Work Text:
The apartment was still half asleep.
Outside, Pittsburgh slowly shifted from deep blue night into the pale gold of early morning, the first traces of sunlight slipping between buildings and filtering softly through the kitchen windows. The city sounded quieter at this hour—muted traffic in the distance, the occasional rumble of a bus, the cold winter air still clinging to the streets below.
Inside, though, warmth had already settled everywhere. The stove crackled softly beneath a pan of butter, the smell rich and comforting as you moved around the kitchen in thick socks and one of your oldest hoodies, sleeves pushed messily to your elbows. The clock on the microwave blinked 7:13 AM in pale green numbers.
Normally, nobody should be making dinner-sized breakfasts at seven in the morning. But then again, most people weren’t dating an emergency doctor whose sense of time had been completely destroyed by twelve-hour shifts. Especially not Jack Abbott.
You flipped the eggs carefully, watching the edges crisp slightly in the pan before reaching for the toast already stacked beside plates warming near the stove. Bacon rested on paper towels nearby, alongside hash browns you’d probably put too much effort into.
There was also coffee. A dangerous amount of coffee.
Strong enough that Jack once jokingly told you:
“I think this could restart a heart in the ER.”
And then, the weird part. Sitting slightly off to the side on a smaller plate was the thing that absolutely nobody but Jack would request at breakfast: toasted cinnamon raisin bread with peanut butter spread over it while it was still warm.
The first time you saw him eat it, you’d stared at him in genuine horror. He’d defended himself immediately.
“Don’t judge it before trying it.”
You tried it. Unfortunately, he’d been right. Now you made it automatically whenever his shifts got particularly bad.
The smell of breakfast filled the apartment completely now—butter, coffee, toast, syrup warming slowly on the stove—and combined with the soft amber light beginning to stretch across the kitchen floor, the whole apartment felt impossibly warm compared to the frozen world outside.
You glanced toward the clock again. 7:18 AM. He should be home soon. Probably exhausted. Probably pretending he wasn’t exhausted. The thought alone softened something in your chest as you reached for another plate, quietly arranging everything the way you knew he liked it without even needing to think anymore.
And somewhere between the sunlight creeping across the counter and the smell of coffee settling into the apartment, it suddenly felt dangerously close to domestic.
Nine months ago, if someone had told you that you’d be standing in a shared kitchen at seven in the morning making heart-attack-level breakfasts for Jack, you probably would’ve laughed in their face.
Mostly because nine months ago, you met him under deeply humiliating circumstances. Not romantic ones. Humiliating ones. You’d been carrying two coffees and trying to answer a work email on your phone while rushing out of a small café downtown during one of Pittsburgh’s first icy mornings of winter. Which naturally resulted in you slipping immediately on black ice.
Directly in front of him. Not a graceful stumble either. A full, catastrophic collapse. Coffee everywhere. Phone gone. Dignity deceased. And somehow, somehow, the first thing you said while laying on the frozen sidewalk staring at the sky was:
“Please tell me nobody attractive saw that.”
A voice above you answered almost instantly:
“Depends how attractive you think I am.”
You still remembered the absolute horror of turning your head and seeing him standing there holding one surviving coffee cup with the calmest expression imaginable.
You wanted to die. He helped you up anyway. Bought you another coffee too. Then somehow the conversation lasted almost an hour. After that, you kept seeing each other accidentally. Then intentionally.
And before you realized it, late-night dinners, exhausted conversations after shifts, and quiet moments on couches had slowly become something constant. Something important.
Officially, you’d been together for seven months now. Though even the way he asked you to be his girlfriend had been painfully, unmistakably Jack. No grand speech. No dramatic setup.
You’d both been sitting on his couch after one of his night shifts, half asleep under the same blanket while some terrible reality TV show played in the background. And completely out of nowhere, he’d looked over at you and said:
“So… are we doing this officially?”
You blinked at him.
“Doing what officially?”
He looked almost annoyed at having to explain himself.
“This.”
One hand vaguely gesturing between the two of you.
“The sleeping in my apartment four nights a week. Stealing my hoodies. Knowing my coffee order. Acting like you live here already.”
You stared at him for a second before laughing.
“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”
A pause. Then, with complete seriousness:
“I thought I just did.”
You kissed him before he could get embarrassed about it. And now, somehow, seven months later, you actually did live here. Officially for only a month. Unofficially… much longer.
Your toothbrush sat beside his in the bathroom. Your clothes had slowly invaded his closet. The fridge now contained actual food instead of energy drinks and hospital leftovers. The apartment itself felt softer these days. Warmer. More alive.
You knew Jack still struggled after difficult shifts. Sometimes he came home so exhausted he barely spoke before collapsing into bed. Sometimes he carried the hospital home with him in silence, tension still locked in his shoulders hours later.
And even though your schedules rarely aligned perfectly—you working during the day while he survived endless nights at the hospital—you still tried. Small things mostly. Warm food waiting for him. Coffee ready. Clean clothes folded. Your hand in his hair when he looked especially tired. Nothing dramatic. Just quiet reminders that when he came home, he didn’t have to carry everything alone anymore.
The sound comes right on time. Keys against the front door. A faint metallic jingle followed by the quiet scrape of the lock turning.
You immediately glance toward the hallway as the door opens slowly, cold winter air slipping briefly into the apartment before disappearing again. He’s home. Without even realizing it, you hurry a little faster. You reach for the last plate near the stove, adjusting the toast quickly before carrying everything to the table while listening to him move through the apartment without actually seeing him yet.
The familiar sounds unfold one after another. The soft thud of the door closing. Shoes being kicked off near the entrance with the kind of exhaustion that means he probably stopped feeling his feet three hours ago. Keys dropped onto the little entry shelf. Then the heavier sound of his coat landing somewhere near the couch instead of the coat rack you specifically bought because:
“Normal people hang their coats up, Jack.” He still ignored it completely. You can practically picture him already, slightly slouched posture, tired eyes, hospital fatigue still clinging to him like a second skin.
The apartment stays quiet for another second. Then you hear him inhale. A pause. Long enough that you know exactly what happened. He smelled the food. And somehow that thought alone makes you smile to yourself as you place the final plate onto the table just as slow footsteps finally start making their way toward the kitchen.
You’re still adjusting the plates when he finally appears in the kitchen doorway. Slowly. Like he used the last of his remaining energy just getting here.
Jack leans lightly against the doorframe for a second, still in dark scrubs, hair slightly messy from a shift that clearly lasted too long. There are faint marks beneath his eyes, exhaustion written into every part of him now that he’s no longer forcing himself to stay in “work mode.”
And yet the second he looks up, he stops. His eyes move across the kitchen table.The food. The coffee. The warm light spilling through the apartment. Then finally to you.
You straighten immediately, taking a small dramatic step backward before presenting the whole thing with both arms. “Ta-da.”
The word comes out brighter than the sleepy quiet of the apartment, and for the first time since walking through the door, something visibly softens in him. A smile. Small at first. Then real. You can’t help smiling back immediately, proud despite yourself as you gesture toward the table like some sort of exhausted breakfast waitress.
But then you really look at him. And the pride in your expression softens around the edges. Because he looks tired. Not ordinary tired. The kind of tired that settles deep into someone after too many hours under fluorescent hospital lights, too many decisions, too many people needing pieces of him all night long.
His shoulders look heavy. His eyes slower. And suddenly your chest aches a little with affection and compassion all at once.
Your smile fades into something gentler. Softer. “Rough shift?” you ask quietly. For a second he just looks at you. Then at the food again. And the smallest breath leaves him, almost disbelieving. “You made all this?”
You smile a little at his reaction, suddenly feeling shy about the whole thing now that he’s actually standing there looking at it. “Yeah,” you say softly. “I asked for today off.”
That catches his attention immediately. His tired eyes lift back to yours. “You did?” You nod, already walking toward him before you even finish speaking. “I figured,” you murmur, “you’d probably come home exhausted, and we never really get actual time together unless one of us is half dead.” That earns the faintest huff of laughter from him. Tiny. Sleepy. Real.
“And technically,” you continue with mock seriousness as you finally reach him, “we do have the whole day together now.” Your arms slide naturally around his waist. “Even if we’re probably going to spend most of it unconscious.”
That finally pulls a proper smile from him. Not huge. But enough that you visibly watch the exhaustion crack for a second beneath it. His hands settle instinctively at your sides, warm and heavy, like touching you allows his body to finally understand the shift is over.
And god, up close he looks even more tired. There’s still that distant look lingering in his eyes doctors get after difficult nights, like part of him is mentally still under fluorescent hospital lights somewhere. But slowly, as he looks down at you standing there in oversized clothes smelling like coffee and butter and home, he starts coming back. “You did all this just so we could sleep all day?” he asks quietly.
You grin. “Exactly.” A pause. Then, “I’m incredibly romantic.” His head lowers slightly, and suddenly you feel his forehead rest briefly against yours. Not dramatic. Just instinctive. Like he needed one second to breathe. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “You’re gonna ruin me doing things like this.”
He just stays there. Forehead against yours. Hands resting heavily at your waist. And slowly, almost unconsciously, you feel him sag a little more into you. Like the simple act of being home is finally allowing his body to stop holding itself together.
Your expression softens immediately. Without thinking about it, your arms slide higher around his shoulders, fingers brushing lightly against the back of his neck as you pull him closer.
And this time, he lets you. Completely. Jack lowers his head until it rests against your neck, his breath warm against your skin as his arms tighten around your waist in something quieter than a hug.
Something more exhausted. You go still instantly. Because now you understand. This isn’t just physical tiredness. It’s deeper than that. Mental exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion. The kind that builds slowly over weeks of impossible shifts and fluorescent lights and carrying too much for too long.
And suddenly the way he walked through the door makes sense. The silence. The heavy shoulders. The way he melted into you the second you touched him.
Your heart aches softly. So you don’t speak. You don’t ask questions yet. You simply hold him. Warmly. Patiently. One hand moves slowly through his hair while the other rests steady between his shoulders, grounding him gently while the smell of breakfast and coffee still fills the apartment around you. The morning sunlight continues creeping quietly across the kitchen floor, brushing gold against the walls as the city slowly wakes outside.
But here, everything feels still. Safe. You feel him exhale against your neck after a long moment, deeper this time, like his body is finally remembering how to rest now that someone else is carrying a little of the weight with him. And you stay exactly like that, holding him in the middle of the kitchen while the food slowly gets cold, because right now, he clearly needs this more.
After a long moment, you finally pull back just enough to look at him properly. His face is still close to yours, exhaustion written softly into every detail now that he’s stopped trying to hide it. You brush your thumb lightly near his jaw before speaking gently.
“Go take a warm shower before eating.” Your voice stays quiet, careful. “It’ll help you relax a little more.”
For a second, Jack just looks at you. Really looks at you. His tired eyes move slowly across your face like he’s trying to absorb the sight of you completely, the messy morning hair, the oversized hoodie, the concern you’re trying not to show too obviously. Then, almost invisibly, something softens at the corner of his mouth. A tiny smile. Small enough most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But you do. Always.
“Yeah,” he murmurs quietly. A pause. Then, even softer, “Thank you.” The words themselves are simple. But the way he says them isn’t. There’s something heavier underneath them. Something full of everything he’s too exhausted to explain out loud right now. Before you can answer, he leans down and kisses you gently.
Slowly. Not hungry. Not rushed. Just warm. His hand briefly cups the side of your face while the kiss lingers for a few quiet seconds, carrying entire conversations inside it, gratitude, relief, affection, exhaustion. Things he doesn’t always know how to say directly.
Then he pulls away reluctantly. You watch him disappear down the hallway toward the bathroom, his movements visibly heavier now that he’s home and no longer forcing himself to stay upright for everyone else.
And suddenly, seeing him like this from behind, the limp slightly more pronounced today, the exhaustion impossible to miss, something tightens painfully in your chest.
The apartment falls quiet except for distant pipes shifting somewhere in the building. You stay standing alone in the kitchen for another second before slowly letting out a deep breath. And just like that, the worry creeps back in. Quiet. Persistent.
Because no matter how many times he says he’s “fine” after shifts like these, you’re starting to realize that sometimes fine simply means…still standing.
You try to busy your hands on the dishes. Hot water, soap, clinking plates—anything to keep your thoughts from spiraling too far. But it doesn’t really work. Because your mind keeps replaying the way he looked when he walked in. The weight in his shoulders. The silence behind his eyes.
You’re halfway through rinsing a plate when you hear him again. Soft footsteps. Then the familiar presence of someone finally out of “hospital mode.”
When you glance up, Jack is standing in the kitchen doorway again, but this time in loose pyjamas, hair slightly damp, looking… better. Not fully rested. Not magically cured of exhaustion. But softer. Less sharp around the edges. Like the shower washed off just enough of the night to let him breathe again.
Your chest loosens a little without you meaning it to. You quickly wipe your hands on a towel and force a smile. “There he is,” you say lightly. “I was starting to think you went back to the hospital.”
That earns you a faint look—half amused, half tired—but he actually walks over this time instead of just standing there. You both end up at the table again, like gravity naturally pulls you back together. He sits down slowly, stretching his shoulders out with a quiet exhale while you take the seat across from him.
For a second, it’s quiet. Then you tilt your head. “So,” you continue, trying to keep your tone playful, “how was your glamorous night of saving lives and making questionable decisions?”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “You say that like it’s not exactly what it was.”
“Ouch,” you gasp. “No glamour? No dramatic hospital slow-motion hallway walk?” That actually gets a real, low laugh out of him. Small. Raspy. But real.
And something in your chest unclenches a little at the sound.
He leans back in his chair slightly, watching you now instead of the table. “You’re doing that thing again,” he says.
You blink. “What thing?”
“Trying to distract me.” You pause. Caught. Then you shrug, leaning forward on your elbows. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His eyes narrow slightly—but there’s no real accusation in it. Just understanding. You sigh dramatically. “Fine. Maybe I am. But only because I prefer my boyfriend in a semi-functioning state, thank you very much.”
That gets another small smile out of him. This one softer. Longer-lasting. And for the first time since he walked through the door, he looks properly present again—sitting here with you, coffee still waiting on the table, the morning light warming the edges of the room. Not gone. Just slowly coming back.
You both finally start eating. The kind of eating that feels slow and overdue, like neither of you is in a hurry anymore now that the morning has properly caught up with you.
The clink of cutlery fills the kitchen, mixing with the soft light pouring in through the windows. Then, after his first bite, he just stops. Fully. Jack leans back in his chair like his entire nervous system just gave up trying to function properly. His eyes close for half a second.
And when he opens them again, there’s a faint, almost offended expression on his face. “…Okay,” he says slowly.
You pause mid-bite. “What?”
He gestures vaguely at the plate in front of him. “This is unfair.”
That makes you laugh immediately. “Unfair?”
He nods once, still clearly processing the fact that he is, in fact, eating something that doesn’t taste like hospital vending machine regret. “I leave for twelve hours,” he continues, “and you come back with culinary warfare.” You snort. “Culinary warfare?”
“Yes,” he says seriously, pointing his fork at you. “This is strategic emotional manipulation.” That sends you fully into laughter now, shaking your head as you set your fork down. “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”
“Not dramatic,” he corrects, taking another bite like he’s confirming evidence in a case. “Just accurate.” But despite the sarcasm, there’s something noticeably lighter in him now. Less tension in his shoulders. Less distance in his eyes. He actually looks like he’s enjoying this. And that does something warm and quiet to your chest.
You take a sip of your coffee, watching him for a second before speaking again. “I’m glad you like it,” you say softer, more honest now. He glances up at you briefly, something unreadable flickering behind his expression. Then, a small nod. “I do.”
And just like that, the conversation drifts. Not into anything heavy. Not into hospitals or exhaustion or anything that might pull him back into the night he just survived.
Instead you complain about something mildly stupid from work, he tells you about a patient story that somehow becomes funny in hindsight, you argue about whether pineapple belongs on anything ever, he calls you “impossible” at least twice, affectionately.
The kitchen slowly fills with something different again. Not urgency.Not fatigue. Just life. And every so often, when you look at him between sentences, you’re reminded of the same thing : he’s still tired. But he’s here, with you.
The conversation naturally tapers off after that, like neither of you wants to force it when the moment already feels full enough. Cutlery slows. The kitchen quiets again.
You’re picking at the last few bites on your plate when you notice him go a little still across from you.
Jack is looking down at his food now, movements smaller, more automatic again, like the warmth from earlier is starting to settle into something heavier. Not bad. Just… tired again. The kind that returns once the talking stops.
You watch him for a few seconds longer than you mean to. The worry you’ve been trying to tuck away all morning slowly starts to push back up again. His shoulders. The way he’s holding himself. The silence creeping in around him.
Eventually, you set your fork down. “Hey,” you say softly. He looks up at you. You hesitate—just for a second—then your voice comes out a little more certain. “Maybe we should leave.”
A pause. His brows knit slightly. “Leave?” His brow furrows slightly, like he’s trying to catch up with your thought before it slips away. “Where?”
You hesitate. Not because you don’t know what you mean, but because saying it out loud makes it feel real in a different way. You glance down at the table for a second, then back up at him. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly. A small breath. “Far.”
That gets his attention fully now. Not alarmed, just focused. You push your chair back slightly, fingers resting on the edge of the table. “Far from Pittsburgh,” you continue. “Far from the hospital. From shifts and alarms and…” your voice softens, “…everything that keeps you half somewhere else even when you’re here.”
His expression shifts subtly at that. Not defensive. Just quieter. You swallow once, then add: “Just for a while. A few weeks… maybe months. Just you and me.”
The words hang in the kitchen like warm air after steam. For a second, he doesn’t respond. He looks at you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking. But you’re not. His eyes drop briefly to the table, then back to you. “…You mean like a vacation,” he says slowly.
“Like… disappearing,” you correct softly, almost wry. “In a healthy way.” You stop then add, “I don’t know, let’s go to Paris, or Italy, why not Mexico ?”
That earns the faintest huff of disbelief from him. He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, clearly processing it. “You do realize I have a job,” he says, not unkindly.
“I know,” you answer immediately.
“And patients.”
“I know.” A beat.
“And people who will probably call me every twenty minutes if I disappear for ‘a few months.’” That makes you tilt your head slightly. “Let them panic,” you say lightly. “We’ll be busy not answering phones.”
That actually gets a real reaction out of him, something between a laugh and exhaustion. He looks at you more directly now, studying your face again. “And this idea of yours,” he says carefully, “came from where exactly?”
You shrug. “From watching you come home like this,” you admit, softer now. “From realizing you don’t really stop. You just… switch locations.”
The room quiets again. No joking now. Just honesty sitting between you. Then you add, gently, “I just want you somewhere where you can actually rest. Just…think about it…” you say lightly, like you didn’t just suggest upending both your lives for a while.
His expression changes at that. Subtle. But real. And for the first time in a while, he doesn’t respond right away—not because he’s dismissing it, but because he’s actually considering it.
There’s a short silence after you finish speaking. Not heavy. Just thoughtful. You can almost see it in the way Jack sits there, still, eyes slightly unfocused, like your words have settled somewhere deeper than conversation usually reaches him.
Then you grab the plates. One by one. Stacking them carefully, avoiding his gaze as you move toward the sink, trying very hard to act normal. Trying very hard not to let your worry show too clearly in your hands.
Water runs. Ceramic clinks. The kitchen fills with small, busy sounds again. But behind you, you hear him move. Chair shifting. Footsteps. He’s standing too now. You don’t turn around fast enough.
Because the next thing you know, he’s right there—gathering the remaining plates and cups, silent but steady, automatically slipping into “helping mode” even when he clearly should not be in “doing anything” mode.
Your chest tightens a little. “No,” you say immediately, turning around. He pauses. You step forward and gently—but firmly—take the dishes out of his hands. “I’ve got it,” you insist softly. His brows lift slightly. “It’s just plates.” “I know,” you answer, a little sharper than intended, then soften immediately. “It’s not about the plates.”
A beat. You look up at him properly now. “You need to go sleep.” He exhales through his nose, like he’s already preparing a counterargument. But you don’t let him get there.
“You’re exhausted,” you continue, quieter again. “Like… actually exhausted. Not ‘doctor exhausted.’ The other kind.” For a second, he just looks at you.
And you can tell he’s weighing it, the instinct to stay useful versus the fact that his body is very clearly done negotiating today. Finally, his shoulders drop a fraction. “…You’re bossy in the mornings,” he mutters. Despite everything, your lips twitch. “I know.” A pause. Then, softer, “Go.” You nod slightly toward the hallway. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for another second, like he’s making sure you’re actually okay with this idea of him stopping. Then, finally, he turns. Slowly.
Heading toward the bedroom with heavier steps than before, while you stay in the kitchen a moment longer, hands still wet, heart still a little tight. Because even when he listens…it still feels like teaching someone how to rest.
A few minutes later, the apartment has shifted again. The kitchen is quiet now, dishes left half-finished in the sink, sunlight growing stronger as it rises higher over Pittsburgh. The morning has properly arrived, bright and gold and almost too gentle for how tired everything still feels inside you.
You stand in the doorway of the bedroom for a second. The curtains are half open, letting in soft light that cuts across the room in warm stripes. The bed is slightly messy from where he’d pulled the covers down earlier.
And there he is. Jack is already lying on his side, facing away from the door, one arm tucked loosely under the pillow. Even now, even in rest, there’s still a trace of exhaustion in the way his body has settled, like he only just allowed himself to stop holding tension.
For a moment, you just watch him. Then you step inside. Quietly. The floor doesn’t creak. The room feels softer than before, like it’s been waiting for this exact moment to finally exhale.
You don’t say anything. You simply climb into bed behind him, careful not to disturb him too much, slipping under the covers until you’re close enough that there’s no space left for cold air between you.
Slowly, instinctively, you shift forward. Your arm wraps around his waist. Your forehead comes to rest gently against the back of his neck.
And just like that, he responds. Not with words. But with a small, unconscious movement. His shoulders ease further into the mattress. His breathing changes slightly, deepening, slowing, like his body recognizes you even in sleep and decides it’s safe enough to finally let go completely.
The sunlight spills across the room while you stay like that—held against him, holding him back—both of you suspended somewhere between exhaustion and peace.
He stays like that for a moment.
Breathing still uneven, like he’s trying to hold himself together just a little longer. Then, quietly, “Okay.”
A pause. His voice comes softer the second time. “Let’s leave somewhere.” You don’t move at first. Not because you don’t want to. Because something in the way he says it feels heavier than just a plan. Like it’s been sitting inside him for a while, waiting for the right moment to finally come out.
Slowly, he turn around and you shift back just enough to look at him. And that’s when your chest tightens. His eyes are wet. Not tears falling—he’s holding them back, stubbornly, instinctively—but they’re there. Shimmering at the edges of exhaustion and something deeper he’s clearly been carrying for too long.
He doesn’t look away. He forces himself not to. “I mean it,” he says quietly. “Wherever you go… I go.” The words hit you harder than you expect. Because it’s not dramatic. It’s not impulsive. It’s just… honest. Bare. Unarmored.
And seeing him like this—so controlled and still somehow cracking at the edges—makes something in you break softly right along with him.
But it also makes you certain. Certain that this isn’t wrong. That this isn’t “too much.” That maybe this is exactly the moment where things are supposed to shift. Your throat tightens.
You don’t try to fix it with words. You just nod. Once. Enough for him to see. And that’s all it takes. You open your arms, and he leans in immediately, like the decision alone loosened something in him he didn’t even realize he was holding.
His face presses into your neck. And you hold him. Both arms around him now, steady and warm, anchoring him there as he finally lets his weight fully fall into you without hesitation. The room stays quiet around you. Sunlight slowly filling the edges of the bed. And for a long moment, neither of you moves.
Because sometimes love doesn’t feel like a declaration. Sometimes it feels like this :
choosing the same place to land.