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Jack Abbot doesn’t like the Fourth of July.
Yeah, surprise surprise. A combat vet with PTSD, a blown-off foot, an aversion to loud explosions, and a healthy resentment toward manufactured patriotism for a broken country? Anyone with two neurons to rub together and a dash of common sense could see that coming.
Even then, you’d be hard-pressed to find something in this world that can truly faze him. Not after Anbar in ‘05, Helmand in ‘11, Kandahar in ‘15—and for damn sure not after losing his wife less than two years after his return stateside.
Sure, he’s known anger, sadness, anxiety—even fear—in the years since. They don’t call it PTSD for nothing, after all. But Jack prefers to think that, over time, he’s developed his own brand of emotional Kevlar, a shield stitched from little more than survival, scar tissue, and grit. Because now, instead of letting the weight of everything drag him under, he just… doesn’t. Can’t, really. A drug-seeking jackass desperate for a hit and lashing out when Jack won’t give him one? So long as his staff isn’t in harm’s way, it’s no skin off his back. Countless blood units, five RSIs, three crics, two pelvic binders, and dozens of fracture reductions within the span of a few hours from a multi-car pileup? Tie one hand behind his back and just try to slow him down.
He still isn’t quite sure whether or not it’s a good thing. Maybe the therapy really is working, and he’s slowly molding into the well-adjusted man Dr. S. has been so diligently crafting. More often, though, Jack wonders if he’s just a patchwork of his scars and habits, a shadow of the man he once was, barely holding himself together.
Every so often, that older version of himself claws its way to the surface—but it’s rare, and it usually takes a storm of complete and utter bullshit to drag him there. A thirty-nine-year-old vet slaughtered by a drunk driver in a crosswalk, for instance. Or a young woman, barely forty, strolling into the ED with the worst headache of her life, unaware she could be gone within hours. (Infuriating, really, that his wife had never stood a chance.)
Needless to say, Jack isn’t easily tempted by provocation, good or bad.
When he is, though? The results are unpredictable—and rarely pleasant.
And today, apparently, that cannot be helped.
Today, Jack also learns a new and highly inconvenient truth about himself: put him in a room and force him to witness Samira Mohan flirting with another man, and watch him unravel until he’s nothing more than a frayed spool of thread, one gentle tug from falling apart.
Looking back to when they first met just over four years ago, when Samira was still a green MS4, Jack probably should’ve known. Should’ve recognized the way his body reacted to the first brush of her hand in his, how every hair on his skin stood rapt with awareness, pulse stuttering against the sudden lurch in his chest. Should’ve felt the ground shift beneath him, in the unmistakable way only life-altering things do.
She was beautiful, of course—anyone could see it. Dark honey skin stretched over a long, slender frame, every movement precise and controlled. Raven hair smoothed back into a tight bun at the base of her skull, wavy little tendrils escaping to frame crest-high cheekbones and a marble-etched jaw. Deep, chestnut eyes—wide and eager and staring straight through him—leaving him exposed, yet strangely weightless, like time itself had paused to witness him seeing her for the first time.
Even more captivating than her beauty, though, was her mind. Sharp and quick-witted and endlessly curious, she was hungry to absorb anything and everything he was willing to teach. She challenged him, too, questioning assumptions, exploring his unconventional methods, offering new ideas, insisting on getting to the root of every problem. Always striving to be better, to do more, to leave her mark on each life that passed through their doors. It was impossible not to be pulled into her orbit. She made him want to be a better doctor—a better human being.
So maybe he had known his feelings, if he let himself dwell on it long enough. But knowing and accepting were two different things, and reconciling what he knew he should be to her with what he truly wanted deep down was an impossible task. Not that it even mattered. Not that she would even care. She moved through the world with a confidence and determination he could only admire from the sidelines, blissfully unaware of the chaos she left inside him in her wake. But the only logical conclusion was that it was for the best. Some truths, he told himself, were better left unspoken. Some truths, however inescapable they may be, were meant to quietly linger in the corners of the heart.
He’s not even supposed to be here today. He’s got the next two days off, and he’d begrudgingly agreed to help the VA set up their booth on the North Shore for the holiday celebration. But then another vendor collapsed, clutching his chest as his body went limp, and Jack stabilized him and accompanied EMS to PTMC until the man was settled. By the time they rolled in, the wait time was already pushing ten hours—and it wasn’t even noon.
So now here he is, donned in camo pants and a black tee, heavy combat boots scuffing the pavement as he waits out front for his buddy to drop off his car keys before heading back in.
And thus marks the moment it all begins.
He’s making his way back inside, threading his way through Chairs and easing around an elderly woman with a walker, when he spots her. She’s on triage with a new intern this morning, trying to corral an overwrought mother with her fidgety child. Jack can’t help the upturn of his lips, knowing full well this is the very last place in the ED Samira Mohan wants to be. No, she’d much rather be right in the belly of the pit, seeing patients, taking on the most challenging cases, following through on every last detail with a fine-tooth comb.
He wants to call out with a quip that might make her smile—almost does, until she suddenly jerks backward, narrowly dodging a well-aimed kick to the kneecap from the toddler. In the next instant, she collides with a man on crutches behind her, his soccer jersey muddied from top to bottom, right foot hastily wrapped as he bounces on his left to keep it off the floor.
Samira gasps, spinning around and raising her hands in surrender, her eyes tracking his six-foot-plus frame. Jack’s still too far away to catch her words, but it’s easy to assume it’s an apology. He can’t hear the man’s response either, but he can see the wide, easy smile, the flash of white teeth, the way he leans forward to meet her gaze. Then he says something else and Jack’s now close enough to hear the unmistakable huskiness of Dr. Mohan’s voice, only she’s not speaking—she’s giggling. Actually giggling, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and smiling down at the floor before letting her gaze lift to the man’s again.
Red flag number one.
Jack, moving straight toward their path, contemplates changing course and veering for the stairwell doors instead. Except it’s not exactly convenient, and if she happened to take notice, he’d look awkward—so he forces himself onward.
“S’cuse me” he says gruffly, squeezing past. His hand grazes Samira’s lower back—innocent enough, yet it still sends a jolt up his arm, fingers a live wire ready to spark—while his eyes flick between the two of them.
Samira, for her part, acknowledges him with a quick lift of her eyebrows.
“Dr. Abbot?” she says, surprise coloring her tone. The other man, eyes having been trained on the senior resident, swivels his head toward Jack at the greeting. He’s handsome, Jack notes—almost unfairly so—kind eyes and deep, velvety skin softening a sharp, bearded jaw and a well-defined physique. “What’re you doing here?”
“STEMI over at North Shore this morning. Brought him in and saw how packed it’s already getting.” He shrugs. “Figured I’d stick around and help out for a while.”
The others would scoff at his indefatigable tendencies, tell him to get lost—but Dr. Mohan doesn’t. She gets it; she’s exactly the same way. She just nods, dimples indenting her cheeks, and Jack stares for probably a moment too long. “Cool. Looking forward to working with you today, then.”
“Likewise.” He can’t help the small smile even as his eyes flash toward the stranger again. He gives a short nod of acknowledgment, then continues on his way. “See you in there” he calls behind him, just as the door to triage snaps open and Mateo wheels a patient back into the waiting area. Jack catches the door before it shuts, but chances one more glance over his shoulder. She’s returned to the mother and toddler, but her attention remains on the man as he says something that makes her laugh yet again.
Red flag number two.
∼∼∼∼∼∼
He mostly forgets about it a few hours later.
By then, the ER is bursting at the seams, and the wait time in Chairs seems inversely proportional to Jack’s capacity for sympathy. Partial- and full-thickness burns, avulsion injuries, lacerations, amputations—even one particularly gruesome hand degloving—stack up one after another. All easily avoidable. All thanks to this stupid holiday.
He’s splitting rounds with Robby when it all comes rushing back. Jack’s far away enough that his view of the patient in South Seven is blocked, but not of Dr. Mohan. She sits, back ramrod straight, eyes trained ahead, listening intently. Then her brow furrows, the top row of teeth biting into her lower lip, and a wave of affection surges through him. Even though they don’t work together as often as he’d like, he’s seen this look on her more times than he can count: total, unwavering concentration—like it would take more than a seismic upheaval to pull her away from the task at hand. The others may call her many things—too intense, too meticulous, too slow—but one thing they could never accuse her of is doing anything halfway.
He sidles up to the entrance, ready to slip quietly inside—then freezes.
For a moment, he thinks he’s imagining it: Dr. Mohan’s lips suddenly crack into a huge smile, traces of a flush on her cheeks as she lifts a lithe hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
His eyebrows knit together in confusion. Then he turns his head, following her gaze to the patient.
And then he sees him, and it clicks.
It’s the same handsome, hulking mass of a man—the walking embodiment of red flag number three.
Jack isn’t sure how it’s possible to deflate and churn at the same time, but he does. There the guy is, lounging on the cot like he owns the place, a smug smile tugging at his lips as his eyes track her movements. Every nerve in Jack’s body twists in irritation and something else he refuses to name.
“…and I didn’t even have time to jump before the kid shoved me out of the way to go first,” he says, making Samira bark a surprised laugh.
“Eight-year-olds can be demons. I have a little cousin the same age. Love him to pieces, but he drives my aunt crazy.”
“Just wait ‘til they’re teenagers.” He huffs, shaking his head. “My niece swiped a beer from my fridge once, and when her dad caught her later, she swore I gave it to her. And he actually bought it!”
Samira’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. The shit she gets away with is unreal.” He chuckles, eyes lingering on her smile, before finally catching on Jack’s rigid figure. “Oh, hey, man.”
Jack doesn’t meet Samira’s eyes as he crosses the threshold, even when her head snaps toward him. He already knows the look on her face—startled, a little guilty, like she’s just missed a pulse or left a suture half-tied.
“What’d I miss?” he asks, wincing inwardly at how stiff it sounds. He clears his throat. “Getting beat up by an eight-year-old, huh?” He tacks on a small smile. Better.
The man throws back his head and laughs—a deep, genuine, irritatingly charming sound. “Nah, man. Just something funny at my nephew’s birthday party. This…” He gestures to his bandaged foot. “This came from the game this morning.”
“Game?” Jack asks, brows lifting. “Don’t rec leagues usually take off on holidays?” Yeah, he knows soccer.
Without missing a beat, the other man replies, “Semi-pro. Steel City. Just a friendly, but you know how those can get.”
Jack doesn’t really, but he nods anyway.
“It was actually part of prep for a major tournament coming up, so we’ve been pushing hard these past couple of weeks.” He turns back to Samira with a shrug, whose expression now dances on the edge of flustered surprise and professional composure.
She blinks, stumbles. “Yeah… um. Gotta respect the grind.”
The man beams at her; Jack swallows the bile rising in his throat.
Having no interest in prolonging this interaction, Jack finally turns to face her. “Well, what’ve we got, Dr. Mohan?”
She’s still reeling a bit, but forces herself to settle. “Right. Sorry. Dr. Abbot, this is Brian Hancock—thirty-two-year-old male. Injured his right foot trying to slide tackle and got it caught up in his opponent’s. Immediate swelling, non-weightbearing since. Trainer dropped him off; came in on crutches with a makeshift wrap. Otherwise healthy. Vitals stable. No meds, no allergies.”
Jack hovers over the injured foot, scrutinizing every angle. When he palpates, Brian winces. Jack is shamefully tempted to do it again, but doesn’t.
“Physical exam shows marked swelling and tenderness across the midfoot” Samira continues, tone clipped and precise. “Pain with passive movement. Distal pulses intact. Sensation preserved.”
“Imaging?”
“I ordered weightbearing views of the foot. Preliminary findings suggest a navicular fracture, possible midfoot ligament injury. Ortho’s been paged for consult. I placed him non-weightbearing and gave oral NSAIDs for the pain. He says it’s controlled for now.”
Jack nods, straightening. “Good work. Keep me posted on the results?”
“Of course.”
He nods toward Brian and leaves the room without another word.
∼∼∼∼∼∼
“The order’s been in since 7 a.m.—where’s my norepi? I can’t run this drip without it.” Dana huffs, slamming the phone down.
She strides over to Jack’s workstation, where he’s buried himself behind the computer for the past half hour. Hip cocked against the desk, arms crossed, she glares down at him. “Fuckin’ pharmacy. I’ve called three times already, and all I get is the same bullshit line—‘it’s coming.’ Comin’ from where, Mars? I’ve got two patients tankin’ over here and they’re sittin’ on their asses.”
Jack lets out a single, humorless laugh without looking up. “Yeah, they pulled the same stunt last week with the antibiotics. Want me to swing by in a bit and charm them? I’ve got a smile that works wonders… sometimes.” The joke lands flat in his mouth.
“Yeah, flash those dimples. Maybe they’ll send the meds over via carrier pigeon.”
“Better odds of it getting here faster than the runners they’ve got.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’d train the pigeon myself.”
“See, there’s that initiative pharmacy’s missing.”
Dana snorts, rubbing her temple as she sighs, long and hard. “Don’t know why I even bother sometimes.”
Jack glances up, noting the faint lines around her eyes, the slight slump of her shoulders. She looks tired, sure, but steady—still not quite ready to concede defeat. For as long as he’s known Dana Evans, she’s been unflinching in the face of chaos, anchored in the steadiness of her resolve. Strong in character, always. His mirror in steel and grit. If she can’t hold her ground in the maelstrom that is PTMC ED, no one can.
He’s just about to tell her so when a rich, siren-like voice beckons to him from behind. The hair on the back of his neck stands tall, and he turns reluctantly.
“Do you have a minute?” Samira asks, smile wavering between strained and friendly. “I’ve got our soccer guy’s x-rays and was hoping we could go over them together.”
“Yeah, of course” he replies—because what else is he supposed to say? He stands, smoothing a hand over his wrinkled scrubs, then glances back at Dana. “Hang in there, Slugger. Rain check on this convo?”
Dana nods, a wry grin tugging at her lips. “Go on, Doctor. Don’t let me keep you from the fun stuff.”
Jack lengthens his strides to keep up with Samira’s no-nonsense gait. “What’ve you got for me, Dr. Mohan?” he asks as they pull up to PACS, sliding shoulder to shoulder as they study the screen together.
She points to the midfoot. “On the weightbearing views, I’m not convinced we’re seeing the full extent of his injury. It’s not even showing a fracture, just subtle joint widening. I tried getting him to walk but he couldn't even take a step. Are we missing something?”
Jack leans in for a closer look, the faint bite of antiseptic and skin filling the space between them. Somehow, it’s… different on her. Better. He wants to recoil. He wants to lean in, press his face to her neck. “Hmm… yeah, I see what you mean. Sometimes these can hide a subtle tarsometatarsal subluxation or a tiny fracture line, especially if the beam isn’t perfectly aligned.” He tilts his head toward her, gauging her reaction to his words. She’s too close; it’s making his head feel fuzzy. He takes a small step back. “So, what’re you thinking, Dr. Mohan?”
She considers for a moment, all business. “Keep him non-weightbearing until ortho reviews? I don’t want him walking on something that could worsen–not that he can right now, anyway.”
“Good call. You did the right thing keeping him off it. These subtle midfoot injuries love to hide. Sometimes ortho will want a CT or MRI just to make sure we’re not missing anything.”
Samira nods, but Jack can see the hesitation behind her eyes. “Yeah… I just hate sending anyone home without a clear answer, you know?”
Jack offers a faint, reassuring smile. “I get it. But right now: splint, elevate, pain control, and ortho follow-up. It’s exactly what he needs. Any sudden changes, he comes back immediately. That’s the best we can do for him right now.”
“I guess.” She presses her lips together, glancing away.
He knows that look like the back of his hand. She’s not satisfied. She won’t let this go until it eats away at her, like rust on steel, stubborn and unyielding, creeping into every crevice.
“Hey.” He steps closer again, ducking his head until she meets his eyes. Uncertainty swims in the depths of her irises, along with something else he doesn’t quite understand. Is she thinking about what happened earlier? Does she have any idea it’s been playing on repeat in his brain like a bad one-hit wonder?
His hands twitch; he wants to reach out, to bridge the space between them even further, but he doesn’t. “You’re doing great work, Dr. Mohan. You know we can’t always get all the answers down here.”
She presses her lips together, trying for a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, I just… you know.”
“I know,” he replies softly, almost reverently. Sometimes she’s just so wholly, undeniably herself it makes him a little insane. “Let me know what ortho says, and we’ll go over it together, yeah?”
He lingers until some of the tension relaxes in her shoulders. She nods, quiet acknowledgment passing between them. “Yeah. Okay.”
He steps back again, forcing the distance before he can second guess it.
∼∼∼∼∼∼
Ortho suspects a Lisfranc fracture, so they order an MRI and immediate follow-up. Surgery likely, if suspicions are confirmed. No weight bearing for 6-8 weeks minimum.
To his credit, Brian takes the news in stride.
He’s gathering his things, readjusting a Velcro strap on his splint when he turns to Jack and Samira with a tight-lipped grin. “Guess I won’t be playing in that tournament next week.”
“Looks like it’ll be a lot longer than that, unfortunately,” Samira says, sympathetic.
Brian sighs. “Yeah.” A flicker of disappointment crosses his face. Then, all at once, Jack’s world tilts and stretches—a camera lens snapping in and out of focus, a pendulum slipping off its trajectory. The room, the hum of the fluorescent lights, the bustling hallway outside their door—they slow, then race, then blur together as Brian locks his gaze on Samira and the words tumble out. “That’s alright. I’ve gotta say, it was worth it. Coming here, I mean.”
Samira’s eyes widen. Jack stands there, desperate to run but rooted to the spot. Awkwardness unfurls around them like poisonous gas, suffusing the room and choking the air from his lungs. He can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t breathe, as Samira’s eyes dart over to him once before settling back on Brian.
“S-so, um, like we said,” she stammers, clearing her throat. “Keep it elevated as much as possible. Come back right away if you notice anything—sudden and severe swelling, numbness, an unusually cold or hot foot, blue toes…”
If Brian notices the stir he’s caused, he doesn’t seem to mind it. “Cold feet, huh?” he asks with a chuckle.
Samira nods, hesitant.
“Won’t be a problem with me.” The words slide from his lips like smooth whiskey down the throat. “I can promise you that, Dr. Mohan.”
Jack’s been in unpleasant situations before. He’s been shot at, cracked open chests in the middle of an active warzone, dodged more bodily fluids than he cares to catalog—and still, somehow, he’s never felt more uncomfortable than in this moment.
Samira doesn’t seem to know how to respond. She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again.
At once, Jack can’t take anymore. “Alright, well. Good luck to you, man.” He pivots on his flesh and blood heel, narrowly avoids clipping the supply cart on his way out, and makes his escape, Samira staring after him as he goes.
∼∼∼∼∼∼
“Um, Dr. Abbot…”
Jack tries not to sigh as he looks up from his coffee cup, forearms pressed into the cold veneer of the breakroom table.
Samira hovers in the doorway, teeth snagging on her bottom lip. Except it’s not in concentration this time. It’s hesitation. Uncertainty. Embarrassment.
“I just, um. What you saw back there…” Her voice wavers, uncharacteristically shaky. “I didn’t mean–”
“Don’t worry about it.” The words snap out sharper than he intends. It’s only been five minutes since he’d left the room, palms trembling, face burning, mind reeling. It’s far too soon for the conversation he knows is coming—in fact, he’d prefer never having it at all.
She watches him, eyes wide and vulnerable, more insecure than he’s ever seen her. “I’m sorry” she blurts. “That was… extremely unprofessional.”
His resolve crumbles instantly, gaze softening. “Dr. Mohan” he says, voice delicate—such a far cry from the hardened man he and everyone else knows him to be. “You evaluated the patient, ordered the proper tests, reported your findings, pointed out concerns, communicated with your patient clearly, encouraged follow-through…” He shrugs, almost embarrassed by the admission. “As far as I’m concerned, you were perfect.”
He ducks his head. One flicker of Samira beating herself up and it turns something in his stomach. The urge to touch her is almost reflexive at this point—he wants to take her hand, pull her into a hug, anything to erase that look of self-doubt from her eyes.
Something unreadable passes over Samira’s face, an emotion he can’t name. She clasps and unclasps her hands, still worrying her lip, eyebrows pinching together. “So you’re not… upset?”
Jack blinks, warmth creeping up his neck. He wonders what she’s getting at, what makes her hesitate, why her eyes linger the way they do. Part of him wants to let his mind wander, to mine every interaction they’ve ever had for meaning. And in the quiet, he can’t help but wonder if she really can see through him, to every thought, every fantasy, every feeling he’s held for her but never dared to breathe aloud.
“Why–” he clears his throat, fingers clenching around his coffee. “Why would I be?”
She digs the toe of her sneaker into the linoleum, eyes tracking the movement before lifting back to his. The air snaps tight between them, a current humming, stilted breathing the only sound. The room contracts to just the two of them, and suddenly he’s no longer her attending. She’s just Samira; he’s just Jack. Two souls teetering on the precipice of something neither can name.
He swears he can see the whole world in her eyes. Swears she could undo him completely with her gaze alone.
A lifetime passes, or perhaps just a few seconds, before she severs the connection. Her gaze drifts sideways, catching on the stack of dirty mugs in the sink.
“I don’t know,” she mumbles. “Just, um…” She falters, then seems to shift. “Robby would’ve said I’m still taking too long. That I let the patient get too close. That I let the patient…”
Flirt.
The word is dangling in the air between them, raw and unmistakable and juvenile—so uncomfortably, infuriatingly juvenile—but still undeniably real.
She doesn’t want to say it, and he doesn’t want to hear it. He lifts a hand, a silent concession.
“Dr. Mohan” he tries again, careful, steady, as if it might anchor her. “You haven’t done anything wrong.” He waits a beat, hoping she can see how much he means it. “These things happen. You can’t control what a patient says or does—only how you respond. And besides…” He manages a tentative smile. “This can’t be the first time that’s happened. With you, I mean.”
Samira frowns. “I… I don’t know.”
Jack scoffs before he can help himself. “Dr. Mohan, forgive me for being blunt, but this is an emergency room. People come in here at their most vulnerable. They’ll say and do things they wouldn’t normally do.”
He pauses, the words dissipating between them. His chest tightens as he considers what to say next, weighing the cost.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “You’re an attractive woman. Most people will notice. Some are bound to act on it.”
She says nothing, silence heavy with the words she can’t seem to shape. Her eyes unfold into deep pools of fragile moonlight, wavering on the edge of softening into something he doesn’t dare hope for.
He watches her watch him; wonders what those fiery depths behold. Wonders if she not only sees it, but feels it, too—the way his blood sings beneath the warmth of her gaze, how his heart beats to the cadence of each syllable in her name.
She’d told him once, over iced lattes far too sweet and medical journals far too garrulous, that her mother had remarried less than two years after her father died. She’d been so angry she refused to go to the wedding. And though they’d become amicable over the years, she still hadn’t quite forgiven her. The thought of her mother moving on so easily, so quickly, while Samira’s heart seemed to break anew each day, was more than she could bear.
And Jack had understood; had realized they were kindred spirits, in a fucked-up sort of way. Jules had been his forever, once upon a time. And up until just over four years ago, the thought of moving on was unimaginable.
But as the days blurred into years, and his quiet fondness for a certain resident grew—slowly, almost imperceptibly—the weight of the band on his left hand began to feel less like remembrance and more like penance. And then, one night, when Samira invited him out to coffee for the very first time, he finally slipped it off and gave it a new home on the silver chain around his neck.
It’s in this moment Jack realizes he wants her to know. If not a full confession, then at least a hint—a gentle nudge toward the truth he’s kept buried for so long. Wants to see how his words take root in that brilliant mind of hers. Wants to watch the quiet realization bloom in her eyes when he gives voice to the suspicions she’s surely held since the day they met.
She’s pinching the bridge of her nose, eyes clamped shut, when he pushes his chair back from the table and stands. He’s ready. The words are there, straining for release, so simple and yet—
“He asked for my number.”
Her voice breaks the air before Jack can catch his bearings.
“What?”
“Brian.” Samira lowers her hand, meeting his bewildered gaze. “He asked for my number. Just before he left.”
“Um.”
Her words strike with a quiet precision, a knife plunging beneath his ribs before the meaning even settles.
The words hang in the air, thicker than smoke, as she waits for his response.
“Okay.”
It’s all he can give, all he can manage, as the knife twists and drives upward, piercing his heart with surgical precision.
“I said no” she says quickly—but somehow, he already knows the other shoe is about to drop.
“It’s just… last year, after PittFest, McKay told me I can’t make this job my whole life. I didn’t listen at first, but over this past year—chief resident, fellowship applications, all of it—I guess I’ve started to see her point. So I told him I don’t give out my number to patients, but maybe if he ran into me after work sometime, then…”
She shrugs, careless and unknowing, like it isn’t the final thrust that does him in—an arterial bleed from the chest, his lifeblood spilling fast and unseen. He doesn’t know why she’s telling him this. Maybe it’s an attempt at controlling the damage, a way to soften the blow. Or maybe she’s truly that blind to him—just seeking reassurance that her professionalism remains intact, that she hasn’t breached any ethical boundary.
Either way, it’s enough to make him break.
Somehow, in a universe far removed from his own, Jack manages a simple nod and a Good for you, Dr. Mohan before he’s tossing his coffee mug into the sink and fleeing her presence yet again.
∼∼∼∼∼∼
The air is chillier than it should be for an early July evening. A stray gust whips across Jack’s cheeks, and he shivers before leaning further into the railing. The metal bites into his forearms—grounding him, anchoring him to something solid. Something tangible.
“Fancy seein’ you up here.”
He doesn’t bother turning at the sound of Dana’s voice. He’s not surprised she’s found him. He’d stormed out of the pit fast enough, her confused gaze trailing him as he brushed past her questions and made a beeline for the stairwell doors like he was being fumigated from the building.
“You’re not Robby,” is all he manages to say.
“And thank God for that.”
She comes to stand beside him, mirroring his stance against the railing. It’s a standoff of sorts. They’re both usually better at filling silences, but not tonight. The city hums below; the air hums between them.
Jack relents first, if only to get whatever conversation he knows is coming out of the way. He’s getting tired of these little chats.
“You didn’t need to follow me.”
“Who said I was followin’ you? I take my smoke breaks up here all the time.”
He rolls his eyes toward her in a sidelong glance. She still isn’t looking at him, gaze sweeping the skyline as she fishes a crumpled pack of cigarettes and an old plastic Bic lighter from her pocket. She thumbs the serrated wheel, pressing the lever until the flame catches. Practiced hands bring the cigarette to her lips, and she inhales deeply.
A full minute passes before she speaks again. “Norepi’s been delivered.”
Jack blinks. “Great.”
“Only took ten hours, but hey—who’s counting?”
“Uh huh.”
“Looks like I won’t be chasin’ a damn pigeon across the roof after all.”
“Fantastic.”
Dana snorts, finally glancing at him. “Jesus, Jack. Alright—your call. You want me to keep ramblin’ on about random shit, or skip ahead to whatever’s twistin’ those cargos up your ass?”
Jack straightens, eyes flicking toward the door. “I’d actually rather skip this conversation altogether, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind, actually,” Dana fires back. “I mind that this damn wind is trying to put out my cigarette—it’s the last one I’ve got left. I mind that it’s fuckin’ cold, and I didn’t bring a jacket because I was so focused on comin’ to talk to you.”
She eases back, flicking ash onto the lip of the roof, her voice dropping a notch. “But more than anything, I mind that you’re hurting, and you’d rather contemplate what it’d be like to jump off a fuckin’ roof instead of talking to someone about what’s bothering you.”
She inhales and exhales another plume of smoke, long and slow, tilting her head back to watch it unravel into the coming dusk. Her posture is loose, almost lazy—so at odds with the words she’s just spoken, even though Jack is certain she means every one. Forget the chaos of the ER twenty-two floors below; right now she’s here, the most headstrong person he knows, pushing him toward a truth they both know he can’t keep running from.
Jack rakes a hand through his curls and drags it down his face before settling his palm at the back of his neck, holding it there like it might keep him together. “I’m a fucking idiot.”
“Not that I’m disagreeing,” Dana says dryly, “but what about, specifically?”
He shakes his head, mind reeling. “Nothing. Everything. I don’t really know.”
Dana hums. “Well, that narrows it down. Lucky for you, idiocy’s not terminal. Most of the time.” She lowers the cigarette, finally turning to him to give him her full attention. “C’mon, Abbot. You’ve been off your game all day, and it’s not just the damn holiday or the fact you’re not even supposed to be here. Just tell me what’s goin’ on so I can tell you you’re wrong.”
Jack sighs, leaning back into the railing, head down, gripping the frame with both hands. “It’s fucking stupid.”
“Nah. Not if it’s pushin’ you up here, it isn’t. So what is it this time—the vet in Central Nine? The choking kid in North One?”
Jack barely gets the words out through gritted teeth. “No. It’s the fucking jackass in South Seven.”
Dana frowns. “The head lac guy?”
“No. Before that.”
She only has to think for a second. “The soccer guy with the foot injury?”
Damn her and her encyclopedic memory of every patient who’s ever crossed her ED.
“What about hi-” She cuts herself off, eyes widening almost imperceptibly—but he still catches it. “Oh.”
Her gaze meets his, reading everything she needs to know in a heartbeat. She nods once. Twice. “Got it.”
Surprisingly, the corner of her mouth twitches into a small smile.
“What?” He hates the irritation curling beneath his words, but he can’t help asking anyway.
“Nothin’, honey.” She exhales softly, still half-smiling. “I’m just… honestly a little surprised you finally made it here, is all.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he says, far more petulantly than he would have liked.
Dana sighs, and for a second he’s sure she’s going to make another sarcastic remark. But she doesn’t. All traces of humor fade as the older woman studies him intently. The glow of the setting sun softens at the edges, just as her eyes do the same.
“Jack,” she says quietly, “you should know I don’t exactly encourage this kind of thing to happen—especially with the power imbalance at play. Lord knows Robby and Collins handled it like a bull and heifer in heat in the middle of a china shop.”
She pauses to roll her eyes, but then continues, voice lower, steadier. “But if I’m being completely honest with you—as Dana, your friend, not Dana who runs all that shit down there—above everything, I just want you to be happy. God knows you deserve it. I’m just… surprised, is all.” A faint smile tugs at her lips again. “And honestly? Kinda thrilled you’ve finally come all this way.”
His reply comes out half-earnest, half-deflecting. “How did you…?”
“You think I can run this whole damn ER without knowin’ everything that’s goin’ on around here?” Dana chuckles. “I clocked it years ago, Abbot—the first time you shook her hand and damn near jumped outta your skin.” She softens, just slightly. “Guess I just figured you’d never actually let yourself acknowledge it.”
He just looks at her, the glabellar lines between his brows deepening as his skin heats despite the chill. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised—and he isn’t, not really. It’s Dana, after all. Still, part of him had hoped he’d hidden it better—that all those years of careful distance, measured words, and buried glances had done their job. But hearing Dana call it out so plainly now makes denial feel almost childish.
“It’s just a stupid crush, Dana. Just haven’t figured out how to shake it yet.”
“Stupid crush, huh?” Dana barks out a laugh. “How long you been feedin’ yourself that lie?”
Jack groans, stretching forward until his arms are locked straight and his head drops below the handrails he’s still gripping.
“C’mon, Abbot, be real for a second” Dana continues. “You and I both know you don’t do anything halfway. So what’s the deal—you ever gonna go for it, or what?”
It’s Jack’s turn to laugh, low and humorless. “Dana, that tool Brian asked for her number. She didn’t give it to him, but she basically told him she’d go out with him if he met her after work. I think she’s made it pretty clear she’s not interested in me. Besides”—he shrugs—“Lord knows she can do a hell of a lot better than some old guy with a dead wife and a hunk of carbon fiber for a leg.”
“Nope, we’re not going there,” Dana cuts in, suddenly fierce. “Don’t fuckin’ say that, you hear me? You’re one of the finest men I know, Jack Abbot. You pour everything you’ve got into everyone else and never ask for a damn thing in return. You’ve loved and you’ve lost, gone through hell and back in more ways than one, and somehow still came out the other side. Any woman in this world—including Samira Mohan—would be damn lucky to be seen the way you see her.”
She holds his gaze, unwavering, and he can’t bring himself to look away. A lump rises in his throat, and all he manages is a quiet, “Thanks, Dana.”
“I fuckin’ mean it,” she says, gentler now but no less firm. “And if you can’t see that, then clearly we need to find you a new therapist.”
“I know you do, I just…” He trails off, raking a hand through his hair again. “I just never wanted this, you know?”
Dana’s expression softens, a faint, weary smile tugging at her lips as she reaches out to rest a hand on his shoulder. “I know, honey.”
“Dr. Mohan-”
“You can call her Samira, you know. Between you and me.”
He turns the name over in his mind, tasting the shape of it without letting it leave his lips. He’s said it before—in the quiet of his home, half-awake, half-dreaming—but never aloud. It feels sacred somehow, like if he mishandled it even once, it would float away and disappear forever.
“After Julia, I thought that was it. Didn’t think I’d meet anyone else. Didn’t want to. And then I met S—Dr. Mohan, and… I don’t know.” He struggles to get the words out. “It’s like my heart remembered how to beat again, you know?”
At the way Dana puts a hand to her chest, he knows he’s said too much. Embarrassed, he turns away, looking back out over the city. The sky is shifting from bright orange to a hazy burnt sienna, ribbons of pink threading through. His eye itches, and when he rubs it, he’s surprised to find his fingers come away damp from the corner.
Fucking hell. Stupid, lovesick sap of a man.
If Dana notices, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she turns back toward the skyline, resting her hands on the rails beside his, the last dregs of her cigarette pinched between two fingers. Back to where they’re both comfortable. Her next words come out low, rough-edged, nearly a whisper.
“You know I didn’t get the chance to know her all that well, but I feel pretty damn confident Julia would be happy for you. She’d want you to move on, live your life, fall in love again.”
She keeps going, even as Jack closes his eyes.
“And I sure as hell know she wouldn’t want you up here torturing yourself over it—especially over some hypothetical date with another guy Samira hasn’t even gone on yet.”
Jack huffs out a weak laugh, more breath than sound. “You make it sound so simple.”
Dana shakes her head. “It’s not. I know it’s not, honey. But it doesn’t have to be as complicated as you’re making it, either.”
Jack inhales, slow and steady, then lets it out. “Maybe you’re right. I just…” He gestures vaguely, hands lifting before falling again. “Where do I even go from here?”
“Hell if I know,” Dana chuckles. She catches one last drag of her cigarette, then drops it to the ground and stamps out the embers. “But maybe start by puttin’ yourself in the game instead of keepin’ yourself out of it.”
Jack shakes his head; all the reasons this is a terrible idea rush back, but he settles on the one that haunts him most. “I could never risk hurting her career.”
“She’s an R4, Jack—not like you’d have to wait that much longer.”
“She’s not even into me” he shoots back.
Dana scoffs. “She might be a little oblivious now. But you know she respects the hell out of you. You two are such a good team when you’re workin’ on a patient together—it’s like you’ve been doin’ it side by side for decades. Anybody can see it. Why can’t it turn into more? All you’ve gotta do is inch her in the right direction.”
He nearly growls. “There’s just no fucking way, Dana. She won’t. She can’t.” He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say.
“Jack Abbot, you fuckin’ wuss. If you don’t see how much of a catch you are, I swear on your dead wife’s grave I’ll beat it into you.”
“Jesus, Dana.” Surprised laughter bursts out of him, and she joins in a beat later. It’s small, fleeting, but it’s the first crack in the tension that’s been gripping him all day—and for the first time in hours, he feels like he can breathe again.
“Sorry” she says after a moment. She glances back at him, raw and earnest. “Just give it some thought, Jack. Okay?”
He exhales slowly, then nods, reaching for her hand and squeezing. “Yeah. Okay.”
He promises Dana he’s close behind and watches her disappear back through the stairwell door, the echo of her steps fading beneath the low hum of the city. The wind kicks up again, biting through his shirt, but this time, he doesn’t mind it. For the first time all day, he lets himself just stand there—breathing, steady, alive.