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Jack is looking at the board with a slight crease between his brows, eyes scanning the patient list like he’s expecting something to suddenly appear. It’s an unusually quiet night, which, in Jack’s experience, usually means something is about to go down.
He shifts his weight slightly, arms folded over his chest as he studies the list like it might suddenly rearrange itself if he watches long enough.
A couple of minor injuries. One patient waiting on labs. Someone in observation who probably should’ve been discharged an hour ago. He can’t remember the last time the board looked this manageable.
“Don’t stare at it too hard,” a well-known voice says from behind him. “You might scare the calm away.”
Jack glances over his shoulder.
You’re leaning against the counter. You look tired, yet you still have that small, sweet smile on your face, the one he’s noticed shows up most when the shift is at its worst, like you’re stubbornly refusing to let the place grind you down.
It’s a smile he has begun to rely more on than he probably should. It’s subtle. Easy to miss if someone isn’t paying attention. But Jack always notices.
It’s steady, reassuring. And somewhere along the line, Jack realized he looks for it now. Which is a bit of a problem. You’re his resident, which means he probably shouldn’t be noticing things like that, but he just can’t help it.
He shouldn’t be cataloguing the way your smile softens the hard edges of a shift, or how the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction when you walk into a room. He shouldn’t be aware of the way your voice sounds when you’re explaining something gently to a patient versus when you’re arguing with an elderly patient about why they really do need to stay for observation.
But he does. He notices all of it.
“Calm’s a myth,” he says after a moment. “Just means the ambulance bay’s about to light up.”
You hum softly behind him. “Optimistic as always, Abbot.”
“Just speaking from experience.”
“Sure.” Your tone is light, teasing, but there’s something softer under it that Jack can’t quite place.
You have been a little different lately. Jack noticed it before he meant to. It’s just in glimpses, short moments where you linger a little longer than usual after a hard case. Your usual optimism is by no means gone, but it seems like you’re fighting a little more for it. The smile is still there. Still warm, still steady. But sometimes it takes a second longer to show up.
Sometimes he catches the moment just before it does. The quiet breath you take before turning back to a patient. The way your shoulders drop when you think no one’s looking. The way you stare at a chart a little too long after delivering bad news. Most people probably wouldn’t notice, but he does.
You push yourself off the counter and walk up beside him, leaning slightly so you can see the board better. Your shoulder brushes his arm for half a second before you settle next to him. Neither of you mention it.
“Got anything good for me?” you ask, leaning a little closer, eyes bright even though your body is clearly tired.
“I got a dislocated collarbone in room 12,” he offers.
You’re studying the list, brow slightly furrowed now, that little smile still sitting at the corner of your mouth like it belongs there. It’s ridiculous, honestly, how much it steadies him.
“Yeah, we better get that fixed,” you murmur, voice low, almost to yourself, but loud enough that Jack hears.
He glances at you, smiling despite himself. “You know cherrypicking is against hospital policy, right?”
“You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, eyes glinting.
Jack snorts softly, shaking his head. “That’s called careful evaluation. Strategic thinking.”
“Strategic, huh?” you tease, leaning just a little closer, it makes you brush your shoulder against his side again. It’s just the slightest touch, but it’s still enough for him to notice. “If you say so,” you murmur, voice low and teasing, “but I think we both know you just like standing here watching me pick the fun cases.”
Jack shakes his head, though a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You finish your notes on the chest pain in four?”
“Yep,” you say. “Negative trops, normal EKG, probably reflux. I set up discharge and told him to follow up with his PCP.”
Jack nods once, approving.
You glance sideways at him. “You already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Just checking.”
“You’re so reassuring,” you deadpan.
Jack’s mouth twitches faintly, like he’s trying not to smile and mostly failing. “Part of my job description.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t move away. If anything, you settle a little more comfortably beside him, shoulder still brushing his arm every now and then when one of you shifts. It’s easy like this, too easy.
“Yeah,” you murmur after a beat, voice softer now, “it’s… nice to have a good attending.”
Jack glances at you, caught slightly off guard by the softness in your voice. He opens his mouth to respond, he doesn’t even know what to say, but he is cut off when your phone suddenly rings. The sound slices clean through the quiet moment.
You blink, startled, and pull it from your pocket, glancing at the screen. Your expression changes immediately. The teasing ease disappears. Your shoulders stiffen just slightly. You frown, glancing at the screen. “Sorry, I really need to take this.”
You turn and begin walking away with quick steps, your thumb swiping over the answer button almost instinctively. “Hello?” Your voice is calm, but there’s an undertone of alertness now, of attention fully focused.
Jack watches you as you disappear down the hall. He gives a soft shake of his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off the sudden shift from warm ease to professional focus. Then he turns back to the board, pushing his thoughts aside.
But he barely has time to refocus before Lena appears at the board, her expression tense but professional. She doesn’t waste words. “We’ve got a trauma coming in. Motorcycle accident, one patient, multiple injuries. Five minutes away.”
That’s all it takes for him to snap fully back. “Do we have vitals?”
“No.”
“Okay, room prep. Get trauma two cleared, full protocol, you know the drill,” he says, already moving. “Vitals on arrival,” he calls out as he reaches the bay.
The patient is in rough shape upon arrival, but he pulls through and after working on him for half an hour he’s finally stable and on his way up to surgery.
Jack peels off his gloves, the latex snapping softly as he drops them into the bin, and as he washes his hands the adrenaline finally begins to ebb. Warm water runs over his fingers as he scrubs methodically, gaze fixed somewhere on the tiled wall in front of him
The patient had made it. Stable enough for surgery, that counts as a win in the ER. He steps out of the trauma bay and stops short.
You’re in the hallway near triage. On your hip is a toddler, she can’t be more than two years old, sleepy, fighting a great fight to keep her eyes open, clutching a stuffed rabbit to her chest. In front of you, perched on a gurney with an ice pack pressed to her head, is a little girl who looks suspiciously like you. Same eyes, same shape to the mouth. Even the tilt of her head when she looks up at you feels familiar. She looks to be about five or six years old.
For a second his brain just stalls, and then it does something unhelpful. Oh… she has kids. It’s absurd how hard that thought lands. Around him, whispers start immediately.
“Did you know she had kids?”
“Since when?”
“Wait, is she married?”
Jack hates how tight his chest feels. You never mentioned a partner. Never mentioned children. He’s spent so long memorizing all the little things about you, the way you take your coffee, the way you sigh after long shifts, the way you rub your temples when you’re overwhelmed, and somehow missed an entire family?
He watches you press your forehead to the little girls on the gurney’s, murmuring reassurances. The toddler tiredly pats your cheek like she’s comforting you too. Jack feels something in his chest rearrange.
Ellis raises a brow at him. “Did you know?”
“No,” he mutters, unable to look away.
Jack watches the scene like he’s accidentally stepped into someone else’s life.
You’re standing there in the harsh fluorescent light of the ER hallway, still in your scrubs, just like he has seen you hundreds of times before, now you’re just holding a toddler like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your hand is rubbing slow circles on her back while you lean down toward the older girl on the gurney.
Jack stands there longer than he should. Long enough to feel vaguely like he’s intruding on something private. Because the version of you he knows exists in trauma bays and chart rooms and late-night coffee runs. The version of you who stubbornly smiles through brutal shifts and argues politely with patients who want to leave against medical advice
This version of you is… different. Soft in a way that makes something in his chest pull tight. But then he pulls himself together. Because standing there staring isn’t helping anyone. And the whispers behind him are getting louder.
“Did she ever mention kids to you?” someone murmurs.
“Nope.”
“Do we know who the dad is?”
Jack’s jaw tightens. He steps forward before he can think too hard about it. You turn your head in his direction as he approaches. For a moment your expression freezes, but you recover quickly, shifting the toddler a little higher on your hip as her little head droops against your shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice low and even. “What have we got her?”
You glance down at the little girl on the gurney before answering, your voice automatically shifting into the calm, clinical tone Jack is used to hearing during rounds.
“She fell out of bed and hit the corner of the nightstand,” you finish gently, brushing a stray piece of hair away from the little girl’s forehead. “She cried right away. No loss of consciousness, no vomiting. Babysitter said she seemed a little dizzy after, but she’s been alert the whole time.”
“I just had to wee,” the little girl insists, her lower lip wobbles a little.
You give her a soft smile immediately. “I know you did,” you murmur gently, brushing your thumb across her cheek where a tear had started to slip down.
The toddler on your hip lifts her head a little at the sound of your voice, blinking slowly like she’s trying very hard to stay awake. Her tiny hand pats your shoulder once before she tucks her face back into your neck, rabbit still clutched tight.
Jack feels something strange twist in his chest.
“Let’s get her to peds and have a look,” Jack says gently.
You nod immediately.
The next five minutes pass in a blur, the kind of blur that only comes from moving quickly but carefully, every motion practiced and precise. You walk beside the gurney, still cradling the toddler, while Jack guides the gurney towards the pediatric room.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” Jack begins, his voice calm but firm, as he closes the door behind them, shutting out the harsh fluorescent buzz of the main ER. He glances at you, taking in how naturally you balance the toddler on your hip while keeping an eye on the older girl. “Is it okay if I take a look at your head and ask a few questions?” he says gently as he pulls, first a chair for you to sit beside the gurney, before rolling a stool for himself to sit on the other side.
You whisper a small thank you as you settle, carefully shifting the toddler from your hip to your lap, letting her slump a little as her eyelids droop.
“Okay,” the little girl on the gurney whispers.
You give her a soft nod, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Dr. Abbot is just going to check your head and make sure everything’s okay, alright? He will be super gentle, I promise. He’s really, really good at this.”
Jack feels a strange mixture of awe and something heavier, something private, almost fragile, coil in his chest. He swallows hard, keeping his voice low and steady, though his chest feels just a little too tight. “Yeah, I’m gonna be super gentle, promise.”
Jack wheels his stool a little closer to the gurney, keeping his movements slow and unthreatening the way you would with any nervous pediatric patient. The little girl watches him carefully, her small fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.
“Alright,” he says softly, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “First things first, what’s your name?”
“Sophia,” she says in a small voice.
Jack nods gently, keeping his tone soft and warm. “Hi, Sophia,” he says, like they’re just meeting under normal circumstances and not in the middle of a late-night ER visit. “That’s a really good name. Means wisdom, right?”
“Mhm,” she nods seriously, like this is very important information.
Jack smiles faintly. Your thumb brushes gently over her ankle through the blanket. “Alright,” Jack continues gently, shifting a little closer on the stool. “I have this flashlight,” Jack says, pulling the small penlight from the pocket of his scrub top. He clicks it on, letting the beam shine briefly against the wall first so Sophia can see it. “I’m just going to use it to look at your eyes, okay?”
Sophia watches the light with cautious curiosity. “Okay…” she murmurs.
“Perfect,” he says, offering her a small, reassuring smile. Jack keeps his movements slow and predictable, the way he would with any nervous kid. “Can you look right at my nose for me?” he asks gently.
She is very cooperative, squinting a little as she focuses hard on the middle of his face.
“Perfect,” Jack murmurs. He lifts the penlight and shines it briefly into one eye, then the other, watching the pupils carefully as they react to the light. “Great job,” he murmurs. “You’re really good at this.”
That seems to make her proud. Her shoulders lift just a little, like she’s sitting a bit taller on the gurney. Jack notices and lets the moment sit for a second before continuing.
“Alright,” he says gently, clicking the penlight off and slipping it back into his pocket. “Now can you follow my finger with your eyes, not your head.”
Sophia nods solemnly, clearly taking the task very seriously. Jack lifts a finger in front of her face and begins to move it slowly from side to side. Sophia’s eyes track it carefully, her brow furrowing in concentration.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “Now up here.” He moves his finger upward, then down, watching closely as her gaze follows smoothly. “Great job.”
Sophia’s shoulders relax a little at the praise.
“I heard you felt a bit dizzy after you fell,” Jack continues gently. “Does your head feel spinny right now? Or do you feel nauseous at all?”
Sophia thinks about it very seriously, her brow scrunching as she considers the question.
“A little before,” she admits quietly. “But not now.”
Jack nods once, calm and reassuring. “Okay, that’s good.”
But the little girl shuffles slightly on the gurney. “But I still got to wee…” she says quietly.
You sigh, closing your eyes a brief second, the sound carrying a mixture of exhaustion and guilt. “You never got to go to the bathroom, did you, sweetheart.”
“No,” she says, her voice small.
The sound of your voice wakes the toddler on your lap, her eyelids fluttering as she takes in her surroundings. Her eyes land on Jack wide and curious, a tiny frown tugging at the corner of her mouth. You shift slightly, holding her securely against your chest while keeping one hand free to guide Sophia.
The little girl in your lap lifts the stuffed rabbit in her hand and points it vaguely in Jack’s direction.
“Bun,” she informs him.
Jack nods very seriously. “That’s a great bunny.”
She seems satisfied with that. Her little frown turns into the sweetest, little tentative smile, and she wiggles slightly against your chest, the rabbit still clutched tight.
“Let’s go find a toilet,” you murmur softly, shifting the toddler gently so she’s more comfortable against your hip, but her little feet kick lightly, a little whiny sound of disapproval leaving her mouth, like she isn’t willing to move so shortly after being woken up. “Sweetie, Sophia has to go to the bathroom,” you murmur gently, tilting your head so the toddler can see your face. Her little frown deepens, and she lets out another small whiny sound, hugging her bunny a little tighter.
“Here,” Jack says, reacting on instinct more than thought, holding his arms out gently toward the toddler. “Want to come to me for a sec?”
Your eyes finds his, a tired, thankful look in your eyes as hand the little girl over her tiny body shifting hesitantly into Jack’s arms. He catches her with ease, one hand under her bottom, the other supporting her back, letting her hug her rabbit close against his chest. The toddler relaxes slightly, leaning into him as if she’s known him far longer than a few minutes.
Jack gives a soft, reassuring hum, careful not to startle her. “There we go,” he murmurs gently, adjusting her so she’s comfortable.
“Okay, let’s find you a toilet,” you murmur to Sophia, gently squeezing her hand. “Are you okay to walk?”
She nods and you help her down fram the gurney, your hands steadying her as she plants her small feet on the floor. “We will be back in a minute,” you say, looking at Jack.
Jack gives a small nod, his arms still steady around the toddler. “I’ve got her,” he says softly, his voice low and calm, like he’s afraid any sudden sound might startle her.
You glance at him, the weight of the night and the exhaustion in both of you hanging between you for a moment. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly, the tired gratitude threading through the simple phrase.
Jack meets your eyes for just a second, his expression softening in a way that makes your chest tighten slightly. “Of course,” he murmurs, his tone steady and gentle, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “Anytime,” he says gently, shifting the toddler slightly so she’s snug against his chest.
You make it to the door, Sophia’s hand in yours, your gaze lingers for a moment, grateful and weary, before you turn your attention back to Sophia and leave the room. The toddler shifts a little in his arms, pressing her cheek more firmly against his chest, and Jack instinctively rocks her just a fraction, careful and deliberate.
Jack adjusts her tiny weight slightly, settling her more comfortably against him. Her small sigh of contentment is almost inaudible, but it’s enough to draw a faint, careful smile across his face. He rocks her gently, slow and steady, as if the motion itself could smooth out the rough edges of the night.
He glances down at her little hand clutching the stuffed bunny, the way she presses it to her chest like it’s a lifeline. Even in the chaos of the ER, this small, quiet connection feels grounding. His eyes flick up briefly toward where you’ve just disappeared with Sophia, and there’s a flicker of something unspoken in his chest, acknowledgment, relief, admiration.
For a few seconds, it’s just him and the toddler, the world outside the room fading to the soft rhythm of her breathing and the faint hum of hospital life beyond the walls. Jack rocks her just a little more, careful not to disturb the fragile bubble of calm, letting himself breathe into it, too.
He had no idea that you had children, but seeing you now, so effortlessly caring, so present even under the harsh glare of the ER lights, shifts something in him.
The image of you juggling a little tired toddler on your hip while gently guiding Sophia, your voice soft and steady, imprints itself firmly in his mind. It’s not just admiration or curiosity, it’s a quiet, sinking awe that someone so capable, so brilliant, also carries this other life, these tiny, fragile humans who rely on you so completely.
“I never got your name,” he murmurs, careful, low, his voice soft as if saying it too loud might shatter the fragile calm between him and the toddler. The little girl in his arms shifts slightly, nuzzling her cheek against his chest, and he instinctively rocks her just a fraction more. She is clearly too tired to answer, but he wasn’t expecting her to do so anyway.
Her small hand twitches, brushing against the edge of the stuffed rabbit, and he tightens his hold just a little, letting her feel secure. The simplicity of it, her trust, her quiet presence, anchors him more than any adrenaline rush or successful trauma ever could.
For a few minutes it’s just him and her, the faint hum of the hospital, the steady rhythm of her breathing, the gentle sway of his arms. Jack exhales slowly, letting himself sink into the strange, grounding calm.
When you come back the world shifts again, snapping into motion with the same gentle urgency that fills every corner of the ER. Sophia’s hand still clasped in yours, her steps small but determined. The little girl in Jack’s arms stirs slightly at the sound of your voice, lifting her head and blinking up at you with sleepy, trusting eyes.
Jack straightens just a fraction, still careful, still protective, as if even a slight motion might break the fragile bubble of calm. “We’re back,” you murmur, voice soft but steady, like a bridge between the chaos outside and the tiny universe he’s holding. “Did you fall asleep again, honey?” you murmur gently, tilting your head slightly so the toddler can see your face.
The little girl in Jack’s arms lets out a tiny, sleepy yawn and snuggles closer, her grip on the rabbit tightening just a fraction. Jack shifts her slightly as he stands up, easing her into the curve of your shoulder as you step closer. “She’s been a really good girl,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady, careful not to startle her. “Just got herself a little nap.”
You smile softly down at the toddler, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I see that,” you murmur, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head before looking at him again. You smile softly, warmth threading through your tired eyes. “Thank you,” you murmur, voice gentle but carrying that quiet, exhausted gratitude that Jack can feel in his chest more than he can hear.
He meets your gaze, just for a moment, his expression softening in response, the small crease between his brows easing. “Anytime,” he murmurs, voice low and calm, a faint, careful smile tugging at his lips as he adjusts the toddler slightly so she’s snug against your shoulder again.
The little girl presses her face into your chest, and you can’t help but hum softly in response, rocking her gently.
Jack feels that quiet, twisting mix of awe and something warmer, something protective, settle deeper in his chest. He has to look away as if to reset himself, to stop his thoughts from spiraling too far. The sight of you, so effortlessly present with the toddler and Sophia, so gentle and patient, so human, feels like it’s pulling at something inside him he wasn’t sure he still had room for.
He turns his attention back to Sophia. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice soft and steady, “let’s see how your head’s feeling now.”
Sophia nods, her weary seemingly fully gone, her weariness seemingly fully gone now, replaced with that careful, attentive focus that comes from trying to do exactly what she’s asked. Jack helps her up onto the gurney just enough so she’s sitting comfortably, his hands steadying her small frame. “Good job,” he murmurs, his voice calm, low, gentle. “Did you hit anything besides your head when you fell? Anywhere else it hurts?”
Sophia thinks seriously for a moment, brow furrowed. “No… just my head.”
Jack nods slowly, his voice still calm and gentle. “Okay, that’s good to know.”
Jack’s eyes soften as he examines the small gash on Sophia’s forehead. It’s shallow, just enough to bleed a little, but nothing alarming. He keeps his tone calm, gentle, and steady, aware of how closely you’re watching.
“I’m gonna clean this up, okay?” Jack murmurs softly, leaning slightly closer so Sophia can see exactly what he’s doing.
“Okay,”she whispers, her small voice tentative but trusting.
“And then I’m gonna close the wound with a little bit of medical super glue,” Jack continues gently. Keeping his voice is calm, low and steady, the kind that makes scary things seem small.
Sophia’s eyes widen just slightly at the mention of glue, and she leans back a fraction. Jack notices immediately and gives a reassuring smile. “Super glue?” she whispers, her voice tiny and uncertain, brows furrowing.
Jack nods gently, keeping his tone soft and steady. “Yeah, but it’s not the kind you use at home. This is special hospital glue. It helps the skin stick together so it heals really fast. You won’t even feel it much, I promise.”
“It’s true,” you murmur softly, brushing a stray curl from Sophia’s forehead, your voice gentle and reassuring. “And Jack is really good at this, and the glue helps your wound heal so it doesn’t leave so bad of a scar.”
Sophia blinks up at you, confusion knitting her small brows together. “Who is Jack?” she asks, her voice small but genuinely curious.
“I mean Dr. Abbot,” you correct yourself, looking a little sheepish as you glance back at him.
For a moment Jack pauses, he can’t help but like the way his name sounded when you said it. It sounds easy coming from you, natural in a way that settles somewhere warm in his chest before he has time to think about it. The corner of his mouth lifting in quiet amusement.
“Jack is fine,” he says gently, his voice warm as he crouches slightly so he’s more at Sophia’s eye level.
Sophia studies him very seriously, her small face thoughtful, for just about half a second before she then gives a small, decisive nod. “Okay.”
Jack’s smile softens at her approval. “Okay,” he echoes lightly. “Now let’s get that wound cleaned.”
Sophia nods again, a little braver now that she knows what’s going to happen. It’s a quick, careful process. Jack works with practiced ease, dabbing gently at the small cut while keeping his movements slow enough that nothing startles her.
“There we go,” he murmurs softly. “This might sting a little.”
Sophia scrunches her nose a little at the cool antiseptic wipe but holds perfectly still, her small hands gripping the edge of the gurney.
“You’re doing amazing,” Jack adds quietly, genuine approval in his voice.
Beside the gurney, you shift the toddler slightly against your shoulder as she stirs, humming softly until she settles again, her cheek pressed into your chest and the stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin. The quiet rhythm of it fills the small space between the four of you.
Jack finishes cleaning the wound and straightens just a little, reaching for the small applicator of medical glue. “Alright,” he says gently. “Now for the tiny bit of glue we talked about. This part is really quick.”
Sophia nods solemnly, eyes fixed on him, trusting. It’s a quick fix, and he’s sure the scarring will be minimal. “And… done,” he says softly after a second, leaning back.
Sophia’s shoulders drop in visible relief. “All finished?” she asks hopefully.
Jack smiles. “All finished.”
A small proud smile spreads across her face, and she happily accepts his offer of a high five when he lifts his palm. Sophia beams, as her small hand connects with his in a perfect, confident high five. The sound echoes softly in the room, and Jack can’t help but mirror her grin, warmth threading through the exhaustion of the night, and when Jack glances at you, there’s that same quiet warmth in your eyes that makes his chest tighten in a way it probably shouldn’t, but he just can’t help it.
That warmth in your eyes lingers for just a moment too long. Jack notices it immediately. He notices everything about you lately, which is exactly the problem.
Sophia is still smiling proudly, clearly thrilled that the entire ordeal ended with a high five instead of something scarier. The toddler in your arms has sunk back into that half-asleep state, her cheek pressed against your shoulder, rabbit tucked beneath her chin.
And it hits Jack all over again how strange it feels to see you like this. That he hasn’t known this part of you. Not in passing conversation between patients. Not in the quiet moments over stale coffee at two in the morning. Not in the long shifts where people start sharing pieces of their lives just to stay awake.
And yet here you are, like this has always existed just outside the edges of the world he knows. Sophia swings her legs a little where she sits on the gurney, clearly pleased with both the praise and the attention.
“See?” you murmur softly to her, brushing a curl back from her forehead. “Told you he was good.”
Jack pretends not to notice the way you said that, like it’s something you’ve known for a long time.
Sophia nods seriously. “Mhm.”
Jack huffs a quiet laugh under his breath. “Well,” he says lightly, pushing himself up from the stool, “I had a very good patient.”
Sophia sits a little taller at that, visibly proud of herself. The little girl stirs faintly against your shoulder, her small fingers tightening in your scrubs as she shifts. You instinctively rock her a little, one hand coming up to steady the back of her head while the other rests against her back.
The movement is automatic, practiced. Jack notices that too, of course he does.
You shift slightly, adjusting the toddler so she’s more comfortable against your hip, and murmur softly. “We should probably go find Lauren,” you say with a small smile to Sophia before you look at Jack to explain. “She’s their babysitter, she was panicking when they came in, so I told her to take a snack in the cafeteria.”
Jack nods. “It’s never fun being the babysitter when accidents happen.”
“Yeah, it feels like a big responsibility to take care of other’s kids…” you mumble, your gaze turning briefly to the toddler in your arms. Jack follows your glance down at the little girl in your arms, who’s nuzzled comfortably against you, and his chest tightens just a fraction.
Your gaze turns to Sophia. “Are you okay going home with Lauren now? I will be back for breakfast.”
“You don’t have to stay,” Jack interrupts softly, keeping his voice low so as not to startle the toddler in your arms.
“I would really like to follow up on my asthma patient,” you murmur quietly, voice low but firm, glancing at Jack. “Is that okay?” you ask, now turned to the girl on the gurney.
Sophia nods solemnly. “Mhm,” she says, trusting, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
He holds the door open for you as you leave the pediatrics room. You shift slightly, adjusting the toddler so she’s more comfortable against your hip, and pause just outside the door.
“Can you say goodbye to Dr. Abbot,” you murmur softly to Sophia, brushing a curl from her forehead.
Sophia looks up at him and lifts her hand in a tiny wave. “Bye, Dr. Jack,” she says clearly, her voice proud and earnest.
Jack crouches slightly, meeting her gaze with a soft, warm smile. “Bye, Sophia. You were so brave tonight.”
Sophia beams at the praise, then lifts her hand for a high five. Jack feels a warm molten feeling rise in his chest as he raises his own hand to meet hers, holding it steady at her height. Her small palm smacks against his with a crisp confidence, and she grins like she’s just won something important.
“Alright,” he murmurs with a soft chuckle, lowering his hand again. “Perfect high five.”
The little girl’s grin only widens at that, clearly thrilled with herself. She rocks a little on her heels, still glowing with pride.
Jack’s eyes meet yours as he straightens again, and for a moment the hallway feels quieter than it should, the distant noise of the ER fading into the background. There’s a softness in his expression he doesn’t quite try to hide.
You give him a small, tired smile in return, shifting the toddler slightly, the movement, and the chance from the quiet room to the hallway waking her. She blinks sleepily, brow knitting for a moment as she lifts her head, still clutching the stuffed rabbit beneath her chin. Her eyes drift around the hallway before settling on him.
For a second she just stares at him, heavy-lidded and quiet, trying to place where she is. Her fingers tighten a little in the fabric of your scrubs, rabbit still tucked under her chin.
Jack’s expression softens even more at the sleepy focus of her gaze. “Hey there,” he murmurs gently, careful to keep his voice low.
A small, sleepy smile tugs at the toddler’s lips at the sound of his voice, slow and uncertain but unmistakably there. She blinks at him once more and her smile widens, the kind that belongs entirely to half-awake toddlers who haven’t quite decided if they’re still dreaming.
She lets out a sleepy giggle, soft and warm, the kind that seems to fill the small space between you all. The soft giggle seems to catch him completely off guard, and his smile widens despite himself.
“Oh, you are a real charmer, aren’t you,” Jack murmurs quietly, voice warm as he watches her fight sleep. Jack tilts his head slightly, studying her for a second before glancing up at you.
“What’s her name?” he asks softly.
“Her name is Rosa, but we call her Rosie the most,” Sophia says quickly, clearly pleased to be the one answering. A small smile touching your lips as you glance down at the toddler. Sophia rocks a little beside you, clearly proud of the introduction she just delivered.
“Yeah, you’re our little flower, right?” you murmur softly, brushing your fingers lightly over Rosie’s cheek.
Jack’s gaze lingers on the two of you, something warm and thoughtful settling in his expression.
Rosie lets out one more tiny, breathy giggle before she suddenly leans toward him, her tiny hand reaching out curiously. Without thinking, Jack steps closer and lets her grab one of his fingers.
Jack stills for a second when her tiny hand closes around his finger. Her grip is warm and unexpectedly strong for someone so small and half-asleep. Rosie peers at their joined hands with slow, fascinated focus, like she’s just discovered something very important.
Jack watches her for a moment, careful not to move too quickly. “Well,” he murmurs softly, glancing up at you with a quiet, amused smile, “that’s… a pretty firm handshake.”
“Yeah, she’s tougher than she looks,” you say softly, a quiet hint of amusement in your voice, though there’s something else there too, something more subdued, almost melancholic. Jack notices it. “And so are you Phia,” you murmur quietly, shifting your gaze down to the older girl, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
It’s as he stands there, watching the three of you, with Rosie’s tiny fingers still curling lightly around his, that Lena comes walking down the hallway. Her steps are light but purposeful, an ipad tucked under one arm.
“Dr. Abbot we need you in room four,” Lena calls softly as she approaches, her voice gentle but carrying that unmistakable urgency. She glances at the scene before her, Rosie still holding Jack’s finger, Sophia’s small hand in yours, and the quiet warmth between you all, and offers a small, understanding smile.
Jack gives Rosie one last, careful squeeze of her tiny hand before letting go, to let her curl her fingers back around your scrubs. “Duty calls,” he murmurs softly, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he straightens.
Rosie blinks slowly when his finger slips from her grasp, her tiny hand hovering in the air for a moment as if she’s trying to understand where it went. Then her fingers curl again, to bunch into the fabric of your scrubs instead. She lets out a small, sleepy hum and presses her cheek back against your shoulder, rabbit still tucked beneath her chin.
Sophia watches the exchange with great seriousness before giving Jack another small wave. “Goodbye,” she says earnestly.
Jack’s smile softens. “Bye, Sophia,” he replies gently. “Take care of your sister, okay?”
Sophia nods like she’s just been entrusted with something very important. Jack’s gaze flicks back to you then, lingering for a quiet second.
“I’ll be back on duty in sec,” you say quietly, almost apologetically, shifting Rosie a little higher on your hip so her head rests more comfortably against your shoulder. The words half directed to Lena, who pauses a step behind Jack, her expression softening with understanding.
She gives a small nod. “Take your time,” she says gently.
Jack’s eyes linger on you for another moment, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly as he watches you adjust Rosie against your shoulder, the toddler already drifting fully back into sleep.
For half a second he doesn’t moment, he doesn’t move. “See you back on the floor,” he says finally, his voice low but warm, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He gives the girls a last wave then he turns with Lena, the two of them heading down the hallway toward the ER rooms, already slipping back into the rhythm of the shift.
The shift hums around him again, he checks his watch briefly before slipping back into the flow of patients and charting.
It’s not until the end of the shift that he gets a chance to speak with you again. It’s quiet now, the ER settling into the slower rhythm that comes in the early morning. You’re at the nurses station, finishing up the last of your charting while chewing lightly on your lower lip. He walks up to the station, settling his forearms on the counter, learning slightly toward you as he watches you work.
He watches you for a quiet moment, the hum of the ER soft around the two of you. “You know lip chewing can lead to inflammation,” he says quietly, the teasing edge in his voice soft but present as his gaze lingers on you.
You glance up quickly. “Of course, I’m a doctor,” you say with a small, mock-offended smile, tilting your head slightly. “And I’m not chewing my lip,” you mumble, though the small twitch betrays you. “But I am finishing my charting,” you say, pushing the last key with a satisfying click. You push back slightly from the keyboard, letting your shoulders relax, and finally look up at him fully.
He offers you a small, amused smile, the kind that lingers more in his eyes than on his lips. For a moment neither of you says anything. The quiet of the early morning hums around you, monitors beeping softly somewhere down the hall.
The events of the night seem to hang quietly between you for a moment. Rosie’s sleepy giggle and Sophia’s bright smile, seems to linger in the air, like soft echoes. But that underlying melancholy he has noticed earlier still lingers faintly beneath it all.
His expression softens a little as he watches you, though the hint of amusement never fully leaves his eyes. “Been a long night,” he says quietly.
You nod once, letting out a small breath. “Yeah.”
For a second the two of you just stay there in the quiet hum of the ER. Then you glance toward the clock, push your chair back, and stand.
“Walk with me?” you ask casually, nodding toward the hallway that leads to the staff lockers.
“Sure,” Jack replies easily, pushing himself away from the counter.
He falls into step beside you as you head down the quieter hallway toward the lockers. For a moment neither of you says anything. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel awkward, just tired after a long shift.
“Thank you for being so gentle with them earlier,” you say after a few steps, your voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.
Jack glances over at you, a little surprised by the sudden sincerity in your tone. “Of course,” he says softly, his voice low but steady. “And it wasn’t hard, they’re great kids.”
You glance at him briefly, catching the subtle warmth in his expression, and then look away, letting a small smile tug at your lips. “I just… appreciate it. They have had a hard time, and they don’t usually warm up so quickly to new people.”
Jack gives a small, easy shrug. “Guess I got lucky.”
You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Yeah, lucky for them… and for me.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you like a soft blanket after the chaos of the shift. Then you reach the lockers the two of you stop, letting the quiet stretch for a beat longer.
“You never told us you have kids.” It comes out rougher than he means it to.
You blink up at him, your tired eyes catching his, those pretty, pretty eyes of yours. “It’s also relatively new… they’re my nieces,” you say quietly. “My sister and her husband...” Your throat tightens, and you swallow hard before continuing. “They were in a car accident five months ago.” The words settle heavy. “I adopted them.”
Jack swears the air gets knocked out of him. The resemblance clicks into place in a different way now,
“I didn’t know.”
You shrug, offering him a sad smile.“I haven’t told anyone here.”
Jack blinks, his expression softening as he processes your words.
“I guess, I needed to have a place, where things just were ,as they used to,” you continue quietly. “I didn’t know how to tell you guys without breaking down, and I can’t do that, I have to be there for the girls.”
Jack’s eyes soften even more, the air of playful teasing that often hangs between the too of you is gone completely now, replaced with steady, quiet understanding. He shifts slightly closer, careful not to crowd you, letting his presence speak more than words.
“You’re doing amazing,” he says softly. “I don’t think most people could handle what you’ve taken on… but you-you’re doing it. And you’re doing it so well.”
You let out a small, shaky breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. “I try,” you mumble, your voice barely above the quiet hum of the hallway. “But some days… it feels like I’m just holding everything together by a thread.”
Jack doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He simply shifts a little closer, his presence steady and grounding, the kind of calm that doesn’t demand anything from you. “I get that,” he says softly. “It’s a lot to carry, but you’re carrying it with so much care. And if you need anything,” he continues, his voice low and steady, “you can always ask. No judgments, no questions.”
You blink up at him, the words settling around you like a warm, quiet reassurance. “I… thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it carries the weight of genuine relief. “It means a lot… just knowing that.”
Jack gives a small, steady nod, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re never alone,” he says softly. “Even when it feels like it, you’ve got people who care. And I’ll always be one of them.”
For a moment, the hallway feels almost suspended in time, the soft hum of the ER fading into the background as the two of you simply stand there. You let out a small, shaky laugh, the kind that carries both exhaustion and a touch of gratitude. “I guess I’m pretty lucky then,” you say quietly.
“Maybe,” Jack replies, a hint of warmth tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But mostly… you’ve earned it.”
You glance at him, meeting that steady, unspoken understanding in his eyes, and for the first time in hours, it feels like you can finally exhale.
“I would ask you if you wanted to grab a quick coffee before heading out, but I promised someone I would be home for breakfast,” you trail off, a small, wry smile tugging at your lips. “But some other time, maybe?” you add softly, tilting your head toward him, voice casual but carrying a quiet hope and just a hint of your usual teasing edge.
Jack lets out a quiet, warm laugh, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “Yeah, I would never say no to that,” he says, his voice low and easy, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Great,” you murmur, a small, relieved smile tugging at your lips. You finally unlock your locker, grabbing your bag and jacket.
“Get home safe, okay?” Jack says softly, his tone gentle but carrying that quiet weight of care.
You give a small nod, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I will.”
“Good. And I’ll look forward to that coffee,” he says, the faint teasing edge returning to his tone.
You glance at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Me too.”
For a second neither of you moves, but the quiet between you isn’t awkward, it’s warm, steady, like something gently settling into place.
Jack nods once, that small smile still resting at the corner of his mouth. “Good,” he says softly.
You pull your jacket on and adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. The exhaustion of the shift is still there, the tired gaze still lingering in your eyes, but it doesn’t seem quite as suffocating as it did earlier.
As you step past him, he shifts slightly to give you space, but his hand briefly brushes your arm, light, almost absent-minded, the kind of touch that lingers for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You glance back at him.
“Seriously… you’re doing a great thing,” he adds, voice low but certain.
You give him a smile, the kind that’s tired but genuine, your eyes softening just a little. “I hope so,” you say quietly. “And thank you, Jack.”
“Of course,” he replies softly. For a moment he just looks at you, debating with himself if he should say something else but decides against it. Instead he gives you a small nod, the kind that carries quiet certainty. “And you’ve got this,” he adds simply.
You hold his gaze for a second longer, something warm and steady passing between you. Then you shift your bag a little higher on your shoulder.
“I’ll see you around,” you say, a faint smile touching your lips.
“Yeah.”
He leans back lightly against the lockers, watching as you start down the hallway toward the exit, the soft morning light already creeping in from the far glass doors.
“Get some sleep,” he calls after you gently.
You glance back over your shoulder with a tired smile. “I will, after breakfast duty.”
That earns a quiet laugh from him.
And as you disappear out the doors, Jack stays there a moment longer than necessary, hands in his pockets, the faintest smile still on his face, already looking forward to that coffee.