you’re seeing know about your night terrors? What do you think he’ll do when he finds out? He’ll be disgusted. He’ll leave you. No one will love you like I did. No one knows your shit like I—”
Before he can finish, Jack steps forward.
“Enough,” he says, every inch of him radiating warning. “You’re leaving.”
You’ve never seen Abbot like this before, the tension seeping through small cracks in his features. Your ex puffs up, raising his chin at Jack, clearly unwilling to let the conversation end here.
“And what are you going to do?” your ex retorts. “Are you calling security?”
Jack smiles. His hand reaches for your ex’s arm, a firm grip, and you watch as he pulls him towards the door.
“I don’t need to.”
They both head toward the door, your ex helpless against Jack’s grip. Then Jack turns back for a brief moment to address you.
“I’m going to discharge him,” he says, his tone suddenly softer as he looks at you. “I’ll be right back.”
* * *
A few minutes later, Abbot returns and gestures for you to follow him.
“Walk with me.”
“I have more patients that I—”
“Walk,” he repeats, gentler this time.
You follow him toward the rooftop, recognizing the path. You’ve been here once before, with him. You hugged him that day.
As before, Jack leans on the railing, eyes fixed on the horizon. The first rays of sunlight begin to peek over the skyline, the sky painting itself in beautiful shades of dawn with every passing moment.
“I hope the guy you’re seeing is better than that piece of shit,” Jack says after a long silence.
Right. That lie you told back in your ex-boyfriend’s hospital room. Jack probably took it seriously.
“I’m not seeing anyone,” you clarify. “I just wanted him gone.”
Jack exhales quietly.
“Good. I mean—” He stops himself. “You deserve better than that.”
You nod, but your ex’s words echo in your head.
No one is going to love you. You’re broken.
Then Jack studies you, reading your expression. He steps away from the railing, facing you with a serious stance.
“Do you actually believe him?”
“I…” Your voice wavers. “What if he’s right?”
“God,” Jack mutters under his breath, frustration escaping his voice. “You’re not seeing anyone right now. But if you were?” He continues, louder now, steady. “That lucky bastard would love all of you. Your strengths, your flaws, the way you overthink, the way you care too much, the nightmares... and the stubbornness. All of it.”
His gaze holds yours.
Then he runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you know he makes when he’s nervous. Though he rarely is.
“Don’t you dare doubt that,” he adds. “You’re not going to end old and lonely.”
You know exactly what he means.
You’re not going to end up like me.
“You’re not alone.”
“That’s not the point,” he says, clearly putting the focus on you. “The point is… it should be easy for you. You’re young, and beautiful.”
If you weren’t still reeling from your ex-boyfriend’s words, hearing Abbot say you’re beautiful would have your cheeks flushing and butterflies tumbling in your stomach.
But right now, you can only think of one thing.
“I’m broken.”
“You’re healing.”
“Healing means I have wounds,” you try to explain. “It means there will be scars.”
“Scars can be loved.”
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe your scars could be accepted, even embraced by someone.
The problem is, your heart has already chosen who that someone is. You are completely drawn to the attending doctor standing in front of you, trying to console you. The attending doctor who happens to be your boss this month, the one you share midnight cups of coffee with, stolen hugs, and even an accidental nap.
Your pulse quickens as he takes a small step closer, and the air between you feels electric. You can feel the warmth radiating off him, dangerously close, and for a moment, your thoughts scatter.
Could he fall for you?
Would he mind your wounds, your scars?
“You’re forgetting something,” you whisper. “You don’t get to choose who you fall in love with.”
“True,” he admits, a flicker of softness crossing his face. “Although… where would the fun be if we did?”
A small, reluctant smile tugs at your lips.
“I guess you’re right.”
“Good,” he says, and you feel the subtle shift. His tone slowly settles back into something more controlled and professional. “We should get back. People need us for a few more hours.”
* * *
The shift ends right where it began. In the narrow hallway by the lockers, stuffing your things into that small space and grabbing your backpack to head home.
Finally, you’ll get some rest from this never-ending day. And, of course, the weekend awaits.
The sound of a locker opening next to yours pulls you out of your thoughts.
“Thinking about the weekend, Sunshine?”
Jack is packing up too, already dressed in regular clothes.
“I can’t wait,” you say. “See you on Monday, and... thanks, Jack.”
“Anytime.”
You load your backpack onto your shoulders and turn toward the ER exit.
“Wait,” he adds. You stop short. “Who's your emergency contact?”
The question takes you by surprise.
“No one,” you reply. “My parents live far away. Even if the hospital called them, it’d be hard for them to get here in time.”
Jack studies you for a moment, like he’s weighing something.
“Give me your phone.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your phone.”
You hand it over automatically, watching as he unlocks it and starts typing.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving my number.”
Your stomach does an uneasy flip.
He finishes typing and hands the phone back. His name sits there on the screen of your contacts list.
Jack Abbot.
“You can change your emergency contact if you find someone better,” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “But for now, it’s no problem for me.”
For a second you just stare at him.
“You… don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he says, his tone far from professional. “I want to.”
The words settle somewhere warm and dangerous in your chest.
You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. Not as if the person you're in love with just saved his number in your phone.
“And who’s your emergency contact?”
“Robby.”
“Makes sense,” you say. “He’s an excellent doctor.”
“True,” Jack replies. “But that’s not why.” His smile sharpens slightly. “The bastard put me down as his emergency contact first. Said if something happened to him, I’d have to come deal with it.”
A laugh escapes you, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve laughed all day.
Jack has that damn ability to make you forget you were upset just moments ago.
“So I figured it was only fair to return the favor,” he finishes.
You shake your head.
“You two are unbelievable.”
“That’s part of our charm,” he says.
Then, almost casually, he adds:
“Besides the emergency contact… now you can text me if you need anything.”
Your pulse spikes.
Having his number, the idea of texting him… it feels deeply intimate. And somehow, the whole thing happened so naturally that you haven’t had the time to really think it through.
You decide to hide your racing heart behind humor.
“Oh, but do you even use text messages?” you tease.
“They’re faster than smoke signals,” he replies.
* * *
That weekend, you spend far too long thinking about the first message you could send him. You find yourself staring at the screen of your phone, his name written in your contacts.
Besides the emergency contact… now you can text me if you need anything.
It’s not that you need anything from him. It’s that you want to talk to him. You’re so eager to know how he’s doing, to see him again, that you feel a tingling in your fingertips every time you hold your phone.
Monday can’t come soon enough.
On Sunday afternoon, after considering an absurd number of possibilities, you settle on something simple.
You’re going to send something casual, just ask how he’s doing, and that’s it.
It’s not like you’d be flirting.
…Right?
You: Hey, just checking the emergency line works.
Your pulse quickens as you hit send. A few seconds later, three dots appear next to your message.
He’s typing.
Jack Abbot: Works fine.
Jack Abbot: I dare you to find a better pickup line, Sunshine.
You stare at his words.
Okay, this is the worst-case scenario, since he just assumed you’re actually flirting.
Though, deep down, you know he’s right. You just don’t want to give him control of the situation.
You: That was not a pickup line.
Three dots appear again.
Jack Abbot: Are you sure?
You: Pretty sure
Jack Abbot: Shame.
Jack Abbot: I was going to let you try again.
You: No need to.
Jack Abbot: So… do you actually need something from me?
I miss you, you think. And I’ll miss you even more when the rotation month ends.
You don’t write any of that.
You: I'm fine.
You: Just miss messing with you.
Jack Abbot: So, you miss me.
Jack Abbot: That’s sweet.
Shit. Was it that obvious? Jack has this ability to turn every word you say into something else.
Although, truth be told, you’re doing it too.
You: I said I missed messing with you.
You type hastily, your fingers nervously tapping against the cold screen.
Jack Abbot: Lucky you.
Jack Abbot: You'll have a new opportunity to mess with me tomorrow.
You smile at the screen. Monday’s almost here. Who would’ve thought you’d be looking forward to diving back into the pit?
Then, you see three dots appear again. He’s typing something else.
Jack Abbot: And for the record...
Jack Abbot: I miss you too.