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The blood soaked through the boy's shirt faster than they could clamp. Samira's gloved hands were slick, her mask tugging against her mouth as she leaned closer into the gurney, hyperaware of the noise around her. There were screams. Running. Langdon barking orders behind curtain four. Dana yelling for units of O-neg. Sirens screamed just outside. The automatic doors kept swinging open with fresh bodies from The Pittfest.
But Samira saw none of it. Just the boy. Just the blood.
And then - his voice.
Abbot's voice cut through the din, steady as always.
"Dr. Mohan. Pressure's not enough. What's your next move?"
She didn't look at him. Her jaw tightened. "He's losing volume. We've got a through-and-through. Right subclavian."
Jack's tone didn't change. "So what do you do?"
She swallowed. "Cut. I open."
There was a moment - barely a breath - before the responded. "Let's do it then."
He assisted without fanfare, his movements efficient. He held retraction when her grip started to slip, steadied the suction when she lost visualization. He didn't take over. He didn't tell her what to do unless she needed it. It was like he was... there. Not looming, not judging. Just there.
"Breather," he said once, gently. "You're holding tension in your right hand."
She adjusted. "Thanks."
The bleeding slowed. Her clamp held. Samira stepped back, bloody, breathless, stunned. Dana patted her on the shoulder, already moving to prep for the next incoming GSW.
When it was done, Dr. Abbot peeled off his gloves with a soft snap and looked at her - not like he was evaluating her, but like he saw something worth noticing. "You did a damn good job in there."
She blinked, trying to catch up with his words. The adrenaline still surged. "I thought I was going to throw up," she admitted, half-expecting him to laugh.
"But you didn't". He only gave a small, crooked smile. He turned away, but paused long enough to add, "Take the win, Dr. Mohan."
And just like that, he was gone. Off to the next gurney. But her heartbeat didn't settle for a long time.
She didn't usually fixate. But something about that moment rewired her.
Samira sat with her head tipped back against the wall, trying to breathe past the pressure behind her eyes. The ward still buzzed. They'd lost two. Saved five. Dr. Abbot had stayed cool through all of it - shouting, running, leading codes, directing trauma teams. But it was her he had turned to in that moment. Her he'd trusted.
Dr. Abbot - Jack Abbot - didn't give compliments. He gave silent nods, tight-lipped approvals, and occasional sarcastic one-liners about 'not killing anyone today'. And yet, he'd told her she'd done a good job - and meant it. No attending said that. Not like that. Not to her. Samira didn't know what to do with that kind of validation, except replay it. Over and over. Jack's voice. The way he looked at her like she was capable of more than she thought.
Now, she couldn't stop noticing him.
The way he moved through the ER like a ghost - quiet, efficient, never raising his voice unless someone was crashing. The way he muttered to himself under his breath when something annoyed him ("...because apparently we live in a post-charting society"). The fact that he always seemed slightly uncomfortable in his own skin, like he was still surprised people listened when he spoke. He was hard to get to know. But she'd caught something in him that night. A flicker of trust. And that was dangerous. Because now she was looking for it everywhere.
A week later, during a code, their hands brushed reaching for the same intubation blade. He stilled, just for a second. Their gloves pressed together - latex and heat and something unspoken. She looked up. He didn't look away. Another time, he stood behind her while she reviewed a chest CT. Close enough that she could feel his breath. He leaned in, pointed at the screen. "That's your bleed," he murmured.
She turned slightly to say something - she didn't even know what - but he'd already moved back, retreating like he'd overstepped. It was maddening. They were orbiting each other. And she wasn't sure which of them was more afraid of getting pulled in.
It was half past three when the ward fell silent. The lights dimmed, but her mind wouldn't.
Samira pushed away from the nurses' station and checked the time. Jack hadn't been seen in an hour. Dana said he'd signed out of trauma coverage. Mel was crashed on a gurney with her badge on her face like a shield. She didn't know why her feet moved toward the stairwell. She told herself it was curiosity. Or concern. Or maybe just needing a place to breathe.
The door to the rooftop creaked open with a metallic groan. The cold slapped her cheeks. Jack stood near the edge, shoulders hunched slightly, hands buried in his pants pockets. He didn't startle when she stepped out. But he didn't look at her either.
"Hi," she said quietly.
"Didn't expect company." His voice was low. Hoarse. "Either that or a ghost."
She stepped beside him, shrugging. "You didn't answer your pager. Figured I should check for a body."
He gave a dry, awkward chuckle. "Only mine. But I don't recommend it. Bit of a fixer-upper."
Samira folded her arms, eyes scanning the cityscape. "Rough night?"
He paused. "Yeah."
There was a weight to the word. He exhaled slowly. "Seven-year-old. OD. Found fentanyl in her dad's jacket. We got her back, but... it's hard not to think about what comes next."
She glanced at him. He looked tired. Not just sleep-deprived, but worn.
"You carry everything," she said.
His laugh was almost bitter. "Someone's got to. Robby's too busy playing trauma cowboy. Langdon's too cool. I-" he shrugged. "I just try to make sure nobody dies on my watch."
They stood in silence again. The wind tugged at her coat.
On impulse, Samira stepped closer and rested her head on his shoulder. Jack stiffened like she'd pressed a blade to his ribs. She didn't move. He adjusted, almost imperceptibly, to make space for her. The tension in his muscles lingered, then softened.
"You okay with this?" she asked.
His answer took a beat. "Yeah."
Another pause. Then he added, "I really appreciate you, you know. You're... sharp. Collected. You don't let the noise get in."
She didn't respond right away. "You think I'm cold."
"I think you're smart," he hesitated. "Smartest person in the room, most days."
Samira swallowed hard.
"You don't know how much that means," she said. "You're the only attending who sees me. The others - they see stats, med school, rotation numbers. You saw me at Pittfest and didn't flinch. You let me cut."
"You earned it."
"I want to be the kind of doctor you'd trust again."
His breath caught slightly. "You already are."
She shifted, looked up at him. Their faces were close.
"I want you to like me," she said softly. "Professionally. Personally. Whatever you've got room for."
He didn't pull away. Instead, he reached down - slow, unsure - and took her hand.
"I've got room," he whispered. They stood like that, two quiet people wrapped in blood and stars, not ready to say anything more, but not needing to.
Not yet.
The ER lights buzzed overhead with that dull, hospital hum that meant the night had turned into morning without anyone noticing. Samira could hear the coffee machine in the lounge sputtering its last drip and Dana laughing too loud at something Robby said two stations down.
It should've felt like any other post-call morning. But it didn't. Not for her.
Samira's mouth tasted like stale adrenaline, and her head was full of rooftop wind and the weight of Jack's hand in hers. She hadn't dreamt it - she knew that. But now, under the clinical hum of morning rounds, it felt miles away.
She ran her fingers over her face, willing the stiffness in her shoulders to soften. She wasn't the type to linger on things. She moved forward. She reset. That's how she survived residency.
But that moment with Jack had wedged itself somewhere in her - right under the ribs. Lodged there, quiet and undeniable. She stepped into the ER hallway and spotted him almost immediatly.
Jack Abbot was exactly where she'd expected him to be: nurses' station, black coffee, chart in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket like it was unsure whether it wanted to be part of the conversation. His curly, salt-and-pepper hair was messy.
He looked like someone who'd been trying not to think too hard. Which was funny. Because so was she.
"Morning," she said, standing just beside him but not too close. He looked up, and there was the briefest flicker in his eyes - recognition, hesitation, a twitch of guilt, maybe.
Then the flicker was gone. Mask in place.
"Hey." His voice was soft, as always. She hated how much her pulse reacted to that one syllable.
He passed her a clipboard. "Two new admits since 3 AM. Langdon got the interesting one."
She skimmed the chart. "You let Langdon get there first?"
Jack gave a short, sideways shrug. "He ran. I don't."
She smirked. "You jog?"
"Only when chased."
Their eyes met. The smallest flicker of humor. He didn't smile exactly, but the corner of his mouth lifted like he wanted to and wasn't sure if he was allowed. Then silence again. And the silence wasn't awkward. But it wasn't comfortable either. He reached for the chart, and her hand moved at the same time. Their fingers almost touched, but he drew his back fast - a blink too fast to be causal.
Right. Still pretending.
"Robby wants a quick huddle," he said, looking past her toward trauma. "Then we can clear out the board."
"Got it." She didn't walk away. He noticed. She could see it in the way his shoulders look - like he was bracing for something.
"Dr. Abbot."
He looked at her.
"Are you okay?"
The question hung between them. He shifted on his feet, thumb rubbing against the inside of his palm like he didn't know what to do with the question.
"Yeah."
It wasn't convincing. Samira tilted her head, her voice lower now. "Because last night-"
"You didn't have to come up there," he interrupted softly. His gaze drifted to the floor, then back up. "But I'm glad you did."
Something inside her twisted at that - the honesty in it, the smallness of it.
"You looked like you needed a break."
"I usually just freeze," he admitted. "Sit there until my brain stops looping the worst-case scenario."
She studied him. Most attendings would never say that to a resident. But Jack always did things differently.
"You meant what you said?" she asked. "That I'm the smartest person in the room?"
Now he smiled, and it was a little awkward, a little crooked. He scratched at his jaw.
"You asking for reassurance?" he asked, half-joking. "Not your brand."
She arched a brow. "Not usually."
He looked away, then back again. "I meant it."
A pause.
"I don't say things I don't mean," he added, a little more awkwardly, like it embarrassed him to even clarify. The silence that followed was heavier. But it wasn't bad.
"I want to keep learning from you," she said after a second. "And I don't mean just medicine."
He stared at her like she'd cracked open something he wasn't ready to see. His reply was a near-whisper. "I can do that."
Another beat passed.
Dana passed by and narrowed her eyes, noticing something in their body language, but didn't say a word. Samira caught the look.
She stepped back slightly. "We should get to huddle."
Jack nodded, like he needed something to ground him again. "Right. Huddle."
As she turned to go, she felt his gaze on her back. She didn't look back. But when she stopped at the trauma board, she pretended to be checking it and let herself breathe. Her hands were cold. Behind her, Jack still hadn't moved. And the space between them wasn't pretending to be empty anymore.
It began with a text messange, simple and unassuming, but it set everything in motion.
JACK [9:42 AM]: Dana said you're out sick. You okay?
Samira layed curled beneath a heavy blanket, the dry ache in her throat making her breath shallow. Her sinuses throbbed with a dull, persistent pressure, like a slow drumbeat against her temples. The room smelled faintly of old books and stale air, but she barely noticed. Her phone glowed in her hand, the brightness stark against the dimness of her apartment.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, the urge to reply battling with exhaustion.
SAMIRA [9:45 AM]: just a cold, i'll live
SAMIRA [9:46 AM]: (...probably)
Her voice was hoarse even in her head, but she fought to keep her usual dry wit. Jack's answer came quickly, a lifeline.
JACK [9:47 AM]: You need anything?
Her throat burned as she swalloed hard, the simple kindness making her heart flutter in a way that was foreign and unexpected.
SAMIRA [9:48 AM]: only thing I need is a new immune system
SAMIRA [9:48 AM]: and someone to kill Langdon for giving me this virus
JACK [9:49 AM]: I can bring soup.
JACK [9:52 AM]: I can't promise anything about Langdon.
Samira smiled to herself, a warmth spreading despite the chill she couldn't shake.
Forty minutes later, there was a soft knock at her apartment door. She shuffled to open it, wrapped in a loose, oversized sweater and clutching a thin blanket around her like armor.
There he stood - Jack Abbot. His presence filled the narrow hallway with quiet warmth. His salt-and-pepper hair was tousled, cheeks flushed a gentle rose from the cold outside. He wore a plain navy jacket, unbuttoned, revealing a rumpled shirt beneath. The familiar awkwardness that always lingered around him made her heart catch. He looked tired but determined, carrying a paper bag and a tote, the scent of broth and herbs faint on the air.
"Hey," he said, voice low and soft like a secret.
"Hey," she answered, stepping aside to let him in.
Her apartment was a small refuge from the world - scattered textbooks leaned against the couch, a small potted plant dropped on the windowsill, the soft glow of a reading lamp casting long shadows over the worn wooden floors. Jack moved slowly, carefully, as if not to disturb the fragile quiet. He unpacked a brown paper bag on the kitchen counter: a steaming thermos of homemade chicken soup, the comforting scent of herbs and garlic filling the air; lemon-ginger tea boxes; packets of cough drops; and a small bottle of Tylenol. She watched him from the couch, wrapped tightly in her blanket. The warmth radiating from the soup was a balm to her raw throat and chilled skin.
"You didn't have to do all this," she said, voice cracking slightly.
Jack shrugged, cheeks tinting a soft pink. "I know."
They settled beside each other on the couch. The space between them was small, their knees brushing tentatively. A shiver ran through her, partly from the fever, partly from the sudden nearness. The room was hushed except for the soft ticking of a clock and the distant hum of trafffic beyond the window.
Samira sipped the soup slowly, the rich broth soothing, its warmth spreading through her chest like liquid fiire. Jack's eyes lingered on her face - the slight flush on her cheeks, the tiredness etched around her eyes, the way her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders. He shifted closer without breaking eye contact, the subtle movement sending a faint heat flickering along her skin.
"Why did you really come?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Jack's fingers fiddled nervously with the cuff of his shirt. "Because you're sick," he said simply.
"That's not it," she pressed gently. He swallowed, gaze dropping for a moment before meeting hers again.
"You're not great at letting people take care of you," he said, voice low and earnest. "Figured maybe you'd let me."
Her throat tightened - a knot of surprise and something softer, more fragile. She sad spent years learning to trust herself and her skills, but trusting someone like this, on this level, felt new - and frightening.
Later, the soft glow of the television cast flickering shadows across the room, painting their faces with shifting pools of light and darkness. The muted sound of a late-night drama played in the background, but neither of them was really paying attention. The story unfolding on screen was distant and unimportant compared to the quiet electricity humming between them.
Samira leaned back against the couch, her body wrapped in the heavy blanket, but she felt a growing warmth - not just from the soup still resting on the coffee table, bubt from the subtle presence of Jack beside her. His knee brushed hers again, an accidental touch, but neither pulled away. Instead, the contract lingered, sending a surprising jolt through her that made her stomach twist.
Her eyelids grew heavy, the fever dragging her toward sleep, but something made her resist. Instead, she shifted closer, resting her head lightly on Jack's shoulder. The motion was almost involuntary, an instinctive search for comfort, for something steady to anchor her swirling thoughts and exhaustion. Jack stiffened for a fraction of a second - caught off guard by the sudden intimacy - before relaxing, a soft exhale escaping him as he settled into the unexpected closeness. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the crisp night air drifting through the cracked window, grounding her in the moment. His heartbeat thudded quietly beneath her ear, slow and steady rhythm she could focus on when the rest of the world felt too chaotic.
The room fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the faint murmur of the television and their synchronized breathing. The warmth of his body against hers was a balm, a reassurance that she wasn't alone. For the first time in days, the ache inside her wasn't just physical. When the credits rolled, Samira lifted her head and turned to look at him, her eyes searching his face in the dim lights. "You could stay," she said softly, voice fragile but hopeful, as if she were testing the waters.
Jack's lips curled into a shy, uncertain smile, the kind that made his eyes crinkle just slightly. "I don't want to be alone tonight," she added, voice barely above a whisper.
He met her gaze, his dark eyes steady and warm, and simply said, "Okay."
It was the kind of simple acceptance she hadn't realized she was craving. Their faces drifted closer, the space between them shrinking until it was just breath and heat. Jack's hands trembled slightly as they moved to cradle her face, thumbs brushing the soft planes of her cheeks. The first kiss was slow and hesitant - a tentative exploration of unspoken feelings. His lips were soft, uncertain, pressing gently against hers as if afraid to break the fragile connection forming between them.
Samira's heart hammered in her chest, a mix of nervousness and yearning swirling through her veins. She deepened the kiss, letting the warmth she'd been denying flood out in a quiet surrender. Her fingers threaded through his curls, pulling him closer, drawing him into the orbit of her need. Jack responded with a quiet gasp, the tension in his body melting as he wrapped his arms around her, anchoring them both in the safety of this new, delicate closeness.
His touch was feather-light, yet the intensity beneath it made her heart pound like a drum. Samira's hands found their way to the nape of his neck. Jack's arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. When he parted slightly, just enough to let their breaths mingle, his voice was a rough whisper against her lips. "Are you okay?"
She smiled against him, breathless but sure. "Better now."
Their eyes locked, wide and searching in the dim light, a fragile connection threading between them - something quiet and real. Jack's smile was shy but genuine, a little awkward flicker that made her heart swell. "I've wanted to do that for a while," he admitted softly, voice barely louder than a secret.
"Me too," she said, her fingers tracing small, tentative circles along the skin at the back of his neck. The kiss deepened again, slower this time, more assured. It was a promise, an unspoken vow to explore what had been simmering beneath their professional facades - the trust, the yearning, the hope.
In the quiet sanctuary of her bedroom, the world outside fell away like a distant storm fading into the horizon. The soft, muted glow of the bedside lamp cast gentle shadows that danced along the walls, wrapping the room in a cocoon of warmth and privacy. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the subtle musk of Jack's cologne and the crispness of freshly laundered sheets.
Samira sat on the edge of the bed, her body still tingling from the lingering fever but burning now with a different kind of heat - an ache born of anticipation and vulnerability. Her sweater, oversized and soft, slipped from one shoulder, revealing the smooth curve of her collarbone, sun-kissed and flushed from the warmth spreading beneath her skin.
Jack moved with an awkward tenderness, his hands hovering for a moment as if afraid to break the delicate balance between them. He wasn't used to moments like this - soft, slow, and charged with silent emotions. Yet here, with her, he found himself fumbling less, trusting more.
His fingers finally brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the touch feather-light but electric. "You are beautiful," he murmured, voice low and hesitant, the words almost foreign but honest in their sincerity. Samira's breath hitched, her eyes darkening with a mixture of surprise and something softer - something she didn't often let herself feel. She reached up, her hand resting gently over his, holding him still. "Jack," she whispered, voice raw and vulnerable.
He smiled, that crooked, shy smile that made her hearth tighten. Slowly, he leaned in, lips barely grazing hers in a kiss that was both a question and an answer. His mouth was warm, seeking permission, exploring the curve of her lips with a reverence that took her breath away.
The kiss deepened, growing more confident as the walls between them crumbled. His hands slid from her hair to her shoulders, then down to the small of her back, pulling her closer until the heat of their bodies pressed together was impossible to ignore. Samira's fingers tangled in his hair, holding him near as if anchoring herself to a new, fragile certainty. Her body responded, skin flushed and tingling, every nerve alive with a delicious, aching hunger.
Jack's lips trailed down her neck, teeth grazing softly, eliciting a shiver that ran through her like wildfire. His hands moved with reverence, slow and deliberate, peeling away the layers of her sweater, then the rest of her clothes, piece by piece. He took his time, memorizing every inch of her skin, every curve and contour as if it were sacred.
The cool air of the room kissed her bare skin, contrasting with the warmth of his hands and mouth. He worshiped her slowly - each kiss, each touch, a silent promise to cherish and protect this fragile new connection. When he finally reached her thighs, his mouth was cool and wet, sending an unexpected jolt of sensation through her. He moved with practiced patience, the slow rhythm of his tongue and fingers coaxing waves of pleasure that built steadily, unfurling like a bloom in the warmth of spring.
Samira's breath hitched in shallow gasps, fingers clutching the sheets as the tension inside her coiled tighter and tighter. Jack looked up between every flicker of sensation, eyes dark and intense, silently asking if she was okay, if he was doing right by her.
"Don't stop," she whispered, voice trembling.
He obeyed, worshipping her with adoration that made fer feel seen, wanted, and safe all at once. The slow crescendo of pleasure crashed over her like a tide, and she came undone beneath him, trembling and breathless, heart pounding with fierce joy.
When she finally collapsed back against the pillows, Jack was there, fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles over her skin. Their bodies intertwined, warm and tangled, breaths mingling in the quiet aftermath.
He pulled her close, lips brushing soft kissed over her temple and forehead. "I am so glad you're here", he murmured, voice thick with emotion and something shyly hopeful.
Samira smiled, the ache inside her eased by the steady beat of his heart against hers. "Me too."
Later, tangled in the sheets, the world outside her bedroom window softened to a distant hum, irrelevant and muted compared to the warmth cocooning them beneath the covers. The sheets, slightly tousled and damp from the lingering heat of their shared skin, clung gently to their bodies, holding them close in the fragile quiet that followed everyting they had shared.
Samira's head rested on Jack's chest, her fingers tracing lazy, absent circles over the soft fabric of his worn shirt. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear - slow, calm, grounding. It was a sound she hadn't realized she was craving, something steady and sure in a life often ruled by chaos and pressure.
Jack's hand found hers, fingers curling around hers with a shy, hesitant tenderness. His thumb brushed softly over the back of her hand. He was quiet, his usual awkwardness softened into something more vulnerable, more real.
"You okay?" His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried the weight of genuine concern.
Samira looked up at him, her eyes catching the gentle light of the bedside lamp. "I am now," she replied, her lips curving into a small, tired smile. "Thank you... for everything."
He smiled back, that crooked, half-shy smile that had started to feel like home. "I meant what I said," he murmured. "You are the smartest person in the room."
Her heart fluttered in that quiet space between words, a rush of warmth spreading through her chest. "And you're... different than I expected," she teased softly, a glint of humor in her tired eyes.
Jack chuckled, a little awkward, a little relieved. "I get that a lot."
They settled into a comfortable silence, the kind that only comes after two people have bared more than just their bodies. It was the kind of silence that held promises, quiet beginnings, and the gentle unfolding of something fragile and new. Samira shifted slightly, her hand tightening around his. "I want this... whatever this is," she confessed, voice low and sincere. "I want to learn from you. Not just about surgery or medicine. About everything."
Jack's eyes met hers, warm and open. "Then we'll figure it out," he said softly, as if that was the simpliest, most natural thing in the world. For the first time in a long time, Samira let herself believe it might be true.
a couple days later
Samira pushed the door open with one elbow, balancing a paper bag of soup containters in her hands. "Jack?" she called out, stepping into the apartment they'd sort-of-kind-of agreed was now "theirs, sometimes". The living room was dim except for the soft flicker of a muted baseball game on TV. On the couch, buried under a blanket that looked suspiciously like it had been dragged from the back of a closet, lay Jack Abbot - disheveled, red-nosed and utterly miserable.
He peeked one bleary eye out from under the blanket. "You infected me," he croaked with tragic drama.
Samira winced. "I brought matzo ball soup and electrolytes," she said in her best peace-offering voice. "Also, I may have texted Dana asking if fever-delirium could make a grown man forget how tissues work."
Jack coughed weakly. "Dana called me 'Plauge Boy' and said I was 'pathetically endearing'."
Samira bit her lip, trying - and failing - not to laugh. "You are pathetically endearing."
Jack groaned and flopped his head back dramatically. "I came to your apartment like a knight in flannel armor, with soup and Tylenol. And this is how I die."
"You are not dying," she said, rolling her eyes as she set the bag on the coffee table. "You have a mild upper respiratory infection, and a lot of flair for the dramatic."
He sniffled and blinked at her. "You're not even sorry."
"I am so sorry," she said, raising her hand like she was swearing an oath. "I feel terrible. Really. I coughed into your mouth while you were kissing me and now you're cursed."
Jack raised a finger. "Technically, I kissed you."
"Oh, so this is victim-blaming now?"
He opened his mouth to reply, then sneezed violently into his elbow. Samira wrinkled her nose and handed him a tissue.
"Bless you," she added, patting his shoulder. 'And may the ghosts of every patient who ever sneezed in your face forgive me."
Jack blew his nose, then looked at her through glassy, sleepy-heavy eyes. "Just so you know," he mumbled, "when I recover, I am taking full romantic revenge. Like, flowers in your locker level revenge."
Samira laughed and leaned down to kiss his forehead - quick, sweet, and slightly cool from the damp cloth he'd abandoned earlier. 'If that's your version of revenge, then I definitely win."
Jack blinked. "Wait, you're keeping score?"
"Always."
From beneath the blankets, he groaned. "I am never dating a resident again."
"I am the only one who would put up with this much whining."
"That's... probably true."
They both dissolved into laughter - his, raspy and congested; hers, warm and unapologetic. It wasn't glamorous, but it was theirs.
And Samira thought, maybe infecting Jack with a cold wasn't the worst thing she'd ever done.
Maybe.