Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

August, 1995

He was late.

Beth glanced at the alarm clock on her nightstand, watching the red numbers blink back at her. Not that big of a surprise. He usually was. He’d whisper "ten” against her lips with a crooked smile before he kissed her on the porch, after saying goodnight to her parents. He’d block one last tackle from Christopher and toss her little brother onto the couch before he’d hug her mom and thank her for dinner, then make his way to find Dad in the den if he wasn’t on duty. By the time he reached the mailbox around 10:30, he'd ease to a stop, careful not to hit the brakes too hard so they wouldn’t squeak. 

It wasn’t his fault he was late. It never was. And besides, he was always worth the wait.

A soft breeze drifted through the open window, stirring the blinds and bringing with it the familiar scent of woodsmoke from the neighbor’s pit. August had begun to collapse into fall over the last few weeks. The nights grew colder as the warmth of the day slipped away with the setting sun earlier and earlier each evening. She tucked her feet beneath the quilt, trying to chase away the chill that crept up her legs, prickling her skin and tightening her throat. She knew it was inevitable. She just wished it hadn’t come so soon.

Leaning against the bedroom wall, she watched the drive. Her fingers picked absently at a loose thread in the hem of the old sweatshirt she’d dug out from the back of her closet earlier that evening. The red printing was cracked and faded from years of washing machine abuse. The cougar beneath the name of the high school they’d walked out of for the last time in June looked far sadder than it had when she’d first gotten it as a freshman. But it was one of the few things not already packed for Penn in one of the taped up boxes that filled her room. 

She pushed herself to her knees and peeked through the blinds with a sinking feeling in her stomach. It was Wednesday; pay day. His dad would be on his way home from Lou’s by now, if he hadn’t already been dragged off that smoke-stained barstool and thrown out. It was always a toss-up whether he’d make it out the door before his dad came stumbling in.

The top step of the stairs creaked, followed by the click of the light switch, and light spilled through the crack under her bedroom door.  She quickly threw herself back onto the bed, pulling the quilt up over her shoulders and turning to face the wall, hoping to look at convincingly asleep as possible. Yes, Dad. Of course I’m asleep. I did go to bed two hours ago, after all. Why wouldn’t I be? Her heart thudded as she forced her breathing to slow, trying to pretend she was already asleep before the knob turned. 

The door hinges squeaked, followed by the heavy groan of the floorboards under her dad’s weight. He stepped into the room, already in his uniform, his radio buzzing softly on his belt and dented thermos of coffee in hand. He was quiet as he crossed the room, only muttering under his breath about her room being a damn mess. He carefully navigated the wreckage of what remained of her bookshelves, now spread across her floor and organized into piles of ‘donate’ and ‘school’. She pressed her face into the pillow, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing when he tripped over a stray sneaker, stumbled, and cursed under his breath before toeing it out of the way.

His movements were methodical, almost automatic, as he leaned over the bed to kiss her cheek, just like he always did before heading out on duty. She kept her breath even, willing herself to stay still while he crossed back to her door. Just had to sell it for a few more moments, and as far as she was concerned, it seemed like he was buying it.

The door didn’t shut. Instead, he lingered a moment longer, hand gripping the knob loosely while he looked around at the boxes that littered her floor before he let out a long, quiet sigh and gently closed it behind him. As the first of September crept closer, he’d started doing it more. She wasn’t sure why each time it made her chest feel even tighter, and she hugged him a little longer in the morning.

The hall light clicked off, followed by the heavy sound of Dad’s steps descending the stairs. The back door creaked shut, and his patrol truck roared to life, the engine rattling as it bumped down the drive. She didn’t move until the glow of his taillights disappeared around the curve, hoping the beat-up Chevy coming the other way wouldn’t cross his path. But the night remained still, the hum of his truck fading into the distant chorus of crickets and frogs along the treeline, the drive empty once more. 

She picked at the loose thread again with a soft sigh and let her hand fall to the bed. The silence in the house felt thick as she lay there listening, hoping the quiet that settled through her home didn’t mean noise within his own. She let her head fall lazily to the side, red numbers flashing back at her like a heartbeat.

Then, it was there, echoing across the yard like a song she’d played too many times until it was embedded in her memory. The familiar hum of his truck cresting the hill. The soft crunch of gravel beneath his tires as he rolled slow and careful past the front of her house with the lights off to keep from waking her parents. He never honked. Never lingered too long. Just slowed to a careful stop by the mailbox and flicked the headlights once. Twice. A quiet, secret little Morse code just for her, the flashes painting the walls of her bedroom in quick succession like a message only she could read.

She was up before the second flash, a smile stretching across her face as she grabbed her shoes and climbed back over her bed. With practiced hands, she pushed the window open the rest of the way, wincing only slightly at the soft squeak of the frame. She froze, listening for the sound of Mom’s slippered footsteps against the hardwood. None came. She forced the window up the rest of the way and slipped out effortlessly, socked feet catching on the shingles as she shimmied down the carport roof, just like they’d done a hundred times before. 

Though really, it was probably closer to 200 by now. Sometimes, she’d slip out twice in one night if he decided he missed her before he made it to the end of her road. 

It was almost muscle memory now: the quiet landing in the mulch of Mom’s flower beds, the sprint down the gravel with untied laces after shoving her feet into her red Keds. Her heartbeat always quickened just a little when she saw him. Jack Abbot, leaning against the side of his truck with arms crossed, that little smirk on his face like he had all the time in the world.

God, she loved him.

“You’re late,” she whispered, breathless as she approached.

He raised an eyebrow, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Living room light was still on when I came by. Had to do a few laps before I was sure your dad left.” 

His smirk widened as she reached him and wrapped her arms around his neck without hesitation. Jack’s arms caught her around the waist, pulling her in just as she kissed him like she hadn’t seen him in three months instead of just three hours. When they broke apart, she slipped beneath his arm and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Where are we going?”

He shrugged and opened the driver’s door, watching as she slid across the vinyl to the passenger seat.

“Same place we always do,” he replied with a hint of a smile.

She smiled, already knowing where they were headed as he climbed into the truck and turned the key. The engine sputtered once, then died. He cursed under his breath before he tried again. This time, the truck rumbled to life, and he exhaled with a small, relieved laugh. Shifting into drive, he pulled away from the house and glanced over at her, smiling.

“You’re gonna have to start it up for me once in a while when I’m gone,” he said, concern edging his otherwise easy tone. He’d said it a dozen times since deciding to go. “Don’t want this thing taking a shit on me when I get back.” 

His hand found her leg, as it always did when they drove, resting comfortably on her thigh. His thumb brushed the frayed hem of her cutoffs, eyes fixed on the gravel road that led away from her house. She played with the hem of his jacket, brushing her thumb against the soft, worn denim and leaning in to rest her head on his shoulder. 

“Already said I will,” she replied, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

He turned just enough to catch her lips with his, the kiss lingering longer than she expected, sweet and familiar. The faint taste of mint from the gum he always chewed mingled with the smell of motor oil and gasoline that clung to his clothes after working at the shop all day. A comforting smell that was so unmistakably him. 

The truck slowed to stop at the sign at the end of her road with a creaking of brakes. Her hand found his jaw, cupping his face, a soft, surprised giggle puffing out against his lips. Fingers found her hair, snaking through strands of copper before he broke the kiss, his breath mingling with her own in the cool night air. 

He pulled away just enough to look at her, hazel eyes soft in the way that always made her skin feel too tight. Rough knuckles ghosted the line of her jaw before he brushed a thumb over her lips with a smirk; the same one that always took her breath away. The same as it had the first time she saw it from the locker beside her own and the slamming of the door marked the beginning of Jack Abbot. With a wink, he shifted the truck into gear, the engine purring to life again as he turned onto the main road.

Beth had lived in this sleepy place her whole life: a blink-and-you’d-miss-it town with a Main Street lined with the same weathered storefronts and three traffic lights that only blinked red after eight o’clock. She’d always sworn that she would get out of this do-nothing place. Unlike most of her graduating class, they’d leave, and they wouldn’t look back. They’d make their own way in some city that made her feel small and once she was done with med school, she’d wear a few new letters behind her last name. His last name. 

But now, with only a few days left, the silence that once made her restless settled into her like it was trying to etch itself into her skin, burrowing like it was trying to make a home there. As if even the blink of the traffic light begged her not to go. But sitting there with her head on his shoulder, a Radiohead song crackling through the only radio station still playing at this hour, running away started to feel less like escape.

“You ever think we’ll come back here?” she said softly, watching ambulance lights flash in the bay of the emergency clinic. Mom would clock in for her shift there in the morning. She swore that Beth would return there after her residency. “You’ll be another one of those doctors bossing me around,” Mom would joke with a wink. “Except none of those doctors ever had their charge nurse change their diapers, so we’ll see who’s really listening to who, missy.”

Jack shrugged, hands adjusting on the steering wheel. There was something in the heartbeat before he said, “Maybe.” 

She could live with maybe. Sometimes she thought maybe, too.

Cool air whipped through the passenger window, fluttering the photo he kept tucked in the dash. It was one she never liked much; blurry, taken with Mom’s Nikon the summer they went camping, catching her in a laugh she couldn’t remember. She hated it, but Jack swore up and down that it was his favorite.

The gust tangled her hair, and she let it fall across her face, half-watching as their town flickered past. The auto shop where he’d worked that afternoon passed in a blur; garage lights dark, gate drawn after he locked up. He’d started there his freshman year, sweeping floors for a few hours after school. It was easier than going home after his mom died, and his dad started drinking more than he already had.

The owner, Mr. Munson, noticed him lingering longer each day, claiming his dad was just running late. So he handed Jack a wrench and started showing him the ropes while they waited for a ride that never came.

Eventually, those few hours after school stretched into summer shifts and grease under his fingernails that she’d scrape out when he came over for dinner. Mom always let him sleep when he dozed off on the couch. Neither of her parents cared much about curfew on those nights. Mr. Munson even gave her a job last summer answering the phone, joking about the lovebirds in bay two when he found her perched on a stack of tires, quizzing him from her SAT study guide while he worked beneath the cars. Guess he figured, why not put her to work if she was going to be there anyway?

They drove past the high school, the faded bleachers of the football stadium just visible in the distance. The same ones where she’d cheered for the last time that final fall before she turned in her uniform. The middle school parking lot rolled by, where Jack had first taught her to drive stick, or at least attempted to. They’d spent hours with his hands on hers as he guided her through each clumsy shift of the gears and tried to hide his laughter each time she cursed when the engine jerked. 

It all slipped by like a film reel running too fast, frames flickering by too fast under the glow of the streetlights. Familiar places slipped by in silence, each tugging at her like a thread. The shadows each flash of light threw across his face made his expression seem deeper, more serious as his eyes stayed focused on the road like they hadn’t driven it a million times before. As if the quiet night was pulling something out of him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Without thinking, her fingers brushed along his jaw. She traced the curve of it like she was trying to memorize the shape of him in the glow of the dashboard lights.

"You’re quiet tonight," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jack smirked, eyes never leaving the road. "I’m always quiet," he replied, his voice low and steady. "Thought that’s why you like me, Sparky. All part of my dazzling personality."

She smiled, but didn’t laugh. Her fingers kept tracing the side of his face.

“It’s a different kind of quiet,” she murmured.

Jack didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand reached across the center console, finding hers. He kissed the back of her hand softly, his lips lingering there for a heartbeat longer than usual, before his fingers curled around hers, pulling them closer. He didn’t say more. Didn’t offer some sarcastic, dry quip to make her laugh like he usually would. Just kept his eyes ahead and twisted his fingers through her own. Just quiet, but not their quiet. 

She wasn’t sure how to explain it. It wasn’t the usual calm, the kind that was simply Jack’s way of being. It was something heavier tonight, something quieter that hung over the cab of the truck like a weight. She squeezed his hand in return, pushing down the knot in her gut that had lived there since he walked out the recruiter’s office to her car and told her that he was leaving. 

Not consuming. Not wrong. Just… there.

The truck rumbled to a stop at the intersection. The red light cast a warm glow over the cab, painting everything in a soft haze. Her hand lifted to his hair to twist a dark curl around her finger, giving it a gentle tug as she murmured, “Abby.” 

The nickname finally pulled his eyes from the road to her own. 

“You’re being weird.”

“M’not,” he argued weakly, pushing wind-knotted hair out of her face and tucking it behind her ear.

“You are. You’re looking at me weird.”

“I’m not looking at you weird,” he protested with a soft chuckle, brushing his thumb along her freckled cheek. 

“Yes, you are,” she laughed. “You’re looking at me like you’ve forgotten what I look like.”

“Nah,” he breathed. “Just… missing you.”

“Can’t miss me if I’m right here, dummy,” she smiled, leaning into him, his hand warm on her face. 

The traffic light flashed at again, the amber light settling into his features. He looked older. Sadder. For a moment, she could picture him twenty years from now, with wrinkles around his eyes and gray at his temples. But he wouldn’t be sad, she told herself. Not like he was now. Not when those twenty years would be spent together, at least. 

“Yeah,” he smirked, “You are.”

She smiled softly, hazel eyes meeting blue, a mischievous spark flickering in his gaze. 

“C’mere,” he murmured. 

She barely needed the invitation before his hand found its place on her waist and pulled her closer, eyes half-lidded as he looked down at her, her own bracing themselves on his shoulders. She could feel the heat of his breath against her lips, the shiver that tingled down her spine having little to do with the night air blowing through the windows as his breath ghosted across her skin. She lifted her face and brought her lips to his own, his hand strong on her jaw while he kissed her soft and slow and the world fell away around them. 

No dates circled on the calendar, no quiet that made the air feel too thin. Just him. It was always just him.

Before he kissed her again, his breath hitched, caught in his throat before it died there like it was his last and he stiffened. She pulled back slightly to find his eyes wide and focused behind her through the open passenger window. 

She didn’t get the chance to ask before Jack’s hand slammed against the back of her neck, pushing her head down into his lap. Her cheek hit his jeans with a soft gasp.

“Ow, Jack!” she hissed, her voice muffled against his thigh. “Jesus, you could have just asked! Warn a girl next time!”

“Shh!” he hissed back, desperately shoving her further down. “Stay down, just— stay down.”

“What are you–?” she started to protest, but his hand quickly lifted from her neck to cup over her mouth. She huffed an annoyed breath through her nose and tried to wiggle free, but the pressure of his palm only tightened.

But then she heard it: the rumble of an engine pulling up next to them. He looked up, eyes darting to the side of the truck. Her pulse quickened as the sound of a familiar vehicle grew closer, stomach dropping so far into her ass she could have shit it out.

Shit.

The engine of a truck growled to a stop beside them. Her heart stopped. She didn’t need to look up to know who sat in it. She’d know the sound of it anywhere. She’d listened to it pull in and out of the driveway for eighteen years. 

Shit.

“Quiet,” Jack whispered. “It’s your dad.”

“No shit it’s my—”

“Shut up, Beth!”

She clamped her hand over his just as the whir of her dad’s window rolling down cut through the night. Radio chatter spilled out into the dark.

She could picture him perfectly: arm resting on the window, mouth set in a hard line beneath his mustache, his hat on the seat beside him atop the leftovers Mom had packed before she went to bed, and the steely blue eyes she’d inherited locked onto Jack through the open window.

“Evenin’, Sheriff Baker,” Jack greeted, voice tight with fake friendliness.

He cleared his throat. His hand shook slightly over her lips. The tremor made her roll her eyes, a soft huff of laughter puffing from her nose and making him tighten his grip in warning. He was always nervous around Dad, despite the fact he’d seen the county sheriff fall asleep in his chair more times than she could count over the last four years and heard him mispronounce words like jalapeño in ways that felt entirely intentional.

“Thought you went home, son,” her father’s voice rumbled from the driver’s seat.

Shit. 

C’mon, Jack…be cool. Act natural.

“Um… I did, sir,” Jack replied quickly, his voice barely cracking as he cleared his throat. “Heard a rattle on my drive home. Just out for a quick drive to make sure I fixed it.”

Beth rolled her eyes, groaning against his palm. You’re an idiot, Jack Abbot. Dad was on the porch when he pulled away and his truck sounded fine. 

She pinched his leg hard, shooting a glare up at him didn’t return. Really? That’s the best you could do?  

As if on cue, Jack pressed against her mouth again. Before she could think too much about it, she grinned wickedly against his hand and licked a long, slow stripe across his palm. Jack jolted like he’d been shocked, but somehow managed to keep his face steady. He cleared his throat again and wiped his hand on his jeans before he flicked her cheek and clamped his hand over her mouth again.

“That so?” Dad’s voice remained measured, and she could imagine the way his brow quirked at Jack’s explanation. He wasn’t buying it. She knew he wasn’t buying it. Not for a second. “I didn’t hear anything when you left the house.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Started right before I got home, sir,” Jack answered, a little too quickly.

Recover, Jack. Pull it together. You’ve listened to this man baby-talk to the dog. You can do this.

“Uh-huh,” her father hummed. He was quiet for a beat, knuckles tapping against the truck door above the Montgomery County Sheriff insignia. “Leanne talk to you about Saturday evening?”

“Yes, sir. She talked to me before I left,” Jack replied, his voice steadier now. Beth drummed her fingers against his forearm, leg bouncing anxiously. 

Drive away, Dad. Get a call. Buy the story. Something. Shoo. Leave. Go away.

Dad grunted in response. Beth didn’t dare breathe. 

Drive away, Daddy. Drive away.

Then, casually, as if her father hadn't just nearly given her a heart attack:

“Elizabeth.”

They both stiffened so painfully tight that Jack jumped again when her nails bit into his leg.

“Come on up.”

Shit.

I’m dead, she decided. Totally dead. 

Deader than dead. Not in some tragic accident, not in some heroic blaze of glory. No. She died of humiliation after being caught by her dad with her head in her boyfriend’s lap. She could already picture the obituary: “Elizabeth Diane Baker, beloved daughter, perished of mortification after an ill-timed patrol stop. Survived by no dignity whatsoever.”

Tragic, really.

She sat up slowly, pushing her hair out of her face, her back straight against the seat. Dad’s face was flat. Unreadable. Radio chatter crackled in the silence between the windows. A deputy answered the call. All the while, Dad stared at her without a word. She kept her eyes down, not meeting his gaze or Jack’s.

Yep. She was grounded. Without a doubt. She’d walk across the stage in four years to take her diploma and still be grounded.

Heat crawled up her neck so white-hot that she was sure her face was the same color as her hair. She swallowed hard and offered him a tight smile.

“Hi Daddy,” she breathed.

Dad stared back for a long, painful moment. The street light flashed like a taunt. His fingers tapped against the door rhythmically. 

Finally, he turned his eyes forward and eased off the break.

“Home by midnight.”

"Okay, Daddy,” she managed.

Dad gave a short nod and pulled away without another word. He must’ve figured their humiliation was punishment enough. Or maybe he just didn’t feel like explaining to Mom where he found her. 

Fuck. He was so going to tell Mom. 

Well, if this was her last night alive, at least he was giving her time to get her affairs in order. First step: burn her diary. Then, destroy the crushed joints, condoms, and the world’s jankiest lighter jammed inside the Altoids tin in her sock drawer.

The glow of his taillights faded down the street. Neither of them spoke. Beth’s pulse roared in her ears. Jack waited until her father disappeared around the corner, then finally exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath for an hour.

“Jesus,” Beth said, swatting him lightly. “You are the worst at this.”

“I panicked, alright?” His head dropped back against the seat with another deep breath before he shot her a glare. “I cannot believe you licked me,” he said.

She finally allowed herself to laugh, heat climbing up her cheeks. “That’s the part you can’t believe? You’re lucky that’s all I did,” she said, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow. “A rattle? Really? He was outside when you left!”

He winced, huffing out a chuckle and rubbing his face. “Next time, you come up with the excuse, smartass.”

Beth smirked and leaned into him. “Next time, don’t shove me into your crotch like an animal, genius .”

Jack barked out a laugh, rubbing his eyes before shifting toward her, his arm looping around her shoulder as he kissed her temple. “Yeah, well,” he said with a shrug, “worked, didn’t it?”

“No!” she laughed. “It didn’t! We still got caught, idiot!”

“You’re still here. I’d say it worked,” he said, checking the clock on the radio, lips tugging into a smirk as he pulled through the intersection. “And with an hour and a half to spare.”

She rolled her eyes, kicking her feet up onto the dash and sliding them out of reach when he tried to push them down. “Better drive fast then, Abby.”

His eyes returned to the road, her head resting on his shoulder. “Can’t,” he said. “Your dad is on duty.”

She rolled her eyes again, her heart finally slowing its jump in her chest as the streetlights on Main Street faded in the rearview mirror. The quiet returned: soft static over an old Springsteen song on the radio, the gentle roar of night air churning through the cab. Jack grinned, glancing down at her once before looking back at the road.

“Okay, Daddy,” he mocked, mimicking her voice.

“Shut up, Abby.”

The old paper mill stood like a hulking shadow at the edge of town, a remnant of a time when the machines hummed with life before it shut its doors in ‘72. Her grandpa had worked there before then, when the remnants of the machines that sat in the shadows like ghosts still pumped out paper across the state. Everyone’s grandpa had then.

Now, it was just a collection of rusted metal beams and crumbling brick walls that had been condemned by the county years ago, once vibrant red paint faded and splotched where graffiti had been painted over, the shattered windows boarded up only to be torn down and boarded up again when the next class of seniors discovered the hole in the chain link fence.

He brought her here for the first time sophomore year after he got his license in September. She had been nervous to climb the rickety fire stairs up to the room; heights were never really her thing. When the wind whistled through the building like a breath and made her jump, he’d placed a hand on her back to steady her, keeping it there as he followed close behind. He didn’t take it off until they reached the roof. Even then, it lingered long after her breathing evened.

“You can see the whole town from up here,” he told her when she asked what the hell they were doing.

He told her that he liked the quiet. It took a few more climbs before he told her that he went up there to find it when he couldn’t in his own house. 

Her hands had shaken that first night, eyes fixed on the cracked asphalt far below until he took her hands in his own and whispered for her to look straight ahead. So she did, watching the pinpricks of light flicker through the trees, her head resting on his shoulder.

He didn’t let go, and she didn’t ask him to when his fingers curled into hers for the first time.

He kissed her for the first time on that roof before the month was over. The first time they did a lot of things was on that roof.

He had been right. It did have the best view of town.

But her favorite view was always the stars.

The night sky stretched wide above them, scattered with distant light that always seemed to burn brighter out here. She’d trace the constellations with her fingers while they lay on their backs, whispering their names to Jack like she hadn’t already told him a dozen times.

Heat radiated off him as she nestled beside him, cheek tucked against his shoulder. Their legs tangled beneath the old blanket he kept under the seat, his arm slung around her as his thumb drew soft, absent circles on her shoulder. She traced idle patterns across his chest, listening to the steady rise and fall of his breath as he watched the sky.

They’d lain here like this so many times before, whispering beneath their stars as if these nights would never end. She’d believed they wouldn’t.

But now she lay under the same moon that once watched them trade promises, caught in the space between goodbye and not yet, begging for just a little more time with the boy she meant to keep those promises with.

“Mom wants to know what you want for dinner Saturday,” she murmured, resting her head on his chest. “She’ll make whatever you want for your last night. Just needs to know before Thursday’s grocery run.”

He didn’t look at her. Just kept his eyes on the stars, arm tightening around her to pull her closer.

“She doesn’t have to do that,” he said.

“She wants to,” she replied. “And you know Mom doesn’t take no for an answer.”

He was quiet for a moment, then muttered, “Whatever she makes is fine with me.”

She threaded her fingers through his hair, gently twisting a strand as her head rose and fell with the rhythm of his breathing.

“I’m not ready for you to go, Abby,” she whispered, voice catching as she tucked her face into his shoulder.

“I know,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along her jaw. “I’m not either.”

She closed her eyes, breathing him in, trying to memorize the weight of his arms, the warmth of his body, like she could store enough of it to last the next months.

“You promise you’ll write? Every day?”

“For the fifth time,” he said with a faint smile, “I promise.”

“I already wrote the first five,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “So you’ll have one for every day once you get to Fort Benning. I’m mailing them tomorrow. They’re numbered, so don’t open them all at once. Open them in order because I’ll know if you don’t.”

Jack let out a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling beneath her cheek. “Of course you did.”

“Every day, Jack,” she said again, firmer now.

He caught her hand in his, bringing her knuckles to his lips. 

“Every day, Beth,” he murmured against her skin.

She toyed with the collar of his jacket, tugging him down into a kiss. Her lips brushed his as she whispered, “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you at school.”

“I know,” he said, voice tight, a short laugh catching in his throat. He tried to smile, but it faltered. Nudging her gently, he added, “You’ll find some Ivy League pretty boy before orientation’s over and forget my name by Christmas.”

Her face fell, just slightly, before she shoved his chest and sat up, glaring down at him.

“Don’t say that,” she muttered, brow furrowed. “I’ve told you I hate those jokes.”

“I know. I’m kidding, baby,” he said softly, pushing up onto his elbow with a sheepish smirk.

“It’s not funny, Jack.”

“You’re right,” he said, quieter now. He reached out, smoothing her brow with his thumb before he took her hand and gently tugged her back down beside him. “Come here.”

She let him guide her back down, still pouting as his arms wrapped around her. Her head tucked beneath his chin, and she clung to him, the stars forgotten beneath the steady thunder of his heartbeat and the slow drag of his fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes, listening, to the rhythm of him, to the cicadas humming in the trees.

“It’s just for a little while,” she said finally, the words tumbling out fast, like she had to say them before they fell apart in her mouth.

“Once you come home and we know where you’re stationed, I’ll start looking at schools nearby. My credits will transfer. Everything I’m taking is just general ed anyway.”

He didn’t answer right away. She felt the change. The way his hand paused in her hair before continuing its slow, thoughtful rhythm.

“Is that really what you want?” he asked after a long silence.

“Of course it is,” she said, offering a soft smile up at him. “That’s the plan, remember?”

“I know it’s the plan,” he said gently, rolling onto his side to look at her fully. “But Penn… that was your dream, babe. Med school was your dream. You’ve been talking about it since the day I met you. I saw your face on that campus tour; you were glowing, Sparky. You really wanna give that up for some Army grunt who’s going to get sent God-knows-where every two years? You should be off saving lives in Philly or Pittsburgh-.”

“Or Seattle,” she interrupted. “Or San Antonio. Or San Diego. I am holding out for Hawaii, though.”

He pressed his lips into a tight line, sighing quietly through his nose. They’d had this conversation a hundred times—Fort Benning. Penn State. A trip to the courthouse when he got back so her name would be on his PCS paperwork, a new last name scribbled into the transfer forms she’d send off for spring semester. A tiny, beat-up house on base they’d turn into their own little corner of the world, where they’d fall asleep tangled up together instead of racing home before curfew. Maybe they’d get that German Shepherd he was always talking about.

Nothing big. Nothing fancy. Just theirs. That was all she ever wanted. Him and the promises they’d made on this rooftop. The rest was just scenery.

“It’s just a school,” she said softly, her voice soft and firm. “I can get my med degree anywhere. But I can’t get another you. I’m not giving anything up, Jack. Not when it’s you.”

She brushed her thumb along his lips.

“You’ll go to Fort Benning. I’ll go to school. And then we’ll figure it out. Wherever we go, we go together. Okay?”

He smiled, but it wasn’t the right kind. It was the same one he wore when she sped over to the shop after she opened the letter, waving her acceptance letter over her head like a victory flag, shouting that she got in before she was even fully out of her car. It didn’t crinkle his eyes like it did when she caught it from across her parents kitchen table while he explained their calculus homework to her for a third time, or light up his whole face after she kissed him under the porch light before he leaned in for just one more. No, this was tighter. Too little. Wrong.

“Okay, Sparky.”

He said it quiet, teasing like always, but even that felt thinner than usual. But it wouldn’t when he came back, she told herself. It was just the leaving, for both of them. The same reason that her lips had started to tremble before she kissed him goodnight lately as the red circle on her calendar drew nearer; Jack Leaves.  

But they’d come back. Both of them. And when he did, his smile would be the right kind again, and she wouldn’t cling to his hand like she was afraid to let go.

She shifted closer, tucking her leg between his like she could anchor him in place. Like maybe he wouldn’t slip away if she held on tightly enough and pinned them down to this place.

“You should be going with me,” she said, her throat tight. “You keep saying that Penn’s my dream. It was our dream, Jack. You should be leaving with me.”

“Yeah? And who’s grades are getting me in?” he said lightly, but his hand tightened against her thigh.

“There’s other schools in Philly,” she said quickly, twisting her fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt. “I could help you fill out applications. You could start spring, we could get an apartment between our schools. It’s not too late—.”

“Beth.”

She looked up at him, sniffling like it would somehow suck the tears she could feel threatening to spill back up into her eyes. She hated crying. Especially in front of him. She didn’t want to be another thing he had to take care of. He wiped them away with that same strange little smile, his hand lingering against her cheek longer than it needed to.

“I’m going,” he said quietly, brushing her cheek with her thumb. “Paperwork’s signed. I’m property of Uncle Sam now.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, almost like it hurt. “It doesn’t.”

Another tear slipped free and she buried her face against his chest before he could see. His shirt smelled like soap and summer and Jack , and she hated that she was already memorizing it.

“Hey,” he murmured, tilting her chin up until she had no choice but to look at him. His thumb skimmed her jaw and the ache that throbbed in her chest started to hurt just a little more. “Don’t do that. You’re gonna be just fine without me, Sparky.”

“You promise you’re going to write?” she asked with a wobbly laugh, swiping at her eyes.

“Jesus Christ, Beth,” he laughed, but it cracked a little. 

He rolled onto his back and brought her with him, her head tucked beneath his chin. The night spread out above them, his fingers tracing along her back while he stared up silently. She could’ve sworn she he heard him breathe like he was going to say something. Just for a half second. But the words never came.

“You’re going to make one hell of a doctor,” he said. Something in her gut twisted tight; a feeling that whatever he’d meant to say wasn’t what had come out of his mouth. She wanted to ask. Almost did. But she didn’t push.

Instead, she rolled her eyes. A small smile tugged at her lips. “You sound like my mom.”

“Well, she’s right. Doctor Elizabeth Baker,” he said like he was trying it on, curling his fingers into hers. “Doesn’t sound half bad if you ask me.” 

“Oh, don’t tell her that. Her head doesn’t need to get any bigger,” she laughed, his own warm against her cheek while he lazily played with her fingers, splaying them out over his own before intertwining them and letting it drop to his chest. “Doctor Elizabeth Abbot sounds a lot better.”

His fingers tightened around her own. 

“Yeah,” he breathed it out like a sigh. “It does.”

She looked up at him, face shadowed in the pale glow of the moonlight, his eyes fixed on her like he was seeing her for the first time. He always looked at her like that—just the way he had the day he slammed his locker shut and found her on the other side, fighting with the lock that never worked. It really, really never got old.

“I’m waiting. That’s it,” she said, smiling up at him. She swiped her thumb over his lips, coaxing up the corner of his mouth until his lips curved for her. Not that tight little wrong one. The real one. The wide, eye-crinkling one that belonged to her. “So get with the program, and shut up about it, Abby.”

His chest rose with a breath she felt more than heard. His fingers curled tighter around hers, holding on like he didn’t quite trust himself to let go. 

Jack’s chest rumbled with a quiet laugh. “Yeah? Why don’t you come over here and make me?”

Beth huffed, flopping onto her back beside him with a dramatically bored sigh, limbs sprawled like a cat in the sun. “You know, I think I’m good right here, actually.”

He turned his head to look at her with brow quirked, trying and failing to hide the amusement that flickered across his. “What now?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said breezily, lifting her hand to wave it vaguely in the air between them. “Just offended that you’d even suggest that I’d move to Pittsburgh, like this isn’t an Eagles family.”

She gestured pointedly between the two of them and Jack snorted. “You’re ridiculous. You know that?”

“And you’re an idiot, Jack Abbot,” she said, grinning up at the stars.

He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow to look down at her. She snorted out a laugh and the edge of his smile softened. Something quieter. Smaller. Wrong.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching out to toy lazily with the hem of her shirt like he couldn’t quite help himself. “But I’m your idiot, Beth Baker.”

She reached up, threading her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to make him lean down.

“Don’t you ever forget it,” she whispered against his mouth before she kissed him; slow and sure and stubborn, like she was etching herself into him piece by piece. 

Jack kissed her back the same he had on that same roof for the very first time. Soft, certain, a little breathless. His lips brushed against hers in a way that made her chest ache with the sheer rightness of it. His thumb stroked along her jaw, his other hand tangling in her hair, gentle and steady. She felt him smile against her mouth, soft and fleeting.

“You better come back,” she teased, her voice catching even as she tried to make it teasing. She tried to make it playful, tried to keep it light, but the hope in her voice was too raw to hide.

Jack didn’t answer, just kissed her again, deeper this time. Slower. 

She kissed him back like a promise. Like a tether. Like if she just pressed hard enough, long enough, she could keep him here with her. Stitch herself into the seams of his heart so tight he wouldn’t be able to leave without feeling her there. He shifted, rolling her onto her back with a low groan, pressing his forehead against hers. Jack sighed against her mouth, this soft, almost broken sound. 

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, hesitating just a moment before his hand tangled tighter in her hair. He shifted, rolling over her, and his weight settled over her. When she reached for his jacket, she found he was already shrugging it off. 

There was no rush to it. No clumsy fumbling like there had been sometimes before. Everything he did now was slow, reverent, like every second mattered. Like every touch was one he needed to keep. Every heartbeat, every breath, every little piece of her. Like he wanted to hold it close for as long as he could. Beth ran her fingers through his hair, smiling into his kiss even as her eyes burned.

She loved him. She loved him so much it scared her sometimes.

But Jack would come back. He had to. Because he loved her too. And when he did, they’d have the life they promised to each other under their stars. Like they never had to say goodbye.

They missed curfew by eight minutes.

Not their best. Definitely not their worst.

Gravel crunched beneath their feet as he walked her up the drive, their hands swinging loose between them. Every summer, her dad swore he’d pave it. He never did. She suspected he liked hearing the crunch; his own low-tech alarm system in case she ever snuck out. He never confirmed it, of course.

She wiggled her foot, trying to shake the heel of her shoe back into place, the laces dragging behind. With a sigh, she bent down, hooked a finger under the canvas, and tugged. Jack stopped when her hand pulled gently at his, watching her straighten with quiet amusement.

“I think I left a sock up there,” she whispered.

He rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Hey, I’m sure that wool sock made a perfectly cozy bird nest last winter. Even if my toes nearly froze off.”

He huffed a laugh and crouched in front of her, patting his thigh. She lifted her foot, resting it there while he tugged her laces tight. “One of these days, you’re gonna trip over these and eat shit, Beth.”

“I am so not,” she scoffed.

“You so will,” he shot back, motioning for the other foot. “And I’m gonna laugh my ass off when it happens.”

“That’s because you’re an asshole,” she said, nudging his shoulder with her knee.

His hands paused just for a beat before he finished the loop and pulled the laces snug. He pressed a kiss to her knee before rising, offering his hand. She took it, and his fingers closed around hers just a little tighter than before.

For a second, just a second, she caught a flicker of something in his eyes. Sadness maybe. Or something heavier. Maybe the same thing that made a home in her chest months ago and took out an extended lease. But then he squeezed her fingers and smiled, that easy, crooked grin.

“Come on, troublemaker,” he said, tugging her gently toward the house like he hadn’t just looked at her like she was the last good thing in the whole damn world. “Let’s get you inside.”

They climbed the porch in slow, unhurried steps. A moth circled the porch light, its wings flashing in and out of the warm, golden glow that spilled over the weathered boards. Beth paused at the top, turning back to him with a sheepish smile.

“Oh! Your jacket,” she said, her fingers already moving to shrug it off.

Jack reached out, his hands wrapping gently around her arms to still her. His touch was warm through the worn denim.

“Why don’t you hang on to it for me?” he said, voice low and a little rough. His thumb brushed a slow, lazy arc over her sleeve. “Always looked better on you anyway.”

Beth laughed under her breath, and shrugged the jacket back up onto her shoulders. She tucked her hands into the too-long sleeves, the fabric swallowing her fingers whole. With a smile, she draped her arms around his neck, her body pressed against his under the dim light.

“I’ll see you Saturday,” she murmured. “0600.”

He lifted a brow while his hands settled onto her waist, lips stretching into a smirk. “That’s six in the morning.”

“Shoot,” she clicked her tongue, laughing softly. “I thought I was getting better at military time.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned in. She pushed up onto her toes to meet him, pausing just enough to catch his gaze.

“Don’t be late,” she whispered.

For a flutter of moth wings, Jack just looked at her, smiling that same small, wrong smile. “Sure, Sparky,” he whispered back.

She kissed him again, breathing him in like she could hold on just a little longer.

“Goodnight, Jack,” she whispered against his mouth.

“Goodbye, Beth,” he whispered back.

But she didn’t catch it. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to.

The porch steps creaked under her weight when she finally turned away, fumbling for the key tucked beneath the mat. It slipped between her fingers once before she managed to get it into the lock. She looked over her shoulder, just for a second, and caught him standing halfway to the truck with hands tucked in his pockets, staring at her.

“What?” she called softly, smiling. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jack didn’t move for a second, didn’t even blink. Then he smiled. Not the wrong one. Not her smile. Something gentler.

“Just… taking a good look at you.”

She rolled her eyes, teasing like she always did, her voice warm and light. “Like what you see, Abbot?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he walked back to her in three long strides, took her face in his hands, and kissed her like he was trying to share the same breath. When his lips finally left hers, he dropped his forehead to hers with a shaky breath.

“I love you, Beth,” he whispered.

She smiled. “I love you too, Abby.” 

Jack kept his hand in hers as long as he could, his fingers trailing after hers when she finally turned away. She gave him one last smile before she pushed the door shut between them.

Before the lock even had time to catch in the tumbler, the entryway lights flicked on, flooding the front hall in harsh, accusing brightness.

“Elizabeth Diane Baker!”

“Oh my god, Mom! I know!”

On Saturday, he was late.

Not that big of a surprise. He was always late. And it was never his fault.

Except this time when it was.

Her parents hadn’t known what to say when six o’ clock slipped into seven. Mom just covered the dishes with a tea towel to keep dinner warm and gave her a small smile when her call went straight to the answering machine for the third time.

She sat in front of the living room window while seven stretched into eight. Mom covered the dishes with cling wrap and put them in the fridge while Dad stood behind her, gripping the counter, whispering a conversation Beth didn’t want to hear. Her focus stayed on the drive through the window, fiddling with the button hole on the sleeve of his jacket, eyes fixed on the mailbox.

The sun sank lower on the horizon. Eight passed. Mom sent Christopher up to bed after a while.

Sometime after nine, she heard Mom’s footsteps behind her, light and soft against the carpet like she was approaching a bomb. Beth didn’t take her eyes off the window.

“It’s getting late, honey,” Mom said gently. “Maybe try calling him in the morning?”

“I can’t call in the morning, Mom,” she snapped. “He’s leaving in the morning.” 

Mom just pressed her lips together and made a quiet noise. She could see the reflection of her tight mom’s smile in the glass.

It felt like an apology. She didn’t need an apology. He was just late. 

Mom stood there for a beat longer before slippered feet padded down to the den and she started to whisper with Daddy again.

It was never his fault when he was late. There had to be a reason that he was. The truck must have broken down. His dad must have come home. Because it couldn’t be his fault that he wasn’t here. Not when Jack promised he would be.

By ten, she was throwing the strap of her purse over her shoulder and stuffing her feet into her Keds. Mom and Dad stood in the entryway like statues, watching her fumbled for her keys on the hook by the door with that stupid look. She cursed under her breath when her keys slipped from her fingers, clattering against the hardwood.

“I bet the truck crapped out on him and he’s trying to walk it,” she mumbled. Though, she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince. She scooped up her keys. “I’ll go find him.”

As she stood up, she caught the look that passed between her parents. So quick it was imperceptible. But there. 

“What?” She snapped.

Mom looked up at Dad when he placed a large hand on her shoulder. She let out a sigh that seemed to deflate her whole body and reached up to toy with the chain around her neck.

“Honey…”

She hated that voice. That soft, too-gentle, nurse-on-duty voice. The one Mom used at work when she was giving someone bad news.

“It’s Jack. You know he wouldn’t just not show up without calling, Mom,” she shot back, yanking the door open. “We’ll be back soon.”

The chorus of crickets and frogs felt too loud in the dark. Every creak of the porch steps beneath her feet cracked like gunfire in the stillness. Gravel crunched under her sneakers, laces dragging like jet streams behind her as the short walk to her car stretched out like a mile.

She slid into the driver’s seat and yanked the door shut, jamming the key into the ignition. The engine growled to life, the stereo blaring at a volume that would’ve earned a Dad-glare and a lecture about distracted driving. Headlights flickered on, still waking, as she was already backing down the drive.

With a huff, she reached up to snap the sun visor back into place, still down from her drive home from Becca’s that morning. Her hand froze halfway when she spotted the Polaroid tucked beneath the elastic strap. Jack grinned up at her from under the faded photo paper, his arm slung casually around her shoulders during her campus visit last May. She was tucked beneath his chin, beaming like she hadn’t known how to be anything but happy that day.

She stared at it, her chest both too tight and too empty all at the same time.

The car idled in the driveway, headlights casting pale beams over the cracked mailbox post while she just sat there, staring.

Then she dragged her hand down her face, threw the visor up hard enough it slapped against the roof, and jerked the car into drive.

By eleven, she was standing outside his house.

The porch light flickered in a nauseating rhythm, the yellowed yard swallowed in shadows, but the front window glowed with the pale light of a television behind the curtains. A dog barked in the distance.

Jack’s truck wasn’t in the driveway. The empty patch of oil-stained concrete where it usually sat stared back at her.

She shifted her weight, the paint chipped and peeling boards of the porch crying under her untied shoes. Her hands shook when she stuffed them into the sleeves of his jacket, breathing in deep through her nose like that could steady her.

She hadn’t been here more than a couple of times. Jack never liked bringing her here. He always had a reason not to when she asked; a busted water heater. His dad was sleeping off a shift or in one of his moods. Always something. She stopped asking after a while. He seemed relieved when she did. 

But, she’d tried the shop only to find it dark and the parking lot empty. Followed the roads he’d drive to her house looking for him bent over an open hood with grease on his cheek and a million apologies. She’d even climbed to the roof of the paper mill to see if he was looking for a few more moments of quiet before tomorrow came. 

But in none of those places did she find Jack.

Now, there was nothing but a flickering porch light and a hollow, gnawing feeling in her gut. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed again, then forced her hand out of the too-long sleeve and knocked on the door.

She waited, listening hard for footsteps, for a light switch, for anything. She tossed her hair over her shoulder with a huff and knocked harder.

The door swung open before her knuckles could make contact with the wood again. The stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer hit her nose as his father’s figure filled the doorframe, backlit by the hallway light. The too loud sounds of the TV spilled out behind him, cutting through the dark.

Frank Abbot shared the same stubborn jaw with his son, though the dark stubble shadowing it suggested he hadn’t shaved in days. The hazel eyes that had smiled so gently at her from across the blanket that night were now watery and bloodshot in his father’s hardened face. He was already drunk. She could smell that much. A cigarette dangled loosely between her fingers. He took a long drag and stared down at her like he was bored.

She straightened, forcing a smile. “Hi, Mr. Abbot. It’s nice to-.”

“What.” He said flatly, blowing acrid smoke into her face. 

She pinched her eyes shut against it, waiting for the smell to dissipate before she spoke again. “I was wondering if Jack is here? He was supposed to come to dinner at my house and didn’t show, so I got—.”

“Ain’t here.” His dad was already turning away from the door and shutting it behind him.

“Hey! Mr. Abbot, wait.”

She put a foot into the door before she could even think about it to keep him from closing it. The danger in Mr. Abbot’s glare didn’t register when she met it. She didn’t have time for his bullshit. Instead, she leveled it straight on with her best Sheriff Tom Baker stare; one Frank had been on the receiving end of more times than he could probably count. She didn’t care that he had a good foot and hundred pounds on her and absolutely nothing to lose. Frankly, she didn’t either.

She knew the patrol schedule. Knew exactly when the deputies rolled past this house. They’d been called here enough times to make it a regular stop; especially when her dad asked them to keep an eye on it.

Jack always told her that she was too stubborn for her own good. Maybe she should have believed him.

“What the hell you think you’re doin’, girl? Got some nerve puttin’ your foot in my damn door like that.”

She sighed, ignoring the slur in his words. “Do you know where he is, Mr. Abbot?”

She pulled her foot out when he swung the door open again with an annoyed grunt. “Left two days ago. Headed off to play solider, I guess. Good fuckin' riddance. Better they deal with his sorry ass than me.”

The words hit her like a slap to the face.

“Thursday?” she breathed, almost choking on the syllables. The porch swayed under her feet. Her hands weren’t shaking from the way Frank stared at her anymore.

“That’s two days ago, ain’t it?”

She wasn’t even looking at Frank now. Instead she stared past him, through the empty house, through the last forty-eight hours that suddenly didn’t make sense anymore. Two days ago. No. That couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be. That was the morning after their night on the roof. The way he’d held her. The way he’d kissed her goodbye.

She blinked hard. Swallowed. Her eyes darted to the empty drive. “Where’s his truck?”

Frank scoffed like the question insulted him. “I sold it.”

“What?” she said, too quickly, too loudly. “No. He told me that he wanted me to—.”

“Yeah, sounds like he was tellin’ ya a whole lotta shit, kid.” He snorted, already swinging the door closed. 

The door slammed shut before she could say anything else, the sharp crack of wood on frame ringing in her ears louder than the crickets. She stared at it, frozen. A second passed. Then another.

She didn’t remember stepping back. Didn’t remember the porch steps creaking beneath her, or the sounds of the night over the deafening roar of blood in her ears.

She didn’t remember the cracked sidewalk under her shoes, or slipping into her car. Didn’t remember what song blared too loud on the stereo during the drive home, or how long she sat motionless in the driveway sometime after midnight.

She had only a vague memory of reaching for the visor with trembling hands, her blurred, wet eyes locked on the photo tucked beneath the strap.

What she remembered clearly, viscerally, was the ache. It tore through her so severe that she felt like she stopped breathing. She couldn’t cry. Couldn’t speak. She just stared at the smile that once belonged to her before it felt so wrong.

What she remembered were the words pounding through her skull like artillery fire, leaving her ears ringing.

He was gone.

He left.

He left her.

But he promised.

The passenger door clicked open. She didn’t look over as the frame of the car groaned under Dad’s weight, the seat creaking as he lowered himself in. The bear of a man was far too tall for her little sedan. He always griped about his knees being up to his chest whenever he borrowed it to run into town after Mom forgot her lunch on the counter.

But tonight, he didn’t say a word.

He just ducked inside, turned the stereo off, and stared forward with her, hands folded quietly in his lap. They sat like that for what felt like an eternity before he reached over and gently closed the visor.

She blinked hard, willing the tears back.

No. 

He promised. Jack promised her.

She clenched her jaw, pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth like it could hold everything in place. Like it could keep the ache from spilling out. Her fingers curled tight around the sleeves of his jacket bunched in her lap. She bit the inside of her cheek until the taste of metal bloomed behind her teeth.

The quiet didn’t last forever.

Her breath hitched first. 

Just once. Then again. Sharper, tighter until her whole chest seized with it. She didn’t try to stop the tears that slipped down her cheeks. They came quiet at first, steady streams trailing over her jaw. Then they came harder; shoulders shaking, breaths breaking in jagged pieces.

“Daddy—.” she gasped, voice cracking on the word like it hurt to say.

She didn’t have to reach far. His arms were already open. She fell into them like she was tumbling off a cliff, and he caught her like he always had. Strong arms wrapped around her, one hand at the back of her head as he pulled her close to his broad chest.

The sob that followed shook her whole frame. He rocked her gently, like he used to when she’d wake from nightmares too big for little legs to outrun. Only this nightmare wasn’t a monster under the bed. This nightmare was real. And it broke her open so wide she feared she’d never close.

Her sobs came louder then. Gasping, ugly things. Raw. She couldn’t speak through them. Couldn’t breathe through the ache in her throat as she cried for things she couldn’t even name.

She cried for the boy who’d smiled like the world disappeared when he looked at her. For the boy who kissed her like they had time. For the boy who kissed her hands under headlights and whispered about forever. For the boy in the photo tucked away that she couldn’t bear to look at, smiling like he’d stay.

She cried for the promises tossed aside like empty bottles behind the mill. For the voice that whispered forever and meant it right up until the morning he didn’t.

But mostly, she cried for the girl that never left that rooftop. Who sat there still waiting on that old blanket under their stars, forgotten with her sock in the place between goodnight and goodbye.

And this time, no one came back for her.

Chapter Text

August, 2025

Three hours left.

Jack didn’t bother checking the time again. The clock hadn’t budged the last three times he’d looked, and he was starting to think it never would.

His shoulder throbbed, a dull ache from an old break that had never fully healed. Not that he’d ever given it the chance; it hadn't exactly ranked high on the list in that string of injuries. But suturing a forehead gash in bad lighting and worse ergonomics certainly hadn’t helped. He rolled it once, twice. Still there. Still his.

The chart in front of him was for a kid with a concussion who wouldn’t stop talking about his ex-girlfriend between bouts of nausea, even though his said ex-girlfriend was in the room with him, and had been very unaware that she was an ex. Jack had nodded, grunted in the right places, and ordered a scan mostly so he could hand the kid off to imaging and steal a few minutes of silence in the hallway before the next patient.

It wasn’t that he hated the job. Most days, at least. But being an ER doctor was like being in love with something that kicked the shit out of you daily and then asked you to stay the night. Some days he wanted to pack it up and run. It wasn’t an unfamiliar urge. He was good at running. He’d run before. Left things behind like they weren’t going to follow him. Turns out those things always did. Things that deserved better than a disappearing act and a silent exit.

The station was half-empty, the usual circus currently at play around them while nurses went from room to room. The overhead lights buzzed just enough to grind at his nerves. His scrubs smelled faintly of antiseptic and something that might have been chicken soup from the cafeteria. He hadn’t eaten. Didn’t remember if he had breakfast. When was the last time he ate? Might have been yesterday. Might’ve been last week, for all he knew.

Fuck the day shift. 

He wasn’t supposed to be working the day shift. That was Robby’s little island of misfit toys. No, Jack worked nights, and he rather preferred it that way.

But since the small exodus of those who had survived COVID and decided they’d finally had enough after PittFest, and Langdon being away on his extended ‘vacation’, hands were shorter than they usually were until the new doc started on Monday. 

So, Jack worked the day shift. 

Which fuckin’ blows when your entire circadian rhythm is thrown off from living like a bat, but hey. What does he know? He’s just a doctor. 

He didn’t prefer nights because they were easier. They never were. The sun would go down, and with it, apparently, went everyone in Pittsburgh’s goddamn sanity. The ER turned into a zoo the minute the sky went dark. Drunks with head wounds, panicked parents clutching feverish toddlers, psych holds screaming about voices, gunshot victims left bleeding through makeshift bandages on the curb of the ambulance bay. The triage board lit up like a Christmas tree.

Easy? Fuck no.

He’d seen people sprint out of medical school only to crumble on the night shift. Couldn’t hack the chaos. Couldn’t handle the volume of it all; the patients, the noise, the sheer sensory assault of it. People thought the night shift was slow. That was a myth told by people who’d never stepped foot in an urban ER at 2 a.m. when the meth hit and someone rolled in without pants demanding an exorcism.

The waiting room had a near-constant seven-hour wait and somehow still kept getting longer. Nurses ran on caffeine and spite. The vending machines always ate your cash. No one finished their coffee while it was still hot. Half the time the computers froze mid-charting and the other half, someone was vomiting on them.

But nights were loud. They filled the gaps. They didn’t give you peace. They gave you distraction. Blunt-force, blood-and-paperwork distraction. A wall of chaos he could throw himself into over and over again just to stay upright. They didn’t leave room for ghosts.

That was what mattered when morning would come. He’d return to an apartment he didn’t remember renting, an old dog who huffed when he walked through the door like he had been the one to work a twelve hour shift, and the fridge of a 48-year-old widowed bachelor. The silence there wasn’t peaceful. It was suffocating. A long stretch of you made it home, now what? that he never quite had an answer for. 

He’d walk the dog. He’d turn the scanner on and let the garble fill every room. He’d tell himself that he fell asleep on the couch again because of the exhaustion. Not because in the living room, he could hear the noise of the city outside his windows like a lullaby. Not because he couldn’t find rest in a bed that still felt too big. Not because her things still hung in the closet beside his own. Not because since the night she left and hospice erased every last bit of her, the apartment had been achingly still. But he’d been telling himself that same sorry excuse for nearly eight years now like someday he might actually believe it.

Nights gave him excuses. He slept through the day because he had to, and no one questioned the sleeping habits of a man when he worked the graveyard shift. Unless you were to count his therapist. He sure as hell had a few opinions about it.

So now, he kept his nights full. Filled the silence with broken bodies and paperwork, caffeine and nurses who didn’t mind his attitude. He clocked in, he stitched what he could, inserted a sarcastic comment wherever necessary, and he didn’t ask questions he didn’t want answered.

It wasn’t heroism. It wasn’t healing.

It was noise.

And it kept the quiet out just long enough to get to the next night.

But a day shift was what they needed. So he showed up and kept his head down until Monday, when the new doc was supposed to show up and maybe take some of the pressure off. Not that he cared who they were. Green or seasoned, genius or idiot, they’d all end up chewed up and spit out by this place eventually. Everyone was. The smart ones stayed out. But the idiots like him were called back night after night like they were being pulled by a tether. It’s in our DNA, he’d told Robby. Like bees guarding a hive. He hadn’t been able to bleed it out just yet.

Jack dropped the pen he’d been absently tapping against the counter and scrubbed his hands over his face. Fuck, he really needed to get some sleep. With a tired sigh, he turned his focus back to the chart on the screen in front of him. A nurse walked behind him holding a coffee he knew damn well wasn’t from the staff room. Didn’t smell nearly burned enough. 

“I smell that and I hate you,” he muttered. Princess winked and kept walking.

Someone stepped up to the terminal beside him, their fingers flying across the keyboard with the kind of precision and urgency that came from juggling five priorities at once. Robby didn’t bother to look up, eyes locked on the cascading data across his own screen as he typed. 

“How’s your kid in five?” Robby asked casually, squinting at the screen before he remembered that he was fucking blind and went feeling for his glasses.

“Ear infection,” he said, earning a grunt of agreement from Robby. “Kid threw less of a fit than the grandmother did about waiting in Chairs for six hours.”

Robby huffed a humorless laugh. “Yeah? Her and everyone else in that waiting room.”

Robby signed out and was already halfway to the next room before the credentials screen even finished flashing on the monitor. He turned on his heel, pointing back at Jack without slowing down. “Hey, I’ve got a tib-fib in twelve. Seventeen-year-old female, fell at cheerleading practice. You mind?”

“Do I get to take a buddy?” Jack called after him, tilting his head toward the gaggle of baby doctors clustered near the nurse’s station. They all seemed to perk up at the sight of Robby’s brisk pace, like ducklings imprinting on a very tired, very sarcastic mother goose. “Yes, go on, young ones,” he muttered under his breath, already pulling the kid’s chart and glancing over her intake vitals and notes. “Follow him to the cool shit. Save the world.”

“Whitaker,” Robby said, voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.

The kid’s head snapped up from the far end of the counter, where he was frantically trying to rub something off his scrubs with a tissue. Something flickered across his face, somewhere between hope and outright horror.

He froze, tissue mid-swipe.

“You’re with Abbot,” Robby finished, jerking his chin toward Jack without waiting for a response.

Jack scrubbed a hand down his face and cast a glance at the elevator. Maybe the new doc would walk through those doors early and spare him. No such luck. He straightened up, caught Whitaker’s wide-eyed stare, and glanced at the clock. 

Two hours and fifty-five minutes. No dice.

He waved him over, pushing off the counter and heading toward trauma twelve. “Let’s get after it, Doogie,” he said, already mentally sorting through the probable fracture protocol. “If she pukes, it’s all yours.”

Whitaker stuffed the tissue into his pocket with a stiff nod and scrambled after Jack, jogging a few steps before falling into stride beside him. His eyes locked onto Jack like he was trying to absorb everything by proximity alone.

“I’m assuming you haven’t made it this long without seeing a compound fracture?” Jack asked, glancing sideways as they approached the trauma bay.

“A few,” Whitaker nodded. “We had a lady come in on my first day with a degloved open fracture after being pushed off the train platform, so I think I can handle it.”

Jack pushed open the door and held it for Whitaker with a smirk. “Then this is nothing, kid.”

Jack pulled the curtain aside with one hand and stepped in first, holding it just long enough to let Whitaker slip in behind him before tossing it shut with a practiced flick of his wrist. The too bright room was tight, all antiseptic fumes and the fluorescent hum that was always suddenly louder without the ambient hallway noise.

A woman leaned over the bed, doing her best to comfort the teenager on it, straightened up at the sound. Her hand stayed on the girl’s shoulder, but her wide, panicked eyes flicked immediately to Jack. The school badge clipped to her lanyard jingled slightly.

The girl on the gurney looked up, her jaw clenched so tight Jack could almost hear her grinding her teeth. She was doing everything she could to hold it together, but her face had gone ashen, slick with a thin sheen of sweat. A few strands of bright copper hair had slipped loose from her blue-bowed ponytail and clung limply to her damp forehead. Her hands were fisted in the sheet, knuckles bleached white.

Jack’s gaze dropped to the leg; angled wrong. Obvious deformity. Ugly enough to make your gut turn. Not the worst he’d seen, but close enough for a first-timer to flinch, which thankfully, Whitaker did not.

Jack didn’t need an X-ray to confirm anything. That leg was well and truly fucked up. Undoubtedly so. He knew a fucked up leg when he saw one. 

“Abigail Morgan?” Jack asked, sanitizing his hands while he stepped further into the room. 

The girl shifted her gaze to him, wincing as she moved, and gave him a look like he’d asked the stupidest fucking question she’d ever heard. “What gave it away?”

“Had a hunch,” Jack said, sliding onto the stool and tapping in his credentials to unlock her chart on the screen. The girl hadn’t looked away. She was staring him down; those blue eyes stormy and uncomfortably familiar, locked in and unflinching. Something about them itched at the back of his mind, tugged at a memory he couldn’t quite pin down.

He turned back toward her with a faint, crooked smile. “I’m Doctor Abbot. Got a student shadowing me today. Mind if he sticks around?”

Whitaker gave a small wave. Abigail didn’t move.

“Sure,” she said, dry as bone.

Jack exhaled softly through his nose and stepped toward the bed to get a better look at the leg. The swelling was hard to miss. “Ouch,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Then he looked at Whitaker. “Doctor Whitaker. Have at it.”

Whitaker stepped forward, trying for approachable. Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes; he was a good kid, really. Would make one hell of a doctor once he got out of his own head. Jack just wished he wasn’t so goddamn awkward in the meantime. “So, what happened?”

Abigail didn’t even blink. “Pyramid went wrong. Flyer slipped her liberty, took me down with her. I landed crooked. Leg snapped. Coach lost her mind. Cue ambulance. Now I’m here.”

“I’m not sure what half of that meant,” Whitaker admitted, crouching to inspect her toes, “but it sounds like it hurt.”

“Brilliant deduction,” Abigail muttered, wincing as he palpated her foot. Jack nodded slightly as Whitaker checked her pulses.

“Isn’t it a little early for practice?” Whitaker asked. “I thought school didn’t start until September.”

“Most fall sports start over the summer,” Jack provided, still observing the leg. “You’ll see a spike in concussions, sprains, fractures, and dislocations come July and August. Teenagers plus turf equals full waiting room. It’s the golden season for adolescent overconfidence.”

Whitaker nodded. “Well, your coach made the right call. It’s definitely broken.”

Abigail gave him a look like he’d just told her water was wet. “Gee. You really think so? Is that your official diagnosis, Doctor?”

Jack bit the inside of his cheek. Little smartass. He always had a soft spot for the snarky ones. Whitaker moved to feel for her tibial pulse. Jack watched closely as Abigail flinched, her breath catching hard in her throat as she pinched her eyes shut.

“You don’t have to soldier through it, kid,” Jack said, softer now. Her eyes cracked open and met his. She blinked hard, swallowing something down, but kept his gaze like she had something to prove. He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Crying’s pretty standard in this wing of the hospital.”

“I’m good,” Abigail muttered through gritted teeth, wincing again. “Planning to save the breakdown for the reset. I’ve already picked out my favorite curse words. I want to earn that f-bomb.”

Jack exhaled a soft, amused breath and watched Whitaker press down gently on her toenail. The color was slow to return. Not great. Jack caught it, watching Whitaker’s jaw twitch in confirmation, along with the subtle pinch of Abigail’s as she tried to hide the discomfort.

“Smart,” he said with a small, approving smile. “You’ll want to save some of those for later, trust me.”

Abigail gave him a small, tight-lipped smile in return, but it wasn’t the playful, deflecting kind he’d expected. No, it was a little too tight, like she was trying to convince everyone in the room she was tougher than she felt. Jack felt that flicker of recognition return, gnawing at the back of his mind. It passed as quickly as it came. Maybe it was the familiarity in her tone; that dry wit wrapped around something stubborn and resilient. It reminded him of someone. Must be one of those faces, he told himself.

“Whitaker,” he said, folding his arms across his chest as he looked over at the kid. “Walk me through it.”

Whitaker cleared his throat and started, “Uh, sixteen-year-old female—”

“Seventeen,” Abigail corrected, still gritting her teeth. “I’m seventeen.”

Jack smirked, glanced at her, and gave Whitaker a nod.

“Right. Yeah. Seventeen-year-old female—”

“Seventeen-year-old female with no prior health issues,” Abigail cut in, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, voice flat and bored. “Dropped out of a cheer stunt, like, maybe six feet up. Landed wrong on the leg, heard a snap, saw stars. Now I’ve got a tib-fib that looks like it lost a fight with gravity. Closed, probably comminuted, but we’ll let imaging be the judge of that. Moderate swelling. I’ve got pins and needles in my toes, so you’re gonna want a neurovascular check before you even think about reducing it. Probable axial load with a side of torque. Could be some knee damage too, but hard to tell over the bone trying to jailbreak through my skin. Pain’s at an eight unless you touch it, then it’s a thousand, so stop touching it. Arms and head are fine; didn’t try to catch myself, just kind of ate it. Currently riding a two milligram IV push of morphine. Not enough to feel good, just enough to keep from screaming.”

Abigail turned that tight-lipped smile toward Whitaker again, this time laced with teeth and sarcasm.

“More drugs, please.”

The room went still. Even the monitor seemed to hesitate before beeping again. Whitaker froze, wide-eyed, hands hovering mid-air like he wasn’t sure whether to examine her or applaud. He shifted his weight awkwardly. “What she said…” he mumbled, glancing at Jack like he was waiting for the punchline.

Jack raised a brow. “Well, thank you, Doctor House,” he said, giving the leg another glance. “Not bad. Big Grey’s Anatomy fan, or did you go to Google Med School on the way over?”

Abigail snorted softly through her nose. “Neither. My mom’s a doctor.”

He looked at her again and then turned to the woman standing at the foot of the bed, who looked far too squeamish in an ER to be a doctor. She immediately raised her hands.

“Oh, no. Coach. I’m just the coach,” she said quickly, paling a little as she caught sight of the leg. “Mom’s on her way.”

“And Grey’s is painfully inaccurate,” Abigail added, as if personally offended. “Every person on that show would literally be in jail. Like, three times over. I could get more sound medical advice from ChatGPT.”

Jack fought a smirk. “Spoken like someone who’s been forced to watch it against her will.”

“Mom hate-watches it,” Abigail said flatly. “She needs something to cuss at when the Eagles aren’t playing. I think it’s therapeutic for her. Some people journal, some people do yoga; she crashes out over made-up doctors. Whatever works, I guess.”

Whitaker gave her a stunned look, like she’d just switched languages mid-sentence. Jack let out a short breath through his nose and turned back toward the monitor with a nod.

“Guess Netflix’s cheaper than therapy,” Jack said, tapping a quick note into the chart. “Let the pros handle it from here though, yeah?”

“I’m letting you,” Abigail deadpanned. “You’re just doing it slower than I would.”

That earned a real laugh from Jack; short, surprised. It caught him off guard as did the flicker of recognition that followed. It crept into him again, taking root in a way that made his throat tight. There was something in her cadence. The way she landed sarcasm like a punchline she didn’t care if anyone caught. It stirred something just out of reach that he couldn’t grasp. Had he treated this kid before? He’s sure he’d remember the little jackass if he had.  

“Alright.” He stood, exhaling through his nose. “Doctor Whitaker’s got it from here. Neuro check and get her splinted before imaging. I’ll put the orders in and call ortho. She’ll deny it till her leg falls off, but she’s hurting. Let’s get ahead of it. What do you want to give her?”

Whitaker blinked, but answered quickly. “Another two milligrams morphine IV, slow push. Monitor vitals. Reassess in five?”

Jack gave a small nod of approval, folding his arms. “Good call. Write it up, I’ll sign off.”

He turned back toward Abigail. “You’ll want to start practicing your list, kid. This next part is gonna suck.”

“Lucky me,” she said, offering him a withering look. “Thanks for the encouragement, Doc.”

Jack chuckled, already walking away. “Anytime. Nice to meet you, Abigail.”

Jack had just started toward the curtain when he heard her voice again, smaller this time. Softer. Nervous.

“Doctor Abbot?”

He turned. “Yeah, kid?”

Abigail wasn’t smirking now. No sharp wit, no dry sarcasm. Just a girl in a hospital bed with a busted leg and scared eyes. “Can you tell my mom where I am when she gets here?” she asked quietly, then added a soft, “Please.”

It was the first time she’d sounded like a teenager since he walked in. Like a kid who just wanted her mom.

Jack nodded, something in his chest softening. He gave the kid a small smile. “You got it.”

But he didn’t move right away, because she was still holding his gaze with those blue eyes that he knew. He knew those eyes. At least, he used to.

Still, he forced the thought back down. Just another name. Just another kid with blue eyes.

Jack stepped out and pulled the curtain closed behind him, the soft swish of fabric muffling the sounds inside. The coach remained at the girl’s side, still speaking in low, steady tones, her hand moving instinctively to smooth damp hair from the kid’s clammy forehead. The girl was trying like hell to keep it together, teeth clenched, eyes glassy, fists twisting the sheet in silence. Jack had seen it before; kids who’d bite down on pain like it owed them something. He knew it all too well himself. This one was barely holding the line.

Back at the nurses’ station, Jack ignored the lukewarm coffee at his elbow and keyed into Abigail’s chart. His hands moved by habit alone; stable, neuro check pending ortho consult. He read it back once, almost absently, before calling the order down to radiology. As the line rang, his gaze wandered down the corridor to her room. The curtain was drawn, but he could still picture her: the clenched jaw, the sweat on her brow, the way she white-knuckled the sheet like pain was a battle she wasn’t about to lose, welding dry wit like a weapon. 

It wasn’t just the attitude that stuck with him. It was the way she held it all in. Like someone who was trying to prove to the world that she could and was stronger than it. The shape of her face. The bow in her hair. That hard-earned edge in her voice that pulled forth blurry memories from the shallow grave he’d tried burying them in a long time ago.

“Abbot.”

The sound of his name tugged him back. Jack turned to find Dana watching him over the top of her glasses, brows raised.

“You good?” she asked, already skeptical of whatever answer he might give.

“Just peachy,” he replied, offering a dry half-smile.

“You sure?” she pressed. “You’ve been staring at that room like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nah. Patient just… looks like someone I used to know.”

Dana didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at him a beat longer before giving a small nod and turning back to her work. He stared down at the monitor, her name blurring slightly before him. You’re just tired, he told himself. Seeing ghosts where there are none. It wasn’t new. Sometimes it was a flash of red in a crowd that he’d follow without realizing, a snorted laugh across a room that made his breath catch. He’d spent years chasing those ghosts. He thought he’d finally stopped.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, can you flag me when Abigail Morgan’s mom shows up?”

Dana glanced back over. “Yeah, sure thing.”

“Thanks.”

Whitaker flagged him on the way out of bay six. “Bowel obstruction,” the kid said, already pulling on gloves.

“Nope,” Jack grunted, waving him off. “On your own. Godspeed.”

He didn’t wait for the groan that followed, just veered off toward the guy in nine complaining of chest pain and armed with a hundred pounds of excuses about why he hadn’t touched his meds in six months. Jack listened, nodded, poked, prodded, ordered an EKG, and moved on. Bed fifteen had a diabetic foot ulcer that probably should’ve been seen a week ago, maybe two. He flagged podiatry, jotted the note, sanitized his hands, and moved on.

At some point, radiology had come for the Morgan kid. He didn’t see it, just noticed the bed empty when he passed. Later, the images came through and confirmed what he already knew: spiral fracture of the distal tibia and fibula. Comminuted, soft tissue damage, the whole nine yards. He’d seen worse, but it would still be a bitch to recover from. She wouldn’t be back on the sidelines anytime soon. Poor kid.

Next was a nineteen-year-old who’d absolutely not been vaping “just nicotine,” given his heart rate and the fact that he couldn’t remember his own name.

Jack finally checked the clock again. An hour forty-five left. He could do an hour forty-five.

“Abbot,” Dana called, catching his attention as he passed the nurses' station. She gestured down the hall with her pen. “Your broken leg’s mom is here.”

Jack gave a brief nod and grabbed one of the iPads off the charging station, pulling up Abigail’s x-rays as he headed down the hallway. His fingers swiped quickly, sorting through the images to find the right ones. He was already mentally preparing for the conversation ahead, but it was always a little different with parents. They didn’t want just the facts. They wanted reassurance.

He barely looked up as he reached the room, pulling the curtain back with one hand. Inside, soft voices exchanged words in a gentle murmur between Abigail and her mom. The woman stood bent over the bed, her voice low and steady as she smoothed a thumb along Abigail's cheek in gentle strokes. The girl had clearly started to cry, eyes puffy, tears fresh, but she clung to the comfort like she hadn’t let herself need it until now. A faded denim jacket hung over kelly green scrubs, creased and thin at the elbows and shoulders, the seams nearly white with age. Her daughter’s same bright auburn hair was twisted up neatly and held together by a flower-shaped clip that was clearly borrowed from her daughter’s bathroom counter.

“How’s the leg, House?” Jack asked as he stepped fully into the room.

The woman straightened up, her hand still resting on the girl’s arm as she turned toward him.

And then time stuttered.

Froze. Punched the air right out of his chest.

Blue eyes met his own, and suddenly, it was 1995 again.

Blue eyes that hadn’t changed at all, that same impossible shade of blue now wide in recognition. The same high cheekbones and sharp jawline, the bright hair, just a shade deeper than her daughter’s and flecked with gray. He could still feel that hair on his skin, smell sun and lavender in it. The same freckles scattered over her nose in the same constellations he used to map out with his thumb when they’d lie in the grass behind her parents’ house. 

He knew that face. Not just in the vague way someone might resemble a memory, but knew it. Muscle-deep. Bone-deep. Etched into him like a scar. Even the jacket looked the same; the same rip in the collar that she used to play with before she kissed him goodbye.

Older, yeah. So was he. But the years had been kinder to her, or maybe they’d just left the parts he remembered untouched. She was still her. Still as beautiful as the night he ran.

She stared at him, lips parted and stunned, like he’d conjured himself out of thin air.

“Jack?” she breathed.

God. Even that was the same too.

He blinked, still not breathing.

“Beth.”

Chapter Text

Jack hadn’t expected much out of the last hour of his shift. Maybe a kid with a Lego up his nose. A couple of college freshmen who couldn’t hold their liquor, or a bouncer’s right hook. A sprained ankle, maybe a code blue to keep him humble on his way out the door. If he was lucky, a combative drunk or a transport delay would pad the clock and justify the overtime. Routine. Predictable. The kind of night that bled into the last and the next without much distinction.

He certainly wasn’t expecting Elizabeth fucking Baker.

Neither of them moved. She stood in front of him like some cruel trick of memory, and for a second, God help him, he thought maybe he was dreaming like every other time he’d seen her face. That he’d blink, and she’d vanish like all the other things he’d lost. 

But she didn’t.

She was real.

The sounds of the world—voices, a ringing phone, the beeping of monitors—fell away into nothing. He forgot the X-rays gripped in his hands. Forgot the aching in his shoulder, the sting of antiseptic on his skin, the low-grade headache from too much caffeine and not enough food. Forgot the thirty years he’d spent convincing himself that leaving her had been the right thing.

Instead, it was just her. Just him. Locked in a stalemate he didn't know how to break. They stayed that way for what felt like hours, the rush of his blood in his ears louder than anything that existed outside of that room. Fuck, the IED blast had been less disorienting. At least with that, there’d been warning. A gut-deep prickle, a second of awareness before shit went sideways. This, her, hit with no warning at all. Time didn’t just freeze; it detonated. Memory roared in his ears louder than any explosion ever had. His vision tunneled, ears ringing, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to claw its way out.

She stared at him like a ghost had walked through the door, and Jack felt like one. Hollowed out, drifting, as if something ancient had cracked open inside him. Something he’d carefully kept sealed away for decades. In an instant, thirty years slipped away like fog on glass. All he could see was her, exactly as she was the last time he saw her, and yet, not at all.

In a single breath, he was eighteen again. Barely a man, stupid and terrified, standing on her parents’ porch trying to memorize her face before he left it all behind. Already hating himself for what he was going to do when the sun rose the next morning. And she was still her. Still the girl he’d left standing in the glow of the porch light, wearing that damn jacket that always looked better on her than it ever had on him, whispering goodnight while he whispered goodbye.

A hundred thoughts fired at once. You look good. I missed you. I'm sorry. None of them made it out. 

For the last time, he was able to imagine what would happen if she ever saw his face again. There were no tears. No screams. No anger. Instead, she blinked, just once, and in that blink was everything; disbelief, fury, relief, fear. A thousand yesterdays flickered behind her eyes before she turned, just slightly, like maybe this wasn’t happening. Like maybe if she moved fast enough, she could undo it.

Beth’s lips parted like she might speak, but nothing came out. Instead, she bit her lip, her hand hovering at her collarbone, fingers curling slightly like she didn’t know where to put them. Her hand tremored slightly before it found the thin gold chain she wore around her neck, twisting the pendant in her fingers. Her eyes never left him, too wide for him to meet, pinning him in place like her gaze might tunnel straight through.

“So,” she whispered, barely more than a breath, “that’s where you went.”

His breath caught somewhere deep in his throat, his eyes pinching shut before he forced a steadying breath. Jack opened his mouth to say something. Apologize. Explain. Anything.

But all that came out was:

“Hey.” 

He regretted it the second it left his lips. Thirty years, and that was what he led with? That was the best he could do? Just hey? Like they were bumping into each other at the goddamn grocery store? A dry, humorless laugh puffed from her lips. She folded her arms over her chest, more shield than gesture, and tilted her head like she was still trying to make sense of the fact that he was standing in front of her at all. Her eyes narrowed at him slightly, lips pressed together in a hard line, and he could almost hear the whispered words that followed that look every time; you’re an idiot, Jack Abbot.

“Hi, Jack,” she said.

He tried to recover. Stumbled after the moment like he might still catch it and fix it. “It’s… it’s been a while.”

Beth nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, it has.”

Silence folded in between them again. Not comfortable, but not quite hostile. Just… tight. Because what do you say? What do people say to each other after thirty years of silence? He knew how to handle patients; screaming, silent, combative, hurting. He knew how to handle other doctors, nurses. Knew how to take and give orders. But this… He didn’t know this. Words swirled through his mind so fast he could hardly hold on to them, stringing together sentences that he couldn’t speak, and knew wouldn’t help. They were thirty years too late. Way too fucking late.

She wasn’t looking at him now; at least not directly. Her eyes drifted past his shoulder, over the curtained trauma bays and the nurses’ station behind him, like maybe if she looked long enough, she’d find the version of him she remembered instead. The one who hadn’t left.

He stepped forward without meaning to, instinct more than intention, but stopped himself before he closed the space between them. Beth looked at him again then. Really looked. And there it was; the flicker. The flicker of something just barely below the surface, but didn’t stay long enough to name before she dropped her gaze. She looked down at her sneakers, toeing the rubber against the floor before lifting those blue eyes again, unreadable now.

“You look…” she gestured towards him, but her words trailed off before she let her arms fall to her sides. The sentence withered between them.

“You too,” he said, too quickly. Then quieter, “You do.”

From the bed, Abby raised a brow, her head lolling slightly to the side. The morphine dulled the sharpness in her eyes and turned her words a little slurred around the edges, but not enough to blunt her suspicion.

“This is weird,” she murmured, looking between them like she was trying to solve a puzzle no one had given her the pieces for. “You both are being weird. Do… do you two know each other?”

Beth opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come. They stuttered on the inhale, caught somewhere in her throat. Her gaze flicked back to Jack, arms still folded tightly across her chest. Jack held her gaze for a moment longer than he should’ve, then looked away.

“We went to high school together,” he said finally, tone careful. 

Beth let out a breath that was more scoff than exhale. “Right,” she said, voice low and edged. “High school.” She nodded once, slow and deliberate, her face tight. “That’s one way to put it.”

Jack didn’t flinch at the ice in her voice, but it was close. Instead, it crept into him in a bitter chill that sat heavy in his gut.

Abby blinked. “So… you dated?”

“Something like that,” Beth muttered, cutting her eyes toward the curtain like she was done with the whole conversation. Like she wanted to be anywhere else but here, standing in front of the man who once promised her the world and then disappeared like it meant nothing.

Abby seemed to accept the answer, settling back against the pillow with a shrug. “Still weird,” she murmured, eyes drifting shut. “But okay.”

Beth didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just kept her arms crossed, her shoulders tight, her fingers still twirling the pendant at her collarbone and eyes locked on him like they were keeping him pinned to the floor. Jack wished she’d just fucking say it. All of it. Scream, cry, curse him out. Anything but this: this quiet, sharp nothing. He felt himself shift, uneasy in his own skin that had grown two sizes too small since he stepped into the room. He hadn’t felt like this in decades. Not in combat zones. Not in trauma bays. But standing in front of her, with all the years between them pressed in close and her daughter studying him like she was appraising a used car, he felt like a goddamn kid again; uncertain, apologetic. Hungry for a kindness that was no longer his.

She finally looked away, turning towards the bed and brushing a gentle hand through Abigail’s hair in an absent, comforting gesture. “Jack, this is my daughter, Abby. But I assume you already knew that.”

The two syllables hit him so hard it knocked the breath from his lungs. Abby. 

The name lodged somewhere between his ribs, sharp and unyielding. How many times had she said it through laughter? Or shouted it over the noise of the garage at the shop? Or murmured it like a secret only he got to hear? He swallowed against the weight in his throat. No. People named their kids after all sorts of shit; books, songs, dead relatives, characters from shows. Hell, he’d treated enough Chandlers and Phoebes with birth dates in the late '90s to know better than to assume anything.

Before he could stop it, before he could think better of it, the word left him, rough and quiet. “Abby?”

The color drained out of her face in an instant. Beth’s eyes widened like an animal caught in the headlights, lips parting with a sharp inhale, almost like she was ready to deny it or explain it or say anything at all. But, Abby beat her to it.

“Wait…” she said slowly, blinking at him through the haze of pain meds, her voice syrup-thick and amused, “You’re the guy from her prom picture! The one with the stupid ass mullet!”

Beth let out a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Abigail.”

Jack blinked, caught off guard, and turned to the girl—Abby, Jesus Christ—with his name, giving her an incredulous look. “It was hardly a mullet.”

Next to her, Beth made a face somewhere between a grimace and a laugh and crossed her arms again, but not before that flicker of amusement betrayed her. Jack caught it and turned back toward her, one brow raised. “What?”

Her lips pressed together, trying and failing to hold back the small smile they fought to stretch into. “It was encroaching on mullet territory.”

“Not even close,” he shot back, the indignation crumbling into a breathy chuckle.

Beth shrugged. “Mullet adjacent.”

That sly little smirk broke through at last, tugging faintly at the corners of her mouth. It was subtle, almost cautious, but unmistakable. And just like that, he saw her again: bare feet on the dash, his jacket around her shoulders, laughing at something stupid he said. Thirty years slipped right off her face and he saw the girl he remembered.

Abby tilted her head, studying Jack like he was some mildly disappointing exhibit at the end of a long museum tour. “Huh. I thought you’d be taller.”

“Abby.” Beth warned, voice tight.

“What? I thought. That’s not the same as saying. I didn’t say he’s short. We’re short, Mom. I mean… he kind of is, but—”

“Abigail Quinn.” Beth hissed, sharp eyes focused on her daughter. The way her head snapped to glare down at the girl made his spine straighten; he’d been on the receiving end of the Sheriff Baker stare more times than he could count, and she’d perfected it in the years since then. "That's enough."

“I’m just making an observation,” Abby mumbled, blinking slowly. “What do you want from me, woman? I’m high as giraffe balls. I’m not responsible for my actions right now.”

Beth pressed her lips together. “Stop it.”

Abby turned toward Jack with an exaggerated sigh. “Sorry. You’re very tall, Dr. Mullet.”

Jack barked a laugh before he could stop it, and Beth immediately dropped her face into her hands. She groaned, dragging her hands down her face before dropping them into a resigned cross over her chest.

“Morphine?” she asked, pink crawling up her freckled chest to her neck.

“Two milligrams, IV push,” he confirmed, still chuckling.

Beth grimaced. “Wonderful,” she muttered, rubbing her cheeks. “Then we’re in for a show.”

“Oh, Doctor Mullet and his little dork almost-doctor got me on that good shit, Mom,” Abby drawled, a dreamy grin on her face as she sank deeper into the bed.

“Watch your mouth, child,” Beth said automatically. 

Jack stifled a laugh, exchanging a look with Beth, who mouthed an apology while he checked Abby’s IV. “She should be pain-free for a while,” he told her. “We’ll up ‘em if we need to, but from the sounds of it, she’s doing just fine.”

“Hell yeah,” Abby sighed like it was the best news she’d ever heard. “Compliments to the fuckin’ chef, dude. I’m rollin’. ”

“Abigail…” Beth warned, but the sigh that followed made it clear that she wasn’t fighting too hard anymore.

“What?” Abby looked positively affronted. “I didn’t curse. I just said fuck. Wait… Fuck. I said fuck. Fuck! I said it again. Fuck! Ah!” Her eyes widened in slow, horrified amusement while she laughed. “Mom, help me. I can’t stop saying it. This is crazy. I feel crazy.”

Beth placed a hand over her daughter’s mouth with a heavy exhale. “Close your eyes,” she ordered flatly.

“I’m gonna close my eyes,” Abby said dutifully, blinking hard like it required real effort.

“And your mouth.”

Abby gave her a loose thumbs-up, added finger guns for good measure, and clicked her tongue with a grin before melting back into the pillow. Beth turned back to him with a tired sort of smile, lifting her brows in apology as Abby mumbled something unintelligible and blissful behind her.

“I’d apologize, but I’m sure she gave you hell before the meds, too. She’s always been a rather spirited child.”

Jack shook his head, mouth tugging up at the corners. “Hey, beats the criers.”

Beth let out a quiet snort. “Oh, don’t worry. That’s coming. You should’ve seen her when she got her wisdom teeth out. She sobbed like it was a national tragedy. Thought I was abandoning her to a life of soft foods.”

He chuckled, and for a second it was easy. They were just two people with life stretched between them, swapping stories that didn’t leave scars. But the laughter faded too quickly, and in its place came silence. It hung between them, heavy and hesitant. He cleared his throat. She fiddled with the cuff of her jacket— his jacket. 

Jack’s eyes wandered over her, caught on the details he hadn’t had the chance to take in until now. The bright green scrubs. The hospital badge on the glittery reel clipped neatly to her waistband.

UPMC Mercy: Emergency Medicine.

He took it in with a quiet nod, a flicker of something like pride stirring low in his chest. She’d done exactly what he always figured she would. Not like he ever had a doubt; she’d always had the brains and the backbone. There had never been another option for her; just stubborn, willful Beth with a twenty year plan and practiced script signatures written in glitter gel pen.

But his eyes snagged on the badge a second time. Dr. Elizabeth Baker.

What had the kid’s chart said? Morgan? Abigail Morgan. But the name next to the ID photo wasn’t Morgan. Just Baker. Still Beth.

He gestured toward the badge. “You been at Mercy long?”

She blinked like she’d forgotten it was there, brushing her fingers over it absently. “Oh. Yeah. About eight years now. Not for much longer, though. Started there when we moved back from Boston.” Her hand dropped. “I was in the middle of a code stroke when the school called, or I would’ve been here sooner.”

“Boston, huh?” he asked casually, crossing his arms, still gripping the iPad like a vice.

“And Denver for my residency before that,” she nodded, gently swatting Abby’s hand away when the girl reached over to pet the fabric of her scrubs. 

Jack gave a quiet nod, a smirk playing at his lips. “What happened to never moving to Pittsburgh?”

“Well,” she huffed a breath through her nose, the corner of her mouth twitching, but the smile never quite made it. “Guess sometimes life just doesn’t go according to plan. Right, Jack?”

The words hit him harder than he cared to admit. She hadn’t thrown them, hadn’t spit them like venom, but they burned through him the very same. No, he thought. It certainly doesn’t. 

Beth reached out to flick the edge of his badge with a dry little smile. “You copied me.”

He gave a soft laugh, glancing down at it. “I wouldn’t say I copied you. I prefer… ‘was loosely inspired by.’”

“Oh, whatever.” She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged up. “Doctor Abbot always did have a nice ring to it.”

His smile faded into something gentler. “Yeah,” he murmured, “it did.”

“Mom.”

Both Jack and Beth turned toward the bed. Abby laid on her back, the heels of her hands pressed into her eyes like she was trying to scrub away the fog in her brain. She stayed like that for a long beat, unmoving. Christ, the kid was right. She was higher than giraffe balls.

Beth tilted her head, waiting. “Yeah?”

Abby didn’t look up. “This is weird.”

“What’s weird, baby?”

“That you know him.”

Beth glanced at Jack, who looked just as caught off guard. “Yeah, it is a little strange, isn’t it?”

Another pause.

“He gave me drugs.”

Beth sighed. “That’s quite literally his job, boo.”

Abby dropped her hands and blinked at them. “That’s actually insane.”

Beth let out a snort she didn’t bother to hide. “Go back to sleep, weirdo.” Abby nodded and shut her eyes again, a gentle grin tugging at her lips like she hadn’t nearly made Whitaker cry an hour ago. Beth rolled her eyes and turned to Jack, clearing her throat before gesturing to the iPad. “The nurse said she had imaging done before I got here. CT?”

Jack’s gaze shifted, as if the reason for his presence in the room had just slipped his mind. He gave a small cough, then pulled up the images. “Nah, just the usual.” He handed her the tablet, and she took it without hesitation, quickly swiping through the images with a clinical focus.

“Comminuted spiral fracture of the distal tibia and fibula,” Jack stated, slipping into a rhythm as the words came easily. “It’s displaced, probably from the way she came down on it, with some soft tissue damage around the break. Mild paresthesia in the toes, but I’m not discounting nerve involvement yet. Cap refill’s sluggish, pedal and tibial pulses are both at 1+, so—”

“Tibial’s up to 2+ since intake,” Beth interrupted, her voice matter-of-fact, her gaze still glued to the screen. “Cap refill’s still over two seconds, though. She’s got some sensation back in her toes, but still not reacting to stimuli.” She squinted at the fracture, zooming in for a better look, unaware of Jack’s raised brow. Smartass didn't fall far from the tree, he thought. Finally, she glanced up and noticed his curious expression. Beth shrugged, offering him a wry smile. “I did my own neuro check when I got here. Sorry. Mom thing.”

“I don’t remember asking for a consult,” he scoffed, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You didn’t, but you’re getting it anyway,” Beth didn’t even look up from the iPad as she continued to squint at the images. “And poking a kid with a pen is hardly a consult, especially when you gave birth to the patient,” she shot back, her tone dry. “Probably going to need a few pins, so we’re looking at surgery. Sixteen weeks with subsequent PT if she’s lucky.”

He stood opposite her, eyes fixed on the screen. “Yeah, I’m thinking the same,” Jack muttered, still scanning the images.

Beth’s eyes flicked over the X-ray one more time, then paused. She squinted, leaning in closer before she let out an exasperated sigh and shoved the tablet back towards him. “Hold this,” she muttered, turning behind her to fish through her purse for a pair of black rimmed glasses, grumbling, “Swear I went fuckin’ blind the minute I turned forty.” 

She turned back to him with a huff, slipping the glasses on and holding out her hand for the tablet like this was just another consult. Like he wasn’t standing there being quietly fucking leveled by the sight of her. She tapped her nail against the screen, gesturing above the main break. “There’s a fracture above the main break as well. Jesus, what did those girls do? Throw her?”

He frowned down at the screen. “Where?”

“Look,” she sighed.

She stepped beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed against his. The warmth of her body sent a fleeting jolt through him. He stiffened, pretending he hadn’t noticed, but the heat lingered. His focus wavered, and just for a moment, he let it. While she watched the screen, he watched her, tracing over the lines of her face that hadn’t changed while everything else had; the same gentle slope of her lips, the freckles that clustered bold along the bridge of her nose and faded across her cheeks, the chew of her lip when she was deep in thought.

He still had to look down at her. Her shoulder still pressed lightly to his bicep. And then, forcing himself, he looked back at the screen.

Beth leaned in even closer, explaining with a calm precision as she gestured. “See this little line here? That could mean more soft tissue involvement. Might be worth a CT to get the full extent of it.”

Jack nodded, his voice a little tight. “Yeah, I’ll get that ordered.” He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the unexpected awareness of her presence. 

“So is ortho coming down, or is this going to take another thirty years too?” She asked. She stepped away, and he felt himself deflate. 

Ouch. He shrugged slightly with a tight nod. “Depends on who is on call tonight. But if we’re lucky? Oh… I’d say sometime within the next century.”

That earned a laugh. Brief, but dizzying; a bright, snorted sound that lived only in memories of chemistry labs and that old paper mill. She smiled gently, tucking a strand of hair that had escaped her tight twist behind her ear, and his fingers twitched at his side. He tucked his hand into his pocket, clicking the display off and tucking the tablet under his arm. Blue eyes turned to him again from behind dark frames, assessing him with that same sterile, clinical stare that was far too detached to be her own. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and shut it again. Her eyebrows lifted over her glasses in a silent challenge to go on. He sighed; always too goddamn stubborn for her own good.

He opened his mouth again. Here goes fucking nothing, he guessed. Only been avoiding this for three goddamn decades. He glanced over at her daughter, now finally adrift in a drug-induced haze, before tipping his head toward the other side of the curtain.

“Hey, could we—?”

He didn’t get the chance to finish before her head snapped towards the bed at the sound of quiet weeping. Part of him, the one that had never wanted this conversation in the first place, was relieved. Aching shoulders sank slightly when she turned away from him to step quickly to the side of the bed and pulled the rail down with quick, practiced fingers. The kid’s eyes were open, cheeks stained with tears, lips trembling. Her shoulders shook with each quiet sob.

And here come the tears.

“Hey, baby. I’m right here.” Beth cupped her daughter’s face in both hands, her voice low and gentle. Abby continued to cry, the morphine giving her just enough slack to let the dam break. She took a gasping breath that Jack felt in his own chest, but Beth only offered her a soft smile and brushed her thumbs across Abby’s cheeks. “Hey. Breathe with me, okay? You’re going to make yourself sick.”

Beth inhaled slow and deep, nodding gently when Abby hiccuped. Her daughter took a shaky breath in time with her, exhaling on another hiccup while Beth murmured soft encouragements between breaths. Tears slipped down Abby’s cheeks as she blinked up at her mother, lips trembling.

“I broke my leg,” she choked out in a hoarse whisper. “I heard it. It cracked like a glow stick.”

Beth nodded, brushing her fingers through Abby’s hair with a sympathetic smile. “I know, sweetheart.”

Her lip quivered. “I can’t cheer anymore.”

Beth glanced at Jack, a silent apology in her eyes, then turned back to her daughter. He stayed rooted at the foot of the bed, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was medical persistence; a habit. Reflex. Maybe it was something else. His own morbid curiosity about what she had become without him.

But whatever it was, he couldn’t walk away from this bed as easily as he did all the others.

“It’s gonna heal,” Beth said gently. “You’ll be okay, Abs.”

“It was my last season,” Abby whimpered. “It’s over. It’s all over, and it didn’t even start yet.”

“Oh, honey…” Beth sighed.

Jack watched her lower herself onto the bed, one leg tucked beneath her, her back to him like a closing door. Without hesitation, Abby folded into her, clinging like she was the only solid thing in the room. She buried her face in Beth’s neck. Beth held her close, rubbing slow, soothing circles across her back. And Jack saw not the sharp-tongued teen, but a little girl. A child wrecked by pain and disappointment, reaching for her mother the only way she knew how. For a fleeting moment, she looked like the face that had clawed its way out of his memory when he’d first walked in with Whitaker, before he’d really seen Abby at all.

Fuck, she looked just like Beth.

“I’ll have to wear a cast at Homecoming,” Abby hiccuped, burrowing deeper into Beth’s arms. “It’s going to be in all the pictures. Mia told me that Emma told her that she heard from Zeke that Luke said Gavin was going to ask me, and now he won’t because I look like some tragic teenage cryptid.”

Beth rested her chin on Abby’s head, nodding along to the spiraling logic. “If Gavin doesn’t ask you because you broke your leg, then Gavin isn’t a boy worth your time.”

“I don’t even want to go anymore. I’m going to look so ugly.”

“Oh, you stop,” Beth murmured, easing back just enough to meet her daughter’s wet eyes. “You’ll look beautiful. We’ll find a dress that hides it.”

“Oh my god, Mom,” Abby groaned, looking up at her like she’d suggested smearing dog shit on it. “It’s Homecoming. No one wears long dresses to Homecoming. That’s prom.”

“I wore a long dress to my senior Homecoming,” Beth replied calmly, ignoring the wobble in her daughter’s voice. Jack nodded slightly, though he wasn’t sure to who. She had. It was green.

“Yeah, like a million years ago!”

“Okay, okay. No long dresses, got it,” Beth relented with a sigh, pulling Abby to her again before pivoting. “We’ve got a few months to figure it out, and your mom can do wicked things with a hot glue gun and some rhinestones. Remember your Eras Tour outfit? A cast is nothing. I’ve got this.”

Abby let out a wet laugh. “That’s so tacky.”

“It’s Homecoming, baby. It’s all tacky.”

“Someone’s gonna draw a dick on it.”

“Then we’ll turn it into an elephant.” Beth laughed, tucking the blanket gently around her and dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Maybe lean into it. Start the school year with a Sharpie and a warning.”

Abby nodded, and for a moment, Jack thought the melodrama had been soothed away. The sight of her like that… He’d always known Beth would be a good mom. He just never thought he’d get to see it for himself.

But then Abby wiped her nose on Beth’s shoulder with a shuddering breath.

“And now I’ll miss winter conditioning. Which means I’ll suck at volleyball too. Which means I won’t get captain. Which means Kayla probably will.” She groaned like the words physically hurt. “And I hate Kayla! She’s a dumb bitch and she can’t even serve.”

Jack had done his best to stay quiet at the end of the bed, pretending to look busy, though he wasn’t sure why he was still in the room at all, but that made him huff out something dangerously close to a laugh. Abby caught it and squinted at him like she’d been personally wronged.

“Don’t laugh, Doctor Mullet. This is, like, my entire life, and it’s over.”

“Don’t look at him, look at me.” Beth’s voice stayed calm, redirecting her daughter’s glare back where it belonged. “You’re right. It’s absolutely devastating, and I am so, so sorry, baby. But it will heal, and you still have summer ball. We’ll listen to what ortho says, and we’ll go from there. Us Baker girls are tough, remember?”

She smoothed her hand over Abby’s hair. “We’ll get you fixed up, grab whatever you want to eat on the way home, and spend the weekend watching whatever you want until I start work on Monday. How’s that sound?”

“Can we watch Gladiator?” she mumbled, voice thick.

Beth smiled softly. “Until we’re no longer entertained.”

Abby hiccuped a laugh and nodded. “Can we key Kayla’s car?”

Beth stifled a snort and lifted her face to rest her chin on top of her daughter’s head, fighting a smile. “No, we can’t.”

“But I hate her.”

“I’m aware.”

Abby sniffled again and let out a long, exhausted breath, her body starting to go limp against Beth’s. “I think I’m gonna throw up,” she groaned.

Beth nodded sympathetically, patting her back. “Morphine’ll do that.” She glanced up at Jack, her tone shifting like they were discussing a shared case on rounds. “Can we get her some Zofran? Four milligrams?”

Jack gave a slight nod, his gaze still on Abby. “I’ll have someone bring it.”

“Like right now,” Abby gagged, her whole body tensing with the warning.

Beth moved fast. In one motion, she slid her hand into her daughter’s hair and swept it back, the other arm guiding Abby forward. “Okay, baby. Over the side. There you go.” She murmured, not even blinking as Abby retched.

Jack stirred from the edge of the bed, instinct pulling him forward. “Let’s get you a bag,” he said, already reaching for one behind him. He held it out for Beth to catch it with a grateful glance. She shook it open and held it under Abby just in time for another rather productive heave. Beth didn’t flinch, didn’t grimace. She just kept whispering soft nothings, rubbing Abby’s back, solid and steady and sure. The girl vomited again before she gave a dramatic groan and slumped into her mother’s side. “I want to go home.” 

“I know, baby.”

“Doctor Mullet gave me drugs,” Abby mumbled, still a little green and catching her breath. “He did this to me. He ruined me.”

“Yeah,” Beth sighed, voice small. “He does that.”

Jack took a breath and stepped back. He shouldn’t be there, he knew that. There was no clinical reason for him to remain in that room. He felt like a voyeur, standing in the middle of something private and tender; staring in at a moment that didn’t belong to him, but felt like punishment. Like atonement. Like the universe had taken him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back to watch what he had forfeited.

Abby curled tighter into Beth’s arms and started to cry again, her face buried against her mother’s jacket, sobbing in great, shuddering waves. And Jack couldn’t look away. She looked so much like her. Not just in the shape of her face, or the stubborn tilt of her brow, but in the fire. The fight. The cracked-open heart. All of that spirit packed into a frame too small to hold it, trying to breathe between the sobs. 

And for a moment, Jack saw it. The collateral. The wreckage. A glimpse of everything he must have left in his wake that August so many years ago that he tried to avoid, playing out in front of him like penance. The ache twisted in his chest like something sharp and half-forgotten. He shifted back another step, the another before he finally turned and pulled himself from it.

“I’ll grab that Zofran,” Jack said, his voice tight. “Ortho should be down to grab her soon.”

Beth nodded, still rocking Abby gently. “Thank you,” she said softly.

He returned the nod, already moving toward the door like it was an escape route. His hand curled around the curtain, holding it just enough to slip out, but he paused. Behind him, he could still hear Abby’s sniffles, the rhythm of Beth’s voice soothing her like an old song. Something in his chest buckled under the weight of it. With a resigned breath, he turned back.

“Hey Beth?”

She looked up, tired but composed, like she’d been bracing herself for him.

Jack’s jaw twitched. His tongue was sandpaper in his mouth, but he forced the words through. “It was good to see you. Really.”

Beth nodded slowly, the smile that stretched across her face just a little too tight to be easy. “Well,” she exhaled, brushing Abby’s hair back from her damp forehead, “better get used to it. I start here on Monday.”

His brain caught on the words like a misfired round, jamming before it could make sense of them.

Oh. You’ve got to be fucking shitting me.

“You—wait. You’re the new doc?” The words came out dumb and breathless, like his mouth was scrambling to catch up to the rest of him.

Beth didn’t get a chance to answer.

Abby gave one last lurch and vomited straight into Beth’s lap.

Beth froze. Her hands hovered midair, her spine locking with slow disbelief. Then she let out a long, slow breath, and turned to Jack with a look so flat it might as well have been bulletproof.

Her smile was tight. Icy. Impeccably restrained.

“Surprise.”

Chapter Text

Left. Right. Left.

Nothing.

Awesome. 

Beth’s fingers slipped off the lock for the third time, and she let out a breath somewhere between a sigh and a groan. She stared at the numbers the guidance counselor had scrawled across the top of her schedule again, then at the stubborn silver dial, which clearly had it out for her.

Around her, Coldwater High buzzed like a kicked beehive. Voices layered over each other, lockers slammed, sneakers squeaked, and Beth felt like the whole school was moving while she stayed stuck; right there, right in front of locker 312, like a glitch in the system. 

She already missed the middle school. Sure, Millstone had been a bigger school in the sense that it had been bigger than Maple Run. But the jump from elementary to middle school felt insignificant compared to the leap from middle to high school. That had been big. This was huge. 

A bigger school, a bigger campus, bigger lockers instead of the half lockers she’d used the past three years and knew how to open. Even the cinder block hallways felt like chasms lined with butcher paper posters, groups of students chatting with friends like they hadn’t seen them all summer, and the same chipping paint that had probably been on the wall since her mom went there in the 70s. 

Which seemed like a health hazard, because Beth was fairly certain that they still put lead in paint back then, and didn’t put it past a few of her classmates not to eat it on a dare. But then again, that seemed like natural selection at its finest. If the lead didn’t get them, then the asbestos that was undoubtedly in the ceilings would. If Jared McGinnis and Toby Schroeder wanted to tempt fate, that was hardly Beth’s business. 

The thing, or things, that felt biggest however were the kids. Everyone was so tall; she’d never been tall, that was why Coach made her a flyer on the first day of practice, but still. Some of these seniors should be asked to present their birth certificates, because if they were seventeen, then Beth was six feet tall. But the first day of freshman year was stressful enough without feeling like she was lost in a forest of patchy facial hair and perfume showers. 

And now, to add to it, she was going to be late to class because her stupid locker wouldn’t open. It had opened when the senior who led her orientation group showed her where it was no problem. What gives? 

Beth stared at the lock like she could will it open through sheer frustration. She’d turned the dial at least four times now, and all she had to show for it was sweaty palms and a rising sense of doom. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her cheer skirt while she tried to orient herself, stomach twisting uncomfortably, and gave it a gentle yank down. Dad had nearly had a heart attack over it when she came down the stairs that morning in her uniform, muttering to Mom about how ‘those damn things get shorter every year’ for the hundredth time since she got it. 

She swallowed down the nerves fluttering in her throat and let out a determined, steadying breath. New doesn’t mean impossible, she told herself. Be smarter than the locker, Baker. 

Twist to the left. 

Pass 0. 

8. 

16. 

26.

She pressed up the shackle, holding her breath out of sheer hope. Millionth time is the charm. And…

Nothing. 

She huffed and glanced around, hoping no one had noticed her losing a standoff with a school-issued hunk of metal. The halls started to thin out as first period grew closer and that nervous flutter grew more frantic, pounding against her ribs like it was trying to chisel them out. Either she had been given the wrong combination, or she’d been cursed. Honestly, at this point, it could go either way. 

She was just about to try again when a locker clanged shut beside her.

“Want me to try?” 

Beth turned, ready to roll her eyes, but stopped short. She’d braced herself for some smug upperclassman, the kind who’d offer help just to lord it over her while she swallowed what little pride she had left. But the boy standing there looked about her age. Tallish, with messy curls that looked like he’d run his fingers through them one too many times, a faint sunburn brushing his cheeks, and a fading bruise under one eye like he’d run into something, or someone. His mouth twitched, caught between a smirk and a smile, before tipping into a wide, easy grin that crinkled warm hazel eyes. Not smug. Not even close. He looked… kind. Kind, and just tired enough to make it seem like helping her hadn’t been part of the plan, but that not helping had never been an option. Something fluttered in her chest. Hard. And suddenly, the locker wasn’t the only thing making her nervous.

Great. Now her locker failure had an audience.

A really, really, really cute audience.

The nervous pounding in Beth’s stomach didn’t vanish, but it changed; softened almost. Muted, and left something lighter in its place. A fluttery kind of buzz, like a hummingbird was loose in her ribcage, flitting between panic and… whatever this was. Hazel eyes flicked to the lock in question, and the boy gestured to her schedule that Beth had forgotten she was holding. 

“Oh,” she breathed. She cleared her throat and nodded, “Sure.” She tugged lightly at the end of her ponytail, stepping aside as he moved closer to the locker door. “I’ve tried it, like, four times. I think it’s stuck. Or hates me. One of the two. I swear, I know how numbers work. Just not today, I guess.”

She cringed, suddenly aware of how much she was talking.

Oh my god, Beth. Shut up.

But the boy just smiled that smile and stepped closer. He smelled faintly of something clean and sharp; his soap, maybe. Her heart did another nervous little jump.

“I believe you,” he said. “Mine gave me trouble all morning.”

“Really?” she asked as he held out his hand for the paper. She hesitated, pride and desperation wrestling, then handed it over.

He nodded, scanning the numbers with that crooked grin still lingering on his face. Beth fidgeted with the strap of her backpack, her ears hot.

“Glad you weren’t there to see it, though,” he added, casually. “Would’ve sucked to embarrass myself in front of a pretty girl first thing this morning.”

Beth’s brain short-circuited. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, trying not to grin as heat flushed across her face. He glanced up just as she looked down, and their eyes caught briefly. 

He turned the dial with quiet focus, murmuring the numbers under his breath. On the first try, the lock clicked, and he pulled the door open with a little flourish.

“Ta-da,” he said, smirking.

Beth let out a half-laugh, half-groan. “Seriously?”

“What can I say? Magic hands.”

He leaned a shoulder against the lockers, still watching her with that lazy grin that sent the hummingbird flitting against her ribs again.

“Is that so?” she teased, stepping toward her newly-unlocked locker. Red pom poms sat in a heap at the bottom, a few binders already stacked on the shelf and a Polaroid of her and Becca from over the summer Scotch taped to the mirror on the door. The boy didn’t walk away, didn’t even move really, just stayed leaned against their lockers with that smile. 

“No,” he admitted. “You were just turning it the wrong way. I noticed on your second attempt.”

Her head snapped up at him, brows furrowed and lips parted in a moment of incredulous disbelief. The eye-crinkle smile returned and he attempted to hold back a laugh until Beth scoffed. “And you waited until the fourth to tell me? Why?”

“You didn’t look like you wanted help,” he said with a shrug. Something behind his grin softened. “And maybe I was waiting for a good moment to say hello.”

She bit her lip, trying to suppress the pink rising in her cheeks as she shoved her backpack into her locker.

“I’m Beth, by the way,” she offered, and suddenly the name felt new in her mouth. Lighter. Like maybe it belonged to someone slightly braver than she was five minutes ago.

“Jack,” he said, adjusting the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” she added, looking over her shoulder at him. “For helping.”

“Anytime.”

Something about the way he said it made her throat tighten a little. It was simple. Honest. Like he meant it. She nodded, suddenly shy, and busied herself with organizing her textbooks in her locker to hide the way her hands fumbled. 

He handed her the schedule, and when her fingers brushed his, they lingered for the briefest second. His hand tensed like it surprised him, and he rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile.

“I saw you’ve got algebra with Mr. Oliver first period too,” he said, quickly. “Not that I was looking at your schedule or anything. I just noticed. When I was—uh—reading the combination.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. I was thinking we could maybe walk together?”

It was his turn to blush. Long fingers fidgeted with the cuff of his jacket like he wasn’t sure what to do with them before he tucked the hand into his pocket. Beth smiled, nodding slowly, the hummingbird zipping around at the sight of the crinkle smile that returned. Jack reached forward and took her book like he had moved before giving himself a chance to think about it, stacking it atop his own and pushing his shoulder off of the wall, already angling himself down the hall without taking those golden green eyes off her for a second.

Okay. Maybe high school wasn’t going to be all bad.

Beth bit her lip again, smiling. The school felt a little less like a maze and more like a maybe. She shut her locker with a metallic clang and stepped into the flow of the hallway beside him, still smiling.

A metallic crash downstairs jolted Beth awake with a snort a heartbeat before  her alarm blared on the nightstand

She took a sharp breath through her nose and groaned, dragging the pillow over her head just as Atlas scrambled underneath the comforter, already howling at the noise from beside her feet. He thrashed, tangled in the twisted sheets of his own making, and flailed toward her feet like the apocalypse had arrived in the form of a clattering mug and a choice string of teenage profanity. 

Definitely a Stanley. Probably pink. Almost certainly dented now.

And judging by the thrum of music playing at a volume wildly inappropriate for five in the morning, her daughter was fully awake. And had no concept of time, respect, or acoustic physics.

Beth didn’t want to know what she was doing down there. Actually, scratch that—she absolutely did. Just not while she was still half awake with one foot still in high school.

Jesus, child.

The clang ebbed into silence, trailing behind like a ripple in the dark as Beth blinked at the ceiling, the edges of the hallway smudging into nothing but the whir of the ceiling fan over the bed. She could still smell the hallway. That weirdly clean-tile scent mixed with locker room deodorant and cheap perfume. Still hear the click of the lock when it finally opened. Still see him standing there with that grin.

She hadn’t thought of Jack in years. But dreams had a funny way of dragging the past back up by the collar. As did the past being your daughter’s emergency physician on a random Tuesday in August.

She reached out and smacked the alarm clock until it stopped screaming, then gave a lazy shove with her foot at the lump of fur pressed against her legs. Atlas shifted just enough to give a huffy little sigh of his own and flop back against her shins, all sixty pounds of him vibrating with sleepy indignation. Gee, what a guard dog. Still, she gave his butt a rub with her foot, lips tugging up when a stubby tail wagged hard enough to shake his whole rear.

She rubbed her eyes and sighed, the heaviness already pressing in behind her temples. That was a new one. The past few nights, it had been the paper mill—always the damn paper mill—before she blinked awake alone in her bed, heart hammering like she’d been chased. But this? This was different. A new flavor of unrest her subconscious had decided to sample. Not that it mattered. She hadn’t done much sleeping in the week since she saw him.

She lifted her phone off the nightstand and squinted at the time, then let it fall to her chest with a sigh. Usually, she was up before her first alarm. Working in healthcare did that to a person; rewired the brain until ungodly hours started to feel routine. Morning was relative anyway depending on what side of the clock you landed when the schedule came out. Beth had learned early in her career to invest in blackout curtains and an alarm loud enough to wake the dead. 

Still, it hardly mattered. She never slept much anyway. Call it discipline or habit, or call it being roused by dreams that felt too much like the on-call room and a pager that never stopped buzzing, she always stirred before the clock could scream. 

Or maybe call it sharing a home with a teenager who had no concept of volume control and was currently hellbent on giving her an ulcer by thundering up and down the stairs like she hadn’t been given strict instructions by the orthopedic surgeon to not do exactly fucking that. 

Or chalk that lack of sleep up to the six-day emotional demolition derby that had flung her from anxiety to rage and back again ever since she saw the boy who shattered her heart thirty years ago casually existing in a hospital five hours from the town he abandoned her in. The same boy who had the audacity to look exactly the same, and to say nothing more than hey, like that was enough. Like it hadn’t been three decades. Like she hadn’t spent entire years stitching herself back together. And just when she thought the moment would pass, grief, fury, disbelief and all, she blinked, and he was her new goddamn coworker.

Fucker.

Probably the same reason she’d sat in her car that night outside the hospital, knuckles white on the steering wheel while Becca stayed on the line and listened to her lose it; scream-crying, cussing like hell, trying not to throw up from the nerves while Abby was in surgery as all of that hurt ripped right back open like a fresh wound, ugly and gaping, until it oozed teenaged petulance all over again. 

The same reason she couldn’t focus on the only date she’d tolerated in the past six months last night. Not that it had been going well to begin with. The guy chewed like a cow, didn’t tip, snapped at the waitress to get her attention, and talked about CrossFit like it had personally saved his soul. She’d spent the whole dinner nodding through it, eyes glazed over, unable to stop replaying the way his voice dropped when he said her name. Like it still belonged to him. Like thirty years and a lifetime of silence hadn’t passed. 

By dessert, she couldn’t remember the guy’s name. Didn’t even care. After seeing Jack, she’d lost the thread entirely. Couldn’t focus on anything but the storm in her gut and the familiar burn in her throat that had little to do with the bourbon she let the guy keep paying for. Instead, she just handed the waitress a hundred on her way out, apologized profusely, and was home on the couch in her sweatpants before ten, Olivia Benson and a glass of red doing their best to make her forget the way her chest had betrayed her with that one stupid hitch when he looked at her.

Again. Fucker.

Jack Abbot. The fucking idiot.

The name still landed like a brick to the sternum, even though she hadn’t said it in years. The boy she used to know like the back of her hand. The wound healed and thickened by years of scar tissue. The man who’d stood in front of her the other night under the cold buzz of ER fluorescents.

And now? She worked with him.

Oh, irony. You cruel, useless bitch.

Whatever it was, fate, karma, a cosmic joke, Beth was awake. And this morning, she was choosing to blame it on Olivia Rodrigo being blasted out of the kitchen at a volume that made her genuinely concerned for her daughter’s long-term hearing.

She groaned, trying fruitlessly to blink the gritty sleep and late-onset astigmatism that blurred the room around the edges out of her eyes. Sheets twisted stubbornly around her legs as she rolled over, hair sticking to her cheek, her mouth dry. She patted blindly for her glasses on the nightstand and found them under the paperback she hadn’t finished in four days off.

“Turn it down!” she called, voice hoarse and low with sleep. A sigh followed, deep and theatrical, as she kicked her foot out of the tangle of bedding. “The neighbors don’t need a concert, Abigail!”

There was a beat of scrambling, a telltale thud, and the volume dropped.

“Sorry, Mom!” came the reply, muffled but enthusiastic.

Beth pushed her glasses up her nose and reached for the book beside her, dog-earing the page she barely remembered reading.

“What fell?” she called, skimming the page for anything that looked familiar before she resigned herself to starting the chapter over. Again.

“Oh my god, nothing!” Abby replied, drenched in exasperation.

Sure. Because nothing always made that much noise.

“Oh, excuse me. God forbid I ask,” Beth mumbled, letting her head fall back against the pillow. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was going to be that kind of morning.

Her feet found the floor, cold and real, and she sat there for a second debating the pros and cons of pretending the world didn’t exist for five more minutes. Behind her, Atlas let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like judgment.

“Don’t start,” she muttered.

The so-called boxer mix poked his head out from under the comforter and blinked like she’d offended him. He was all blocky head and dumb eyes, with a coat that blended right into the gray duvet. Technically, he’d been a foster fail. Emotionally, he was her most successful relationship to date.

With a squeaking yawn, he gave the massive head a shake, ears flopping like someone had pressed unmute on a cartoon. The shelter back in Boston had promised a boxer-mix, but one look at those shoulders and she’d known; pitbull, plain and simple. Probably half-staffy, too, if the stubbornness was any indication. He stretched with a groan, front paws sliding out first, shoulders low, hind legs still tucked under the covers like he hadn’t fully committed to being upright. Beth gave his hindquarters a firm pat as he finally slid off the bed.

“You coming, big guy?” she asked, pushing off the bed, joints popping in protest. The mirror across the room caught her eye and she caught her reflection in it; tired, tangled, with a faint wrinkle across her cheek from where she’d slept on the tv remote. Surprisingly, the curls she’d twisted her hair into the night before had held up decently enough.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, she had to remember how to be the new girl again. In a hospital that already felt too familiar.

With Jack fucking Abbot.

She rubbed her eyes.

Coffee. Shower. Possibly in that order. But definitely coffee.

Maybe if she kept moving fast enough, the memories wouldn’t catch up.

Her stomach twisted the whole walk to the bathroom, churning like something mean and alive was trying to claw its way through her gut lining. Beth pressed a hand to it and curled her toes against the tile. Nerves? Please. She didn’t do nerves. Still, she grit her teeth against the nausea and turned on the shower, the old pipes groaning in protest. Steam began to curl around her like a warning. Or a benediction. She wasn’t sure which.

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid.

She’d worked in enough hospitals and backs of ambulances to know her way around a trauma bay. She knew how to talk fast, move faster, disappear into the job until the job became her. But the thought of seeing him again, not as a one-time fluke in a too-bright ER, but every day? Shoulder to shoulder in the break room. Scrubbed in across the same bed. Charting in the terminal beside her… Good lord, what was she doing?

Beth stared at the mirror, fog creeping in around the edges. Her reflection blurred, softening all the sharp parts she didn’t like to look at too long because in them she saw her. She looked tired. Like someone who’d spent the last decade running on caffeine, sarcasm, and avoidance.

She took a breath, too fast, too shallow, then took another, slower one. Squeezed her fists at her sides like she could physically wring out the anxiety. Then, without looking again, she swept her hair up in a clip and stepped under the hot spray. It scalded her shoulders. She welcomed it.

No.

No. He didn’t get to do this to her. Not anymore.

He’d taken enough already. Years she didn’t get back, a version of herself she barely recognized when she thought about that girl she left on the roof of the paper mill now. He didn’t get to take her focus, her calm, her morning. Not today.

Beth tilted her face into the water and let it hit her full-on. Five minutes, then she'd be fine. She always was.

She was a grown woman, damn it. She wasn’t that girl anymore. Hadn’t been for a long time. But for one fleeting moment, between the sight of his face and the sound of her name on his lips, that girl had clawed her way to the surface, gasping for air and begging to throw her arms around his neck and fold into him before drowning all over again. Beth had pulled her from the surf once. Pressed the water from her lungs. Taught her how to swim before she was swept away by the riptide again and needed resuscitation.

She would not do it again.

If that girl chose to dive back into those waters, she could drown on her own.

Beth slammed the faucet off, the clang of metal echoing through the bathroom like punctuation. She towel-dried her face, brushed her teeth with a little more force than necessary, and tugged on the same black scrub pants and gray compression top she’d worn a hundred times. Tried-and-true. Functional. Safe.

When she stepped out, Atlas had claimed her pillow again, snoring like a diesel engine. Abby, however, was sprawled out on Beth’s bed like she owned the place; boot propped up, one fuzzy-socked foot kicked over it, phone in hand, her crutches leaned against the wall. Without a word, Abby held out a cup of coffee toward her mother, eyes still on her screen.

Beth blinked at the mug, then took it with a small grateful smile. She bent down to press a kiss to Abby’s brow before turning to dig through her dresser for a clean vest.

Abby didn’t respond. Just glanced up, gave her a slow once-over, and made a face. “That’s what you’re going with?”

Beth turned to meet her daughter’s disapproving stare, looked down at her clothes, then up again. “Is there a problem, Stacy London?”

“Who?”

“She was on a show called What Not to—” Beth waved a hand. “Nevermind. What’s wrong with it?”

Abby gave a shrug and returned to scrolling. “Just saying. It’s your first day. Kind of a boring choice.”

Beth squinted at her, tossing a black fleece vest onto the bed beside Abby’s feet. “It’s an ER, babe. Not Milan.”

Abby lifted her brows, unconvinced, then turned back to her phone with a silent suit yourself shrug.

Beth rolled her eyes and leaned against the dresser, sipping. “Did you wake up at the crack of dawn just to roast your poor mom?”

“No,” Abby muttered. “I’m trying to unfu—” She caught Beth’s look. “—fix my sleep schedule before school starts next week.”

Beth paused mid-sip and let out an approving hum. “Look at you, being responsible for once.”

Abby didn’t even look up. “What do you mean for once? I’m always responsible. I’ve practically raised myself, you know. I’ll be discussing it in therapy someday.”

Beth snorted. “Oh, the woe of the long suffering. Should I reach out to the Pope regarding your sainthood now? Or should we wait until you start applying for colleges and just do it all at once?”

Abby laughed and weakly pushed at Beth’s arm when she leaned over to kiss the top of her head. “Can I at least do your hair so you don’t look totally boring?”

Beth gave her a look, but relented with a sigh. “Fine. But no bubble braid. I looked like a Spice Girl the last time.”

“Which one?” Abby asked, deadpan.

Beth raised a brow. “The mom one.”

Abby grinned. “There is no mom Spice, Mom.”

“Exactly.”

Beth disappeared into the bathroom to fetch what Abby called out for—brush, elastic, several products that she had to give up on finding by name before she asked for her to just describe the bottles—and returned like a surgical assistant prepping for an OR. Abby adjusted her posture and pointed at the floor in front of her. Beth sat cross-legged with a grunt, mug still in hand, and felt her daughter gather her hair up with more ceremony than the act probably required. At least three different products touched her scalp. One of them smelled like coconut, another like chemicals. 

“There’s a lot goin’ on up there,” Beth muttered, eyes drifting shut.

“Trust the process,” Abby replied with exaggerated solemnity, brush in hand.

Beth smirked and took another sip. “That’s what they said at my first Brazilian wax. It didn’t end well.”

Abby made a sound of exaggerated disgust and swatted Beth’s shoulder with the brush. “Ew! Oh my god, why would you say that? You’re foul.”

“Character building,” Beth laughed, grinning now. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, I hate it. I’m scarred for life now. You’re so lucky I didn’t put glitter gel in this.”

“Hm. Sounds like you’ll be discussing it in therapy some day.” Beth glanced over her shoulder, mock serious. “You didn’t, right?”

Abby just grinned.

Beth exhaled and let her head fall forward again. Atlas snored in the background. The sky outside the window was soft and gray. She had a new job. A fresh start. Her coffee was still hot, and her daughter was doing her hair. For the moment, at least, she didn’t feel like drowning. Not entirely, anyway.

Beth sat still as Abby worked, the rhythmic brushing of her hair a soft, familiar sound in the quiet room that mingled with Atlas’ snores. It tugged at her throat as she sipped her coffee. When was the last time she had done her daughter’s hair? She couldn’t even remember that last day Abby sat on the bathroom counter while Beth pulled her hair back, giggling when she would kiss her cheek or make a face at her in the mirror. Now that same little girl was going into her senior year, and soon that same little girl would be headed off to college, and the quiet that settled over the house would be a different one. Beth bit her lip hard, blinking back the tears. Can’t cry through her entire senior year, Baker. Maybe she could cry just a little, though.

Abby’s voice broke the silence, soft but direct. “Are you excited?”

Beth blinked, unsure how to answer the question. Her throat tightened again for a moment before she responded, trying to keep the conversation light. “Am I excited? I wouldn’t say I’m excited. It’s just the same old same in a new building.”

Abby’s fingers paused, a small beat of hesitation before she gently continued brushing. “I know,” she said, as if she understood exactly what her mom meant. “But you liked your old job.”

Beth’s grip tightened around the mug in her hand, and her eyes drifted to the window. She swallowed, nodding slowly. “I did,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. She let out a small sigh, twisting around to smile up at Abby. “But... changes are fun, right? Maybe I am a little excited. It’ll be fun.”

The words felt like a lie, but she said them anyway, trying to convince herself as much as Abby. Change had never been Beth’s favorite thing, but the truth was, she had to make it work. She had to. Change was better than the alternative. 

Abby’s fingers slowed, the silence stretching between them again. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to her, Abby’s voice cut through the quiet. “What about Doctor Mullet?”

Beth almost choked on her coffee, trying to mask her reaction with a casual sip. She was certain she’d gotten away with it. Of course, Abby wouldn’t let it slide. “Who?”

Abby scoffed dramatically, the brush halting in mid-air. “Oh my god. Don’t play dumb, Mom. I was high, but not that high. That whole interaction felt like it was produced by Shonda Rhimes.”

Beth grimaced, trying to steady herself, but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. "He’s just someone I knew a long time ago, babe. I was just surprised to see him. That’s all.”

“Is he why you cried through, like, half of The Tortured Poets Department?”

Yes. 

“Of course not, Abby.”

“Whatever plunges your toilet, Mom,” Abby replied flippantly, her eyes rolling as she continued brushing.

Beth’s rolled her eyes, lips tugging up into a smirk. She leaned back slightly, lifting her mug again. “Don’t use your grandfather’s phrases against me, kid. I was there when they were written.”

“Seriously, Mom.” Abby’s tone shifted, turning more serious now. “Something happened and you’re not telling me. Parents aren’t supposed to lie to their children. You’re being a bad parent.”

Beth felt the pressure in her chest tighten for a brief moment. She wanted to brush it off, pretend it didn’t matter, but she knew that wouldn’t be enough for the bloodhound she was raising. “Oh relax, Abigail Quinn.” She took another sip, trying to disguise her unease.

Abby wasn’t buying it, and immediately started to double down while she twisted Beth’s hair up in an elastic. “I’m serious. I’ll start to feel unimportant and seek validation from unhealthy avenues. Before you know it, I’m stripping in a club by the airport, and it’ll be your fault.”

Beth laughed, but the sound was rough. “You’re incredibly dramatic, you know that?”

“Thanks,” Abby shot back. “I learned it from watching you.”

Beth couldn’t help but smile at that, but it faded as quickly as it came. She took another sip, but it felt more perfunctory than anything. “It’s a story for another time,” Beth muttered.

Abby sighed exaggeratedly. “Ugh, that’s just Mom-Code for you’re never going to tell me.”

Beth didn’t reply right away. She could feel Abby’s gaze on her, but for now, some things were better left unsaid. There were some stories that mothers just didn’t need to tell their daughters. She rolled her shoulders, giving Abby’s socked foot a gentle squeeze.

“Oh good, you’re catching on,” she teased, the corner of her lips quirking upward. Beth sat up a little straighter, lifting her coffee mug for another sip, then set it aside on the nightstand. She glanced at the clock. “Now, are you done up there, Paolo? I need to get going.”

“I’m done,” Abby replied, clearly pleased with herself. Beth pushed herself up, carefully touching the sleek ponytail that Abby had pulled her hair back into that did not feel like it needed the near ten minutes that went into it, but she’d take every single one of those minutes. Abby swung her legs back up onto the bed and flopped back into the pillows, returning to her scroll through TikTok without looking up at Beth. “I packed your lunch while you were in the shower. It’s on the counter.”

Beth tilted her head with a smile, taking in the gesture. “You’re making lunch for me now?” she asked, surprised.

Abby shrugged, her smile sheepish but warm. “It’s your first day,” she said, as if it explained everything. Her gaze softened a little, her hands stilled for a second as she met her mother’s eyes. “Tradition, right?”

Beth felt a little lump in her throat at that. She’d packed Abby’s lunch on the first day of school without fail since kindergarten. Every year, even if she had to pull herself out of bed after a night shift, she’d make sure to have it ready; sandwich, fruit, snack, little note tucked inside. It had started in a glittery pink unicorn lunchbox, the one Abby had insisted on year after year. As Abby grew, the lunchbox changed, of course. First a solid color, then something more grown-up. But Beth had never been able to part with the unicorn one. It was still tucked safely in a box at the back of her closet, where she didn’t dare look too often.

Damn it, maybe she was going to cry through senior year. She blinked back tears again and bent down to kiss Abby’s temple, tucking her hair behind her ear. She’d chastise her for going down the stairs without help later.

“Tradition,” Beth repeated, nodding, her smile wide and genuine now. She tugged on the black vest and reached for her mug once more before straightening up. “C’mon, let’s get you downstairs. You sure you’re going to be okay without me?”

Abby let Beth help her stand, accepting the steady hand without protest this time. Beth passed her the crutches, and Abby maneuvered them under her arms with a practiced ease that was still new enough to make Beth’s heart pinch. She followed her daughter out of the bedroom with Atlas padding loyally at Abby’s heels, his tail wagging like this was all just part of the routine.

Abby had been in much better spirits than she had been in the days immediately following her injury; laughing more, brushing off the awkwardness of her clunky boot with eye-rolls and sarcastic commentary rather than silence and swallowed frustration. Beth didn’t bring it up, but she suspected the Gavin boy might have something to do with it. Abby had been even more glued to her phone than usual the past few days, her smile sneaking out at texts she refused to show. Beth wasn’t going to press. Not yet, at least.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Abby replied, leaning against Beth as they started down the stairs instead of sliding down on her butt like she kept insisting was more efficient. “Mia’s gonna pick me up later, by the way. We’re going to the bookstore and then hanging at her place.”

“Who’s home?” Beth asked, guiding her down one slow step at a time.

“Her dad. It’s one of his work-from-home days today.”

Beth nodded, easing them both onto the ground floor without incident. She helped Abby over to the couch and lowered the crutches against the armrest.

“Okay. Make sure your location is on.”

“It’s on,” Abby said, collapsing into the cushions and tossing a throw blanket over her lap. “Don’t worry. I’d never deprive you of the opportunity to smother me.”

Beth rolled her eyes as she grabbed her backpack from the kitchen chair, absently picking up the lunch Abby had packed for her and the now-dented travel mug of coffee. The faint sound of The Office theme song echoed from the living room. Atlas, ever the loyal companion, jumped up on the couch and nestled against Abby, his head resting gently in her lap.

“Love you big,” Beth murmured, leaning over the back of the couch to plant a kiss on Abby’s head.

Abby looked up from her phone, a grin pulling at her lips. “Love you bigger.”

“It’s a beautiful day to save lives!” Abby called after her, her voice full of dramatic flair.

Beth made a face and scoffed as she grabbed her keys off the hook, barely containing a smile. “Gross.”

With a quiet laugh, Beth reached for her jacket on the hook by the door; just a habit she hadn’t quite shaken, even after all these years. Just reached for it when she left for her first day of classes freshman year at Penn and never stopped reaching. Her fingers brushed against the worn denim of the jacket and she paused, her hand hovering for a moment longer than necessary. She looked at it and brushed a thumb over the familiar fabric, and for a second, she wondered if she should take it.

But then, with a deep breath, she let go. Closing the door gently behind her, she stepped outside, leaving the jacket where it hung, untouched. 

Cool morning air met her when she stepped out onto the porch and locked the door behind her. Autumn had started to take hold of the neighborhood, the sidewalks now dappled with the first few splashes of fallen leaves. Beth inhaled deeply and let the brisk air bite at her lungs as she reached her car parked at the curb, Abby’s little white Impreza tucked neatly in front of her.

For a moment after she slid in, she just sat there, hands resting on the wheel, her thoughts swirling in a space where time had slowed. She closed her eyes and took a heavy breath, and turned the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life beneath her hands.

Here goes nothing.

Chapter Text

Hospitals had a certain smell. It wasn’t necessarily a bad smell; just distinct. It clung to her clothes and her hair well after her shift would end, seeped into her skin until she could’ve sworn her blood smelled like hand sanitizer and disinfectant. Parfum d’hôpital, Mom had called it. No matter the city, the staff, or the patient load, that sterile tang never changed. It was constant. Routine. Comforting, in its own strange way.

But the Pitt, as the night charge nurse had called it during her site tour last week, felt different; familiar in a deeper, more visceral sense. Like muscle memory. She was met with noise the second she stepped in, the waiting room already packed before seven a.m., and the ER buzzing with the sort of barely organized chaos only found in places that treated drunks with head lacerations and pulmonary embolisms at the same time. She’d already stowed her things in the locker she was assigned at orientation, ran through her morning prep, and now clipped her shiny new badge to her vest, zipping it halfway before stepping into the ring.

She hadn’t seen Jack yet, and with any luck, she wouldn’t. Maybe he worked nights. Maybe the schedule gods took mercy and decided their paths wouldn’t have to cross at all. She could live with that. Hell, she’d be grateful for it. Out of all the hospitals in the fucking country, he just had to work here. Still, she caught herself glancing sideways every time someone stepped too close. Her stomach tightened when tall figures moved in her periphery, heart kicking up before her brain could talk it down. 

Stupid.

She exhaled through her nose and tried to shake it off. There were enough nerves in her chest already, no need to feed them. She’d earned this. She had every right to be here. And he… well. He didn’t get to take up any more space in her day than absolutely necessary. She pulled her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and kept walking.

Let the day start. Let it be his day off. Please.

Her watch buzzed on her wrist and pulled her attention from the swirl of movement around her. The small display lit up with Abby’s text; Have a great day! Kick ass. Love you Mom :)

Her lips tugged up. Her sweet girl. Before she could start to tap out her response, squinting at the too small letters, another message rolled across the screen; Also, can I please spend the night at Mia’s tonight? Scott already said it was ok!

She rolled her eyes, still smiling. There it is. She tucked her mug under her arm, starting to tap out her response again, and stopped just short of getting mowed down by a gurney, patient writhing and moaning while nurses worked furiously on the move. Yep. Same shit, different layout.

She already felt right at home.

She spotted a familiar blonde bob and felt her shoulders relax slightly before she made her way toward the nurses’ station.

“This place always a zoo,” she called out over the din, leaning against the counter, “or are y’all going big for my first day?”

Dana turned, glasses sliding down her nose as she scanned the floor. Her face lit up when she spotted Beth. “What can I say? We like to make an impression.”

Beth grinned, the weight in her chest easing at the sight of a familiar face. “Yeah? Good or bad?”

“Too early in the day to tell,” Dana said with a wink, reaching across the counter to pull her into a quick hug. “Thank God, you actually showed. Now save me.”

Beth hugged her back with a laugh, still gripping Dana’s arms when she leaned back. “I thought about turning around, but then I figured you’d never let me hear the end of it if I did.”

“Damn right,” Dana said, swatting her arm with her clipboard. “Would’ve made a complete ass out of me with how much I’ve been talking you up around here.”

Beth laughed under her breath and leaned heavier against the counter. “Oh, good lord. I hope you’re not out here writing checks I can’t cash.”

Dana smirked. “Too late. Told them you were God’s gift to triage.”

Beth rolled her eyes, but truth be told, she was just grateful to have a familiar face around, and a welcomed one at that. She’d met the hilariously blunt woman years ago when Abby had made the varsity volleyball team as a freshman, and Dana’s daughter, Jenna, had been a senior and team captain. Beth had found a kindred spirit in the only other mom who showed up straight from a twelve-hour shift, still in scrubs, hair barely wrangled into a bun. They’d swapped war stories between sets; hallway births, combative psych patients, and the classic “I don’t know how it got in there, doc, I swear” foreign object cases. Just another day in the office for them, while the other parents quietly edged away from their corner of the bleachers.

Even after Jenna graduated, they kept in touch; mostly Facebook comments and the occasional text until earlier that summer, when Dana called out of the blue to tell her that there was an opening in her department. She recruited her like she was earning commission, said she wanted someone who could keep up and wouldn’t flinch when things got loud. “Besides,” she’d added, “if I have to deal with someone’s sorry ass all day, I’d rather it be yours.”

The timing couldn’t have been better. Beth needed a way out of Mercy fast, and Dana had practically lit up the runway and guided her in. She said yes before she had time to talk herself out of it, and now, here she was.

“How’s your sweet girl?” Dana asked, softening just enough to make the question feel like more than polite conversation.

“She’s good,” Beth said, a little smile tugging at her mouth. “She’s back to giving me hell, so I’d say she’s feeling better. Already counting down the days until she gets cleared for sports.”

“Sounds like Abby,” Dana chuckled. “Come on, let me introduce you to everyone before they all scatter.”

She turned and scanned the nurses’ station like she was mentally taking roll, then gestured toward a small group still lingering nearby. “That’s Donnie and Perlah; don’t let Perlah’s face fool you, she’s friendlier than she looks. Kim’s the one over there trying to do six things at once.” Each gave Beth a quick smile or wave before darting off in different directions like worker bees.

Dana nodded toward the two residents standing over a terminal, both already halfway through reading something as they walked. “Blondie is Mel, one of the residents. She’s newer, you’ll love her. Sweet girl. Heather is with a patient already, you’ll meet her later. Let’s see, who else…”

Beth nodded along, doing her best to match names with hair colors and approximate height, though she missed the redheaded woman’s name. Cassie, maybe? She made a mental note to circle back later and properly introduce herself. Redheads needed to stick together.

Dana glanced back over her shoulder and gave her a dry look. “And yes. There will be a quiz at the end of your shift.”

Beth was about to reply when Dana raised a hand to flag someone down. “Robby! New girl is here.”

Beth turned in time to see a tall figure slow to a stop. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week; tired brown eyes framed with smile lines, stubble that teetered towards a full beard, hoodie thrown over black scrubs and sleeves pushed up to the elbows like they were already in his way. She recognized him vaguely as one of the dozen people on her interview panel. 

“Doctor Michael Robinavich, our fearless leader,” Dana said with a smirk. “This is Beth, our newest glutton for punishment. And a friend of mine, so don’t scare her off.”

“Oh, wouldn’t dream of it, Dana.” He smiled, slow and a little crooked, and let his gaze linger a beat too long to be purely professional. Beth clocked it instantly, but instead of bristling, she smirked. Damn. Too bad she didn’t date coworkers anymore. Or doctors, for that matter. Or dated much at all, really. He was cute; scruffy in a half-dead-on-his-feet kind of way. Just her type of man.

She switched her travel mug to her left hand and extended the right. “Doctor Robinavich. Good to see you again. Beth Baker.”

He took her hand, warm and firm, and held it maybe half a second longer than necessary. “I remember. Please. Robby.”

“Alright, Robby.”

“I’d say we’re lucky to have you,” he said, glancing down the hall like he was already late for something, “but we both know it’s less about luck and more about finally finding someone desperate enough to say yes.”

“Gee, you sure know how to flatter a girl,” she smirked, watching as the ambulance bay doors slammed open. A trauma team surged forward with a gurney, voices overlapping;

“GSW, two to the chest.” “Pressure’s tanking.” “Call the OR, now.” 

Good morning, Pittsburgh.

The current pulled them down the corridor like a riptide. Beth crossed her arms, leaning back slightly to watch them disappear into a trauma bay. Five person teams. Nice. That was the same, at least. “Looks like I picked the right day to start. Seems like you could use the hands.”

Robby huffed a humorless laugh. “Welcome to the Pitt. Hands, prayers, small miracles. We’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

“Well, I don’t know about the miracles, but I’ll try my best,” she smirked, leaning back to get a better look at the triage screen over the station. “I’m ready to go, boss. Throw me to the wolves.” 

Robby shook his head with a small, tired chuckle. “Remember, Baker, you asked for this.”

He glanced at his watch before turning to address the group around them. “Alright, seven on the dot! Night crew, pack it up and get outta here. Day crew, circle up.”

A ripple of groans, calls of “thank God” and “good luck, suckers” echoed from the staff clocking out, some already halfway down the hall, scrubs rumpled like they’d all just crawled out of a bunker. Which, Beth supposed, wasn’t far off. The day shifters drifted toward the center like planets in orbit. Beth followed Dana’s lead, stepping in closer with her arms folded, trying to look like she belonged when curious eyes flicked to her.

One pair of eyes felt heavier than the rest. Beth didn’t look right away. She didn’t need to. She felt it; just enough heat and weight to tell her exactly who it was. At one point, that look would make her feel steady. Now it just made her skin itch.

Whether she had wanted to or not, she glanced up, quick enough to hopefully go unnoticed. Jack stood across the huddle, shoulders squared but hands shoved deep into his pockets. The second their eyes met, his dropped quickly, and with it went her stomach.

Damn it. She really thought she was going to get off easy. Thought maybe, just maybe, the universe would cut her a break, just this once. Guess she thought too soon. Then again, when had the universe ever done Elizabeth Baker any favors? 

She tightened her arms around herself and turned her attention to Robby instead, but she could still feel it. Could still feel him. Like a pulled muscle she couldn’t quite stretch out.

“Okay,” Robby said once the group clustered loosely in a semi-circle around the desk, “night wasn’t terrible. Only 3 codes, so slow night. Two admits waiting; ortho consult on one of them, psych consult on the other. Myrna is around here somewhere, so be warned. Bay 2’s got a GSW, Bay 3’s still hot; MVA, headed to OR.”

He rattled off the rest with practiced ease: attending coverage, consult availability, OR backups, a heads-up that radiology was short-staffed again, so expect delays. Beth scanned the group, trying to clock faces and squint at name tags, then caught his look again. It flickered across at her like it was unintentional, but it landed all the same.

This time, she didn’t look away. Her spine straightened like a wire pulled taut, and she met his eyes with a calm she didn’t quite feel. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just met hazel eyes that had taken too much sleep from her. If he wanted to look, then fine, Jack. Look. If she had to remember every goddamn detail, then so did he.

Jack didn’t hold her stare long. He shifted his weight, blinked, and looked down like something on the floor suddenly needed his attention. Beth didn’t let herself feel good about it. She didn’t let herself feel anything at all. Instead, she turned back to the group without a word, jaw tight, heart ticking faster than it had any right to, and nodded along to Robby’s quick debrief.

“Couple of techs out sick, so keep that in mind. Langdon’s still out, so until he’s back in—”

“Twenty-three days,” a voice piped up from across the huddle. It was the blonde resident with glasses, Mel, Beth remembered, and she was grinning before the group turned to look at her.

Mel blinked like she didn’t mean to say it out loud. Beth caught the soft flush that crept up her neck. She offered her a smile; not teasing, not pitying. Just quiet recognition. Mel returned it before dropping her eyes to the floor.

Robby smirked and gestured toward Mel like he was proving a point. “So, yeah. A few weeks.”

Then he turned toward Beth, stepping aside just enough to make room for her in the circle. “Alright, last thing; new face on the floor. Everyone, this is Dr. Beth Baker. She’s joining us from Mercy, and somehow we convinced her we’re the better circus. Try to keep fooling her, yeah?”

Beth raised a hand in a quick wave, giving the crowd a small smile. A few people nodded or murmured greetings, a couple offered smiles. Someone in the back muttered, “Sorry in advance,” and got a smack from Perlah. Beth already got the feeling she was going to like Perlah.

“She’ll be a regular on days,” Robby continued, “since we’re doubling up on attendings until Langdon is back in. If she looks confused, help her. If she looks competent, leave her alone. Let’s keep up the illusion so she sticks around, yeah?”

A few chuckles arose before Robby wrapped up with the last few instructions and a quick nod before the group began to disperse. Jack was gone before Robby even finished talking, ducking into a room as quickly as he could. Staff pulled back into the steady current of the floor, the hum of urgent footsteps and clipped voices filling the space again. Somewhere down the hall, alarms buzzed sharply, and a gurney rattled past, a paramedic jogging alongside it.

Robby turned to Beth, a gentle smile warming his face as he crossed his arms. “Hey, how about you take the morning to settle in? No pressure. Just get comfortable, get a feel for the place before diving into any cases.”

Beth gave him a knowing look. “The classic ‘take it easy’ offer, huh? Funny, I’m usually the one giving it. This must be what the other side of the desk feels like.”

Robby chuckled and tucked his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Technically,” he made air quotes with one hand before tucking it back in, “you’re supposed to shadow me today. The grand tour, login walkthrough, pretend we’re not short three staff. Whole nine yards.”

Beth smiled, tapping her nails against her mug. “Ah yes. Shadowing; where I trail behind you like an intern while we pretend I haven’t been doing this since Bush was in office?”

He chuckled, smirking. “Which Bush?”

Beth let out a dry laugh and shook her head, brow raised. “Ouch. Watch it, Robinavich. I was just starting to like you.”

Robby laughed quietly. “So no to the tour of the supply closet and some good old administrative hand-holding?”

“This is hardly my first rodeo. I know how the whole ‘chief attending’ gig goes.” She sipped her coffee and shrugged, gesturing between them. “You sign off that I was glued to your side all day, and I’ll tell any administrator who comes looking for my babysitter that you’re in the bathroom?”

His grin widened. “You got yourself a deal, Baker.”

“Pleasure doing business with ya.” She set her mug down in front of an empty terminal, tucking it up under the counter before she stepped back to look at the triage board again. “Alright. Put me in, Coach. Where do you need me?”

“Triage is underwater,” Robby said, eyes skimming the hallway again. “Honestly, it’s been underwater since, oh, I don’t know… forever? You okay taking rounds?”

Beth gave a quiet laugh and nodded. “You got it.”

He smiled, handing over the triage iPad mid-scroll. “System’s the same as Mercy, so you should be golden. Just tap here to log in, swipe to claim, double-tap to open charts… but it looks like you’re already three steps ahead of me.”

“Like I said; hardly my first rodeo,” she said, already tapping through. She glanced up at him with a small smile. “How often are vitals reassessed? Every two hours?”

He opened his mouth to say more, but paused when he noticed Jack step out of a room. He didn’t see her, distracted by whatever a resident was presenting to him as they walked. His sleeves were pushed to his elbows, scrub top clinging in familiar places that Beth dropped her eyes from. Deep in her gut, she felt that same twist she’d felt in the shower that morning, ancient and oppressive, but something traitorous fluttered against her ribs for a moment before she grabbed it by the wings and shoved it down hard. She kept her gaze on the iPad, but her jaw shifted and she bit down on the inside of her cheek until a jolt of pain lessened the pressure.

He looked the same. Or maybe he didn’t. 

It was hard to tell when her memory refused to let go of a younger version that lived within it. His curls had gone gray, but they still flattened from where he dragged his hands through them, brow pressed together the same way it had when he was tired or irritated or thinking too hard. She used to tap that space with a finger when it wrinkled to get him to loosen up a bit before he’d trace his thumb against her lips. His laugh came at something the resident said in passing, brief and dry, just a flash, but it twisted in her gut at how familiar it sounded. His lips tugged up for a moment, and that was the same too. Too small. Too tight. Wrong. Not hers.

And from the look of the band on his finger after he peeled off his gloves with a practiced snap, it hadn’t been hers for some time now. 

Jesus Christ, Beth. Get a fucking grip.

He glanced at Robby first, then his gaze found her. She looked down again before she could catch his eyes.

“Hey, Abbot!” Robby called, waving him over without missing a beat in his instructions. Beth’s fingers moved across the screen, feigning focus to keep from looking up.

Jack approached as Robby nodded at the chart she’d pulled up in a desperate attempt to look occupied. “Looks like you’re all set. Before you go, Baker,” he glanced to Jack, then back again with a faintly conspiratorial smile, “This is Jack Abbot, one of our—.”

“We’ve met,” Jack said without pause. He barely broke stride as he moved past them without so much as a sideways glance.

Beth didn’t flinch. Or at least tried not to, she hoped she’d done a good job of hiding the way her shoulders tensed. Just adjusted her grip on the iPad that was a little less steady now, pretending to scroll, and looked back to Robby, whose brows were now raised somewhere near his hairline.

“Well,” Robby said slowly, watching Jack disappear down the hallway, “I was going to say I think you two’ll get along…”

Dana leaned back, charge phone pressed to her chest, and gave Robby a look. “Don’t take it personally, Cap. He’s been like that since he got in.”

Robby huffed a short breath of amusement, but Beth could tell he didn’t love the brush-off. She didn’t either, but she pushed it aside. Kept it tucked away, same place she stored all the old hurts with his name on them. Wasn’t the first time he walked away from her.

Beth glanced past him, gaze catching on a cluster at the far end of the counter. Three kids—no, not kids, but close enough—stood in a loose triangle like they were at a middle school dance and waiting to be asked to dance. Eager. Green. Good lord, they kept looking younger and younger every damn year.

Still, she felt something warm uncoil in her chest. They never got less determined, never less passionate. That was the beautiful, painful thing about working with med students that she loved the most; they threw themselves into the fire without flinching, certain they’d walk through it untouched. She remembered that feeling well.

She flicked her head toward the group. “So, do I get to corrupt the youth yet, or is that privilege reserved for next week?”

“Be my guest.” Robby’s smile was easy, his voice pitched low as he gestured discreetly at the students. “Javadi, Santos, Whitaker. Take your pick.”

Beth tilted her head toward them. “Which one’s your favorite?”

“Favorite?” Robby gave a mock-offended scoff. “Doctor Baker, a good teacher never picks favorites.”

But he flicked his eyes toward Whitaker with a wink before being called down the hall. He excused himself with a quick, light touch on her arm, and then he was gone, leaving her alone in front of the kids.

The three students stared at her like Dad had just brought home his new girlfriend. She stared back.

Santos was the first to break eye contact, picking at a nail before straightening her back and sinking onto one hip like she’d seen enough to be bored. Beth knew that type. Sharp, maybe too sharp, often had something to prove. Usually the first to burn out or burn through people.

Javadi stood with the kind of composed alertness Beth liked; eyes scanning not just her, but behind her. She was already looking for context clues. That was promising. Beth could work with that.

Then there was Whitaker.

She already knew she was going to like Whitaker.

Poor kid didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Or his face. He kept shifting his weight like he was caught between asking a question and hoping he wouldn’t be noticed. He caught Beth’s eye and she smiled, which he returned uncomfortably. She knew this type, too. There was a reason they became the favorites, and usually, damn good doctors. 

She pointed to Whitaker. “You. Come on.”

He glanced behind him, then back at her, uncertain. “Me?”

She gave him a flat look. “I’m pointing at you, aren’t I?”

“…Yes?”

“Then let’s go. Triage awaits.”

Alright, day one. Let’s do this.

She lasted all of fifteen minutes in triage before the first real one rolled in. Fifty-eight-year-old male, brought in by a wife who had watched him hobble around for a full day post-MVC insisting he was fine. By the time Beth clocked him, he was ghost-pale and gripping his side like it might fall off. The bruise had spread across his flank in angry purples, blooming like a rotten fruit; classic Grey’s-Turner sign. Ruptured pancreas. Not fine. 

Robby cracked a grin and joked that she didn’t waste any time when she came busting through the doors flanking a gurney, already calling for labs and a FAST scan to the nurses she had introduced herself to in the same breath.

She scrubbed out sometime around ten after the guy made it to the OR stable, and by ten fifteen, they threw another chart at her. This time, a construction worker who took a fifteen foot tumble off some scaffolding. Fractured wrist, three cracked ribs, and a CT that showed a kidney laceration. He got a bed. The marble up a toddler’s nose that she removed in the waiting room did not, but a very frazzled mom got a pep talk, little man got a sticker, and Beth got a surprisingly nice hug from a stranger.

By noon, she was three coffees deep, two traumas handled, and only marginally behind on her charting, which, all things considered, felt like a win. The morning had been one case after another, but manageable. No mass casualty alerts, no screaming family members, no staff dissolving into tears in the hallway. Just a full board and a decent rhythm and the chief attending shooting her flirty smiles between patients. She was starting to think she might like it here. 

She finally crossed paths with the other ER redhead a little before noon. Cassie, just like she’d guessed. By then, Beth had already given up on the protein bar she’d been pulled away from three times and earned herself two new bruises from a run-in with a gurney, but things were otherwise going surprisingly well. Cassie was sharp, funny, easy to talk to, and as it turned out, they had a few Mercy friends in common. By the time Beth settled in beside her at the terminal with a half-flat Diet Coke, they’d traded mom stories and made carpool plans for the wedding of one of those friends they were both invited to. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this. She liked everyone so far; even if one of them had been doing a damn good job of pretending she didn’t exist.

Maybe she had been right when she told Abby that she was a little excited. 

“Tawny actually called me when she found out you were working here,” Cassie said, glancing over at her as she signed off a chart.

Beth chuckled, already lamenting whatever the sharp-tongued, firecracker of a nurse that always goaded her into drinking far too much during staff get-togethers had told her new coworker. “Uh-oh. How afraid should I be?”

“All good things,” Cassie promised. “She said to tell you she’s still pissed at you for leaving, though. Also, she set the bar high; said you were basically the emergency department’s resident baked goods supplier.”

Beth grinned, tilting her Diet Coke towards her in a mock-cheers. “Gotta save something for the second day.”

It was so far easy. Comfortable in a way that tamed the beast that had been trying to rip its way out of her gut since she woke up. And when Cassie finally asked, “So what made you leave Mercy anyway?” she almost didn’t mind the shift in tone. Almost.

Because that was the exact moment Jack slid into the empty terminal across from her like he hadn’t spent the entire morning acting like she didn’t exist. He still hadn’t said a word to her. Not during rounds, not when they were alone together in the staff room together for a fleeting moment, not when she’d brushed past him grabbing a pair of gloves and he flinched like he’d been shot.  

She didn’t care. Not really. Not that her now-married high school ex-boyfriend hadn’t looked at her all day, and apparently had decided to pretend that whatever history they shared never happened. He didn’t need to look at her. She was happy to pretend too if that’s what he wanted. She’d gotten pretty damn good at that. 

Still, something in her chest shifted at the sight of him. That little flutter of that stupid little girl she’d left on that rooftop after she learned that fairytales didn’t exist. She took a sip of the Coke and shoved that girl’s head right back under the water where she belonged.

She set the can down, eyes still on the screen as she reached for a pen, only to brush against his hand as he went for the same one. Just the edge of her pinky, a quick skim across the back of his hand, but it was enough to fire up nerve endings she hadn’t used in years. She pulled back like she’d been shocked.

“Sorry,” she said too quickly.

“‘S fine,” he muttered, already logging out of the terminal and hustling away like he had somewhere else to be. Anywhere else.

Beth cleared her throat, eyes fixed on the screen even though the words were suddenly hard to read. “There was… a change in leadership,” she told Cassie, hoping the pivot was smooth enough to pass for casual even though she could feel her pulse in her throat. “Mercy just stopped being a good fit.”

Cassie gave a slow nod, eyes trailing after Jack before turning back to Beth. Her lips parted, and Beth braced herself for the one question she’d been hoping to dodge today, feeling it coming like a wave she didn’t have the strength to duck. She really should’ve practiced her answer in the car. Because right now, everything she could think of sounded absolutely batshit insane.

“GSW en route. Male, mid-teens,” Dana called from the desk. “Drive-by. G1 to right upper arm. ETA two minutes.”

Beth could’ve kissed her on the mouth when she looked over at her and asked, “Baker, you want it?”

She was already halfway out of her seat. “Yes, please,” she called back. 

She’d never been more thankful for someone else’s shitty afternoon in her entire life. She grabbed gloves and a gown from the trauma cart, forcing herself to settle her breathing into something calmer. Controlled. She didn’t glance back to see if Cassie was still watching. She just kept moving.

She’d figure out a good answer on the drive home. Something clean. Something that didn’t sound like she was still holding a grudge. Something that didn’t sound like a lie.

By the time she made it to the locker bay at the end of her shift, her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache. Her feet throbbed in protest with every step, her back twinged when she bent to undo her laces, and she was pretty sure she could no longer smell anything except bleach, blood, and hospital-grade antiseptic. 

The gunshot wound had turned into a full-blown treasure hunt for a fragmented slug, and everything after that blurred together into a parade of sutures, scans, a very brave five-year-old with a dislocated elbow from the monkey bars, a hypoglycemic trucker who swore up and down he hadn’t eaten anything weird despite his glucose clocking in at 34, and a frat boy with a steak knife stuck in his thigh who had no reasonable explanation as to why it was there and zero shame.

All in all, a pretty fun first day.

The locker bay was blessedly quiet now, the shift change rush thinned out and gone. Beth rubbed at her eyes, stepped in front of her locker, and sighed as she rested her forehead against the cool metal for a moment, already dreaming of the bottle of red waiting for her at home on the kitchen counter. As Abby would say; she’d been a brave girl. She’d earned a little treat.

She punched in her code, Abby’s birthday, like always, and hit the unlock button. Twisted the knob, and was met with resistance.

She blinked at the lock, shoulders sagging. Must’ve fat-fingered it. Always took her two or three tries to get it right after a long shift anyway. She tapped it in again, slower this time, glancing down at the text Abby had sent her before twisting the lock again. Still jammed.

Beth let out a breath. “Okay, Baker,” she muttered. “Get your shit together. Let’s go home.”

She tried again. 11-19-08. Press red. Twist.

Once again, nothing.

She frowned and double-checked the locker number just in case the day had finally broken her brain. Nope. Right one. She was mid-punch on her third attempt when a hand brushed lightly against her shoulder.

“Nice work today, Baker,” Robby called as he passed, backpack slung over one shoulder, his scrubs half-untucked like the rest of him was already off the clock. He gave her a grin on his way down the hall. “Think we’ll keep you around.”

“Hope so,” Beth smiled despite herself. “Have a good night, Robby.”

He threw up a little wave without turning around and disappeared around the corner. She stared back at the locker like she could will it open by sheer exhaustion alone, sighed again, and tried the code one more time. Still, it didn’t budge. She closed her eyes, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her vest. 

This stupid piece of metal was the only thing standing between her, clean clothes, and her couch. She refused to be bested by it. She swallowed down the frustration fluttering in her throat and let out a determined, steadying breath. New doesn’t mean impossible, she told herself. Be smarter than the locker, Baker.

11.

19.

08.

Red button.

She twisted the knob, holding her breath out of sheer hope. Surely, this had to be it. She was feeling lucky. And…

Fucking nothing.

She huffed and rubbed her eyes, biting down hard on her cheek. She glanced around, hoping nobody was watching a college-educated woman nearing fifty-years-old in a losing battle with an electronic lock. She pulled her phone from her vest pocket and tapped into her email. Maybe the welcome packet had locker instructions. Reset steps. Please, God, anything, but she was met with nothing but HR fluff.

She was just about to try again until a hand reached over, covering the pad. 

She glanced over, expecting to see Robby, maybe Dana, someone easy. But the shape of the hand and the scar on his knuckles told her she was wrong before she even looked up. Broader. Familiar.

Jack.

He looked at her for the first time all day. No smirk. No amusement. Just… tired. And that was almost worse. The clawing in her gut didn’t stop, but something lighter stirred underneath it. A fluttering against her ribs that she didn’t want to feel, that felt almost cruel.

He lifted his hand from the pad without a word, like helping had never been out of the question, held down the reset button until it chirped, then pressed the pound key. When he tilted his head toward it, she didn’t argue. Didn’t ask how he knew. Just swallowed her pride and typed in the code again. Red button.

The lock clicked.

She twisted the knob and pulled the door open. “Thanks,” she murmured, offering him a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He nodded, returning one of his own. That same damn tight-lipped thing he used to use when he didn’t know what to say but wanted to pretend he did. It felt just as wrong now as it had back then.

He opened the locker next to hers and started gathering his things in silence, the faint sounds of zippers and metal echoing down the now-empty hall. She couldn’t see him past the door between them, and she was glad for it. Whatever was hanging in the air between them didn’t need a face to go with it.

Beth turned back to her locker and reached for her bag with fingers that fumbled more than they should have. She busied herself with pointless organization, straightening things she’d already straightened that morning. A change of scrubs. Clean shoes. Spare socks. A battered toiletry bag with a sticky zipper. A photo of her and Abby in DisneyWorld for cheerleading nationals in February was taped to the mirror on the door. Jack didn’t walk away, just continued to pack up in silence while they both pretended the other wasn’t there. 

He finally broke the heaviness after what felt like days. “Good work today,” he said softly.

Her hands stilled, fingers wrapped around the strap of her bag. She wanted to say something snarky, something dismissive to keep him at arm’s length the way she’d promised herself to do. But the way he said it tightened something in her throat. It was simple. Honest. Like he meant it.

Instead, she tugged her keys out of her bag and managed a soft, “Yeah. You too.”

He didn’t say anything else. The silence settled again, thicker now. She could hear him moving; clinks of metal, the rustle of fabric. Close. Too close.She squeezed her keys so tight that the teeth bit into her palm.

This was ridiculous, she told herself. They were nearly fifty, for God’s sake. Too old to be dancing around the edges of a thirty-year-old wound like nervous teenagers, and he was married. He’d obviously continued forward the same as she had. She’d buried that hatchet a long time ago; stitched her heart back together piece by piece and kept going. Pushed through med school alone, survived the last year of residency with an infant and her family on the other side of the country. Built a career, raised a daughter, made a good, stable life. She could handle a conversation with a boy she used to love.

Except somewhere along the way, she’d kept a map to that damn hatchet. Hadn’t even realized she’d drawn it until he walked into that exam room and she saw him again. Thirty years and all it took was one look to feel the ache of it all.

She hadn’t even known he’d gone into medicine. She guessed that had always been the plan though, until it wasn’t. She’d head to med school first, and he’d do his time saving lives in combat zones. Then it would be his turn to suffer through labs and lectures once he got out and she held down the fort until they both had a few new letters following their last name. But that version of their future ended the night he pulled out of her parents’ drive like he couldn’t get out fast enough. Her knowing anything about his life had stopped then, and he’d made sure of it.

It didn’t matter. She’d told herself she didn’t care so many times it should’ve been true by now. The scar tissue around that wound was thick, and she knew better than anyone how difficult it was to cut through. 

She chewed the inside of her cheek and glanced at his locker door. Be the bigger person, Beth. There’s a bar two blocks from the hospital. Buy him a drink, say what needed to be said, clear the air. Then go to admin, and request opposite shifts. Put on your big girl panties. Learn to swim.

Not like he’d say yes anyway. He probably had his wife waiting for him at home; a family to hustle back to. She had to get back to… well, Abby was at Mia’s for the night. If she put her DoorDash order in now, she might beat it home.

She sighed. God, she was so tired of being the bigger person. She slammed her locker shut with more force than necessary and turned. 

“Jack—”

But he was already gone. Only the soft whisper of the door swinging closed at the far end of the corridor remained.

She stood there for a moment, keys clutched too tight in her fist, the echo of his voice still warm in her chest. Beth exhaled, long and slow. Then, she adjusted the strap of her bag, squared her shoulders, and walked out alone.

Maybe she’d get that drink anyway.

Chapter Text

By the fourth day of sharing an ER with Beth Baker, Jack was seriously considering paying Shen to take his day shifts. Or retiring. Or walking into traffic. Whichever kept him from watching Robby flirt with her through another damn shift like a teenager with a crush. Jack watched it all with the sort of dead-eyed calm only achievable by a man restraining the urge to strangle someone. He was one more cup of coffee brought because ‘I was in the staff room. Noticed you could use a refill,’ or touch to her lower back in the name of ’squeezing by,’ away from filing an HR complaint or setting himself on fire.

He would have thought Robby learned his lesson about dating coworkers after Collins, but he’d been hounding Beth since she walked through the doors on Monday like a man who was ready to be hurt again. Not that he could blame the guy. Of course Robby found excuses to be wherever she was. Of course he’d lean over the counter while she charted, asking questions he already knew the answers to, just to see her roll her eyes and hide a smile. 

Jack understood it. Every bit of it. A lifetime ago, he’d done the very same just for a moment in her orbit. She was sharp, quick-witted; brilliant in the same way that had baffled him when they were kids. And beautiful. God, she’d always been beautiful. But not the polished kind, not something you wrapped in a bow that faded over time. Beth had been all edge and heat and life. The kind of girl who made you feel everything too sharply. Like a wildfire. Untouchable. Brilliant. Mesmerizing. Capable of swallowing everything in her path, including the dumb, angry boy who didn’t know how to hold something that real. He’d chased that blaze until he swallowed too much smoke and ran.

Now, watching her move through the ER, he saw a different light. Not the fierce inferno of youth. Not something wild and consuming. She’d become something steadier. Warmer. Constant. Still capable of burning you if you got too close; but now it felt like an invitation, not a dare.

The fire hadn’t gone out. He saw it flicker when she took command of a trauma room, in the spark behind her eyes, in the steel threaded through her voice when the doctor he always knew she’d become stepped forward. But it wasn’t untamed anymore. It had grown up, settled deep. Contained. Controlled. But still no less captivating. Still just as powerful. 

And maybe that was the thing that gutted him most. The world hadn’t hardened her. Time hadn’t dimmed her, but just made her more fierce. More determined. More Beth. Even whatever damage he’d done, walking away the way he had, hadn’t turned her cold. She hadn’t gone bitter or small. She’d just kept becoming. She didn’t need him to become that. She never had.

A wildfire to a hearth. Still just as warm. Still just as dangerous. And still drawing people in, same as always, even though Jack stood at the edges in the cold like he was afraid of being burned. Now, he mostly saw it pointed at everyone else, and Robby stepped right up to it like a man who hadn’t seen his share of full thickness burns. 

Jack stood in front of the tracking board, eyes unfocused as he scanned over triage codes and room numbers. He wasn’t looking. Not really. His focus kept being pulled across the room to where Beth stood leaned against the wall in front of Robby with a patient chart between them, looking up at him with that gentle smile that Jack had once known from the locker beside his own. Just a consult that had lasted nearly fifteen minutes with laughter that was a little too loud over toxicology results. 

He told himself it didn’t matter when the sound of that laugh twisted in his throat. He swallowed it down; that sound wasn’t his to miss. But there was something about watching her laugh like that, that made the breath catch in his chest.

She hadn’t even looked at him since Monday. Not for more than the hard glance that made him want to sink into the floor when she spotted him across the huddle, eyes sharp, unreadable. Hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t flinched. She just looked at him like he was a name she hadn’t thought about in years and didn’t want to remember now. And why would she? He’d made sure of that. 

But that look hadn’t left him. It kept echoing every time she passed by and they both pretended not to see each other. She barely looked at him again that first day, not until the locker. And even then, it hadn’t lasted long. A glance. A guarded thank you. No questions. No warmth. Just silence. Which was fair. He’d earned the silence. He’d barely spoken to her since, save for a few short exchanges in the hall when absolutely necessary or an occasional glance when she passed by him with one of the student doctors on her heels like a baby duck.

Still, he kept watching. Call it old habits. Call it muscle memory. Call it whatever the hell it was that tightened his shoulders when someone else made her laugh. He hadn't expected her to still have that kind of power over him. Hadn’t expected to feel eighteen again every time he looked at her, equal parts wonder and regret, like the years between had folded in on themselves.

God, he needed back on the night shift. Maybe he should text Shen. There wasn’t a lot the guy wouldn’t do for two hundred bucks, and Jack was willing to bankrupt himself if necessary.

Jack ran a hand through his hair and stood up straighter, trying to shake it off while he scanned over the board again; a head injury in Five, a silent heart attack in Twelve, an assault victim in Nine with a broken jaw. Things that needed his focus. Not a thirty year old wound that never really healed right. They’d both lived entire lifetimes in the space between then and now. She had a kid, a life she built, and every right to be hit on relentlessly by his best friend. He had... well, enough ghosts to keep him company.

Still, he watched as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the corners of her mouth curved from that laugh, and thought, You used to do that for me.

And just for a second, just long enough to hurt, he let himself miss her. Not just her, but the version of himself that used to make her smile like that, who made her laugh so easily. To catch her smiling at him like it was a secret she didn’t mean to give away. Like he was hers, and she didn’t care who knew it.

There’d been nothing complicated about loving her back then. Not really. Not until he made it complicated. Not until the goodbye that he never truly gave her. Not until life kept going, and he didn’t.

Jack looked away when Beth touched Robby’s wrist, drawing his attention to something on the screen while she gestured, and he pretended to watch the screen and not her. Jack’s jaw clenched as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest, fixing his eyes on the board. He wasn’t eighteen anymore. Wasn’t the kid who kept her picture on his dash and spent every waking minute finding new excuses to see her. He’d been a soldier. A medic. A husband. A mistake or two along the way. Life moved forward. Things changed.

She’d changed too. She’d built a whole life without him, and that was all he’d ever wanted for her; the big, beautiful life she used to dream about. The one she planned out in gel pen-covered notebooks, color-coded and hopeful, ready to tear it all up for a boy who could take her away from all of it with a few pieces of military paperwork. He’d pull her from everything she was supposed to be just to drag her across the country from one shitty base house to the next. Or worse, leave her alone in a town she didn’t want to wait while he was sent off to God-knows-where, wondering if he’d come back in a pine box and why she ever ripped out those pages in the first place. He’d seen what that did to his own mother. To his dad. He didn’t wish the same for her.

That was what stuck the most now: watching her laugh at someone else’s joke, brush someone else’s arm, build a life that didn’t need him in it. It never had. That’s why he let her go. She deserved that life. She always had. He didn’t deserve to take that from her then, or to take her time now. However, it didn’t stop him from wanting it. Even if it was fleeting. Even if it was only a few clipped, professional exchanges when they couldn’t avoid each other before he would fall silent and get the fuck out of there. 

It wasn’t out of malice. He just… didn’t know what the hell to say to her. He hadn’t known what to say then, and still didn’t. Because what could he possibly say now that wouldn’t sound small? That wouldn’t sound like an excuse? That he’d been a coward? That he thought he was doing the right thing? That he told himself it’d be cleaner that way, that if he made it easy for her to hate him, she wouldn’t have to carry the weight of him for the rest of her life?

Didn’t exactly roll off the tongue.

Hell, maybe it worked. Maybe she did hate him. But she still said thank you when he held the door. Still smiled that same tight little smile that used to drive him nuts in high school when she was pretending not to be hurt and he would wish she’d just fucking say it, while everyone else got the one he sacrificed without knowing it was Jack’s first.

Across the hub, Beth pushed her glasses up into her hair and tucked the tablet under her arm before she said something under her breath that made Robby bark out a laugh. Jack didn’t hear the joke, and he didn’t need to. He caught the way Robby leaned into it, how he stood up a little straighter when she brushed past and gave his arm a light squeeze. She was already waving Javadi over, heading for Exam Three without breaking stride.

Robby watched her go, grinning to himself like he was still replaying whatever she’d said. He shook his head, almost fond, before finally turning away and making his way over to Jack, who stood still, arms folded, gaze trained on the board like it had something new to tell him.

Robby stepped up beside him, hands deep in his hoodie pockets. “You still on the guy in Two?”

Jack gave a short nod, his nails digging into his bicep when Robby stole one more glance down the hallway to where Beth stood outside the room with Javadi, reviewing lab results with her before they stepped into the room and out of view. “Yeah. He pulled out his IV again. Had to restrain him, which just pissed him off, but he’s responding to antibiotics at least.”

“He swing at anybody this time?”

“Just cursed us out. Progress, I guess.”

“Yeah? Learn any new ones?”

Jack shrugged noncommittally. “Called Whitaker a tit-zit. I think the kid was more confused by it than anything else.”

Robby huffed out a short laugh and shook his head. “Fuck, that poor kid can’t catch a break, can he? You hear a teenager told him he looked like a cartoon rat from a Disney movie last week?”

Jack smirked. He’d been in the room for that one. Abby was already pretty doped up by then. He’d looked it up after he left the room, and she wasn’t too far off, honestly.

“Yeah, no shit.” His laugh came out low and humorless. Robby glanced down the hall again, still grinning like a fucking idiot. The words slipped out before Jack could stop them, sharper than he intended. “You and the new girl seem to be hitting it off.”

“You think so?” Robby asked, still half-grinning like he didn’t already know the answer.

Jack didn’t bother looking at him. “You’ve been trailing behind her since the start of your shift like you’re her assigned intern, so yeah. I’d say so.”

Robby scoffed and raised his hands in surrender. “I’m just trying to make sure she feels welcomed, is all.”

Jack arched a brow, finally glancing at him. “Is that what the kids are calling it now?”

Robby just grinned wider, unfazed by the jab. “What do you think about her? Baker.”

Jack hesitated. Not long, but long enough for Robby to take notice. His eyes stayed on the board, though the patient names and bed numbers had stopped registering. “She’s good,” he said flatly. 

“Yeah,” Robby nodded, eyes drifting down the hall again. “She’s something else, man.”

Jack’s jaw flexed, just once.

Yeah, fucking tell me about it.

“Sure is,” he muttered.

They stood in comfortable enough silence, the low hum of the ER around them; monitors beeping, phones ringing, the occasional call for a gurney down trauma. Behind them, someone called out for a consult. Jack didn’t move. Neither did Robby. Instead, he glanced over at Jack, brow furrowed, and gave him a nudge. 

“Hey,” Jack looked over at him, trying to ignore the concern etched in his features. “You good? You’ve been off all week.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch out, eyes drifting back to the board like it could somehow save him from this fucking conversation. Then he shrugged, voice dry. “Oh, just counting down the hours until I’m back on nights. My people aren’t usually up before noon.”

He knew Robby wasn’t buying it. He could feel it in the way his gaze held, quiet and stubborn, like he was waiting for something Jack didn’t have in him right now. The jackass would drag it out of him eventually, but today, Jack was ready to dig in until he gave up. Robby gave him a knowing look, but before he could press or offer some sage wisdom from one of the religions he collected like baseball cards, the same voice called for a consult again a little louder. Mohan, he assumed, from the way Robby closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. 

Robby sighed and turned. “No rest for the wicked.”

“Better you than me.” 

Jack offered him a mock salute as Robby started his trudge down the hall to where Mohan waited outside of a room, already talking to Robby before he even approached. Jack looked up at the board for a final time, though he wasn’t sure what he was searching it for anymore. 

“You need something to do?” Dana called, pulling his eyes from the screen to where she stood, brows raised. “Because I’m sure I can find you something if you’re just standin’ around with your thumb up your ass.”

Jack rolled his eyes and smirked. Back to reality, Abbot. “Depends. Any of those options going to be any fun?”

“Are any of my options ever fun?” She shot back.

“Then keep them to yourself,” he smirked, ignoring the glare she shot his way while he stepped behind the counter. 

She shook her head and turned back to Mateo, words passing between them in quick, low tones before he hustled off. Jack pulled an iPad from the charging deck and started to log in. Might as well round while he still could. The Pitt had fallen into a lull around them, which meant whatever fresh hell the day had planned was just lurking, waiting for them all to let their guard down long enough to believe, for one stupid second, that it might actually be an uneventful shift.

He knew better than to get too comfortable.

Jack tapped into the chart for the guy in Nine, scrolling through vitals on the screen and half-listening to Dana talk to someone behind him, when movement across the hall drew his eyes up again. 

Beth stepped out of the room, frowning as she patted the front of her vest, mouth tugging to the side like she was mid-mental inventory. She reached up to feel at her collar, then checked her vest again, like she expected something to magically appear. When that didn’t turn anything up, she moved to her pockets, scrubs first, then vest again, clearly hunting for something. She started toward the station, probably about to turn the whole thing upside down looking for whatever she’d lost.

He watched her for a moment, quiet, and smirked before he could help himself, tablet forgotten in his hands.

She had that same furrow in her brow her mom used to get when she was running late and couldn’t find her damn glasses. He’d seen that scene play out a hundred times over those early mornings at the Baker house, sitting at the kitchen table before school, watching Leanne tear through the drawers, muttering about how she just had them, accusing the three of them of moving them, searching for a pair of readers that were, inevitably, already perched on her head. And every time, Sheriff Baker would walk in behind her without a word, pluck them gently from her hair, and hand them to her with a kiss to the cheek and the same five words that were spoken like a joke between the five of them.

He watched over the edge of the tablet while Beth scanned the counter with a huff, moving papers and patting around monitors. She muttered under her breath, talking herself through the last thirty minutes while she retraced her steps, completely unaware of the frames tucked in her hair. She moved to the terminal she’d been working at earlier with a hopeful look, only for it to drop when she came up empty.

She turned slightly, frustration mounting, and he said it before he even thought about it; gentle and easy, like muscle memory.

“They’re on your head, Leanne.”

She froze, one foot still mid-step, and shot him a look over her shoulder. Her hand went up again, finding the glasses exactly where he’d said, and she groaned. Pink crawled up her neck and she laughed under her breath. He smirked and glanced up at her, watching her turn to stand across from him. She didn’t hurry off, didn’t mutter something polite. Just laughed at the phrase they’d both heard hundreds of times over those four years.

“Jesus. You sound like Abby,” she said, half-laughing as she slid the glasses down onto her face. “She keeps telling me I’m turning into my mother. I’m not sure if it’s a compliment yet.”

Jack shrugged, still scrolling through the chart in front of him that he’d stopped looking at a while ago. “Worse people to turn into.”

That made her pause. She looked at him a moment longer, then smiled. Not the tight, polite thing he’d seen all week from the locker beside his own when they accidentally made eye contact, but the one he’d seen her flash everyone but him this week. The bite of her lip before it wrinkled her nose. Small, but real, and it rattled something loose. Her laugh this time was softer, a little warmer. “Guess so.”

She turned back down the hall, still half-smiling as she pulled the door open and disappeared back inside the room. Jack lingered on the screen a moment longer before swiping to the next chart. It was the most they’d spoken since she started; nothing special. But his chest felt a little less tight than it had that morning. He wasn’t about to question it.

Jack closed out of the chart. The guy in Nine was probably going to have his jaw wired shut for the next few months, but he assumed that was the natural consequence of getting piss drunk and picking a fight with a linebacker. Frat boys. Every August, they flooded in like clockwork, one Alpha Delta Dumbass after the next. Rush season had barely started and he was already ready for it to be over, lamenting the influx of alcohol poisonings, overdoses, and absolutely batshit injuries that were sure to roll in from Pitt’s Greek Row. He pushed off the counter, starting in the same direction Beth had gone towards Exam Three, ignoring the warm swell in his chest while the interaction played on a loop in the back of his mind.

He barely made it three steps from the hub when Dana’s voice rang sharp across the ER:

“Incoming trauma; male, early teens. Pulled from a house fire. Full-thickness burns to bilateral lower extremities, vitals unstable. Alert and agitated. ETA three minutes. Bringing him straight to Trauma Two.”

The whole department snapped to attention when pagers rang from various corners.

Trauma team peeled off toward the bay without hesitation, moving like gears in a well-oiled machine. Jack was already tugging on a gown, burn protocols racing through his mind in rhythm with his steps. Dana was at his side, rattling off the rest of the incoming report.

Beth reappeared just as Dana started talking, walking alongside Javadi down the main corridor. She looked lighter than before, mid-conversation, a smile still playing faintly at the corners of her mouth. She slowed as Dana’s voice cut across the ER, that little smile fading into something more focused.

“Patient’s Deaf,” Dana added. “EMTs said he didn’t have his phone, no family on scene. Remote system is down, so we’re waiting on the interpreter to finish up in cardiology. Could be a half hour.”

That stopped her. Beth’s head snapped towards him at that. Only for a breath, half a second, really. Her posture shifted, her weight catching unevenly on one foot as she pivoted. She thrust her tablet out to Javadi, and peeled away from her without another word. She headed toward Trauma Two, eyes sharp, expression unreadable now. Whatever softness had been on her face a moment ago was gone.

Jack cursed under his breath. “What’s the fucking use of having the system then?”

Dana gave him a dry look. “Whole hospital is falling apart, Jack. Not just us.”

He wasn’t listening. His mind had already jumped ahead, memory pulling faster than thought. He was scanning the Pitt before he realized why, looking for copper hair and quick, steady hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he already knew what he was looking for. Already knew who.

His eyes caught on Beth as she cut through the corridor, already reaching for gloves. She was moving with purpose, wordless. 

“Do you still—?” She nodded before he could finish asking, like she’d already anticipated the question.

“I do,” she nodded, latex snapping as she turned to Dana without slowing her stride into the trauma bay. “Cancel the interpreter. I’m fluent. I’ve got it.”

Dana didn’t argue. She just gave a tight nod and turned out of the bay, already calling in the incoming labs and alerting the burn unit. Jack turned to the team, already going through protocol.

“Alright, gang,” he called, clapping once and rubbing his palms together while he assessed the room a final time. “We’ve got full-thickness burns and unstable vitals coming. EMS says airway’s clear for now, but we stay ready to intubate. Fluids were started en route; 500 mL LR wide open.”

Beth lingered just behind them while Jack continued, calling out meds to be prepped before the patient arrived and mentally calculating fluids, methodical as she finished tying off her gown and tucked her hair under a surgical cap. Jack glanced back once and caught her eye. She didn’t speak; just moved to help prep the burn cart and RSI meds without being asked. She met his gaze and gave him the smallest nod; serious, focused. She was here, fully. Whatever lived between them didn’t matter right now. She’d left it on the other side of the glass. 

He held her gaze a moment longer than he meant to, then gave a sharp nod of his own and turned back to the room. If she could set it all aside, so could he. He swallowed hard and continued, flicking his head toward Beth. 

“Patient is Deaf, so Doctor Baker will be in the room to interpret.” Through the glass, he saw the ambulance doors crash open, paramedics flanking a gurney already in motion. The boy strapped to it was thrashing, wide-eyed, soot-streaked, and heartbreakingly young. Jack addressed the team a final time. “Let’s move, people.”

The trauma bay doors burst open a heartbeat later. The paramedics rolled in hard and fast, already calling out, the boy on the stretcher thrashing against his restraints. His face was streaked with soot, lips cracked, chest heaving with panic. Blood and fluid clung to hastily applied bandages over blistered skin. His eyes were wide and wild, flicking to each unfamiliar face as though searching for some anchor he couldn’t find. His hands were restrained, fingers jerking and twitching. His chest hitched like he was choking on fear, though Jack knew it was likely smoke inhalation starting to close his airway.

“BP 86/52, HR 132 and thready, RR 30, O2 89 on non-rebreather! No visible head trauma. Burns to both legs, some blistering to the lower abdomen. Suspected inhalation. Combative on scene.”

Jack moved to the head of the bed, already assessing. The air around him reeked of scorched hair and burned fabric, the smell clinging like a second skin. Third-degree burns to both legs, left worse than right. Surface was pale and leathery; classic full-thickness. Likely no pain in the deepest parts, but judging by his panic, there was still plenty of peripheral damage. They needed fluid resuscitation. Pain control. Airway protection. Beth appeared at Jack’s side just as the gurney locked into place and he counted to transfer to the bed.

“Why the hell is he restrained?” she demanded, voice sharp. Jack turned his head just enough to see her eyes over her mask, wide and horrified.

One of the paramedics answered, defensive and out of breath. “He went wild in the back of the rig. Tried to swing at my partner and kept trying to pull his IV. We thought he was gonna hurt himself.”

Beth didn’t respond right away. She moved to the side of the gurney, watching the boy’s fingers move at his side. She stepped forward, calm, and crouched into his line of sight. Her hands moved while she murmured under her breath low enough that Jack almost didn’t register the words.

“I’m Doctor Baker,” she whispered. “You’re safe. We’re going to take care of you. What’s your name?”

His entire body stilled. Then his fingers started moving, frantic and grateful. A flood of relief broke over his soot-smudged face, his eyes brimming as he signed back. She reached for the first restraint without looking up.

The paramedic took a step forward. “Ma’am, I wouldn’t—”

“He’s terrified and you took away his only way to communicate,” Beth said flatly. Her eyes lifted to the paramedic, who shifted uncomfortably under the steely glare. “I’d try to hit you, too.”

She undid the second strap and kept signing. He was still breathing hard, wiry chest heaving, but the wildness had left his eyes.

“Baker,” Jack said, nodding toward the chart, “I need full name, allergies, meds.”

“Already asked,” she said, not missing a beat. “His name’s Micah Porter. Birth date 9/13/13. No known allergies. He’s on Keppra for seizures. His last dose was last night, but he missed this morning. He says he can’t move his left foot, and it feels ‘heavy’. He thinks he might’ve inhaled smoke; his throat hurts.”

“Copy that,” Jack gave a sharp nod, already motioning to the respiratory tech. “Get a neb with albuterol and Atrovent ready. High-flow O2 until we know how bad the inhalation is. Let’s start LR for fluid resuscitation, and get pain control on board; morphine, titrated. Two large-bore IVs, and watch for compartment syndrome in those legs. Cap refill and distal pulses every 15. If the pressure spikes, we may need to escharotomize. Estimated 20% TBSA; let’s start Parkland protocol.”

Beth touched Micah’s shoulder before signing again. “We’re giving you medication to help with the pain. It might make you sleepy. You’re going to feel a pinch in your arms.”

Micah’s hands fluttered again. Beth’s eyes softened and she guided Micah’s arms down so Jesse could start IVs. 

“He was scared they were going to cut off his legs,” Beth translated, her voice thickening for a moment. “He wants to know if they’re going to be okay.”

Jack knelt beside the stretcher, catching the kid’s eye. He sure as hell knew that feeling. “We’re going to do everything we can,” he said, nodding at Beth to interpret. “We’ve got you, kid.”

Beth’s fingers moved and the boy nodded, eyes wet and terrified. She reached up and brushed tears away with a gloved thumb.

They worked quickly; misting his airway, starting fluids, applying clean dressings. Jack moved in rhythm with the team, calling out meds, checking the lines, listening for vitals. But he kept glancing toward Beth, who hadn’t stopped signing since the moment she’d stepped to the gurney. Beth stayed at Micah’s side through all of it, keeping herself in his line of sight and out of the way, translating questions and answers with quiet authority. Micah was responding just as fast, wide-eyed and still half-panicked, but locked in on her like she was the only thing in the room that made any sense.

Her hands didn’t falter, even when the boy’s did. And Jack, even as he moved through protocols and orders, felt the edges of something quieter tug at him.

He watched her calm a boy who had been wordless in his fear only moments ago. Watched the way her body softened when she signed. The way Micah's shoulders slowly eased despite the pain. He knew that gentleness. That quiet care that felt like devotion. Even over three decades, that hadn’t changed about her. Not one bit.

She’d always had that quiet steadiness. Back when they were kids, when his home had been fists and slammed doors, and he would show up at midnight with a split lip or worse, too angry to cry and too proud to talk. She never asked questions. Never pushed. Never woke up her dad and sent him to that fucking house like he begged her not to the first time he knocked on her window with a new bruise under his eye. She just pulled back the covers, let him slip in beside her, and wrapped herself around him like he wasn’t a mess of broken glass.

They’d lie like that for hours, her silence never demanding anything of him, just offering a kind of clean, whole silence that still made his throat close to think about. Her arms around him. Her feet tucked between his. Her lips brushing against hands that still shook while the house slept, holding him like she could keep him from falling apart. Salvation found in a twin bed with his head on her chest and her fingers combing through his hair in a quiet that felt like home.

That same gentleness radiated from her now from beside that bed, and the thing that twisted in his chest felt an awful lot like pride. For a moment, it vindicated the choice that scared boy made when he pulled away from the house he used to seek those same careful hands in. She became exactly what he knew she would be. But it didn’t dull the ache pulsing in his chest any less.

“Vitals still trending down,” someone said, hanging fluids.

“Let’s get him prepped for transfer to Burn Unit as soon as he’s stable,” Jack ordered, checking the lines, the monitors, the damage. “Labs sent?”

“CBC, CMP, lactate, carboxyhemoglobin. ABG pending.”

Beth kept signing, her hands sure and calm even when her voice was brisk. “He’s asking if he’s going to die,” she said quietly.

Jack’s throat tightened. “Tell him we’re doing everything we can to help him. He’s in good hands.”

“Already did,” she said softly. Micah’s gaze darted between them, wide and wet. His fingers fluttered again. Beth recoiled slightly like she was surprised, then laughed.

“He wants to know if the paramedics are going to give his shirt back,” she said after a moment, something like a smile in her tone. “It’s a Star Wars one; his grandma bought it for him at Disneyland. He’s a big fan.”

Beth looked down, a soft laugh catching in her throat.

“Those are my favorite movies,” she signed back and her face lit up in the kind of way Jack hadn’t seen in years. It pulled at something deep in him, something tender and stupid. They must have watched the originals a hundred times back then. A New Hope was her favorite. She used to mouth the lines before the characters could say them. It drove him nuts.

“A New Hope is my favorite,” she signed. “What about you? Prequels, sequels, or the classics?”

Micah signed something else, faster this time, and Beth snorted, loud and unfiltered, and grinned wide. God, that laugh. It had been so long since he heard it outside of a memory. 

“What’d he say?” Jack asked, smirking despite himself. 

Beth laughed again. “Revenge of the Sith. But now that he knows how Anakin felt on Mustafar, he’s changed his mind.”

Jack didn’t know what the fuck any of that meant, but Beth snorted out another laugh and signed back to him, earning a tired grin from the boy. Even in the chaos of the trauma bay, the moment carved out a breath of levity, just enough to let them all exhale. But he should have known better than to breathe too early.

The crash came quickly. Monitors began to scream; first in warning, then insistently. Jack’s head snapped toward the screen. Numbers dipped low, too low, and didn’t bounce back. “BP’s crashing. 72 over 38. Pulse ox falling.”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “We need to tube him before we lose the window,” he said, reaching for the sedative. “Baker, tell him.”

Beth was already leaning in, hands steady as her voice dropped into something soft. “We are going to give you some medicine to make you sleep, and put a tube in to help you breathe. We have to do this so your lungs can rest,” she signed. “I promise it won’t hurt. You’ll be asleep the whole time. Doctor Abbot will be gentle.”

Micah’s head rolled weakly side to side. His chin trembled, shaky breaths far more labored. Then his eyes lifted to hers, wide and wet, brimming with the kind of fear no kid should have to carry. His hands moved, trembling.

Beth’s eyes softened. She nodded. “He wants to know if anyone called his mom. He wants her.”

Jack’s jaw tightened and he felt something crack in her chest. They didn’t have time for it. Beth didn’t wait for him to speak. She bent a little closer, brushing hair gently from Micah’s forehead. Micah’s eyes locked on hers, unblinking. He shook his head once, feebly, lip wobbling. Tears welled again. Micah signed something half-formed, fear, confusion, pain all jumbled together. Beth’s entire face changed, crumpling, then softening into something more tender. She brushed her fingers along his jaw, catching tears. 

“I know you do, sweet boy,” she murmured as she signed. “She’ll be here soon, okay? I promise.”

“Baker,” Jack warned, not unkindly. “We have to move.”

“She’ll be here when you wake up, kiddo. I’m so sorry, but we can’t wait for her,” she said quietly, not looking at him. 

Another alarm shrieked. Jack checked the vitals again, jaw tight. “We don’t have time. Baker—”

“Jack,” she cut in, gaze still locked on the crying kid in front of her. The sound of his name leaving her lips made him stop. “Thirty seconds.”

Jack bit down the want to argue. Everything in him wanted to say no. Every instinct screamed that they were cutting it too close. But Beth looked up at him, blue eyes finding his own, devoid of any panic. Just something soft he’d never seen in them before. He gave a sharp nod and stepped back. He’d never won an argument with Beth Baker before. He doubted he’d start winning them now.

“Talk to him while we get ready to sedate.”

Beth leaned in, one hand resting against Micah’s cheek, dirt-smudged and tear-streaked. Her thumb brushed gently across the soot and grime while his hands moved.

“I have a little girl just a few years older than you,” Beth signed quickly. “When she gets scared, I tell her that she doesn’t have to be brave the whole time. Just ten seconds at a time. Then ten more. Then ten more. Then again and again, and before you know it, it’s over.”

Micah watched her with wide eyes, the noise of the trauma bay seeming to dull around the soft cadence of her voice. “Can you give me ten seconds of brave, sweetheart?” She asked. “Just ten. That’s all.”

Jack’s chest ached, sharp and sudden. He watched as Micah reached for Beth’s hand, watched her take it and wrap her fingers around his with the same quiet steadiness he remembered in the quiet of that bed. No fear, no second thoughts. Just grace under fire.

He recognized the sign the boy’s hands shaped. Okay.

Beth looked up, met Jack’s eyes, and gave the faintest nod.

“Push etomidate and sux. Let’s get ready,” Jack said, hoping that no one else noticed how his voice had gone rough.

“Count to ten with me,” Beth signed. “One… two…”

The boy’s fingers moved with hers until they went slack at four. Beth held onto Micah’s hand long after the sedation kicked in.

“Go. Bag him.”

The ventilator hissed to life. Jack set the tube, and the team moved like clockwork around them, but in the middle of it all, Beth’s hand stayed around the boy’s. Jack stood at the head of the bed, hands still, eyes on the vent readings. The kid’s vitals were stabilizing now, breathing tube secure, lines placed. It should’ve felt like a win. But all Jack could focus on was the way Beth’s thumb was brushing over the boy’s knuckles, slow and steady, even as his body relaxed into chemical stillness. 

She didn’t move when they called time in the trauma bay. Didn’t flinch when someone asked who was calling his mother. She just grabbed a fresh piece of gauze, dampened it, and began gently wiping the soot and ash from the boy’s face. 

They handed Micah off to the burn team with a full report and a clean face. The moment the bed rolled out, the tension in the bay bled out like a pressure valve slowly hissing open.

Beth started peeling off her gloves, then her gown. Jack stayed where he was, watching the way her movements had finally slowed. The way she became everything that scared kid from years ago always knew she could be. The way he still couldn’t find the words.

The hum of overhead lights filled the silence that followed. For the first time in what felt like hours, no one was shouting. No alarms. No beeping. Just the quiet sound of gloves snapping off and gowns rustling to the floor. The rush had faded, leaving a kind of echo in its place. Quiet. Heavy. 

Exhausting. 

Jack exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. “Good work, everyone.”

A few hums of agreement cut through the quiet. A couple of nods. Someone sighed like they’d been holding their breath the entire time. Relief hung in the air; strange, sharp, bitter on the edges. But still there.

Jesse leaned back against the counter, rubbing his face. His eyes flicked to Beth. “Where’d you learn to sign like that?”

“High school,” she said, pulling her mask off and smoothing her hair back. “They started offering ASL my sophomore year. My boyfriend was supposed to take it with me,” She gave a crooked smile, glancing over at Jack for a half second like an offering. Jack’s mouth twitched; small, almost imperceptible, but there. “But he bailed and took German instead. I stuck with it, and ended up falling in love with it.”

Beth shrugged. “Did three years there, kept going in college. Still love it.”

Jesse nodded slowly. “Well… damn. Glad you did. Kid responded to you more than anyone.”

“Oh, you guys did all the heavy lifting,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “I was just the messenger. Nice work, everyone. Really.”

The trauma bay emptied in slow motion, everyone moving like they were just now remembering how. Jack watched her a moment longer before peeling off the last of his PPE. The room was still settling, but she hadn’t stopped moving; helping with cleanup, taking charts from the team so they could get the hell out of there and catch their breath. He watched her focus on a monitor, the light reflected on the lenses of her glasses, and peeled off his gloves.

“Glad you stuck with it,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

Beth looked up. Just for a second. Then nodded once and went back to her notes. “I’m glad you were never able to talk me into taking German with you.”

“It was incredibly useful.”

“Oh good,” she hummed. “You’re still telling yourself that.”

He huffed a short laugh, shaking his head. It barely counted as anything, but it still felt better than the silence they’d been wrapped in for days. He reached behind him, fingers tugging at the tie on his gown. It was stuck, knotted too tight in his rush to get it on. He fumbled with it and cursed under his breath, trying to yank it loose.

Beth didn’t say anything at first. Just glanced up from her keyboard, her hands still. She sighed, closed the chart, and turned in her chair.

“Turn around,” she said.

She stood and pulled a folding knife from her scrub pants. Jack raised a brow when she flicked it open with a practiced motion. She raised her own, then gestured for him to turn. He hesitated a moment before he obeyed and heard the soft rustle of her moving closer.

“Old habits?” he asked.

Beth shrugged, stepping close enough that he could feel the heat of her against his back. Close enough that he could smell her perfume; something sweet and warm. Not the shockingly pink bottle of strawberry-glitter-whatever that had been her go-to when they were kids, but still unmistakably Beth. 

“Dad never went anywhere without one,” she said. “Guess it rubbed off.”

He felt the press of her fingers against his back as she pulled the tie away from him. Just a brush, but it crawled down his spine in a rush of heat that jolted him. Her fingers adjusted, and he heard a soft snick as she sliced through the fabric. She stepped back, taking the heat with her.

“Thanks,” he said, voice low, tugging off the gown and balling it in one hand.

“You got it,” she replied, slipping the knife shut and tucking it back into her pocket. She started to turn again, but Jack didn’t move.

“You did great work,” he said.

Beth waved it off with a small smile, already reaching for the keyboard again. “I just interpreted.”

“Really, Beth.” She looked up at him like she was caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. For the first time that week, he looked at her. Really looked; met her eye instead of avoiding it, and she did too. Something about it made him want to drop his eyes. Still, he kept looking. “You were incredible.”

Her face softened, cheeks coloring. There was a shift, something familiar flickering behind the blue that he hadn’t seen since she started. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

He opened his mouth again to speak, though he wasn’t sure what. He still didn’t know what to say. Maybe it was time he finally started to figure that out. 

He watched her move without looking at her directly. She bent down to scoop a discarded gown up off the floor and cross to the bin. She didn’t speak, didn’t look his way, and he didn’t blame her.

He tried to come up with something to say, anything, but the words lodged deep in his throat, stuck somewhere behind guilt and pride and all the things he hadn’t let himself feel in years. It was easier when there were patients between them. Easier when there was chaos and blood and a reason not to look too closely.

But now the silence pressed in, and he was running out of excuses. It didn’t change the fact that even at forty-eight, he didn’t know what to say to her, just like he hadn’t at eighteen. How do you start a conversation when you’re the reason there’s nothing left to say? When you’re the reason she had to erect the wall between them?

He shifted his weight, thumbed the edge of his sleeve. Took a breath like it might crack the seal inside him.

Ten seconds of brave, Abbot. You’ve done a lot longer. 

Say something.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Swallowed. 

“I’ve been meaning to—” he started, then stopped, the words stuttering in his throat. The breath he’d drawn to finish it hung there, suspended. Then he tried again. “Beth…”

She stilled, halfway to straightening up from picking up a pair of gloves. She turned to look at him and tossed the gloves into the bin. Her expression didn’t harden. It didn’t soften either. But her hands stilled just slightly, like maybe she was holding her breath. Like maybe she’d been waiting too.

Jack exhaled, slow. A little unsteady. Just say it, asshole.

But before the words could leave his mouth, Dana pushed into the bay, eyes already locked on Beth.

“Kid’s parents are here,” she said. “Mom’s hearing. Dad isn’t.”

“Got it,” Beth gave a short nod, already moving. “Thanks, D.”

 Her shoulder brushed against his when she passed, stepping around him. Jack watched her go, then followed, unsure if he meant to catch up or just bear witness. He kept a few paces behind her, eyes locked on her back.

The parents stood just beyond the double doors. The dad was tall, nervous, holding his wife’s hand in both of his like he was trying to keep them both upright. He looked up at Beth’s approach, and the mother started to raise her hands to sign for her husband, but Beth was already moving, fingers fluid.

The mom blinked, startled. The dad flinched a little in surprise, then caught on. Beth didn’t pause. She signed and spoke at the same time, making sure neither of them had to wait to understand. Jack couldn’t hear what she was saying, but he caught the word stable from the cadence of her speech and the way both parents sagged just a little with relief.

“Can we see him? Where is he?” The mother asked, voice raw.

“Of course. He just went up to the Burn Unit. I can show you up if you’d like to follow me.” Beth turned, gesturing for them to follow, and they did, silent and still absorbing, clutching each other's hands tightly. 

As Beth passed him, her hand brushed against his arm. She didn’t glance up at him or break her stride, but her fingers curled just slightly in a gentle squeeze; not quite firm, but deliberate. Familiar in a way that hit him deep in the ribs like he’d been punched.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched her keep walking, turning every few steps to keep signing for the father while speaking with the mother.

Dana appeared at his side, tracking the parents as they followed Beth down the hall.

“I told you; she’s good.” she said, bumping his shoulder.

Jack stared after her for a long second, still feeling the warmth of her touch like it had sunk through his skin and stayed there.

“Yeah,” he said. “She is.”

She always had been.

Chapter Text

He couldn’t say when it started exactly. Maybe it was after one of those early shifts that left him wired and worn out, looking for somewhere to breathe. Maybe he’d just happened on the rooftop by chance, liked the height, the hush, the feeling of being somewhere people wouldn’t look to find him. Whatever the reason, Jack had kept coming back after every shift without fail. Sometimes he stared out at the horizon. Other times he tilted his head back to catch glimpses of stars in the murk, faint and flickering against the city’s glow, trying to remember the names of constellations that had been whispered to him under a different sky. And on harder nights, he just looked down at the sidewalk far below, his mind a little too quiet for comfort.

Tonight, it was the horizon.

Sunsets came later as August slipped away, dragging out the tail end of summer in slow, golden strokes. The city wore the light like a blanket, warm and heavy, pooling in alleyways, stretching shadows long across the pavement. Jack leaned into the railing heavily, watching beams of light thread between the distant buildings of the skyline as the sun sank lower. Usually, he was on the other side of these things. But this was one part of working days he didn’t mind.

He inhaled deeply. The air up here didn’t taste as sterile, or smell like singed flesh or the tang of blood. Just air. Real air. For a moment, it was quiet in his head, and he didn’t chase the noise. Maybe that was it. Maybe that’s why he kept climbing the stairs, chasing a flicker of stillness at the end of the noise.

Today had felt long. Not in the grand scheme of things; there had been far longer days. But long enough.

He didn’t move for a while. Just leaned there, watching nothing in particular with unfocused eyes, then scrubbed both hands over his face like it might clear away the day. His fingers dragged back through his hair, slow and tired. He should go home. Walk Moose. Shower. Stare blankly at his phone until he hit order again on whatever delivery app was next up on the roster tonight and turn on the Pirates game just for the noise. But his eyes stayed on the horizon, rooted in place.

Thoughts stretched in every direction, thin and tangled like spiderwebs strung through corners of his mind he couldn’t quite reach. Normally, he could follow one. Pick a thought, follow it clean to the end, then move to the next; orderly, compartmentalized. Regimented in a way that made perfect sense and left little room for gray to seep in at the edges. Now, there seemed to be a whole lot of fucking gray.

Now it felt like he was sprinting through a marathon every damn day, lungs burning before he even clocked in. He got home and collapsed into the couch, mind still racing while his body gave out, still trying to find a thread that didn’t lead back to the same knot.

The creak of the roof door pulled Jack out of the unravel. He didn’t turn right away; probably Robby coming up to make sure he hadn’t thrown himself off the building yet. But the footsteps were far too light to be Robby. No shuffle of tired feet or heavy release of a sigh he’d heard from his own chest one too many times. The door clicked shut. The light footsteps stopped.

“Got room for one more?”

Jack looked back at the sound of her voice. Beth stood there with steaming paper cups in both hands, her silhouette framed by the door behind her. He turned, watching a small smile tug at her lips, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to. She’d changed since their shift ended; scrubs and vest traded for black running shorts and an Eagles crewneck that looked like it had been around for its fair share of seasons, her hair loose around her shoulders. She wore it shorter now than she had then. It suited her. 

He straightened up, then nodded toward the railing. “Robby tell you where to find me?”

“Bold of you to assume I was looking for you.” She smirked, something a little more genuine softening her eyes, and shrugged. “Lucky guess. You always did like a view.”

Jack huffed out something like a laugh. “You come bearing gifts?”

Beth held up the cups. “I’d bring bourbon, but, you know. Hospital policy.”

“C’mon, new girl. Live a little,” he murmured, but he was already reaching for the coffee, their fingers bumping clumsily in the exchange.

“And get fired at the end of my first week? For you? No thanks. I have a child to put through college,” she said lightly. A soft giggle bubbled from her lips when he rolled his eyes, but she didn’t move. She stayed a few steps back from the railing, lingering near the center of the roof like always. “You have to come get it, though. You know I don’t do edges.”

The light hit her full-on, soft and warm. It lit up the edge of her jaw, casting faint shadows beneath her eyes. Still that impossible shade of blue; clear and icy and sharp enough to cut right through him. 

“Come on over,” Jack said, nodding toward the edge. “You’ll catch more of the view here than you will at the door.”

Her eyes jumped to the railing once before they landed on him again, her posture stiffening.

He raised an eyebrow. “Still afraid of heights?”

“I wouldn’t say afraid,” she said, eyes darting to the edge again before settling on him. She straightened slightly with a tilt of her head. “Just not particularly fond of looking down.”

That knot loosened just slightly as he watched her, looking everywhere but the edge. He stepped back to the railing and leaned on his elbows, waving her over. “You’ll be fine. Just keep your eyes forward, Baker.”

Beth stopped moving. Her eyes closed for a moment like she was trying to find her balance. She hesitated, then stepped forward until she was beside him, careful not to look down. She stood away from him, her gaze fixed firmly on the horizon. Jack watched her instead, saw the way the wind tugged a piece of hair across her cheek and how she didn’t bother brushing it away. The sun lit her skin gold, traced every freckle across her nose, and set her hair aglow like molten copper. For a second, it all blurred: the rooftop, the years, the leftover aches from the shift that had become like old friends. Just her.

Wildfire.

He nodded towards her sweatshirt and brought the cup to his lips. It tasted like shit, but he didn’t seem to mind like he had before. “The Leanne Baker Rule, huh?”

Beth glanced down at herself like she’d forgotten. “‘Don’t bring the hospital home unless it’s going straight into the washing machine’,” she recited, then smiled at him sidelong. “I’m surprised you remember.”

He looked back out at the skyline, orange light fading into dusk. “Your mom’s a hard lady to forget.”

“Yeah,” she said softly, tapping her nails against her cup. “She is.”

“How are they?” He asked, glancing over at her before he added, “Your folks?”

Beth hummed, then, “They’re good. They’re still in Coldwater, same house and everything. Retired; well, kind of. Mom still substitutes for the school nurses every once in a while, and Dad listens to the scanner like he’s still responding to calls.” She smiled when Jack chuckled and let out a breathy laugh. 

“I wish I could say that surprises me.” Jack scoffed. “Jesus. I can’t picture that town without your dad doing loops in that truck.”

She nodded and took a sip, easing herself down to lean against the railing with a shaky breath. “Well, there’s a new Sheriff Baker in town,” she smiled. “Chris was elected a few years back.”

“No shit,” Jack said, turning slightly to look at her. “That can’t be right. Isn’t he still ten years old?” 

She grinned into her coffee. “Turned forty this year. Married. Three kids. Coaches varsity football at the high school.”

Jack shook his head slowly. “Fuck, that makes me feel—”

“Old?” Beth laughed under her breath. “Join the club.”

She lifted her cup toward him. He tapped the rim of his against hers, and they both drank. The silence stretched out again. Not awkward, but not quite comfortable either. Just… full. Like the weight of everything they were hiding under bullshit small talk settled between them with the breeze.

The sky was dipped in amber now, bleeding slowly into rust and deep blue. Somewhere below, the city moved on in an indifferent hum that filled the space between them. They stood side by side from a safe distance in a silence that had started to feel anything but in the last week. Beth’s eyes turned upward, watching the first stars push through the murk. 

“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” she said, her voice barely louder than the breeze.

“Here?” Jack asked, not looking at her.

“At all,” she replied, her gaze still fixed on the deepening violet above.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tapped the bottom of his cup idly against the railing once, twice, searching for the words that just wouldn’t come. The metal rang soft and hollow. He shifted, cleared his throat like it might shake the words loose. 

“I wasn’t expecting to see you either.”

Beth didn’t move, she didn’t answer. The wind swept gently from the west, lifting her hair slightly, and he had to shove his free hand into his pocket to keep from brushing it back. Some part of him, that stupid, pathetic part that clawed its way out of the grave when he pulled back that curtain, wanted her to turn and look at him. But she didn’t. He sipped coffee that had gone cold, wishing that she hadn’t always been such a rule follower. He could use the booze right about now.

The low hum of traffic filtered up, mixed with the buzz of rooftop vents and the faint flicker of the floodlight behind them. Beth leaned her hip against the low railing, arms crossed loosely, watching the last of the sun slip behind the buildings.

Beth took a slow sip of her coffee, then said, “I figured you’d still be in the Army.”

Jack exhaled a short breath and scratched at his jaw absently. “Got out in ‘04 right after my second tour. Did the whole medic thing; sixty-eight whiskey. Bosnia before everything went to hell, Iraq after.”

“Where were you stationed?” She asked, turning just barely towards him.

“Bragg first. Then Lewis. Almost stayed in Washington when I got out,” she tilted her head in question, though he didn’t feel up to the explanation that twisted in his throat. “My wife grew up in Seattle. But… you know; life had other plans.”

“Sure did,” she said with a tight nod, eyes turning to the sky again. 

He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask. That was the rhythm with them; always had been. They’d never needed to fill the silence just to prove they were listening. Blue eyes turned on him again, a little smirk tugging at her mouth when she nudged his arm with her own.

“Ever make it to Hawaii?” she asked, like it was a casual question, like it didn’t pull at something quiet between them. She used to talk about coastlines and sea air and drive times to nearby beaches, pretending like his assignments were something either of them had any say in, listing her favorites like it was a game. She’d hoped for Hawaii. Or Italy. Or Germany. Though she wasn’t picky, she’d remind him.

Jack shook his head, smile curving low. “No. Never did. Might’ve dodged a bullet, though. Heard the housing is bullshit. Buddy of mine said it’s all just humidity and bugs.”

She arched a brow, grinning. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, stealing a glance at her. “You would’ve hated it.”

Beth scoffed. “I would’ve been fine.”

He chuckled. “You? You ever been around yourself when you see something with more than four legs? Someone could rob your ass blind with a centipede.”

“Nothing should have that many legs, Jack. It’s unnatural.”

“You would have seen a single cockroach and burned the whole place to the ground.”

She tried not to laugh, biting her lip, but it broke through anyway, sudden and bright and unguarded. It hit him in the chest. That laugh. That sound. Like no time had passed, like they hadn’t missed years, hadn’t become other people in other lives. The rhythm of it, the ease, slipped back around them like it had never left. He didn’t know what he expected after all these years, but not this. Not how simple it was to fall into step beside her again like he’d never strayed from that path.

It felt cruel, almost; just a few exchanged lines and suddenly they were back where they used to be, falling into the same old cadence like a song they both still knew by heart, but had played out of tune for too long until it sounded like two different melodies. Unfair, even. 

She shook her head, eyes turning to the horizon again. “That’s debatable.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“I did,” she said, brushing a windblown strand of hair from her cheek. “Took Abby to Kauai for Spring Break last year.”

“Yeah? How was it?”

Beth tipped her head back like she was trying to summon the memory from some faraway place. “Oh gosh, let me try to remember…” He waited, already grinning.

“It fucking rocked,” she declared. “It rocked my ass off. I sat on a beach for a week and did absolutely nothing. Just trashy romance novels, mai tais, and a teenager who couldn’t find a single thing to complain about. It was incredible. We’re going back for her senior trip next summer.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Is that for you or for her?”

Beth gave him a look, wry and playful, and shrugged. “Who’s to say?”

“Certainly not the woman paying for it.”

“Oh, certainly not.” She laughed softly, shaking her head as she took another sip from her cup. 

The temperature dipped as the sun sank, taking the last of the day’s warmth with it, leaving skies that purpled like a bruise and a breeze that bit like autumn. He noticed her shiver slightly, before she turned to him, tugging her sweatshirt sleeves down around her hands.

“What got you out?” She asked, tucking the cup between her covered palms.

He picked at the rim of his cup, mostly for something to do. “My second tour,” he said. “Our Humvee hit an IED. My side took the worst of it. I lost a leg, but I ended up being one of the lucky ones. A couple guys lost a hell of a lot more than that.”

Beth’s smile faded. Her mouth opened slightly, like she might say something, but didn’t. Jack looked down at his hands. He didn’t talk about that day much. Didn’t see the point. It lived under his skin either way. Not that he remembered much of that day either; just a noise before shit hit the fan. Not the blast itself, but the shift in the air, the wrongness of it. Everything after that was heat and fire and pressure. Screaming. His, maybe. Or someone else’s. Hard to say. It all blurred.

The rest came in flashes: the taste of blood thick in his throat, the pain that crawled up his spine and settled behind his eyes, and the smell. God, the smell. Blood that smelled like metal and gasoline, charred and too chemical. Not like the ER. Not sterile, not clean. The smoke swallowed everything; sound. Sight. Sense of time. But even barely conscious, he could still hear them—men he knew, men he’d trained with, eaten with, bled with, dying within reach. He could still hear it some nights when the room went too quiet. 

He couldn’t get to them. Couldn’t even lift his head. Just lay there listening, wondering if he was next.

He swallowed. “Spent some time at Walter Reed after that, then was discharged after rehab,” he said quietly. “Then… I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to feel like that again. Like I didn’t do enough. So… the ER felt like the right call. Least there, I knew I was doing something.”

Beth’s fingers tightened around her mug. She looked like she wanted to say something but was afraid of getting it wrong. Her eyes fell to the cup, something working in her jaw before she murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Jack shook his head. “Don’t be. Like I said; I was one of the lucky ones.”

She nodded and rested her hand on the railing beside his, fingers splayed just inches away. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. He was grateful for that; the way she listened without trying to fix it. Without pity. She must have remembered that he never had much use for that. 

Jack let his hand drift to the railing, his fingers curling loosely over the worn edge beside hers. The metal had gone cool, the sky above deepened into indigo, and the city blinked to life below, windows lighting up like constellations, artificial stars in square frames. Beth’s eyes dropped to his hand before she looked up again.

“Is your wife in healthcare too?” she asked softly.

His jaw flexed once. He rubbed his thumb over the edge of the ring, slow. It had become second nature, the way his fingers moved over the band when he was thinking.

“She was,” he said after a breath. “Oncology nurse.”

Beth nodded. “Oh. Does she work here?”

“No. Well, yes. She used to,” His voice thinned out toward the end, trailing off like he’d run out of rope. He felt her watching him, felt the question forming in her silence before it was ever spoken. He cleared his throat and looked out over the buildings, voice lower now. “She passed away eight years ago. Ovarian cancer.”

He didn’t elaborate. He’d learned a long time ago that it was easier not to. Didn’t mention the exhaustion or how sick she felt in the weeks before. How they’d thought she was pregnant until that first appointment. How thrilled they both had been until the OB/GYN came into the room with a look they both knew too well and a referral with instructions to call as soon as they could. Didn’t mention the scans or the diagnosis, the way the oncologist’s voice blurred out after the word metastasized. Didn’t say how it felt like that IED all over again; different sound, but the same force. How she kept saying she should’ve known on the drive home—I see this every day, Jack, how could I not have known?

He’d never known how to answer that. 

There had been some small mercies in it. Her friends had been the ones to manage her treatment those first few months. She’d spent those hours in a chemo chair surrounded by laughter and people who loved her. She handled it with far more grace than he had. Especially when it stopped working. She’d taken his hands when he begged her to give it just a little longer when she told him that she wanted to stop treatment, and explained that she didn’t want to spend the time she had left not feeling like herself. The six months that they gave her had only been four, but he held onto each one of those 127 days and the way she smiled through every last one of them like they were something holy. 

Beth didn’t speak right away. Her hand lifted from the railing to rest on top of his, warm fingers curling around his own. She didn’t offer empty comfort, didn’t give him some silver lining.

“I’m so sorry, Jack,” she said instead, simple and real. She squeezed his hand once before hers returned to the railing, leaving the ghost of her fingers on his skin. “Truly.”

“Me too,” he said.

“What was her name?”

“Rachel,” he murmured, keeping his eyes forward, his throat closing around it.

“That’s a beautiful name.”

The ring caught the light again as he turned his hand. He’d stopped noticing it most days. Still slept with it on, still took it off only when he scrubbed in. People asked sometimes, and he usually gave them a line about how he wasn’t ready to take it off. But the truth was far more simple. It just didn’t feel right without it. It still felt like hers. Like a part of her he couldn’t bring himself to set down. He got to carry her a little longer this way.

“She was a beautiful woman,” he agreed. His eyes dropped to the pavement below before he added, “You would have liked her.”

Beth didn’t say anything. She just smiled and stood there with him, her fingers warm beside his own, and let the silence settle.  A siren wailed somewhere below; distant and dissonant, threading through the hum of the city. It rose and fell like a wave pulling back. Neither of them reacted. It passed like background noise. They both knew the sound well enough to jump at it anymore. Beth’s eyes stayed on the skyline when she spoke, her voice barely more than a breath.

“We have to talk about it,” she murmured. “What happened. You know that, right?”

Jack didn’t move. Just nodded once. “I know.”

She shook her head slowly, almost imperceptibly, like she was arguing with herself before she said, “But not tonight. I just…” 

The words fell apart between them. Her eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the skyline, teeth dragging against her lip. She shook her head. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

Jack’s throat bobbed once. “Not tonight,” he echoed, quiet.

They stood like that as the siren faded, the sky deepened, and the world moved on around them although they didn’t. Horns still honked. More sirens still wailed. But she didn’t walk away. She stayed there, picking at a loose thread in the cuff of her sweatshirt, like if she could just unravel that string, maybe the rest of the evening would make more sense.

Jack finally spoke, voice careful but steady. “How’s the leg?”

Beth’s mouth curved faintly like she was thankful for the deflection. “Still very broken.” She shrugged. “But she’s getting used to it. She has a follow-up tomorrow, so cross your fingers she gets a timeline where she can play volleyball this season. Otherwise I’ll be the emotional punching bag, and she’s only gotten meaner since she turned fifteen.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh. “She seems like a cool kid.”

“She is,” Beth said, soft and certain. Her fingers stilled on the thread. A beat of silence passed between them, the sirens fading further into the distance.

“So…” Jack glanced sideways, hesitant but trying. “Gladiator, huh?”

Beth exhaled a laugh through her nose. “It’s been her comfort movie since she was ten. Don’t ask. I’ve stopped trying to make sense of it. At least it’s not Frozen anymore. Though, I do kind of miss those days.”

Jack smirked. “How many times did she make you watch it this weekend?”

“Six. I was rooting for the tiger by the fourth.”

He chuckled. “Her dad must love that.”

Beth didn’t answer right away. She picked harder at the thread. Her shoulders drew in a little, not enough to be obvious, but enough to shift the air between them.

“It’s just the two of us, actually,” she said, not looking up.

Jack didn’t move, but the silence changed shape. He nodded once, quietly biting the inside of his cheek, savoring the taste of his own foot before he said anything else. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” She glanced over at him for the first time in a while, but not for long. “You’re not the first person to assume.”

He looked down at the street below, jaw tight. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

Beth shrugged, but it was more reflex than dismissal. “It’s fine. You didn’t know,” she said. She picked again at the thread. “We prefer it that way. Just me and my girl.”

Jack hesitated, watching the way Beth’s fingers continued to pick at the seam of her sleeve like they needed something to do. He opened his mouth once, closed it, then tried again. Jack hesitated, the question forming in pieces he couldn’t quite fit together. Thirty years was a lot to ask about in one breath. Still, something about the way she’d said just the two of us…

He tried. “So, when did it become—?”

Then her watch buzzed, sharp and insistent. She glanced down, and her face softened when she saw the name.

“It’s Abby,” she said, almost as if in apology. “She gets nervous if I don’t call after a shift. Hang on.”

She answered with an easy warmth he hadn’t heard from her in a long time. “Hey, honey.”

“Where are you? ” Abby demanded.

Beth lifted her brows. “Wow. Hello to you too. What great manners you have. Who taught you how to answer a phone? Your grandfather?”

“I know, right? Some people’s children.”

Beth gave a soft, tired laugh, then glanced over at Jack and rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. He chuckled quietly, something warm tugging at his chest.

“Oh, tell me about it,” Beth muttered into the call, already starting toward the door. She glanced over her shoulder at him with a small wave and apologetic smile, mouthing goodnight. He returned it with a tight smile and a nod.

“Whatever. Respectfully, where are you? You said you’d be leaving in ten minutes. That was an hour ago.” Abby didn’t miss a beat. “Were you yapping? I can hear it in your voice. Who were you yapping with? Oh my god, do you have hospital tea? Tell me.”

Beth sighed, her smile audible. “When did you become so nosy?”

“God forbid I act like my mother.” 

Beth barked a laugh. Jack lingered at the railing, hands in his pockets. Just before she pushed through the stairwell door, he called after her.

“Hey, Beth.”

She turned, one hand still wrapped around the door’s push bar. The stairwell light framed her in gold, catching on the curve of her cheekbone, the faded green of her sweatshirt. She looked at him like she’d been half-hoping he’d call her back.

Jack didn’t move at first. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, then finally asked, “Your mom’s rule. Does it work?”

Her mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, though not quite surprise. A pause gathered in the space between them. She blinked slowly, her fingers still curled loosely against the door like she might not press it open just yet. Then, without answering, she tilted her head; a barely-there nod that was more admission than confirmation. Her gaze softened. 

“Most nights,” she said. “Sometimes that’s all you can ask for.”

Jack nodded, quietly. She returned it with one of her own.

“Goodnight, Jack.”

As she turned and walked through the door, Abby’s voice echoed in the stairwell. “Oh my God, you were yapping! With Doctor Mullet? That’s who you’re out here neglecting your only child for?”

Beth didn’t miss a beat. “Neglect? I saw the DoorDash receipt, Abigail. You ordered two desserts and a milkshake. You’re not exactly a Dickens orphan, kid.”

Jack shook his head, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Beth,” he murmured, but she was already gone.

Jack stood there a moment longer, hands still deep in his pockets, the city still loud, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel completely outside of it. And for a moment, the silence felt almost kind.

Chapter Text

“Can we go to Dunkin’?”

“No.”

“Okay, rude, but why?”

“Because we went this morning and I just spent an alarming amount of money at Lululemon. My wallet’s closed, babe. Try again next fiscal quarter.”

“Ugh, whatever.”

Beth's eyes never left the road ahead of her, just rolled behind her sunglasses. Good lord, her mother hadn’t been kidding when she told Beth that daughters were sent to punish mothers for all the shit they put their own moms through. She tapped her nails against the metal insignia on the steering wheel and flicked on her blinker. “How about ‘thank you, Mom’ ?”

The late afternoon sun poured through the windshield, low and golden, catching on the dust at the edges of the dash and glinting off the chrome of the cars inching along in front of them. North Side traffic had jammed itself into a sluggish crawl, stalled by construction cones and weekend errands. Beth’s hand was steady on the wheel, her elbow hooked on the console, fingers drumming quietly against the leather. She usually didn’t mind the crawl. After the day they’d had, she wasn’t in a hurry. But they had forty minutes to get across town to PTMC for an ortho appointment that started in thirty, so she found herself hoping everyone would get a fuckin’ move on.

The back seat was littered with the spoils of back-to-school preparation: branded bags crumpled like battle flags, tissue paper poking out at awkward angles, a water bottle rolling with each gentle stop and start of the car. Somewhere near the bottom of one of those bags was a hoodie and new pair of jeans Beth had slipped in for herself, figuring that if she was already spending this much, what were a few more things? It was her money, anyway. There'd only been one meltdown in a fitting room, maybe two, and just the one pep talk about how any kid who gave Abby shit for the boot could answer to Beth personally. Abby had sniffled, laughed, and asked if they could stop and look at homecoming dresses before they left the mall, so Beth had felt pretty damn accomplished.

Now Abby was slouched in the passenger seat, good leg stretched out across the dash, black walking boot jutting stiffly from the other. Her hair was half up in a claw clip, tangled and a little frizzy from trying on clothes all day and the wind whipping through her cracked window, the bright blue tee she wore hanging oversized and soft on her frame. She’d lost the battle over the bike shorts that morning. Beth had only sighed when she came down the stairs, but ultimately let it go. Wasn’t a hill worth dying on, she’d decided, and she’d learned to become quite choosy about those hills. They’d ridden high again, predictably, and Beth reached over to yank them down with practiced annoyance before Abby could swat her hand away.

The stereo played a mix from Abby’s phone low under the hum of the air conditioning; mostly Swift, a little Sabrina Carpenter, the odd Noah Kahan track sneaking through when she decided to give Beth a break from the private pop concert. Beth caught a glimpse of Abby in her periphery; sunglasses slipping down her nose, a stiff new paperback open in her lap. She made a soft noise of amusement at something and flipped the page. Beth glanced over, then back at the light, which still blinked yellow. Still waiting. Still inching forward.  

“I’m just saying. We forgot to stop at Sephora, by the way. I didn’t get my concealer,” Abby mumbled. “Or the toner. Or that Laneige stuff. We’ll need to go back before school starts.”

Beth shifted her weight as they came to a stop behind a pickup with rusted fenders and a “Jesus is my co-pilot” sticker. She glanced at the dashboard clock; they were going to cut it close. She knew letting Abby talk her into that last jaunt through Barnes and Noble was a bad idea, and entirely intentional. She knew Beth would never say no to new books, the tricky little brat. 

“You got a pile of clothes and a sixty-dollar water bottle,” Beth replied flatly. “I think you made out just fine. You know, when I was your age, I was lucky if I got–.”

Abby let out a dramatic groan and flopped back into her seat heavily. “Oh my god, fine. I’ll stop.”

The last notes of Because I Liked a Boy faded, and then there it was; Fleetwood Mac, sliding in with that familiar, aching shimmer. The opening of Silver Springs hung in the air for barely two seconds before Beth tapped the steering wheel button and a new song took its place.

Abby’s head turned so fast it was practically a whipcrack. “Did you just skip our Lord and Savior Stevie Nicks?”

Beth didn’t look over. “Did I?”

“Don’t do that.” Abby shoved her sunglasses up with one finger. “Why’d you skip it?”

Beth shrugged one shoulder, adjusting her grip on the wheel. “Just wasn’t in the mood.”

Abby blinked at her, scandalized. “That’s literally never been true. You’re always in the mood for Silver Springs. We scream it in the car. It’s our longest-standing family tradition, besides watching Die Hard on Christmas Eve.”

“I just wasn’t feeling it.”

Abby narrowed her eyes and slowly leaned back in her seat. A long pause stretched between them, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning and the distant warble of some midtempo pop song that neither of them was really listening to. Abby watched her mother closely now, something sharp and amused lurking at the corners of her mouth.

“Does this have anything to do with why you were an hour late coming home last night?”

Beth let out a soft snort. “No, Leanne, it has nothing to do with why I broke curfew,” she teased. “I already told you. I got caught up talking is all.”

“With Doctor Mullet?”

Beth didn’t answer immediately, eyes scanning for a break in the clogged left-turn lane. Her fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the console. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you just skipped one of the three best ‘men are trash’ anthems ever written. And you’re not denying it”

Beth chuckled. “What are the other two?”

“Still not denying it.” Abby didn’t miss a beat. “The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived and All Too Well —the ten-minute version, obviously.”

Beth glanced over, skeptical. “Two of those are Taylor Swift.”

“Because Taylor Swift is the entire female experience, Mother.” Abby said flatly. “Now spill.”

Beth exhaled, long and slow. She adjusted the rearview mirror; not because it needed it, but because she needed something to do with her hands. “There’s not really anything to spill, Abs.”

“God, why are you being so secretive and weird about it?” Abby groaned, letting her head fall back heavily against the seat. 

“I’m not!”

Abby squinted at her from behind her sunglasses. “Then what did you guys even talk about?”

Beth’s grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

Oh, nothing. Just listened to him quietly describe the exact thing that used to keep her seventeen-year-old self up at night after he told her he was enlisting. How she couldn’t stop thinking about him out there, terrified and alone. Stood there as the boy she used to love, now quieter, older, thinner in the face, talked about a loss so big he could barely form the words. How he couldn’t look at her when he said it and she’d just stood there, listening, aching for him. 

How it had scooped her hollow to watch him fiddle with a ring he wore for a woman he once loved, and still did, and recognized how the years had carved more into him than she ever thought they would. They hadn’t exactly been kind to her either.

And no, it definitely hadn’t ended with her sobbing in her car afterward like she was still the girl who used to worry about him, still the girl who thought she could protect him if she just loved him enough. She’d never cry in front of him, though. He’d hate that. He never wanted anyone’s tears. But she’d hoped time would soften the edges. Instead, it had carved new scars. 

So, she sat in a dark parking garage grieving the sweet, brave boy she once knew and the man he’d been forced to become. For that little girl she left on the roof under their stars. For the woman who’d come after her. The one who’d held him through the things Beth never got to see. The one who’d loved him the way Beth always wanted someone to. And had been loved back. That part broke her and healed her in the same breath.

But mostly, she cried for what they’d both survived. Separately.

She looked straight ahead, her voice soft. “We just caught up.”

Abby didn’t believe her, not for a second. But she didn’t press. She stared out the window at passing traffic with a contemplative look on her face, finally quiet again. Beth chewed at the inside of her cheek and kept her focus on the road. Maybe if she looked serious enough about traffic, Abby would stop trying to beat a very long-dead horse. The car fell quiet again, folky guitar chords drifted from the speakers as a Lumineers song started to play. But before Beth could settle into her seat long enough to listen to the first verse, Abby gasped. 

“Wait!”

Beth jumped, heart in her throat, and slammed down hard on the brake. The car behind them blared its horn, angry and immediate. “Jesus Christ! What?”

“Oh my god. Is he my real dad? Is that why you're being so weird?”

Beth’s foot sat heavy on the brake. The car behind her honked again. She turned her head slowly, and pulled her sunglasses down her nose to give her daughter a rather unimpressed look.

“What year were you born?”

Abby blinked. “…2008?”

“Which makes you how old?”

“Seventeen.”

“And I haven’t seen him in how many years?”

 Abby squinted, then her mouth opened in realization. “Oh. Wait.”

“Oh,” Beth repeated, like it physically pained her, and flicked Abby on the forehead. “Nice math, smarty pants. Maybe we’re aiming too high with a few of those college applications.” 

Abby swatted her hand away, laughing, then let the quiet settle for a beat. The car hummed forward another few feet. Beth adjusted her grip on the wheel. Traffic inched forward. The light up ahead turned green, then yellow, then red again before they even made it halfway through the intersection.

“So what did happen between you two?” Abby asked, slouching a little deeper in her seat. “You’re dodging like it’s some kind of soap opera twist.”

Beth kept her gaze on the line of brake lights ahead. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she exhaled, slow and shallow, and stared ahead through the windshield, letting the golden light smear across the dashboard. Her fingers started drumming against the leather of the wheel.

“We were in love,” she said finally. “We met freshman year, and dated all through high school. He enlisted, I went to college. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Abby asked.

Beth nodded. “End of story.”

“That’s not it.”

“That’s it.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Mom. Come on. People do long distance all the time. People write love letters and propose over FaceTime. That's not a good enough reason.”

Beth didn’t respond. Her fingers drummed once against the steering wheel. Abby nudged her foot against the dashboard, fidgeting like the silence was too loud.

“So what happened?” Abby pressed, softer now. “Why did you actually break up?”

Beth glanced over and shrugged, like her shoulders knew better than to carry the answer. “We just broke up, Abs. It happens.”

“Nope. Wrong answer.”

Beth huffed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I saw the way you looked at him in that hospital room,” Abby said, voice softer now. “You didn’t ‘just break up.’”

Beth went quiet again. The AC hummed softly beneath the music still playing from Abby’s phone.

“So,” Abby said after a beat, “are you gonna tell me the real version? Or should I call Grandpa and see how he remembers it?”

“Jesus, Abs.” Beth laughed, though the sound was tight. “You’d make a terrific lawyer.”

“Too bad I’m going to med school,” Abby said, grinning. “Now start talking.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Abby grinned, smug. “It’s hereditary. Stop stalling.”

Beth sighed. Why did she have to raise such a precocious child? Her fingers traced the stitching on the steering wheel. Traffic ahead of them pulsed and halted in uneven waves, brake lights glowing red against the honeyed stretch of late afternoon sun. The silence hung long enough that Abby looked over, ready to prod again, but Beth spoke before she could.

“We were going to stay together,” she said finally. “We had this whole plan. He was going to get through basic and AIT, and I was going to transfer from Penn to whatever school was closest to his base. We were really going to try. We had it all mapped out. He was supposed to come over for dinner the night before he left; Grandma wanted to cook for him. She and Grandpa were… they were proud. Really proud.”

Abby was quiet for once, not pushing. Just listening.

“They liked him?” she asked after a beat.

“Oh, they practically adopted him. Grandma made him a Christmas stocking and everything. I think she liked him more than me most days.”

Abby snorted. “That tracks. And Grandpa?”

Beth smirked faintly. Then her voice dipped softer, more measured. “Grandpa too. Jack would sit in the den with him and they’d watch those corny westerns Grandpa likes and just talk. He used to take Jack and your Uncle Chris fishing every Saturday morning, too," her throat twisted and she swallowed hard, not expecting the memory of Jack and Chris following Dad through the house, bleary eyed with bedhead hidden under ball caps at five in the morning like it was routine, to tug at something in her chest so hard. “He loved him.”

“So what happened?” Abby asked gently. “He came over and broke up with you and then Grandpa beat his ass?”

Beth shook her head. “No,” she said. “He didn’t come over at all.”

Abby blinked. “Wait, what?”

She paused, jaw tight. “I waited for him. Even went out to try to find him when it got late. But he’d already left. Two days early. Just gone. And I never heard from him again. Not a call. Not a letter. Nothing. Last Tuesday was the first time I’ve seen him since.”

There was a long silence, just the low whir of the air conditioning and the muted sounds of the world outside the car. The car rolled to a stop again. Beth’s hands stilled on the wheel, knuckles bleached white. 

Abby’s eyes widened, her voice stunned. “He ghosted you? For thirty years? ”

Beth let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. I guess he did.”

“God,” Abby murmured, lips parted like this was the single most befuddling thing she’d ever heard. “Men are trash. And you just… moved on?”

Beth’s hands eased on the wheel, fingers falling slack against the leather as the car hummed beneath them. Outside, the light had shifted; late afternoon slipping into that strange, golden hour that made everything look softer than it was. A breeze floated through the cracked window, warm and dry, and caught the edge of a faded receipt peeking from her purse. It lifted, flapped once, and settled again like it had nowhere else to be.

Moved on.

Beth turned the phrase over in her mind like a pebble, smooth and worn down from years of handling that the edges no longer cut. That was the polite way to say it, wasn’t it? You move on. You heal. You survive.

But what she remembered wasn’t some graceful arc of healing. It was messier than that. It was crying until her eyes swelled shut. It was losing ten pounds because she couldn’t eat. Waking up in a cold sweat at three in the morning, sure she’d missed a call that never came. Not being able to sleep unless her mother was beside her rubbing her back in the dark, saying nothing, because there was nothing to say. It was pushing food around a plate while the world carried on without her, as if she hadn’t just watched the future she’d planned dissolve overnight.

She didn’t tell anyone how long she kept writing him letters after he was gone. How she kept sending them, even though she knew they weren’t being read. She wrote them because she needed to, because every line kept her tied to a version of her life that no longer existed.

She still said “my boyfriend” for months. Let herself believe it wasn’t over, not really. That there’d be an explanation. A knock on the door. A voice on the phone saying I love you, I’m sorry. I miss you. I had to go, but I’m coming home.

Of course, none of that came. And eventually, she stopped waiting for it.

There were pieces of that first year she couldn’t quite remember anymore. Not because it was so long ago; but because she had been surviving, not living. Her body moved on autopilot, propelled only by the need to just get by. Because grief had this strange way of folding time in on itself. There were whole weeks where everything was quiet and numb, like she was watching her life from just behind the glass.

She hadn’t told anyone, not really, how much it broke her. Her parents already knew; they had been on the front lines of that destruction. But not her friends. Not her teammates. Not her sorority sisters or coworkers. She didn’t know how to say, he left and I’m still here. But the pieces never fit back right.

And yet, she did the things people do, and became the person who did them. That devastated, heartbroken little girl had to go through the motions. She went to class. Made new friends. Put on makeup. Laughed at parties. Smiled when she ran into people from school who asked about him and said, “it didn’t work out,” like that covered it. Let her friends talk her into stupid movies and late-night pizza. She stitched herself together with new routines, new plans. She pretended it didn’t hurt anymore, until eventually it didn’t. Or at least, not in a way she couldn’t carry. She became someone who smiled again, even if it felt unnatural at first, until the motions just felt like living.

She didn’t forget him. Not really. But the missing stopped screaming and started whispering. She moved forward. She built a life. She fell in love again and survived when her heart broke again. She got tougher. Stronger. She raised a daughter who was better than her in every way. Life went on, and she found new aches. And it seemed that he had as well. 

But you don’t tell your daughter that; about how much breaking it had taken to look this whole. You don’t hand her the pieces of your broken heart like a story she’s supposed to learn from. Some things a mother keeps to herself.

So Beth swallowed all of it, every ragged edge and old ache, and gave the kind of answer that sounded like strength.

Instead, she nodded.

“I did.”

“So now what?” Abby asked, voice quiet but insistent.

Beth kept her eyes on the road. “What do you mean?”

Abby leaned her head against the window, watching the world pass by. “He’s back. So now what?”

Beth had been trying to answer that question since the moment she saw him. Since he stepped into Abby’s room like no time had passed, like a ghost wearing scrubs and a badge. Her mind had been caught in a loop ever since; rerunning what she’d say, what she felt, what she wanted to feel. She’d asked herself a hundred different versions of it in the last week and a half, none with a satisfying answer.

Beth exhaled slowly through her nose. “Now we work together. That’s what.”

“You don’t look like that’s what,” Abby said, not unkindly. “You look like you’re trying really hard to pretend that’s what.”

Beth sighed. “We’re not kids anymore, Abby,” she said softly, turning to give her a tight smile. “Some people just… live in your bones, baby. No matter how much time passes. Doesn’t mean you want them to.”

Abby picked at a loose thread on the hem of her tee shirt; a habit she picked up from Beth. She reached across and took her daughter’s fidgeting hand with a gentle squeeze. Abby took her hand, letting Beth weave her fingers into hers the way she did when she was little. 

“Like my dad?” Abby asked quietly.

Beth’s knuckles flexed slightly on the wheel. She didn’t look over. The windshield caught the sun at an angle, lighting the dust and fingerprints like stars against glass. “Yeah,” she croaked out, taking a steadying breath. The words tasted bitter on her tongue when she bit out, “Kind of like your dad.”

But it wasn’t the same. Not even close.

He’d split her open in a different way. A deeper way. Left a fracture in something foundational. She’d spent years stitching herself back together, and then he’d come along and cracked it wide again, just when she thought it was safe and she was worth the repairs. At least that time, she’d gotten something lasting out of the wreckage. Her reason to go on came swaddled in a hospital blanket, red-faced and wailing and perfect. That little girl had carved something beautiful into her brokenness; delicate, permanent, like calligraphy written deep into the marrow. 

That was the truth she didn’t know how to explain: that love could feel like art, or it could feel like destruction. Sometimes it was both.

Abby hesitated. “Did you love him?”

“Your dad?”

“You know who I mean.”

Beth’s voice came out softer this time. “I did.”

“Do you still?”

Beth didn’t answer, not because she wouldn’t, but because she couldn’t.

The truth sat somewhere deep, in a place she hadn’t dared look in years. A question tangled up in thoughts that she hadn’t untied in years. She’d knotted it up years ago and tucked it away once she accepted that some things just never fully left you. Some people remained a part of the architecture, even after everything else got torn down.

She just gave Abby’s hand a small squeeze, and drove on in silence.

Abby seemed to understand. She didn’t push.

Instead, she leaned over and tapped the screen, scrolling back through the playlist until the first familiar notes of Silver Springs filled the car again.

Neither of them sang.

Beth kept her eyes forward, but something in her shifted just barely. Like the song was a door she’d nailed shut long ago and could now hear creaking open behind her. She didn’t turn around. She just kept driving. The road opened up ahead of them; still slow, but not at a standstill. Wind slipped through the cracked window and rustled the shopping bags in the backseat. The chorus swelled, Stevie’s voice filling the car like a truth she couldn’t bring herself to say out loud.

Beth’s eyes didn’t leave the road. Abby glanced sideways, then looked away. She sang softly, almost to herself, as the bridge hit.

“I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me…”

Beth hummed along.

“C’mon, Abs. Let’s move.”

“I’m literally going as fast as I can,” Abby grumbled, her crutches thudding against the tile. “Not my fault we’re late. I wasn’t the one driving.”

Beth didn’t say anything at first, just cast a sharp look over her shoulder, one brow raised. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep the words in. Technically, it was Abby’s fault. Or at least partially. She was the one who insisted on stopping for coffee, and the mostly-empty Dunkin’ cup still sweating in the car’s cupholder was damning enough. But Beth had been the one driving, so she kept her mouth shut and picked up the pace.

Chairs was packed by the time they made it through security. The metal detector had taken one look at Abby’s leg and gone off like it was a bomb threat, and Abby, true to form, had turned it into a performance . “Three pins,” she told the weary-looking guard. “Wanna see the stitches? They’re super gross. Like, horror movie gross.” By the time they were cleared, Beth had to nudge her through the crowd like a tugboat steering a very chatty freighter. Beth kept Abby close as they weaved through the tangle of people. When a man in a too-tight polo barked about them cutting the line, Beth flashed her badge without slowing, her other hand reaching out to push open the doors.

The doors to the ED swung open and the chaos inside hit them immediately; beeping monitors, shouting nurses, the sharp antiseptic tang that clung to everything. Beth led the way through the controlled madness in a beeline for the elevator, until a warm voice called out from the front desk.

“Well, well. Is that Abby Morgan I see in my ED?”

Beth caught the flicker of discomfort pass across Abby’s face like a shadow. She hated that name; wore it like a scar stitched too tight and only used it when she had to, but she still managed a sunny grin. “Hi, Miss Dana.”

Dana leaned over the counter with open arms. “Hi yourself, kiddo. Heard you took a spill.”

“I’m good,” Abby said, shrugging with one shoulder while she stepped into the nurse’s hug. “Got dropped out of a stunt. Nothing exciting.”

“Who dropped you?” Dana said, pulling back, eyes narrowed. “I want names. I’ll kick their ass myself.”

Abby laughed, softer this time, her body relaxing just a little in Dana’s arms. “Yeah, you’ll have to get in line behind Mom.”

“Good,” Dana said brightly, giving Abby one more quick squeeze before letting her go. “We’ll go together and get drinks after. Make it a girls’ night.”

Beth smirked. “Only if you’re buying.”

Dana laughed. “You know I will. Seriously though, look at you.” Her eyes swept over Abby with a mix of fondness and disbelief. “You’re beautiful, baby. Just like your mama. I still can’t believe you’re a senior. When the hell did you grow up on me?”

Abby laughed again, her face warming under the attention. Beth smiled, reaching up to comb her fingers through her daughter’s hair, absently smoothing it down in a gesture she’d never quite grown out of. She listened as Abby launched into a monologue about the AP classes she was taking this year and upcoming football games. But Beth’s attention had already drifted.

Jack stepped out of one of the exam rooms, reading a chart as he wandered toward the hub, brow furrowed. He didn’t see her at first, but then his eyes lifted and caught hers, and that furrow in his brow eased. The gentle, crooked smile that followed knocked something loose in her chest while he started towards her. That girl, the one who used to blush too easily at the sight of that smile, rose to the surface, gasping. And Beth, just for a moment, let her tread water. 

She forced herself to return it, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear just as he came to a stop at the counter across from her and leaned against it casually. Just close enough for her to see the faint stubble on his jaw, still the sharp, stubborn angle she would trace with her fingers. Her fingers twitched before she wrapped them around a stray pen.

“Thought you were off today,” she said, then quickly added, “Not that I know your schedule. I just saw that… we work the same days. Not that I was looking. Because I wasn’t. I just… noticed.”

Jesus Christ, Baker. What the actual fuck was that?

Heat crawled up her neck and she ducked her head. She fiddled with the cuff of her jacket. Jack gave a quiet, knowing kind of laugh and crossed his arms on the counter. “Picked up a shift. Didn’t feel like sitting around.”

Beth nodded, her fingers still fiddling with the edge of her jacket cuff. She knew he never liked sitting still too long. Jack was the type who thrived in motion; always needed something to do, something to keep his hands busy. It was one of the things she used to admire about him, before admiration turned into something stickier and harder to scrub out.

Jack turned his attention to Abby and offered her a grin. “How ya doin’, House?”

Abby smiled. “What’s up, Doctor Mullet?”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t waver. “How’s the leg?”

“Practically a Home Depot with how much hardware I’ve got in there. I got flagged at security. I didn’t even know a metal detector could do that.”

“Ah, lean into it. You’re just a percentage closer to being a Terminator than the rest of us,” Jack smirked when Abby huffed out a laugh. “What are you two doing here anyway? I have to be here. Shouldn’t you be off enjoying your last few days of freedom?”

“Four more days, but who’s counting?” Abby said, shifting her weight to one crutch. 

“You guys start on a Wednesday? Whose dumbass idea was that?”

“Do I look like I’m in the teachers’ union? I don’t know,” Abby leaned her hip against the counter and rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve got my post-op today.”

Jack chuckled and glanced at Beth, then back at Abby. “Yeah, your mom mentioned that. Said you’ve been dying to get back on the court.”

“We’re hoping I’ll get a timeline today. Mom says I should be able to play this season. I’m just hoping to get cleared to do something other than lay around like roadkill.”

“Well,” Jack shrugged, “your mom’s a smart lady. If she says so, then I’d believe it.”

“Ugh. Gross,” Abby muttered. “You’re enabling her.”

“Guilty,” Jack said, straightening. “Don’t let ‘em scare you too much up there. I want the verdict when you come back down.”

“Deal,” Abby said, then bumped her fist against his when he held it out, that small smile widening.

He straightened and gave Beth a quick, warm smile before he opened the next patient file and set off to the next room. Beth’s eyes tracked him without meaning to. She told herself it was instinct. Familiarity. Nothing else. But something flipped just a little at the easy way he talked to Abby; she was normally prickly with new people, especially adults, but she lit up like he’d flipped a switch. Beth had seen it before, but watching Abby’s face light up in response hit different. That rare, unguarded smile, the one Abby saved for very few people, spread slowly and honestly. Beth felt a flicker of something in her gut that she wasn’t ready to name.

Just before disappearing around the corner, Jack caught Beth’s eye again. He held up his hand and crossed his fingers with a crooked, conspiratorial smirk, then winked.

She let out a soft, amused breath, barely enough to be called a laugh, and crossed her own fingers back. It was a tiny gesture. Barely anything at all. But it warmed something old and traitorous inside her. Something she'd locked up. And then he was gone, the door sliding shut behind him like it hadn’t rattled the lock on the part of her that still missed that boyish grin.

Beth straightened and gave Abby a light tap between the shoulder blades. “Alright, kid. Let’s get a move on.”

They barely made it two steps before the sharp clatter of gurney wheels came up fast behind them. Beth reached out without looking, catching the back of Abby’s shirt and tugging her to the side.

“Try not to get run over before your appointment.”

“Wow. Great bedside manner,” Abby muttered, swinging her crutches back into motion as they made their way to the elevators.

Beth smirked but kept walking. She hit the button for the seventh floor. The elevator opened, they stepped inside, and the doors glided shut. Blessed silence.

For three whole seconds.

“So,” Abby said after a beat, voice too casual to be trusted, “did we really park in the garage because it was faster? Or because you were hoping to see someone?”

Beth didn’t even look at her. “Because it’s faster. And we were late.”

Which was true. Mostly. The garage was more direct. The fact that it funneled them right past the emergency department was… incidental. Just a byproduct of efficiency. If she happened to scan the crowd while they passed through to see who of her new coworkers were on the clock, then that was no one’s business but hers. Just mere curiosity.

Abby made a skeptical noise low in her throat. “Uh-huh. And you just happened to unzip your jacket before we walked in?”

Beth gave her a flat look, then reached up and zipped the jacket halfway. “I unzipped my jacket because it’s warm in here.”

“Sure. Total coincidence. Just like the leggings and the clingy tank top.”

Beth sighed. “They’re clothes, Abby. I put on clothes.”

“Strategically. Is that why you curled your hair this morning too?”

“The curling iron was already on the counter because someone never puts it away and I had time,” Beth snapped, and regretted it instantly. Defensive. Way too defensive.

“Mmhm,” Abby murmured, leaning on one crutch, all smug amusement. “Just saying. You looked like someone who walked through the ED hoping to be noticed.”

Beth clenched her jaw. She didn’t answer right away. Didn’t admit how her stomach had done that stupid flip at the thought. Didn’t admit how she’d slowed just slightly near the charge desk. Didn’t admit anything.

“We went through the ED,” she said, “because we were running late.”

Abby’s grin widened like a Cheshire cat.

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Mom.”

Chapter Text

Mom was so full of it.

This was not the faster way back to the car. Not even close. Abby could’ve mapped out a quicker route in her sleep, one-handed, with no Wi-Fi. She could have Lewis-and-Clarked it through this hospital she had literally been in twice, and they would have already been in the car. They were definitely retracing their steps on purpose now, passing through the ED again like it was some kind of tourist attraction. All for nothing, obviously. No one just accidentally loops past the same hallway where their ghost ex-boyfriend works. Totally just because the parking garage was ‘closer’.

Especially not when they spent twenty minutes curling their hair that morning, which she never does unless she’s going on her obligatory date every six months or going to a wedding. Which was hilarious, because Abby had straightened her hair that morning. So either Mom was hallucinating hot tools, or she was lying. And Abby had a pretty strong guess which it was.

She trailed a few steps behind, letting Mom lead her in this totally-not-planned direction. The ache in her leg had mostly eased up after being poked and prodded at by Doctor Yang, but she still used it as an excuse to hang back. From here, she could watch her mom’s posture; tight shoulders, arms crossed, chin up like she was scanning the room.

Just painfully, totally obvious.

And yeah, maybe Abby hadn’t expected Doctor Mullet to be… normal. Or nice. Or capable of holding eye contact without exploding into flames. Honestly, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would just disappear on someone. 

Not in the “vanish off the face of the Earth” way, anyway. And when he’d looked at her mom, it hadn’t been weird. It’d been quiet. Kind. A little sad. Not the way the guy who ran out on her mom in the 1900s and left her to stare out at the middle distance when Abby asked about him should look at her.

Which made Mom’s face even harder to read. She hadn’t looked angry or heartbroken. She’d looked like someone trying very hard not to feel anything at all. Like someone standing in front of a dented car, deciding whether to fix the damage or kick in the other side just to make it match.

It was weird. The whole thing was weird. And Mom wasn’t weird. She was decisive to a point where it was almost bitchy. Always had a reason and purpose for every little thing she did. She didn’t do weird.

Okay, maybe Mom was a little weird. Maybe.

She followed a few steps behind as they made their way out, catching Miss Dana’s eye as they passed the hub. The nurse gave her a warm smile and added a wink like they were in on something together. Abby gave a little wave, already anticipating freedom and deciding how to talk Mom into stopping for overpriced drive-thru fries. She’d been a brave little girl today. She deserved a little treat.

They were nearly at the exit when a flash of blonde and frantic energy intercepted them.

“Hi, Doctor Baker! I’m so sorry—sorry—I know you’re not working today, and I know you’re with your daughter,” the woman said, rapid-fire, like she was trying to get all her words out before her lungs caught up. “Hi. Sorry. I’m Mel. Your mom is really nice,” she added, flashing a sheepish grin Abby didn’t know how to respond to.

Mom held up her hands and gave the blonde a kind smile. “It’s fine, Mel. Slow down. What’s up?”

Mel did slow down, just barely. “Okay. Your seizure patient from last night is still down here; peds hasn’t had a bed open up yet, and his mom is refusing to talk to anyone but you. I have his labs, but she’s not budging and I just… would you mind coming down real quick? Just to help smooth it over?”

Behind them, Miss Dana piped up with a breezy, “She can stay here with me, Red. We’ll try not to get into too much trouble. Go.”

Mom hesitated, clipped her badge onto her jacket like a reluctant superhero suiting up, then looked at Abby. “You okay?”

Abby lowered herself into a chair near where Miss Dana talked to a nurse and pulled out her phone. “I’ll be fine. Probably. Go save lives or whatever.”

Mom leaned over to kiss her head and promised to be back quickly, then followed Mel down the hallway. Abby exhaled and let herself sink into the chair properly, scrolling absently through the group chat, catching up on the debate about what to wear to Homecoming. Kennedy sent a picture of her dress and claimed purple, Charlee was annoyed because she claimed purple in May; cue the drama and screenshot receipts. Abby scrolled through the messages without really absorbing any of them.

One new text from Gavin sat in her inbox. How was ur appointment?

Her stomach did a little flip and she sat up a bit straighter. She stared at the screen for a second too long before typing back: it was good! ty for asking. u get out of practice early?

She closed out the chat before she could overthink the timing of her reply and opened her Kindle app. She found her place in her book and started to read. The sounds of the ED around her made it difficult to focus, but she’d learned to tune them out before she could even walk. 

“Well?”

Abby looked up to find Jack at the monitor across from her. His badge beeped softly as he tapped it against the scanner, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“What’s the verdict, House?” he asked, low and friendly.

“December,” she said, exhaling like she’d been holding the answer in her chest. Her phone dropped to her lap with a soft thud.

Jack’s grin bloomed. “Hell yeah,” he said, reaching a fist across the counter.

Abby smiled despite herself and bumped her knuckles against his. “Ortho said I might shave off a couple weeks if I do my PT and avoid being a dumbass.”

His brow lifted. “You gonna manage that?”

“I want to play again,” she said with a shrug. “So… probably.”

Jack gave a small approving nod, like that answer earned a checkmark somewhere in his brain.

“And,” she added, “I can start driving again in two weeks, thank God. I love my mom, but she drives like a Disney princess trying not to disturb the forest animals. It’s infuriating.”

Jack laughed. “She still does that, huh?”

Abby squinted. “Still?”

He didn’t glance up, fingers typing on the screen, but she saw the edge of a grin.

“Yeah. She’s been like that ever since she got pulled over by her dad when we were in high school.”

Abby’s jaw dropped. “Wait. Grandpa gave her a ticket?”

“Forty in a thirty,” Jack said with a grin. “Wrote her up without blinking. Then grounded her for a month. She was pissed.”

“That’s amazing. ”

“It was brutal.” he said. “Especially for me. She refused to drive after that. I had to chauffeur her everywhere, and she was the worst backseat driver in the world. I still think that was your grandpa's plan all along.”

“Oh no, she still is. Constant running commentary, invisible brake; the whole deal.”

He chuckled again. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Abby’s smile lingered, warm and a little crooked. She tried to picture it; her mom, young and stubborn, arms crossed in the passenger seat, Jack behind the wheel making dumb jokes until she finally cracked a smile. It was weird. Not in a bad way. Just strange to see a version of her mom that existed before her. A version Jack still seemed to remember like she hadn’t changed much at all.

“So,” Jack said, eyes flicking to the screen, “you gonna be back in time for winter conditioning?”

That caught her. “How do you know about winter conditioning?”

“You brought it up when we had you on that wild pain cocktail last week,” he said with a smirk. “Something about winter conditioning and some girl named Kayla who, and I quote, ‘should never be allowed around a volleyball net again because she’s stupid and sucks’?”

Abby groaned. “Well, I stand by that.”

“Yeah?” he grinned. “What’s her deal?”

“She flinches during serves, Jack. She plays libero.”

He gave an exaggerated wince. “Yikes.”

“Exactly.”

He chuckled, leaning an elbow on the counter. “You planning to play after high school?”

“Nah. I’m just going to focus on school. Med school apps don’t care how many aces you had sophomore year.”

Jack lifted a brow. “Med school, huh?”

“That’s the plan. Undergrad, then med school for trauma surgery. Mom’s still trying to talk me out of it. She’s got… strong opinions about surgeons. Blame my dad.”

Jack’s brows knit together for a half-second at that before he cleared his throat. “Yeah? Who’s on the list for undergrad?”

“Pitt, Penn State, Villanova, NYU…” Abby counted them off on her fingers, adding her third tier backups for good measure, then added with a touch of quiet certainty, “But UPenn is at the top.”

Something softened around Jack’s eyes. “Just like your mom,” he said, something strange in his voice.

Abby nodded, but before she could answer, she heard Mom’s voice drifting in from the hall, calm and even and full of authority; the “everything’s fine, I’ve got this” tone she reserved for patients and stressed-out interns.

“…Doctor King will be in soon with an update, alright?” she was saying as she rounded the corner, Mel trailing beside her like a duckling before she rejoined them with a tablet in hand, talking lowly to the blonde as they returned to the hub. Abby was about to head over and tell her mom they could finally go when something made her pause.

Abby glanced up, and that’s when she saw it: Jack’s gaze had wandered. Right past the screen, past Abby, and directly to her mom. She blinked. And then squinted. And then, with rising horror, watched as his eyes did not immediately move on, like normal people’s should when looking at a mom. They lingered. Scanned. Rolled up her mom’s legs and over her hip and torso and—oh my god, ew dude, that’s someone’s mother—then up to her face. He smiled.

Abby recoiled internally.

Disgusting. Her mother? In front of her? Cool, what if she just literally threw up? There should be laws against this. Federal ones. Maybe something Geneva-related. Pretty sure one of the Ten Commandments was ‘thou shalt not check out your mom while you’re standing right there.’ Then again, what did she know? They only went to church twice a year.

But Jack kept looking at her. Not staring. Not in a creepy way. Just… watching. Like something about the sight of her mom had rooted him to the floor. Like he remembered every version of her and still thought this one might be the best yet.

Abby watched for a moment longer, then looked down at her phone, her mouth pulling into a small, thoughtful smile. It was weird. But not in a bad way. Maybe not even in a weird way. Just… different.

Jack looked away just as Mom stepped up to the computer beside his, Mel trailing close behind. She was speaking softly, walking the younger doctor through strategies for handling distressed parents as she pulled up a chart and started typing. Mel listened intently, nodding along, her posture gradually uncoiling; shoulders lowering, face relaxing. That was one of the things Abby loved most about her mom: the way she made people feel capable. Jack must’ve felt it too, because he glanced over at Mom again, that quiet little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he turned back to his screen. Mel kept talking, voice fast and hopeful now, and Abby seized the opportunity for a quick escape.

She pushed herself up and tugged on Mom’s sleeve. “Do you have cash? I’m going to go get a water.”

Mom didn’t even glance up. “Take my wallet,” she said, digging it out of her purse and handing it over. “The machines are—”

“Past radiology, left of the elevators. I saw them on our way in.”

Mom nodded, still distracted. “Be quick, okay?”

Quick wasn’t exactly in Abby’s vocabulary right now, but she tried. She fed a wrinkled bill into the vending machine, grabbed a bottle of water, shoved the change into her mom’s wallet, and started the slow walk back, water tucked under her arm, condensation soaking through the fabric of her sleeve.

When Abby turned the corner, the blonde doctor she’d left with Mom was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Jack was there; leaning casually against the counter, relaxed, grinning at something her mom had just said. Then Mom laughed. Not just a polite smile, but a full, genuine laugh. The kind that started with a snort, crinkled her eyes, and ended with her covering her mouth like she was trying to swallow it back in. The kind reserved for Will Ferrell movies and the sarcastic comments Abby made to adults who never quite caught on. The kind of laugh Abby hadn’t heard in far too long.

And Jack just stood there, like he’d been waiting for it, like that laugh was the highlight of his day. He smiled like he’d just won a contest, then said something else, clearly trying to bring out another one of those laughs. 

Mom used to laugh like that more often.

Not with the guys she brought home, though.

There weren’t many of those, really. Mom dated here and there, but nothing that ever stuck for too long. She’d probably tell you she liked it that way; independent, self-sufficient, a badass doctor who kept a trauma kit in the trunk and pulled over every time they drove past a car accident to make sure everyone was okay. She was perfectly happy on her own; just her and Abby. The way she liked it. 

But Abby knew what came after those dates. She’d hear Mom come home late, quietly enough to not wake Abby, though she was never asleep. Mom would sit on the couch for a while, just staring into space. Then she’d sigh, slip off her heels, and leave them in the closet untouched for months until the next “first date” that never made it to a second.

Abby could count on one hand how many men had stuck around for longer than a minute, and it was easy, because she only needed one finger. Ed came around when she was eleven: a police captain who looked like a walking cliché from every cop drama on TV. He was about ten years older than her mom, had a son in college somewhere in California, and was the steady, “responsible” type. Nice. Quiet. A little boring, if you asked Abby, but safe.

He brought flowers, took Mom out every Friday, told the same four stories from his Vice days, even tried to learn the rules of volleyball when Abby started playing. He spent Christmas with them in Coldwater at Grandma and Grandpa’s house one year and was Mom’s date to Aunt Becca’s second wedding in the Bahamas. But when he suggested a week-long trip to Paris after the pandemic when the travel restrictions were lifted, Abby caught the shift in her mom’s expression; that subtle flicker like she’d sensed a proposal coming. And just like that, Mom did what she always did when things started to get too good: she bolted.

No second chances. No looking back. Just a clean break and a quiet smile a few weeks later when Abby caught her standing in front of the bathroom mirror a little too long, followed by the usual excuse about him not being the right fit, and how that was okay, because she was perfectly happy with it being just the two of them. It was the first time her Mom had ever lied to her.

She never laughed like this for Ed. Not even at their best. And Ed definitely never looked at her like Jack just did, like seeing her was the single best part of his whole day. No one had ever looked at Mom like that. Like he didn’t want the moment to end quite yet. Like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of whatever invisible thread had pulled them together just now. Her mom had looked; what was the word? Lighter. Not exactly happy. But easy. Comfortable in a way Abby hadn’t seen in a long time. She didn’t know if she ever laughed like that for her dad. Mom didn’t talk about him much, and Abby was okay with that.

Yeah. People who ‘just work together’ didn’t look at each other like that.

Abby wasn’t sure why it made her smile so much.

But then, he showed up, and Abby stopped smiling.

Some tall, beardy guy in cargo pants and a hoodie with an annoying smile that Mom immediately returned. He had the nerve to step in and start talking to Mom, and worse: Miss Dana was encouraging it, grinning at them both like she was watching an episode of The Bachelor. He leaned in and, of course, found a reason to lightly touch Mom’s arm within ten seconds.

Et tu, Miss Dana? Who is this? Ew. No. No, sir. Which pocket of your cargo pants do you keep all that audacity in? She was having a conversation. Walk away. This is not your moment. Get lost. Bye.

She groaned softly as her mom laughed again, lighter this time, but not quite like she had for Jack. She looked like she was trying. Abby scowled when her mom gave Hoodie Guy a polite smile and tilted her head. Jack stepped back a little. His posture changed. He didn’t leave, but he let the other guy take up space. Abby wanted to throw something. 

Mom. Don’t smile at Hoodie Guy. Don’t you do it. Ugh, she was doing it. Stop it, Mom. You’re too old to be in a love triangle. It’s cringy. 

No! Jack, don’t leave! Go away, Hoodie Guy! I will literally fight you. No. Go away so Jack will come back.

God damn it, Elizabeth.

A minute later, Mom waved her over.

“Abby, this is Doctor Robby. He’s one of our attendings. This my daughter, Abby.”

“Hey, Ab—”

“Yeah, hi,” Abby said, polite enough, setting Mom’s wallet on the counter by her purse. Whatever, Hoodie Guy. Don’t get comfortable. 

Then, with just the right amount of pitiful in her voice, she turned back to her mom, pouting out her lip just so. “Can we go home? My leg kinda hurts.”

Concern took over immediately. Her mom’s brow furrowed and her voice softened. “Of course, boo.” She turned back to Robby, said a quick goodbye, then reached for her bag.

Didn’t even notice her wallet wasn’t with it.

Abby glanced across the hub, and alas, there it was. Mom’s wallet. Still sitting by the monitor where Jack had been standing earlier. Just left behind. Waiting to be picked up while Mom kept on her beeline for the door, already talking about dinner and laundry and all other kinds of boring mom stuff. 

Aw, no. 

Mom. 

Your wallet.

Wait—darn.

Too bad it was so far away. Practically across state lines. A whole journey. They’d never make it.

Oh well. C'est la vie.

Someone will find it.

Beth didn’t put that jacket on for Jack.

She didn’t. She just happened to put on her yoga clothes that morning because she was going to go to yoga that evening. That had been the plan. She didn’t go, sure, but the intention was there. The clothes were logistical, not emotional. Functional, not flirtatious.

Whatever. It didn’t matter.

They were just clothes. Same way the cardigan and sweats she changed into as soon as they got home were just clothes. Not everything had to mean something. She’d love to see Abby twist pajamas into some secret signal she was supposedly sending to a guy she dated before cell phones had cameras.

Which she wasn’t doing.

Honestly, that kid needed a hobby that wasn’t narrating her mother’s love life like a CW reboot of Pride and Prejudice.

He wasn’t even supposed to be there today. She didn’t know he’d be on shift. They were running late, her brat child has a broken leg, so excuse her for parking closer so said brat wouldn’t have to walk too far. It just so happened that he was working, so she said hello because it’s polite. It wasn’t like that. She didn’t plan it, she didn’t mean anything by it, and it wasn’t certainly the flirting Abby made it out to be. God, it wasn’t flirting. She barely remembered how to flirt. 

It wasn’t about Jack. It wasn’t about the pause, the half-second of hesitation, when he’d looked at her like he hadn’t quite finished saying whatever he was going to say before Robby showed up. It shouldn’t be about Jack. Jack made it entirely clear what Jack thought of her thirty years ago when he left.

Beth turned the burner to simmer and stirred the sauce slowly. Smoothed her palm along the counter and watched the evening breeze rustle the rose bushes in the backyard through the kitchen window. She should be making dinner. She had far more important things to do than stand in her kitchen trying to validate a conversation between two people that her daughter called flirting. 

Because she wasn’t flirting. And even if she did, it wouldn’t be with him. Not that there was anything wrong with him. She just didn’t make a habit of making eyes at men who’d stood beside her not even a day earlier and spoken about the worst kind of loss a person could carry. Who said his wife’s name like it still lived somewhere sacred in his chest. A man still carrying a love so deep he hadn’t taken off his wedding ring in nearly a decade. A man who stood quietly in a room and somehow made her feel steadier just by being there.

She understood that. Beth had known a love like that after him too, though the loss that came with hers was a different kind. She remembered the shape of it, how it softened her in the beginning before it became something else. Misshapen. Ugly. She remembered the aftertaste it left. Though she imagined his was far less bitter than her own. 

She wouldn’t interrupt that. That kind of grief carved out space. It didn’t vanish. It settled in and stayed. She wouldn’t ask for more than a moment shared at a nurses’ station. A cordial relationship between coworkers. Not that she wanted anything more with him. Something more ended the minute he pulled out of her parents’ driveway when they were kids. Something more wasn’t meant for them. It never had been.

But, she had laughed. And she’d liked it.

And maybe she was thinking about him now, alone in her kitchen, in her pajamas, stirring sauce she hadn’t even tasted yet because her kid planted a thought in her head about a boy who had taken too much space there for too long that she now couldn’t quite weed out.

Fucking Abby. The little instigator. She was so damn lucky Beth loved her so much.

She tapped the spoon against the pot again. Louder this time. A little rougher. Just to make a point, even if the pot wasn’t really the one who needed convincing.

She wasn’t even sure that she could convince the teenager in the living room if she tried. She’d seemed to have made up her mind, though perfectly wrong. Beth peeked through the kitchen doorway to where Abby lay sprawled out on the couch in the next room, the dog draped across her lap, both half-watching a rerun of New Girl that no one was really invested in. Shopping bags that she asked to be taken upstairs were still dumped on the kitchen table, but she resisted the urge to get on her about it and run the risk of opening up a whole new line of ‘you were too, Miss Boob-Shirt’ dialogue. Not worth it. They’d eat on the couch instead. 

Beth swayed a little to the music oozing from the kitchen speaker, barefoot on cool tile, moving between the stove and the counter. Silver Springs floated through the kitchen, and this time, she allowed herself to sing along, stirring the sauce with one hand, glass of red wine in the other. She wasn’t really singing so much as murmuring along, letting Stevie Nicks pull her back through time in little, aching pieces in a way that always felt a little therapeutic.

That was, however, until the doorbell rang.

Atlas lost his mind immediately. He leapt off the couch, nails skittering against the hardwood as he tried to get his footing, barking like it was his sworn duty to defend them from certain death.

“Mom, door!” Abby called over the noise, not even bothering to sit up.

“Really? I had no idea,” she muttered, setting the spoon down on the dish and wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Atty! Go lay down!”

The dog did not go lay down. If anything, he barked louder, alerting them to the great danger that was Amazon, or someone selling solar panels. Maybe even Jada from next door dropping by to chat. Oh, the horror.

Beth sighed and started out of the kitchen, giving Abby a gentle swat with the towel as she passed. She waved a hand in the dog’s direction, gesturing wildly to shush him as she neared the door. Atlas stayed glued to it, sniffing the frame in loud, determined snorts like he could identify the threat by scent alone. She stuck a leg in front of him to push him back just enough to crack the door, but he didn’t budge. Damn dog. She braced a hand against his chest, his nails scraping the hardwood in protest, and yanked the door open, still quietly singing along.

“You’ll never get away from the sound of a woman who loves you…”

The door swung open mid-line, her mouth still open, ready to accept whatever package the Amazon guy deemed doorbell-worthy instead of leaving on the porch. But the words died in her throat the moment she saw who was standing there.

Jack Abbot.

Standing on her porch. At her house. Bathed in porch light like a memory she hadn’t meant to summon. Not in scrubs, like he should be thirty minutes after his shift ended, but in clean jeans and a t-shirt, holding her fucking wallet.

Atlas howled behind her, pushing his big head around the side of her hip, tail thumping against the wall like a metronome for her now off-kilter heart.

And she was suddenly, acutely, painfully aware of her lack of bra.

Chapter Text

Phase One had been straightforward enough. Not her most brilliant scheme, but not her sloppiest either. Honestly, it was pretty solid for something she pulled out of her ass in an ER. The plan: casually leave Mom’s wallet somewhere Jack would definitely find it, complete with her drivers license that oh so conveniently displayed her exact address. Then, wait, and hope Hoodie Guy didn’t get to it first.

But from the way Mom’s breath caught when she opened the door, Abby knew that the right guy found it. Operation Wallet Drop was a success. Screw Honors Society. This was probably the most accomplished Abby had ever felt in her entire life. 

Alright. Time for Phase Two: Get Him Through the Door. 

Abby peeked over the back of the couch, watching the front door without totally giving herself away. Atlas pranced in little circles around Jack, sniffing his legs like a drug dog who just found a Scarface-level mountain of cocaine while Mom gripped the doorframe like it was keeping her upright. Neither of them spoke for a long minute, which Abby found very dramatic, but whatever. Doing her best not to look like she was full-on surveillance van eavesdropping, she turned down New Girl just enough to hear Mom sputter like her brain was rebooting.

“Hi,” her mom said, the soft way she said it sounding like she was choking on her own breath.

“Hi,” Jack echoed, shifting like he wasn’t sure if he was trespassing.

“What are you doing here?” her mom asked, and Abby winced. A little too sharp, Mom. C’mon. Ugh, someone save this woman from herself before she goes full Nick Miller and gives up on men and starts growing tomatoes.

Jack didn’t seem to mind. He held up the wallet and gave it a wiggle. “Thought you might need this.”

“Oh, God,” her mom said with a soft gasp and a shaky laugh. “Shit. I didn’t even notice that was gone. Thank you.” 

Mom reached for the wallet. Her fingers hesitated just long enough that Abby clocked it, but not long enough for Jack to notice. Maybe. Jack shrugged a little too casually for someone who changed clothes and detoured across town after a twelve hour shift just to loiter on their porch.

“Dana found it on the counter after you left,” he said. “Robby was gonna bring it by, but I was already heading this way, so…”

Uh-huh. Sure you were, Abby thought. She smirked from her perch on the couch. Liar. You just didn’t want Hoodie Guy to get to her first. You wanted to see her. And now you have. And now you’re standing there like a sad, hopeful golden retriever just waiting to be let inside.

Her mom smiled, the kind she tried to suppress and totally failed at. “You could’ve just put it in my locker.”

“I could’ve,” Jack agreed easily, like he wasn’t hanging on every breath of this conversation, and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Just figured I’d get it to you before you canceled all your credit cards.”

That got her. A little laugh, quiet and warm, but Jack smiled for it the same way he had her snort-laugh. Abby grinned. Yes. Good. Good. Laugh more. Mom nodded and pulled her cardigan tight before crossing her arms. “Yeah. That would’ve been a nightmare.”

Oh, whatever. Jack didn’t swing by to save her from logging into her bank account and clicking three buttons. That was bullshit and they all knew it. And Abby was so here for it. Now, if only her mom would do something besides just hovering in the doorway. Invite him in! Execute Phase Two! Come on, you beautiful stupid idiot! Literally get out of your own way!

But Mom didn’t invite him in. Abby puffed a sigh through her nose. That’s it. They got ten more seconds, and then she was going in.

Jack didn’t leave, and Mom didn’t close the door. Instead, they just stood there; two emotionally repressed idiots marinating in three decades worth of unresolved tension like that was a totally normal thing to do on a Saturday evening. Jack shifted his stance and glanced past her like he was trying not to look like he was casing the joint.

“Nice place,” he said, tilting his head toward the house like he hadn’t been staring at it for the past thirty seconds.

Abby rubbed her face. Oh my god, dude. Lame . Old people flirting is so boring.

“You guys been here long?”

Jesus Christ, someone make a flippin’ move. This feels like an episode of the Golden Bachelor.

Mom nodded, her hands tightening in the sleeves of her cardigan. “Um, thanks. We moved in after we left Boston back in 2017.”

Oh my god, Mom, he literally does not care what year we moved into the house. He’s lingering. God, was there a single brain cell between the two of them? Invite him in, you dumb, dumb bitch. 

He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, dropping one hand low enough for Atlas to nose at his fingers. “What made you leave Boston?”

Mom shrugged. “Oh, you know… I wanted to get Abby closer to everyone, and I got offered a chief attending position at Mercy. Better pay, better benefits, two hours from my parents.” A soft laugh. “It felt like the right call.”

Jack nodded. “Makes sense.”

And… that was it. Conversation dead. He was still leaning in the doorway like he lived there, and Mom was still just standing there like she didn’t know she could invite him inside without a notarized affidavit from God. C’mon, Mom. Invite him in. He obviously wants to or he would’ve handed you the wallet and bolted. Do you not see him? Do you not see yourself ?

Abby narrowed her eyes, then pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. These two were useless. Just vibes and history and not a single ounce of game between the two of them. Good Lord, Atty was making more of a move on Jack than her mom was. 

Clowns. Just clown behavior all around. The circus was in town, and it was right there on her front porch.

Fine. If no one else was going to do anything about it, she would. Phase Two was happening whether they liked it or not.

Abby rolled onto her knees, wincing a little as a sharp pain lit up her leg. Worth it though. She leaned over the back of the couch just enough to be fully visible from the front door.

“Who’s here?” she called, all bright-eyed innocence like she hadn’t been spying on this emotional dumpster fire for the past five minutes. And, oh my god, crazy, wow. Could it be? Say it ain’t so. As I live and breathe… “Doctor Mullet!”

Jack laughed through his nose, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Hey, kid.”

Mom flinched like she forgot she wasn’t alone. “Abby, don’t—”

“What are you doing here?” Abby interrupted, propping her chin on her arms. Come on, Baker. Really sell it. You definitely haven’t been here the whole time. Atlas boofed once and kept nosing at Jack’s pockets.

“Your mom left her wallet behind at the hospital, figured I’d bring it by.” Then, as if realizing he sounded way too eager about a thirty-minute round trip, he added, “I was in the neighborhood anyway.”

Abby arched one skeptical brow so hard it practically detached from her face like a cartoon character. Sure you were. She could count on one hand the number of people who just happened to be “in the neighborhood” of the like, most disgustingly suburban street in all of Squirrel Hill after dark, and most of them were DoorDash drivers or serial killers. Jack didn’t have a pizza box or a ski mask, so… yeah. Not buying it. Nice try.

“Oh my god, that’s crazy. Mom never forgets her wallet. Good thing you found it before some total lunatic did and tried to, like, steal her identity and open sixteen credit cards in her name,” Abby continued. Good thing I planted it exactly where you would find it. “That would’ve been a disaster.”

Mom made a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh or a death rattle and shot her a look. Abby rolled her eyes so hard that she swore they clicked. Oh, get over yourself, Elizabeth. 

But Jack only chuckled. “It’s no problem.”

No problem, he says, as he lingers in the doorway like he’s waiting for a handwritten invitation and a red carpet. Abby stared at him. Then at her mom. Then back at him.

Phase Two, you magnificent disaster people. Phase. Freaking. Two. Commencing now.

Abby pushed off the couch and stood, limping just enough to elicit sympathy if anyone was paying attention; not that either of them were. They were too busy fidgeting and stealing glances like this was some painfully slow Austen adaptation. She padded barefoot toward the door like a woman on a mission.

“Anyway,” she said, brushing past her mom like she wasn’t doing reconnaissance for a covert operation of her own making. “Mom just finished making dinner. You should come eat with us!”

You would have thought she threw a live grenade between the two of them. Mom opened her mouth to object. Jack looked startled, like he hadn’t even considered that was an option.

Come on. Don’t blow this, you two. We’re so close to Phase Three.

They hesitated, because of course they did. Abby could practically hear the gears grinding in their mutually repressed brains.

Mom opened her mouth at the exact same moment Jack said, “I should probably—”

“You don’t have to—”

They both stopped. Jack gave a half-laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“No, it’s okay, I was just saying—”

Fools.

“I don’t want to intrude,” Jack said.

“You wouldn’t be,” Mom added at the same time.

Oh my god. Somebody sedate me. This brutal.

Another pause. They blinked at each other.

Jack gestured vaguely behind him. “I should probably get going, though.”

Mom nodded way too fast. “Right, yes, of course—”

Jesus Christ. And they let you two morons be doctors? Does she have to do everything in this house?

“Oh, come on. You’re already here,” Abby threw in for good measure. She would not let these two blow this. She was too invested. “And Mom always makes, like, way too much. Right, Mom?”

Damn. If looks could kill, Mom would have struck her dead right there. Before Abby could metaphorically poke them with a stick again, they launched into another round of rambled buffoonery.

“But—unless you—”

“I mean, if it’s not a bother—”

“You absolutely do not have to,” Mom said, breathless, like she was yanking on the emergency brake of her own heart. “Please don’t feel like you have to just because she asked.”

Jack paused and took a long breath before he spoke again. “No. I’d… like to,” he said softly.

Mom froze. “Oh,” she breathed. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Jack echoed.

Okay, Abby thought, resisting the urge to fist-pump in slow motion . Okay, okay, okay. Let’s fucking go. She smiled sweetly and gestured toward the entryway like she was the maître d’ at an exclusive, very emotionally complicated restaurant.

“See? Look at that. It’s giving healthy communication.” She turned to Jack, all plausible deniability and carefully crafted bullshit. “Come on in, Doctor Mullet.”

He stepped through the door and gave a quiet “Thanks,” before crouching to greet Atlas, who immediately lost his mind with joy. Oh, you are so very welcome, Doctor Mullet. You don’t know the half of it yet.

Mom closed the door behind him and looked like she might either pass out or throw up. Possibly both. Abby just grinned. Performance of a lifetime, honestly. Someone should call Hollywood after her little stint at the door. It was Oscar-worthy, really. Meryl Streep who? Never heard of her.

Abby knew the second Jack crossed the threshold into the entryway and Atlas launched himself into a full-body wiggle attack that she had exactly five seconds to enjoy this victory before Mom’s wrath found her.

Four seconds.

Three.

And… there it was.

The Look.

From the glare that was currently burning a hole straight through her skull as Jack stepped past Mom into the house, Abby gathered that maybe, just maybe, her mother did not appreciate the success of Phase Two quite as much as she did.

Jack didn’t notice, of course. He was too busy getting absolutely wrecked by Atlas, who launched a full-scale nose-first assault on his kneecaps like a dog who had never seen a man before and had decided this one was now his soulmate.

Mom, however, noticed. Oh, she noticed everything. She didn’t say a word, but her jaw tightened, and her eyes cut sideways to Abby with all the warmth of a Siberian winter.

Abby smiled sweetly. Mom narrowed her eyes and lifted one hand without even looking at her, signing in sharp, annoyed strokes:

I know what you’re doing, you little monster.

Abby clutched her chest, offended. Moi?

She signed back, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mommy Dearest. I’m just using good manners like you taught me, with a flutter of her fingers that somehow managed to look both angelic and smug at the same time. Mom’s sign back was not as dainty. It was quite rude, actually. But she let it slide.

Mom’s glare deepened as Jack stood to his full height, stepping fully inside the living room while trying not to be tripped by his new Velcro dog best friend. Abby could feel the second-hand embarrassment radiating off her like heat from a toaster oven. She was fairly certain she could fry an egg on the heat of Mom’s full-body blush alone.

Yeah, yeah. She got it. She was pissed.

But Abby knew, just knew, that she wasn’t mad that he was here. No, no. She was mad that he was here while she was in her Adam Sandler clothes.

But her little long lost boyfriend hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of her since she opened the door. So… Pop off, Adam Sandler.

Atlas ended up being her saving grace before Mom could fully light her ass up in ASL.

Jack straightened up with a final pat to Atlas’s side. Atlas immediately took offense, huffing a dramatic whine and bumping his big Lego-brick head into Jack’s legs. Mom caught him by the collar just in time, her fingers curling gently around it before he could knock the guy over.

“Sorry,” she muttered, tugging him back. “He forgets how big he is. He thinks that he’s a lap dog most days.”

“That’s alright,” Jack said, crouching again to meet the dog’s insistent whines with a few solid head scritches. “He’s just saying hello, aren’t ya, big guy?”

Abby let out a small, pleased hum. Dog person and he had a stupid voice he reserved for animals? She could go ahead and check that off the Not a Total Garbage Person list.

Doctor Mullet: 1. Hoodie Guy: 0. He gave off cat dad energy anyway. And she was allergic to cats, so. Sucks to suck, Hoodie Guy and your unconfirmed cat.

Atlas melted under the ear rubs and leaned his full weight into Jack, one hind leg twitching like a stuck motor. Jack grinned at the reaction and kept scratching. Mom tried not to smile, but Abby caught it; just the barest tug at the corner of her mouth. She must have been checking off the list too, though she’d never admit it.

“Oh, congratulations,” Mom said dryly, arms crossing again. “You’ve just guaranteed yourself a shadow for the night.”

Jack chuckled, unbothered. “I’ve had worse. What’s this big guy’s name?”

“That’s Atlas,” Abby chimed in, giving his head a quick pat. “Mom named him after the—”

“The Titan, right?” Jack looked up, then shifted his gaze to Mom. “That’s the one who held up the sky, yeah? Or am I remembering it wrong?”

Mom nodded once and her expression softened, just barely. “No, that’s…that’s right.”

Jack looked back up at Abby, looking rather pleased with himself over what was absolutely not his recollection of a few old stories. He gave Atlas a few more firm pats against his side like he was checking for ripeness. God, why do all middle-aged white guys pet dogs like that? It’s weirdly aggressive. But, Atty didn’t seem to mind.

“Your mom always had a thing for Greek mythology,” Jack added casually. “Probably told me the same stories a million times when we were your age.”

Mom’s mouth twitched again just barely. But this time, she didn’t fight the smile off quite as fast. Surely, that wasn’t the only thing she had a thing for. Abby raised an eyebrow, watching the faint, startled little shift in her mom’s posture that dropped her shoulders a little.

Well, well, well. Doctor Mullet came armed with nostalgia. Good. Keep reminiscing. 

Abby flopped over the arm of the couch in a dramatic heap. It usually earned a pointed look from Mom, which she got, but she ignored it. There was no time for Mom Looks. She had maybe five minutes before Phase Three of this forced dinner really kicked in. She needed to prepare while she still could. She opened Spotify and scrolled with purpose. Where was it? She swore she saved that playlist on the drive home…

“She wanted to name me Penelope,” Abby said, without looking up. “My dad said no. Thank God.”

Jack let out a low laugh. “Why am I not surprised?”

Abby smiled to herself and stopped scrolling. She didn’t need to look at him to know he was glancing toward Mom. She could hear it in his tone; the soft dip into something nostalgic, like he’d just been handed a piece of the past wrapped in tinfoil and still warm.

Abby smiled down at her screen, satisfaction blooming in her chest. Ah! There it is! She stopped her scrolling and tapped into the playlist. Now, to listen and wait. She made herself look busy while she scrolled through the playlist, adding songs to her queue like she was trying to crack a code. 

Jack straightened up again when Atty decided he’d had enough attention, not because Abby had quietly patted the side of the couch to call him over and remove the sixty-pound roadblock from this absolute car wreck. Atty lumbered over and hopped up onto the couch beside her, curled up, and sighed contently when Abby kissed his nose. Well done, old man. You played your part beautifully. 

There was a moment of quiet that felt like another person in the room before Mom spoke.

“So…” she said softly, “The Leanne Baker rule, huh?”

Abby tilted her head with a little shrug; she wouldn’t necessarily bring Grandma up while trying to flirt, but Mom was at least trying. Abby moved I Love You, I’m Sorry higher up on the queue. No. Too on the nose. Delete. Crap, what songs do old people like? Think, Abby, think. 

Jack let out a soft chuckle that seemed way too fond for something as trivial as Grandma’s no-scrubs-in-the-house rule, but it was something. Something was good. Keep the somethings coming.

“Thought I’d give it a try,” he said. 

“Yeah? How’s it working for you?”

Another long pause. “Not sure yet.”

Abby almost shot up at the quiet way Jack murmured out the words, but she kept herself glued to the seat. That had nothing to do with scrubs. That was way too much murmuring for it to be about scrubs. Something was happening and she was missing it. She subtly sat up straighter, shifting just enough to get a better look without tipping them off and caught the tail end of Mom smiling and—wait, was she blushing? Aw. Gross. Do it again.

Jack returned Mom’s smile, eyes scanning over her again before they flicked toward the entryway. Specifically, to the jacket on the hook. It was Mom’s old denim one that she always wore. The one Abby was pretty sure had predated her by at least a decade and a half and Mom had on in every formative memory Abby had. Soft at the seams, patched in two places, and old enough to legally drink. She once asked Mom why she didn’t just donate it, and she didn’t answer. Just sat there and looked at it the same way Jack looked at it now. His gaze lingered just a second too long. His jaw tightened just barely. Not enough to be obvious, not enough that anyone would notice.

Except Abby noticed. Because Abby noticed everything. She didn’t say anything though, the same way Mom didn’t say anything when she also saw him look at it and immediately pretended she hadn’t.

God. The two of them were like watching a cold war play out in real-time, only with more yearning and fewer treaties. Tragic.

Mom cleared her throat and looked away, scanning the living room with the wild-eyed urgency of someone trying to clean up a crime scene after the cops were already knocking. Mom moved through the room like she was trying to erase all evidence that they lived here. She started scooping up shoes, fluffing pillows, folding a blanket that had been crumpled in the same corner of the couch for three days.

“Sorry about the mess,” she said over her shoulder, too breezy to be believable. “It usually doesn’t look like this.”

“Why are you lying?” Abby replied without looking up from her phone. “It literally always looks like this.”

“Abby.”

“Oh no, God forbid people know we sit.”

Jack chuckled, but the glare Mom shot her could have incinerated small villages. Abby met it with a serene, exaggerated smile and an innocent flutter of her lashes, still draped dramatically across the couch like a sassy Renaissance cherub. Was pissing Mom off on purpose always this fun? She should do it more often. Not that she didn’t already, but she should do it more.

“Get your stuff off the table, please,” Mom said tightly, now fluffing a pillow with more force than necessary.

Before Abby could move, or offer another sarcastic retort, Jack was already stepping toward the table.

“I got it,” he said. “She should sit.”

Mom opened her mouth to protest. “You really don’t have—”

“She’s the one with the broken leg,” Jack interjected, already gathering shopping bags and tucking loose articles of clothing into them. “I can handle a few bags.”

“Wow, chivalry isn’t dead after all,” Abby mumbled, fighting a smile when Jack snorted softly.

Mom hovered for a moment, like she might insist again out of sheer indignance, but Jack gave her a half-smile as he as snagged a Nike bag off the table. “Really, Beth. It’s fine.”

Mom hesitated, and then relented with a soft exhale and a hand brushing lightly against his arm. “Thanks.” Abby clocked it. The arm touch. The smile that almost made it to her mom’s eyes. The casual gratitude.

Ladies and gentlemen: first physical contact has entered the chat.

Mom turned towards the kitchen, mumbling something about plates and getting him something to drink. Abby grinned to herself and turned her attention to her phone. Her playlist was ready. Stage set. Vibes calibrated. Phase Three: Forced Dinner was on the horizon. The trap was set. All she had to do now was let them walk into it.

“Jesus,” Jack said, eyeing the haul spread across the table that remained after his hands were already full. “You two leave anything for the rest of the mall, or was this a full-scale raid?”

“Blame the child,” Beth called from the kitchen, her voice light but stretched thin. “Apparently, nothing from last year is acceptable anymore. It’s an annual affair.”

“I’m incredibly spoiled,” Abby chimed in, not looking up from her phone. She tapped to another song. Who the fuck is Jewel? Is that a band or a person? Whatever. It didn’t matter; it came out in ‘95, so to the playlist it went. She added the song to the queue. “That’s why I behave like this.”

Jack let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Where do you want all of this, House?”

She didn’t answer right away. She was waiting. Listening. The current song was seconds from ending, and when it did, she flicked her phone’s Bluetooth on, booted Mom off the Alexa, and hit play on her playlist. The music shifted, louder now, echoing in from the kitchen speaker. There. Mood set.

“Stairs is fine,” she said flatly, feigning boredom.

“Copy that.”

Jack turned, arms full, but something on the table snagged his attention. He bent slightly, eyes catching on the beat-up hardcover with post-it flags sticking out like feathers that was her AP history assignment. He picked it up, turning it over with a curious raise of his brow.

“Didn’t think your mom was much of a nonfiction reader.”

Abby didn’t look up from her phone. “She’s not. That’s mine. Mom only reads the same two books on repeat like she’s in some kind of sci-fi Groundhog Day.”

Jack turned the book over in his hand and smirked. “Let me guess. Dune and Foundation until the spine disintegrates?”

“That was one time, Jack!” Beth called from the kitchen, with that specific tone that meant she was trying not to be mad about being rightfully accused. “And I read more than just those two books, Abigail.”

Abby looked up then, rolling her eyes before she called back. “The sequels of those books don’t count, Mom.”

Jack bit back a laugh as he looked to Abby with a conspiratorial shake of his head. “It was more than one time,” he told her, reading the back of the book before he set it down.

Mom reappeared in the kitchen doorway with a clean plate in hand and a look that could only be described as resigned maternal indignation. “You two keep making fun of me,” she said, gesturing between them with the plate. She tried to glare, but her lips twitched, “but I’ll have you both know that Asimov was a—”

“Genius,” Abby and Jack said together, already groaning. They shared a sidelong glance and Jack gave her an exaggerated roll of his eyes before he stepped away from the table. Abby smirked. She had to admit, he was growing on her. Asshole respects asshole, Doctor Mullet. 

Abby raised a hand in mock solemnity. “The father of modern science fiction. We know. We’ve all been blessed by the gospel of Beth.”

“So, The Battle of the Bulge, huh?” Jack asked, clearly trying to win back a few Mom Points with a subject change. Smart. 

He nodded toward the book as he came back in for another round of her stuff, moving through the room like he’d lived there for years. It was weirdly domestic, but Abby knew what he was doing; this wasn’t just helpful. He was trying to impress Mom, obviously. Playing the part of the good little helper for her injured kid like he might earn a gold star. And sure, it was a little transparent. But it was also… weirdly kind of sweet. From the way Mom peeked in from the kitchen just as Jack leaned casually on the back of the couch, Abby figured she thought so too. 

“Is that for school?” he asked.

Abby didn’t look at him right away. She dropped her phone to her chest, thumb hovering over the pause button of the playlist she was carefully orchestrating in the background. Operation: Wallet Drop’s third phase had officially begun from the sound of plates clinking in the kitchen, and Phase Three was delicate work. Timing was key, and so was the careful song progression from wistful to yearning that she was building brick by brick. It was totally going to ruin her algorithm, but that was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

“AP U.S. History,” she said with a sigh. “I have to finish it and write an essay about whether the Allied success was more about military strategy or environmental factors.”

Jack lit up like someone had just dared him to mansplain politely. “Oh, strategy all the way. If it hadn’t been for the 101st’s stand at Bastogne and Patton sending the Third Army to—”

“Oh my God, you would know that off the top of your head,” Abby interrupted, laughing as she shook her head and picked her phone back up.

Jack straightened slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she said with a little shrug. “You just look like a guy who knows a lot about World War Two.”

Jack gave her a long look, like he couldn’t decide if he’d just been complimented or insulted. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re an old white dude,” Abby said without looking up from her phone. “Of course you have a weird fascination with one of the World Wars. It’s, like, a genetic trait.”

“I’m not that old,” Jack said indignantly. “I’m the same age as your mom.”

“Yeah, and you both predate the Internet. You’re practically ancient,” Abby muttered, adding Landslide to the playlist and bumping it higher in the queue.

“And I do not have a ‘weird fascination’,” Jack continued, ignoring the slander. “I just find it incredibly interesting how the Allies were able to—”

“Lame,” Abby said flatly. “Please, finish that sentence. You’re just proving me right.”

“Abby,” Mom called from the kitchen, in that half-warning, half-worn-out mom voice. “Leave him alone.”

Jack chuckled under his breath, victorious, and Abby rolled her eyes. “Thought school hadn’t started yet?”

“It hasn’t,” Abby said, quickly scanning over her lyrical cultivation a final time. She nodded slightly in approval; brick by brick, baby. “It’s summer work.”

“Really? They give you work over the summer now? They never did that when I was in school.”

“They did, Jack,” Mom called from the kitchen, dry as ever. “I just did all of it for you while we were at work.”

Jack blinked, then let out a short laugh. “That’s what you were doing up there?”

“I didn’t just spend my whole shift flirting with you, Jack. Some of us were actually working.”

Abby snorted. Something settled over Jack that lived somewhere between getting got and quiet recollection. A crash of dishes pulled his attention toward the kitchen. “Need help in there?”

“Nope,” Mom said almost way too quickly. She waved a hand toward the table without turning around. “You two sit down. It’s already done.”

Jack hovered for a second like he might ignore that and step in anyway, but eventually relented. Abby shifted to get up from the couch, tucking her phone beside her. Jack moved first, already a step ahead and reaching out without thinking. He offered a hand, casual and matter-of-fact. Abby rolled her eyes before she took it and used it to steady herself as she stood, more out of a desire not to be in pain than anything else. You could take a doctor out of the hospital, but you apparently couldn’t stop them from treating everything like a team lift.

He let go as soon as she was upright, already turning toward the table like it didn’t mean anything, but Abby noticed the way her mom did too, glancing up just in time to catch the tail end of it before quickly looking away again. 

Mom was already setting plates by the time they made it to the table. Abby plopped into her seat, still rearranging her playlist like it was a bomb she was defusing. Mom set Jack’s plate down first, then turned toward Abby with a pointed look.

“Phone away,” she said, eyes flicking down to the tabletop. “You know the rule.”

Abby sighed but obeyed, tucking it screen-down next to her plate. She was done anyway. Landslide was queued up next. Right on schedule.

As Mom leaned over to hand Abby her plate, her free hand landed lightly on Jack’s shoulder for balance. It was completely absent, totally automatic. Until it wasn’t. Abby fought the squeak of meddling delight that sat in her throat.

Two touches?! Two??

Jack definitely noticed. Abby caught the flicker of something like surprise on his face, though it felt a little too soft around the edges. And then Mom seemed to realize it, too. She pulled her hand back like she’d just touched an open flame, her cheeks burning pink. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, already turning away, disappearing into the kitchen again under the flimsy excuse of retrieving her own plate.

Abby bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. Two touches. Two . And Mom had flinched like she’d been caught red-handed. Mom stepped into the kitchen just as the opening notes of Landslide drifted in. She paused, just for a breath, then picked up her plate like it hadn’t shaken her.

Bingo. Abby smirked. What’s wrong, Mom? Are you afraid of changes? Too bad.

Emotional trap set, bait taken, and snap . Her plan was going better than expected. Damn, she was good. People were going to study this operation some day. This was the romantic feat of the century.

She settled in her seat and glanced across the table, just in time to catch Jack eyeing the doorway where Mom had vanished, but he didn’t pick up his fork. Didn’t move for his drink. Just sat there, patiently, like he was waiting for something. She would have found it entirely strange if she hadn’t been doing it too. He didn’t start eating until Mom returned and sat down beside him. Abby hid her smile with a forkful of pasta. Grandpa would like that. That was always his rule; he didn’t eat until Grandma sat down. 

Doctor Mullet: 2. Hoodie Guy: zilch. 

Then—nothing.

Nobody spoke for what felt like decades.

Painful, aching silence. The kind that made Abby suddenly hyper-aware of how loud her own breathing was. And chewing. Though, Jack didn’t chew nearly as obnoxiously as Ed had, so that was another point on the scoreboard in his favor.

She glanced between them. God. These two were so emotionally constipated.

Fine. If they weren’t going to talk, she’d just have to be the laxative.

She grimaced. Okay. She didn’t love that metaphor. She’d revisit it later.

“Jack told me Grandpa gave you a speeding ticket,” Abby said casually, twirling her fork into her pasta like this was just polite dinner talk. “I thought you said you’d never been pulled over before?”

Beth shot a look up at Jack, who kept his eyes forward, looking at Abby like she’d just accused him of murder. “Did he now?”

Jack let out a soft groan. “Christ, kid. Are you going to at least slow the bus down before you throw me under it?”

“I cannot believe Grandpa never told me that,” Abby said, eyes wide with delighted betrayal. “I begged him for embarrassing stories about you when I lived with them. Begged. And I got absolutely nothing about his perfect doctor daughter. Finally, someone pulls the veil back on Elizabeth Baker!”

Jack chuckled under his breath. Abby caught the way his expression shifted, just briefly, at the word lived before he recovered.

Mom made a sound that was mostly exasperation and maybe just a little bit amused. “Did Jack also mention that I wasn’t actually speeding, and that Grandpa clocked me while he was driving in the opposite direction?”

Jack snorted. “You’re still selling yourself that?”

“I’m not selling anything!” Mom shot back, her words stumbling into a laugh. “I was not speeding.”

“You drove like a bat outta hell, Baker.”

“Hmm,” Mom said, a little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Pretty sure that was you. I was a great driver. Still am.”

Abby leaned back in her chair, quietly pleased. Call her MiraLAX, because things were finally moving.

Jack gestured with his glass, not even trying to hide his grin. “If you were such a great driver, Baker, then what happened with Atkinson’s car?”

Beth’s fork froze halfway to her mouth, shooting daggers up at Jack who just kept smiling. “Do not tell her that one.”

“Oh my god, tell me, ” Abby said, practically vibrating with glee. Forcing her mom into a weird dinner with a guy she obviously still had a thing for and Abby got embarrassing stories about her out of it too? Jackpot. This was better than anything she imagined on the drive home from the hospital.

“Alright,” Jack said, leaning back like he’d just been handed a mic. “High school. School parking lot's empty. Your mom was still there for cheer practice or some shit–.”

“It was debate team practice.”

Jack side-eyed her with a smirk. “Oh, excuse me. Debate practice; like you needed any help with that. Thanks for interrupting, nerd. Anyway, there’s only one car parked anywhere nearby. The vice principal’s sedan, just sitting there, minding its own business in the row behind your mom. Probably four spots down. And your mom, Queen of Spatial Awareness, throws it in reverse and just—wham. Right into it.”

Mom groaned and dropped her face into her hands, but she was already laughing. “That is not how it happened.”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” Jack said, nudging her with his elbow. “There was one car to avoid and you managed to hit it.”

Mom gave his arm a light swat. Oop. Touch three. “He was parked too far forward!”

“Oh, cut the shit, Baker. You didn’t even look, ” Jack said, laughing. “You just slammed it into reverse and hoped God was watching for you.”

“I was sixteen!” she protested, sitting up straight, wine glass in hand. “And I did look!”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Looked directly through it.”

Mom shook her head, but her smile tugged wider, real now. She took a sip of wine, her elbow still resting against Jack’s. Neither of them jumped away from each other like they had on Touch #2. So… Touch #4? Kind of? Abby watched them continue to bicker, though there was zero bite to it. Her mother’s cheeks were pink and glowing, and Jack hadn’t stopped looking at her since the story started. Abby didn’t even care that she wasn’t getting a word in anymore. She was counting it. Touch #4.

There we go. Now we’re talkin’. Let’s go for five, folks. Keep walking down memory lane.

The laughter settled into a warm hum around the table until the song on the kitchen speaker changed. It started slow, just a few low guitar chords and a female voice that sounded like she was singing directly into a diary. Abby didn’t recognize it, but the vibe shift was instant.

Both Mom and Jack went still. Not dramatically, not all at once, but their postures subtly straightened. Jack’s hand, which had just been gesturing with his fork, suddenly became very invested in corralling a lone penne across his plate. Mom took a long sip of wine and avoided everyone’s eyes… except Jack’s. For a fraction of a second, her gaze flicked sideways.

Jack looked up. Not directly at her, exactly. Just…vaguely in her direction; like he was pretending to be more at the photo hanging beside her, the one of Mom in her denim jacket holding Abby as a baby at the Garden of the Gods, like maybe it had just become the most fascinating thing in the room. But his jaw shifted just enough to betray something.

Interesting.

Abby blinked, curiosity flaring. Okay, what was that? Something happened. Now what? And why? And how can it happen, like, six more times tonight?

She slowly slid her phone toward her, eyes still on the two people across the table now very invested in not looking at each other, and checked the screen.

Jewel – “You Were Meant For Me.”

Abby raised an eyebrow. Noted. Thanks, Jewel. The band or person. Whatever you are. She pushed her phone aside, lifted her fork, and made no comment as Jack cleared his throat and Mom took another drink; this time, a far bigger one.

Jack cleared his throat and finally looked at Mom. “Didn’t know you moved back home. How long were you with your folks?”

“She didn’t. Just me,” Abby said, twirling her fork. “I stayed with Grandma and Grandpa while Mom was in New York during the pandemic.”

Jack looked over, eyebrows lifted the way people usually did when Abby dropped that little nugget of humble-brag on them. “Shit… You went? When?”

Mom gave a small nod. “Right at the start of everything. Just for four months. March to June.”

“Where were you?”

“Brooklyn,” she said. “One of my girlfriends from med school works at Methodist. They needed people, so I went on a deployment contract and stayed with her. It was…” 

Mom went quiet, and Abby immediately regretted bringing it up. She didn’t talk much about New York. It was like she didn’t have the words for that time, like the story had hardened into silence. 

Abby remembered the FaceTime calls. The ones from the hospital break room where respirator marks curled around a smile that never really looked like hers. She always said she was fine, even though her eyes always looked like she was crying. That everything was fine. That she couldn’t wait to take Abby there when it was all over before she’d change the subject and ask Abby what she had done with her grandparents that day.

“I’m glad I went,” she said finally. 

Jack’s eyes were already on her, but he didn’t say anything.  He didn’t nod. Didn’t smile. Just kept looking at her in that quiet way that said he got it. Like he remembered the kind of person she was. Like maybe he had never forgotten.

Abby felt the strange prickle of something private happening in front of her, like she wasn’t meant to be there for this part, but also wouldn’t have missed it for anything. She was finally getting to the good part. Yes, Doctor Mullet. Look at my amazing, selfless, gorgeous mom. Look at what you missed out on. Keep looking at her like you don’t want to miss anything else.

Mom finally glanced over at Jack, just briefly, then back down at her plate. Abby could’ve sworn she was holding her breath.

“That sounds like you,” he said softly. “You were always like that.”

“Like what?”

“Brave.”

Oh damn. Should she excuse herself? She felt like she needed to. Especially when Mom’s eyes dropped to her plate, away from Jack’s gaze. Was this a moment? Were they having a moment? Oh my god, this is a moment. This was better than the Jewel-the-band-or-person thing. Maybe she should humble-brag about Mom more often if it meant handsome doctors looked at her like they were in an episode of Bridgerton.

Atlas padded over to the table and plopped onto his butt beside her, his head resting in her lap and tail thumping against the hardwood like a heartbeat. Abby leaned back into her chair and absently scratched his head, listening to Jack ask Mom a question about New York—and suddenly, the conversation she’d had to drag out of them started back up without a hitch.

You’re very welcome, idiots.

She wasn’t even sure when she stopped being a participant in the conversation. One second she was pulling teeth to get someone to say something, and the next, she needed to interject less and less, like she was being gently phased out. A guest star in a bottle episode.

They were talking. Like, actually talking. About Mom’s med school days in San Francisco and how she toured the Lucasfilm lobby, like, three times and drove five hours to Redwood National Park so she could walk through Endor (because of course she did). About Jack’s first deployment. Their residency horror stories. Story after story, back and forth like they’d rehearsed this in a different lifetime. She could’ve sworn she saw Mom’s posture relax. Jack’s eyes soften. At one point, they both laughed at the same time, and it wasn’t even awkward or mismatched; it was in sync. And adorable. How dare they.

It was like watching two planets slowly drift back into the same orbit, and Abby was just out here in the cold with her pasta and questions. She didn’t mind. Not one bit.

She watched Mom rest her chin on her fist, a slow, quiet smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as Jack gestured through another story, clearly enjoying whatever part of it Abby had missed. And he kept glancing at her mom in that quiet, unwavering way, like she was a book he used to know by heart and hadn’t realized how badly he’d missed rereading.

There wasn’t anything happening happening. Not technically. But it also felt like something was . Just not for her, but for something that lived in the spaces between their words, in glances and pauses and the exact way her mom tucked her hair behind her ear when she thought no one was looking.

But what she really paid attention to, more than the stories, the laughter, even the way Mom smiled, was the way Jack watched her.

It wasn’t obvious. Well, it was obvious. But not in a flashing-lights-and-arrows kind of way. It was quiet. Careful. Like he didn’t want to look too long but couldn’t help himself. Like he was checking for something; damage, distance, an opening. And every now and then, when Mom wasn’t looking, he’d just… settle. Like seeing her again undid something in him the same it seemed to in Mom.

And maybe that’s what scared Abby the most.

Because Mom wasn’t going to say anything if it had. She never did. She was good at that, letting people think that she didn’t need anyone. Letting people think that she was fine. Letting Abby think she was fine. And, okay, maybe she was fine. Maybe she did like her nights alone on the couch with a glass of wine and Law and Order: SVU and her true crime podcasts and her books she’s read a million times. Maybe alone was better. But maybe being alone had just started to feel easier than hoping for something else. Maybe alone was easier than being left. Abby knew what it was like to be left, too, and what it was like to pretend it didn’t matter. It wasn’t better. It wasn’t easier. 

Her mom had done that for a long time. She said she was fine—always just fine—with that shrug like she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. But at least she had Abby. She had someone to eat dinner with, and to remind her to eat after the hard shifts. Someone to sit with on the couch when it rained and the power went out. Someone to say goodnight to. Abby had always been the one person who made it feel less lonely; who made the house a little fuller, the quiet a little softer.

But soon she’d be leaving. College. Dorms. A new life. Now Mom would only have that over summers and holidays until college became med school and med school became residency and a life that would no longer orbit around this house. Soon, it would be just Mom again. Alone. 

She hated the thought of her mom coming home to an empty house. A too-quiet living room. A TV left on just for the sound of it. She’d say that she didn’t mind. She’d say that it was good for Abby, that she was proud, that she liked the quiet. But Abby knew better. Mom had already spent too many years filling silences no one else heard. Her mom was good at being alone, but that didn’t mean Abby wanted her to be. She shouldn’t have to be. And from the way Mom looked at Jack? She didn’t want to be lonely anymore either. Not really. 

So, call it what you want. Matchmaking, manipulation, emotional sabotage. She didn’t care. She was going to make this happen. Whatever it took until these two dumbasses figured it out themselves.

She was going to Parent Trap the shit out of this.

…Wait. Was it still considered a Parent Trap if only one of them was your actual parent, the other was her high school ex-boyfriend, and you didn’t have a secret twin?

Whatever. Semantics.

She was going to Kinda-Parent Trap the shit out of this.

Chapter Text

That girl was so grounded.

For what, Beth wasn’t entirely sure yet. But she’d find something. And despite the fact she gave birth to her own worst nightmare, she’d find a way to make it stick, too. She couldn’t necessarily say that she was grounded for inviting Jack in and with that invitation made her mother feel far too much of what she’d buried a lifetime in the one place she had left to not feel it at all. But she’d figure something out, and it would have to be good. Petty? Probably. But as is the relationship between mother and daughter. She knew if she left any room for argument or analysis, that girl would occupy it like France in 1940.

Goddammit. Now she was thinking about World War Two.

Fucking Abigail.

Fucking Jack.

Fuck.

And fuck herself, too, really. She’d done it to herself the moment that tiny, pink, furious bundle was laid on her chest and she made a silent promise to raise a girl who would never be small. A girl who would never shrink herself to make anyone else more comfortable. You don’t water yourself down just to make it easier for someone else to swallow , she’d told her, wiping tears after some kid—or teacher—told Abigail Baker that she was too much. Somewhere along the line, she must’ve overshot. Abby was iron-willed, mouthy, and maddening in all the best and worst ways.

And now here they were. Abby, all sharp edges and fearless heart. And Beth, washed out in her own kitchen, steadying her breath while she rinsed forks.

She looked up and found her reflection watching her in the dark glass of the kitchen window, lit from behind by the soft glow of the living room. The same haphazard bun, same tired eyes, but there was something else that she struggled to recognize. Something softer in her face. Some girl she used to be. Some version of herself that still wanted to believe in what she’d buried.

Behind her, Jack said something that made Abby laugh. Atlas’s tags jingled as he rolled over and thumped his tail against the floor.

Beth tore her eyes from that girl and slapped the tap off. That girl didn’t belong here. Not anymore.

God, she should have drowned that girl a long time ago. She wouldn’t resuscitate her a third time. She needed to get her a DNR.

He stayed after dinner. The three of them lingered at the table long after their plates were empty, long after his first glass of wine turned into his second, and the stories began to flow between them like they’d happened last week instead of a lifetime ago. For a few easy moments, she let herself forget that they hadn’t. It was simple. It was gentle. It was warm. It was everything it shouldn’t have been and all it should’ve, and it tore her open and stitched her back together in the same breath.

But somewhere between the story about the brutal sunburn he got the summer they spent two weeks in South Carolina at her aunt’s, despite her multiple warnings and his multiple dismissals, Abby snorting, Jack looking like he’d earned the win, and the shift into heavier ground once Abby left the table with a bat of her lashes and some flimsy excuse; to her first MCI in Boston, his experience with the aftermath of PittFest and the way he looked at her like he was trying to memorize her all over again… somewhere in that space, her chest started to tighten.

She’d stood up a little too abruptly, muttering something about dishes before she cleared the table and retreated to the kitchen like the flatware was a white flag.

But he’d stayed.

He stayed. He sat on her couch in her living room with her daughter, listening as Abby launched into a breathless recounting of her AP assignment and her school’s field trip to D.C last year. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t patronize; just nodded, asked a question here and there, then let her tear off on another lap of brilliance like he was lucky to be in the room.

So Beth hid.

She stood at the sink, trying to steady her breath, trying to quiet the grotesque clawing in her gut; the way something fluttered wild against her ribs like hummingbird wings, sharp and unrelenting. It made her feel dizzy. Ill. Alive.

Still, despite the white-knuckled grip she had on the counter, she couldn’t help but watch him. Couldn’t help but see the way he gave her girl his full attention. Like he recognized she was worth every second of it. Just like Beth always had.

She dropped her hands into the sink again, scrubbing at a plate that didn’t need it. The motion gave her something to do, something to focus on besides the tightness blooming in her chest or the static in her limbs. The water had gone cold. The plate was spotless. But she kept washing it like it could rinse the feeling out of her bones.

She knew she couldn’t hide in here forever. Eventually, she’d have to walk back in, cross the invisible line between what is and what never quite was. She didn’t know why her feet wouldn’t move. Why the tile felt like quicksand. Why the same three plates and one pan held her hostage.

Maybe it was because nothing about tonight had been unpleasant. It had been pleasant. It had been warm. It had been easy.

And she liked it.

God help her, she liked it.

She shouldn’t, she told herself.

She shouldn’t.

She can’t .

It scared her how much she wanted to.

A voice behind her broke the rhythm of her spiraling mind.

“You sure I can’t help with anything?”

She jumped, just slightly. Not enough to make a scene, but just enough to feel stupid. Her eyes lifted to the window. Jack’s reflection hovered in the dark glass, framed by the soft glow from the living room. She exhaled, slow and controlled, and forced her shoulders to settle before turning with a tight smile.

“No,” she said, her voice tight and sweet and falsely fine. “I’ve got it.”

But he stepped in anyway. Of course he did.

He came to stand beside her, close enough to feel it, and held out a hand for the sponge with a crooked little smirk that tightened her jaw. 

“Your mom would have my ass if she knew I let you cook and do the dishes,” he said. “Hand it over, Baker.”

She hesitated, then relented, passing him the sponge. “Abby usually does it,” she offered, her voice softer now. “She’s gotten off easy this week. Not that she minds; I think she’s going to milk it as long as she can if it means she gets out of chores for the time being.”

He chuckled, glancing toward the doorway. “Yeah, well. She’s too busy handing my ass to me in there, anyway. I knew she was bright when she diagnosed herself in the ER and gave Whitaker a run for his money, but damn—she’s definitely got her mom’s brain.”

Beth felt her cheeks go warm. She hated how quickly they flushed. “Did she really?”

“Oh yeah,” he laughed, a warm, real sound that filled the kitchen like steam. “And she was dead on, too. You should’ve seen Whitaker. I think she scared him a little.”

Beth laughed before she could stop herself. “That sounds like my child.”

“She’s a good kid,” Jack said, quieter this time. When she looked up, his eyes were on hers. “You’ve done a hell of a job with her.”

Something twisted in her chest. She reached for the dish towel, trying to shake it off, trying not to sink into the weight of it; the compliment, the look, the kitchen that wasn’t theirs. He handed her a wet plate. She took it, dried it slowly. And suddenly she was somewhere else. Another kitchen. Another night. Whispering about somedays. Dinners they hadn’t made but pretended they would. A dream that never even had the chance to rot.

“Thank you,” she murmured, almost under her breath. She cleared her throat, tried to lighten it, tried to come up for air. 

“You sure as hell made sure she respects me a little less, though,” she said, swatting him lightly with the dish towel as she moved past him to the cupboard. “I cannot believe you told her that story. I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

He grinned, unabashed, and held out the next plate. “Oh, come on. That was the G-rated version. I could’ve gone nuclear. You should be thanking me for my restraint, really.”

She glanced over her shoulder as she added the next plate to the stack, meeting his gaze with an exaggerated eye roll and a small smile she couldn’t fight when he chuckled again. “I don’t think you can get any worse than that party.”

“Really?” He tilted his head, that maddening glint in his eye. “Because I could always tell her about the bonfire the summer before senior year. You know, the one where you—”

“Nope.” She turned sharply, pointing the towel like a weapon. “You are not telling her the Miniskirt Story. She thinks that scar is from a biking accident and I intend for it to stay that way.”

He grinned. That grin. And she could practically see the idea form behind his eyes as he turned toward the door.

“You wouldn’t,” she warned.

“Oh, but it’s such a good story.” He took a step. “Remind me, how tall was that fence?”

“Jack Abbot, don’t you dare .”

“Hey House!” he called, already halfway across the kitchen.

“You are the worst!” She laughed, grasping out on instinct before he could clear the threshold into the living room. Her fingers wrapped around his forearm, the soft knit of his shirt warm under her touch. She pulled him back without thinking, and he let himself be reeled in with a laugh, stumbling one step back into her space.

He spun around just as she pulled, and for one clumsy second they collided, her hand still gripping his sleeve. His palm caught her waist to steady them both.

The laughter stalled in her throat. His hand lingered, firm but unassuming, fingers spread along the curve of her hip like they remembered the shape of her.

Neither of them moved. For one strange, weightless moment, they just… stood there. Her hand still on his arm, solid and warm and real under her fingertips. His fingers resting against her hip, the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of her shirt. He wasn’t holding her, not really, but he wasn’t letting go, either. And she wasn’t stepping away.

“Sorry,” he said finally, but his hand didn’t leave.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, not sure what she meant.

When she looked up, his smile was gone, replaced by something quieter. Something softer in hazel eyes that always looked a little greener in this light. Something she couldn’t name but recognized instantly. It came spinning forward as if conjured from the dark corner of her memory she’d neatly folded and tucked it away into to stand in front of her in her kitchen. His thumb shifted slightly against her side; barely noticeable, but enough to startle her with how aware she was of it. She cleared her throat and took a breath like she meant to move, but didn’t.

Beth swallowed. Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. “I didn’t mean for you to get dragged into dinner.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second too long.

“I didn’t mind,” he said, low. “It was nice.”

She smiled, gentle now. “Yeah. It was.”

She hated that she meant it.

The silence between them felt too full. Too still. Like it had taken a breath and held it in its chest until its lungs screamed, begging for release. Beth’s hand slid from his arm slowly, but her fingers grazed his on the way down, an accidental drag that sent a sharp pulse up her spine. His own twitched in a momentary jump towards her own that she told herself was involuntary. This all was. A balancing act. A way to keep upright; that’s all. She cleared her throat and stepped back a half pace, suddenly too warm, and turned, grasping for something to occupy her attention anywhere but on where he stood in the dim light of her kitchen.

Quiet settled over the space like fog, save for the low hum of Elton John crooning something old and wistful from the Alexa in the corner. Beth barely registered the lyrics. Just the rise and fall of the melody, the soft clatter as she set the pot in the drying rack, the faint ringing in her own ears from the way her heartbeat hadn’t quite leveled out. Beth moved slowly, deliberately, turning her back to him as she tucked the last of the silverware away in the drawer. She could still feel the ghost of his hand on her skin, heat pressed into the side of her waist like a brand.

She didn’t look at him.

She didn’t have to look at him to know he was still by the sink, still watching her. She could feel it, like a shift in air pressure before a storm. Watching. Waiting. Probably unsure if he should say something more, or just leave it alone, searching for what to say the same as she did. She didn’t turn. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed on the sink, her hands busy. She reached for the towel, drying the counter around the sink, and tried to shake the heat from her skin. Tried to settle the parts of her still humming.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t takeout,” she said finally, without turning. Her voice came out a little too even, a little too casual for the shake underneath it. “That seems to be all I have time for these days. Abby was weirdly insistent that I cooked tonight, though. Usually, she jumps at any chance to eat out.”

“Then I owe her one,” he said. “This was way better than whatever overpriced junk I would’ve grabbed on the way home.”

Beth gave a soft hum of agreement but didn’t say more. Neither of them made a move to tidy up the rest of the kitchen.

“Speaking of home, I should get going,” Jack said after a moment, though he didn’t shift an inch. “Moose’ll throw a fit if I go any longer before feeding him.”

Beth leaned her weight into the counter. “Moose?”

“My dog,” Jack said. He smiled, though it wasn’t entirely present. He shifted slightly, then added, “Well. He was Rachel’s, originally. He’s the reason I met her, actually.”

Beth tilted her head and crossed her arms loosely over her chest. “Yeah? How’d that happen?”

“I was still in Washington,” he said, matching her posturing from the other side of the counter. “I was driving home, and here’s this dog wandering toward traffic like he was trying to make friends with every single car. I almost hit him, had to slam on my brakes and nearly got rear ended by the person behind me, and that big idiot is just standing in the middle of the road wagging his tail. Just this dumb grin and the worst survival instincts imaginable.”

Beth laughed quietly. His whole posture softened, like telling the story eased something in him. He looked down, toeing at a crack in the kitchen tile thoughtfully, his smile settling in slow and unguarded.

“I pulled over, opened my door, and I didn’t even have to call him. He just trotted over and hopped right into my car. Didn’t even hesitate. Like he’d been waiting for someone to pick him up and just called shotgun.”

“Not picky, huh?” Beth smirked.

He chuckled. “Oh, not even a little. I think he would have gone home with just about anyone—still would. You have no idea how many times I’ve had to stop that damn dog from getting into a stranger's car; I’m lucky he’s not a kid. But, I got him home, called the number on his tag, and it went to voicemail every time. I probably left a half dozen messages before I finally gave up and figured I’d drop him off at the shelter in the morning if no one called me back. Meanwhile, he made himself right at home; took over the couch, drank out of the toilet, stole half my dinner when I wasn’t looking. The works.”

“Oh, so you two were kindred spirits from the start, huh?” she laughed, crossing her arms. 

“Exactly.” Jack’s smile deepened. “So, later that night, I finally get a call back. The girl on the line’s talking a mile a minute and is apologizing over and over; ‘I’m a nurse, I was at work, left my phone in my locker, I’ll be there in thirty minutes.’ It took her more like an hour.”

“And that was Rachel.”

He nodded. “Yeah. God bless that woman, but she had absolutely no sense of time. She kept apologizing, I invite her in to come get the dog, and Moose refused to get off the couch. Just completely hunkered down like he had no fucking clue who she was. She tried calling him, bribing him, finally resorted to trying to muscle him off; nothing. Finally she just laughed and said, ‘I guess he picked you.’ Then she offered to buy me a beer to say thanks.”

“And then she picked you, too,” Beth finished softly.

Jack smiled, something soft and sad tugging at the corners of his mouth. “She did. Still couldn’t tell you why, but she did.”

Beth’s arms were still crossed, but her stance had eased without her realizing. “How long were you two married?”

“Six years,” Jack said. His voice didn’t falter. “Really good ones.”

He said it without hesitation, like he still lived in them. Like she was just somewhere else for now; not gone, just out of frame until it came into focus again. There was no edge to it. No hesitation. Just the quiet conviction of someone still speaking in the present tense. Like Rachel was just out walking the dog or waiting in the car. It tightened something in her chest as they stood there in the soft light, watching him twist the black band on his finger that he wore like an oath, the metal rubbed silver in places from years of wear.

Beth looked down at the counter, fingers brushing a stray breadcrumb into the sink. Love like that lingered. Love like that crawled into the cracks and made a home. Russell had been that in the beginning; something filling the spaces of her that were left gaping and raw until that wholeness felt like infestation that she foolishly let fester. That home was left to rot and disintegrate into something ugly and resentful. It pinched like a vice and loosened enough to free something all at the same time to know that he hadn’t known a similar ugliness in the time after her. That he’d known something kind. 

“You and Abby’s dad…” Jack started, voice low. Hesitant, almost. “Were you—?”

Beth felt it before she realized it. Her shoulders drew back, posture tightening; a quiet defense. Reflex more than choice.

“We were,” she said after a pause. “Russell. We weren’t married long—three years.” She offered him a small, tight smile before adding, “It didn’t work out. Things finalized not long after Abby was born.”

Her tone was even, but final. Not bitter, not angry; just closed. Like a door that had long since been shut and locked behind him after Russell slammed it and pinched her fingers on the way out. She didn’t look at him when she said it. Just kept her eyes on the dish towel in her hands, folding it over once, then again, like it gave her something to do with the silence that followed.

Jack didn’t push. He just nodded, gaze steady but soft. And she was glad for that; glad he didn’t ask the kinds of questions that required her to reopen a door she’d closed for a reason after Russell paraded out of it.

Beth smoothed the towel beneath her palms, chasing a wrinkle that wasn’t really there. Her fingers found a loose thread and worried at it for a moment before she looked up again. Her voice was quieter this time, gentler. “Tell me about her?”

Jack paused long enough for her to wonder if she shouldn’t have asked, but then his mouth twitched, just slightly, like the memory was already blooming behind his eyes.

“She was… stubborn,” he said, fondness softening the edge of the word. “Strong-willed, kind. She had this way of making people feel safe without even trying. Compassionate. Sharp as hell, too. Real dry humor; could say more with a raised eyebrow than most people could with a monologue. Worked her ass off, never complained. Didn’t let me get away with anything, either. That woman took no shit from anyone, especially me.”

Beth’s brow lifted slightly, the corner of her mouth tugging upward. “Knowing you, I’m sure you gave her plenty.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Jack laughed, softer this time. He tilted his head with that little smirk, watching her, then said it like a quiet confession. “I guess I have a type.”

It slipped beneath her ribs before she could brace herself. That flutter kicked against them before she could tell it to stop. Her mouth curved despite the lump in her throat. “I guess you do.”

They stood there for a moment too long, eyes on each other, like the conversation hadn’t fully ended, or maybe had ended in one way and was still unfolding in another. His lips parted like he was going to speak, still watching her in that way that made her skin feel too tight, but they closed with a soft sigh like he thought better of it. Part of her wished he would just say it. He’d had thirty years to be silent. But this silent felt different as it stretched between them; less like a void and more like a thread. That thread tugged at something left in thirty years of rubble that she never bothered to rescue. She didn’t mind this silence. 

The speaker in the corner glowed blue before the current song cut out mid-chorus and shifted. The opening chords of that fucking Jewel song came through again, barely into the first line before—

“Alexa, stop,” Beth said, a little too sharp, the words catching more in her throat than she meant them to.

The speaker flashed blue again before it went silent, and the room went still.

Jack tilted his head slightly, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Reminds me of—”

“Prom,” she said, too quickly. “Yeah, me too.”

Jack broke the stillness first, shifting back on his heels. “Speaking of that dog…” he said, voice lighter now, tugging at the edge of their mood without breaking it entirely. “I should probably go feed mine.”

Beth let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a soft laugh, her nod almost reluctant. “Yeah. Of course.”

She followed him to the door, flipping off the kitchen light as they passed through. The low glow of the lamp cast the living room in amber light, the tv throwing the shadows of the show she wasn’t watching across the walls. Abby was camped on the couch with Atlas draped over her lap like a weighted blanket with paws, her thumbs busy over on her phone.

She didn’t look up. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah,” Jack said, leaning over the back on the couch to give Atlas a parting scratch behind the ears. “Figured I’d skedaddle, let you and your mom get back to your night.”

Abby snorted. “Not the middle-aged white guy lingo.”

He grinned. “What, I’m leaning into the brand. Fully committing. And I’ll take middle-aged, thank you very much.”

“I know, how generous of me, right?”

“Entirely too generous,” Jack chuckled, straightening back up. “I’m sure the Nobel Committee will be reaching out any day now.”

Beth saw the twitch at the corner of Abby’s mouth. She tried to hide it, but it was there; that reluctant grin threatening to break through.

“Mother Teresa could never,” Abby smirked, swiping to the next TikTok. She glanced up and offered Jack a small smile before returning to that damn phone. “Night, Jack.”

“Night, kid.” He returned her smile and continued to the door. Before he reached the entryway, he called over his shoulder like an afterthought, “Hey, I wanna hear how you did on that paper next time you come through with your mom. Alright?”

“Sounds good,” Abby called back.

Beth watched her daughter duck her face behind her phone again, but not before that tiny, crooked grin snuck its way across her mouth. Something seismic shifted in Beth’s chest. Quiet and slow and a little bit terrifying.

Because Abby didn’t do this . Didn’t click with people. Not like this. Not without friction, or caution, or the emotional small print that came with being seventeen and razor sharp and too smart for her own good. She’d always been a slow burn. A hard sell. The kind of girl who made people earn it, because Abigail Baker watered herself down for no one. It had taken Ed nearly a year to find an in with her before her quips felt less barbed, and even then, despite his efforts, she still moved around him like a stray cat he was trying not to spook.

But Jack? Jack hadn’t earned it so much as strolled into it like they were speaking the same language. She tossed him a line and he caught it midair. He’d tease, and she’d smirk, and they’d volley back and forth like they’d been rehearsing for months. The way they bounced off each other, the way their energy filled the room and made it feel more like something alive… fuck, it terrified her. It terrified her how easy all of it was. It had been easy then, too. 

Beth stood in the middle of her living room and watched it happen like it wasn’t her house. Like she was seeing something she wasn’t supposed to. Something that was supposed to be hers until she learned that life was unkind. For a moment, it felt like standing in front of a roaring hearth, letting it slowly bleed out a chill that she’d grown accustomed to. But fire still burned no matter how it was contained, no matter how beautiful it looked. No matter the small voice that whispered that maybe, just maybe, the flames wouldn’t bite like a dog if she got too close this time.

It didn’t stop her from stepping closer though. Just for one more minute in the same warmth that still danced on her skin.

She took a steadying breath and pulled her cardigan tight around her before she started to follow him to the door. Abby’s eyes jumped over her phone as she passed, and the little shit had the audacity to look smug about it before sinking deeper into the couch cushions and tucking her chin into her sweatshirt like that would hide it. Like they didn’t share the same fucking face and Beth knew each tick of her mouth like it was her own, because it was. 

Night air flooded into the entryway as soon as he opened the door, sweet with the decay of early autumn and the promise of rain. It curled around them, cool against the warmth of the house, and made Beth suddenly aware of how close they were standing. The streets had grown quiet in the hours since he arrived. She watched behind him when he turned to face her, counting the glow of exterior lights on her neighbors’ houses to keep her from looking up into the hazel. 

Jack shifted his keys in his hand, thumb brushing over the worn leather strap. “Thanks again for dinner.”

She smiled. “Thanks again for bringing my wallet. Would have been quite the shock when I made it to the register at Costco tomorrow.”

He nodded and hesitated like he might say something else, but instead he stepped onto the threshold, halfway between inside and out. Before he could leave entirely, she reached for his wrist to stop him from turning away with a brush of her fingers. She tilted her head toward the living room and added, a little more softly, “And thank you. For being so good to her. Really. She doesn’t exactly warm up easily.”

Jack’s smile was faint, crooked. “Neither did you.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from her, reluctant but genuine. “Guess we’re both a little difficult. Like mother, like daughter, I guess.”

He looked at her then; really looked at her. That same patient, infuriating, familiar way he always had. “Nah,” he said. “Just worth the wait.”

The words landed somewhere low in her stomach, a slow ache blooming beneath the flutter. The silence that followed filled every corner the porch light touched, thick and golden like honey in late light. She felt it in her throat, in the sudden thickness of her chest. Her eyes dropped first, trailing down to the floorboards between them like they might offer her somewhere to hide.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just let the quiet hum between them, heavy and humming, like a struck tuning fork. Her fingers tightened on the doorframe, not enough to steady her, just enough to feel something when the wood bit into her fingertips. Her body remembered him in ways her mind refused to entertain, like the way the air changed when he was near, or how the silence turned companionable instead of suffocating.

They lingered in the doorway longer than they should’ve. Jack stood just outside, backlit by the porchlight. It haloed him in gold, soft around the edges, and for a second, just one traitorous second, it took the years off his face. Trimmed back the lines, brightened the eyes, transformed him into the boy she once knew like the man who stood in front of her was still him. Like all he had to do was smile that smile and lean against the frame, just as handsome and brave and kind as her Jack had been, and it turned back the clock to the same girl that never could stay mad at him for too long. Her stomach twisted, sharp and sudden.

For a breath, she felt eighteen again. Eighteen and barefoot on a back porch in late August with only one sock, watching a boy with that same look on his face tell her goodbye. That girl stirred in her chest, surfacing in the beam of a lighthouse that promised safety and instead led her right into the rocks. 

“Night, Beth,” he murmured, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“Goodnight, Jack,” she said, and it came out quieter than she meant it to.

He lingered a moment longer and stood there at the bottom of her steps, bathed in porchlight and August air, like he wasn’t sure whether to turn and walk away or come back and say one more thing. Like he wasn’t sure to stay. But then his mouth twitched like it always used to, like he’d landed on some secret joke only he knew the punchline to, and he gave her a small nod. He stepped backward off the porch, his hand rising in a lazy wave before he turned and made his way down the walk, vanishing into the hush of the street and the hush of the hour.

Beth stood there for a second longer. The porchlight buzzed gently overhead, but the night was otherwise silent. No headlights, no breeze, just the quiet echo of a door shutting and a car starting before tires creaked on asphalt. 

She leaned against the door as she shut it, forehead resting against the wood, her fingers still curled loosely in her sweater sleeves. She let out a long breath before finally stepping back into the house. Then she turned slowly, the lamp-lit living room greeting her like a room paused in time. The TV flickered quietly. Abby was still sunk into the couch, Atlas curled against her side, snoring like a diesel engine.

Abby watched her from the couch, her phone forgotten on the cushion, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

“Well, that was—”

“Go to bed,” Beth cut in, walking past her without breaking stride.

“What? Why?”

“Because it’s late,” she said flatly, glancing sideways at the clock on the mantle in hopes that it would validate her reasoning, and added. “And because I said so.”

“Mom, it’s nine o’ clock. That’s not even—”

Beth turned, arms crossed. Jesus Christ, was this girl absolutely certain about med school? She’d make one hell of an attorney. But Beth didn’t have the patience for opening arguments tonight. “Go. To. Bed. Abigail.”

Abby scoffed dramatically, sitting up. Beth stared her down. Unblinking. Unamused. Exhausted.

Abby rolled her eyes, muttering as she stood. “Fine. Jesus. Overreaction much?”

“Goodnight,” Beth said, turning off the TV.

Abby didn’t move right away. She lingered there, halfway to the stairs, giving her mom that sideways look that always preceded something smug and usually right . “You’re literally crashing out for no reason! At least admit that you had a little fun. I could tell.”

Beth froze, just for a second. She didn’t speak. She didn’t trust what would come out of her mouth, though that Girl’s voice echoed through her like she was shouting into a chasm. Yes. But I shouldn’t. Yes. But I can’t. Yes. But I did. But I want to.

“Goodnight,” she said again, softer this time. “I love you big.”

“Whatever,” Abby huffed as she trudged toward the stairs, “Love you bigger , you total liar .”

Beth listened to her daughter’s footsteps on the stairs, the creak of the old wood on the landing. Beth braced herself for the slam of the door, but it didn’t come. 

“He’s really nice, Mom.” Abby called back down. 

Her door clicked shut, and a few seconds later, the muffled thump of music started up, far too loud as always. Beth stood there for a moment, rubbing at the knot in her shoulder, and stared at the dent Abby had left in the couch. Atlas gave a long, sighing groan and looked up at her with half-lidded eyes. She crossed the room and sat down beside him, letting the quiet press in.

Fuck. What was she doing? 

She leaned back into the couch with a low sigh. Atlas shifted with the movement and let out a displeased snort before tucking himself in tighter. She let her head tip back for a second. Let the silence stretch and settle around her, though she wasn’t sure she wanted it. Then, as if tugged by some unseen thread, she pushed herself up. She hesitated a moment, still hovering over the cushion before she straightened up and crossed to the built-in under the bookshelf.

The cabinet creaked open, revealing the clutter she always meant to sort through; old photo albums, Abby’s art projects from elementary school, the backup charger she kept forgetting didn’t work and kept meaning to throw away. The hinges gave a familiar groan as she opened it. Her fingers moved past Abby’s yearbooks first; fresh ink and bright photos, the names of friends that Beth had watched play in this same house scrawled in bubbly cursive. She dug a little deeper until she found her own. The spine was soft from being opened and closed so many times in those first years after graduation, before it became too painful to remember who she’d been then.

Abby had flipped through it before, always laughing at the hair, the outfits, the dramatic handwritten messages scrawled in the margins and the version of Beth before her name was ‘mom’. But Beth had mostly let it be. Let it gather dust. Let it wait in the dark like it didn’t belong to the life she had now.

She rocked back onto her heels and sat with her legs tucked beneath her, the yearbook balanced on her lap. She set the charger onto the coffee table. She really should throw that away. The cover felt strange beneath her hands, familiar and foreign all at once. She opened it slowly, the pages flipping past in flashes of faces she used to know. Names she used to say out loud. Moments she hadn’t thought about in years.

She smiled when she hit the sports section. There she was; all pleated skirt and smiles and pom-poms mid-cheer next to Becca on the sidelines. A blur of Friday night lights and adolescent joy. She took a picture of it and sent it off to Becca before she could second-guess the impulse.

Then she kept turning pages. Past group shots and club spreads and class photos. Her fingers stalled on the picture of her senior debate team and she snorted softly. She hadn’t needed any help arguing, Jack, she thought. That’s why she never lost. And that accident had not been as bad as he made it sound. He rear-ended a cop and she hadn’t brought that up once . 

She turned the page again and paused. The senior sunrise picture was there; everyone in a messy, half-awake heap on the bleachers, wrapped in hoodies and blankets, their whole lives still in front of them. And there, nestled in the middle of it all, was the two of them. She sat beside Becca on the bench above him, the old blanket he kept under the seat of his truck draped over her shoulders and her arms around Jack’s neck, cheek resting on his head. He leaned back into her, his smile so relaxed it hurt to look at. And hers… God, her smile was effortless. That girl didn’t flinch. Didn’t guard herself. She had no reason to. Not yet.

Beth stared at it for too long. Not because it made her sad, but because it didn’t; not in the way she expected. It just made her feel… far away. Like she was looking through the wrong end of a telescope at a version of herself she could almost remember being. A girl who believed in things like forever. Who believed that a moment like that could stretch out in all directions and hold. Who still believed that love looked like lip gloss stains and not a bruise.

She flipped the page, though she wasn’t sure exactly why. She should put it away. She should go to bed. But she just kept flipping from one page to the next, eyes scanning over each page like she was trying to photocopy them into her memory. She had just moved past the superlative pages when the gap between the pages felt slightly wider than the last. She turned to it, and tucked between the pages was a folded photograph. The edges were soft from years of being pressed flat, worn right in the middle where the elastic used to rub against it when she kept it tucked in the trap on her visor. Her fingers hesitated before tugging it loose.

Her own face smiled back at her from the piece of photo paper. Seventeen, golden with the future, standing in front of the campus sign during her first campus tour. Her mom had taken it before they left, though Beth had been surprised that she had any space still left on the camera after the pictures she’d taken of every single building they passed by. Beth was beaming, eyes bright and proud with her arms looped around his waist. Jack had one arm around her shoulders, the other stuffed in his hoodie pocket, smiling in that quiet way he did.

She let out a breath and carefully tucked the photo back between the pages, smoothing it flat before flipping through the rest.

The prom spread came towards the end; a collage of moments frozen in flash and film, glossy and bright. She remembered Becca nearly losing her mind trying to finalize the layout in time for printing, the two of them sifting through the pictures late into the night over sodas and half-eaten pizza. It had all felt so immediate then, like prom was the pinnacle of youth and every shot had to be perfect. Beth skimmed past most of them until one caught her eye, and she felt her throat close.

Not a posed picture. Just a wide shot of the dance floor taken from the balcony above. Most of the frame was a blur of motion, colored lights, dresses and rented tuxedos. But in the background, almost hidden, was her.

Just a glimpse of her back, really; the low dip of that blue dress Dad had a fit over when she came home with it, the spill of her hair against bare skin. Her arms looped around Jack’s neck, his hands resting lightly at her waist, and a Sharpie marker heart drawn beside them like a footnote. Even from a distance, even through grain and blur and the passage of time, Beth could still see it. The way he was looking at her. Like she was the most beautiful thing in the room. Like the noise and the lights and the whole night had gone quiet around her.

He always looked at her like that. He had on that last night, too.

He looked at her like that tonight. 

After all these years, he still looked at her like he knew her. Every little bit. Every reflex, every scar, every stubborn little thing she thought she’d grown out of. And it infuriated her. It infuriated her that he still carried that version of her in his head. That he’d thought of her often enough to still know who she was. That somewhere along the way, through the years and the silence, he’d chosen to remember her. And still, he hadn’t come back.

He was the one who left. He made his choice, and with it took hers from her. Left her standing on a porch with half a goodbye and nothing to hold onto but the memory of what they were. And fine . She’d learned to live with that. He had decided she wasn’t worth knowing then. But if she wasn’t worth knowing, then why had he bothered to remember?

And the worst part? The last twist of the knife that felt placed there by her own hands?

She knew him, too. Still. In every small and painful way. She remembered the sound of his laugh and the weight of his hand at the small of her back. She remembered how he looked when he was trying not to cry, how he clenched his jaw when he was scared. She remembered him even when she didn’t want to. And that made her angry, too. Because if they had both spent years remembering, if they’d both been haunted by the same shadow, then why the hell hadn’t he come back ?

Had he looked for her the way she had him? Had he seen her profile on strangers in crowds, just long enough to forget how to breathe? Had he chased shadows through grocery aisles, heart pounding, only to feel foolish when they turned around? Had he dreamt like she had of the impossible? That maybe she’d show up one day. A little older, a little rougher, but still her. Still the girl who loved him with everything she had.

And if he had, then why the fuck hadn’t he just come home?

But he didn’t. He chose to remember her without her. Chose to leave and let those pieces of her live in memory instead of in reality. 

And then the fucking cruelty of it all—the viciousness in the simplicity of sitting beside him at that table, watching him make her daughter laugh like it was the easiest thing in the world. Hearing him remember small things, things he shouldn’t still know. It was unbearable, the way it all played out so effortlessly, so peacefully. Like a scene from a life they never got to live. A memory that had never been hers, just a glimpse into some other timeline where he had known how to stay. Where he hadn’t left. Where that table, that laughter, that peace, were theirs.

That was what hurt the most in the midnights after he left. Not just the sharp, unraveling kind of pain that gutted her at first. The kind time couldn’t dull, but only reshape into something quieter, something crueler. A chronic ache that flared up when the weather cooled and she caught him in the tilt of a stranger’s jaw, or the melody of an old song she still couldn’t turn off. It wasn’t being alone that undid her, not really. It was the devastation of knowing what could have been. The might-have-beens that took root in the dark and bloomed into grief. If he’d just turned around, even once; if he’d fought instead of folded—then maybe the story would have been different.

Before, those fantasies stayed locked away in her subconscious, haunting her dreams with a life that never belonged to her, and maybe was never supposed to. She’d suppressed those long ago until he showed up in that hospital room and tore through the images she’d marked confidential and filed away. But now? Now she had to watch it happen. Watch that life play out around the dinner table and watch him be the man he promised to be like a film reel she couldn’t shut off. One she didn’t even want to shut off, because God help her, it felt familiar. Like something she already knew the ending to. But she’d never been good at guessing the ending anyway. She always got too caught up in the middle.

And then that fucking song. That song from prom started playing, as if the night hadn’t already been enough. And he looked at her like he remembered every second of that slow dance in the gym; his arms wrapped around her, his forehead resting against hers, the soft hum of his voice in her ear as he whispered that he’d love her forever. Forever, as it turned out, had an expiration date. A short one. And now that song, once something sacred and safe, played casually over a cheap piece of Bezos plastic while he stood across from her like a stranger with memories he had no right to still own.

She turned back a few page to the senior sunrise picture and stared down at the smiling face of the Girl Before. Sometimes she still caught glimpses of her in the mirror: the curve of a grin, the brightness in her eyes, fleeting and cruel. But then she’d blink, and that girl would be gone again. She’d dissipate like mist and leave behind the Woman After. After Jack. After Russell. After Ed. After she learned to stop counting the times her heart got broken and decided that if love was contagious, then she must be immune to it.

The Girl Before and the Woman After simply didn’t coexist. Not out of malice. Just… necessity. One had to survive. She had to grow up and move in a straight line that only went forward. The other had to be buried for her to learn how to.

But tonight, as she sat at that table beside him, Beth allowed the Girl Before to linger just a little longer. For a fleeting moment, the bright-eyed girl who had once believed in forever was there again; tentative, trembling with hope, daring to believe that maybe this time could be different. That maybe wounds could heal, maybe men who left could learn to stay, that maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time. 

The Woman After had been quick to remind her otherwise. She’d swept in fast. Efficient. Gentle, even, in her way. Diminished the little flicker of hope before it could catch fire. Before the girl could ruin them both with wide eyes and open hands because hope was a lovely, dangerous thing. It was best left to girls in prom dresses who didn’t know better yet.

Beth closed the yearbook gently and placed it back on the shelf with more care than it probably deserved. She leaned back against the coffee table and stayed there for a moment, her arms looped around her legs, chin resting on her knees and let herself feel the ache. Not wallow in it, but just acknowledge it. Like a scar she still traced in the quiet.

The house settled around her, creaking in the way that had once frightened Abby. It’s just the house saying goodnight, she’d tell her. She missed when fears could be buffed out with just a few words. Abby’s music buzzed through the ceiling, some muffled pop song she’d heard a hundred times. She listened for a moment, letting the familiar noises fill the space. With a tired groan, she pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and rubbed hard, blinking the spots out of her vision.

Fuck, she was in trouble. Wasn’t she?

Beth reached behind her for her phone. Becca had texted her back, but Beth flicked the message away before she could read it. She opened her contacts and scrolled until she found the name she didn’t quite know she was looking for. She tapped on it and put the call on speaker before she let her phone rest on the floor beside her.

It didn’t have a chance to ring a second time before he picked it up.

“You alright?”

Beth smiled, even though it trembled a little. Only Tom Baker answered the phone that way; like he already knew she wasn’t.

“Hey, Dad,” she said softly, letting her chin rest on her knees again. “You’re up late. Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” he replied, the hum of an old western buzzing faintly in the background. “Chris and the boys were here this evenin’. Just left.”

“Yeah? How is everyone?”

“Oh, you know,” he sighed. “Chris came over to get his fishing license outta the boat, and they ended up stayin’ for dinner. Coop started football a few weeks back, and it’s all the kid can talk about. He’s damn good at it, though. Wes is growin’ like a weed. Owen didn’t so much as spare Jess a second glance when she dropped him off at kindergarten on Monday. Damn near broke the poor girl’s I think.”

Beth listened with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, eyes glassy. When was the last time she saw those boys? Chris had texted her the pictures her sister-in-law had taken of them in front of their schools on their first day last week, and she hardly recognized her nephews. 

“Sounds like a good night,” she said. “Abs and I will have to come up one of these weekends after school starts. We miss you guys.”

“You could just move back, you know,” he said. “The Hughey’s just moved down to Florida. Could live just down the street and see everyone all the time.”

She laughed. “Wow, three minutes in and you’re already guilt tripping me? That’s a new record, Pops.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying,” he chuckled. “How’s the new job?”

“Oh, you know,” she sighed. “Same shit, different building.”

“Language.”

She rolled her eyes. Even at forty-eight, she never stopped being eight-years-old in his eyes. She was old enough to have a mortgage and retirement fund, but still never old enough to cuss in front of her father. “Sorry, Daddy.”

There was a pause, just long enough for both of them to hear the other breathe on the other end of the line. She could still hear the western playing; someone shouting about horses or land or money. Abby’s fondness for deafening volumes started to make a little more sense.

“No, it’s… it’s good,” she added, picking at the sleeve of her sweater. “It’s good.”

“What’s wrong?”

Damn it.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“I said , what’s wrong?”

“Dad…”

“You haven’t called in a week. Now you’re callin’ after dark just to shoot the shit? I don’t think so, Elizabeth. What’s goin’ on?”

She huffed out a shaky laugh. “A girl can’t call her dad just to chat?”

“She sure can,” he said. “But I know my girl. C’mon now. I’m not gettin’ any younger.”

She stared at the ceiling. “Jack’s back.”

The other side of the call fell silent.

“Jack?”

“You know who I’m talking about, Dad.”

“Now that’s what I worried you were gonna say,” he grunted. The recliner creaked. The TV clicked off. “When’d that happen?”

“Last week. He was Abby’s doctor at the ER. At my ER. He works at my new hospital, in the same department,” she muttered, fingers bothering at the cable of her cardigan, tracing over the weave of the pattern. “He was just at the house, actually.”

“ Your house?” He balked, his voice a low grumble. “The hell was he at your house for?”

“Who else’s house?” She said a little too incredulously. “You have your granddaughter to thank for that. He showed up to drop off my wallet after I left it at the hospital and she invited him in for dinner.”

“Good lord, that girl…”

“Tell me about it,” Beth scoffed. 

He went quiet, but Beth could hear movement around him. She heard fabric shuffle, the muffled thunder of his voice down the hall when he pressed his palm against the bottom of his phone like he was still using a landline. Abby had taught him how to mute a call a half dozen times, but he’d always been stuck in his ways. Mom’s voice followed—something about do I need to go too? and You’re going to drive through that city at night?— before he moved again, and she could hear the jingle of keys.

She sighed, closing her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not doin’ anything,” he muttered, his voice too far away for a moment before it drew closer in a change of hands.

“I can hear you. You’re putting on your jacket.”

“I’m just checkin’ the weather,” he hummed, feigning innocence. She heard the familiar, heavy fall of his footsteps on the carpet.

“With your keys, Benjamin Franklin?” She quipped, then sighed. “Dad...”

“Elizabeth,” he said flatly. “I mean it. You need me to come down there?”

She let out a broken laugh through her nose. “And do what? Kick his ass for breaking my heart thirty years ago?”

“You didn’t stop being my little girl over those thirty years, Beth.”

Her chest went tight. She stared across the living room at the yearbook tucked away on the shelf like the memories were trying to claw their way out of it.

“You okay, pumpkin?”

She tried to answer. Tried to breathe past the lump in her throat. But her voice cracked when she said, “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

A sob pressed against her ribs like it had been waiting all night. Her shoulders shook as she curled in tighter, one hand pressed to her mouth like she could keep the sound in, the other drawing her knees in closer. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and bit down on her lip hard, but it was no use.

“No,” she whispered, “No, Daddy. I’m not.”

Tom didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t never did. He didn’t need to. He just breathed with her, slow and steady on the other end of the line.

“I know, baby,” he said at last. “I know.”

Chapter Text

“So, let me make sure I have this all straight.”

Jack leaned forward on the stiff couch and rested his elbows on his knees, shifting uncomfortably. Ten years of ass-in-seat, and it still had the charm of a concrete slab. He was starting to think Grier kept it that way on purpose. But he figured it probably had little to do with the couch.

Grier leaned back in the chair across from him, let out a long exhale, and rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. Yeah, you and fucking me both, buddy, Jack thought. He watched the pen drop to the notepad, watched Grier cross his arms and level that gaze at him again. From day one, Jack never thought the guy looked much like a therapist. Looked more like every damn CO who ever barked his name across a base.

Square-jawed, with silver hair buzzed so close he looked nearly bald, and a stare that made Jack sit up straighter, Grier had almost made him think he’d walked into the wrong damn room that first day. Commendations, shadow-boxed medals, and challenge coins lined the walls of the Desert Storm vet’s office; Jack hadn’t expected it to look like a damn recruiting center, but he preferred it over whatever soft-lit room he could have ended up in. Fifteen minutes into that first session, though, he understood exactly why Rach had made the appointment and been so damn insistent he go when Jack pushed back. Grier didn’t just get it. He lived it. He understood the ghosts that came back with him and took up residence in his head—and the son of a bitch didn’t sugarcoat a goddamn thing.

Grier removed his glasses and let them rest on the pad as well. Jack’s jaw tightened. He knew what it meant when Grier stopped taking notes and started looking at him like that. He pretended not to notice, absently rubbing his palms together while he watched rain trail down the window glass outside. August collapsed into September in the week since he’d been at Beth’s, bringing with it grey skies and showers. He didn’t mind. Didn’t have to care much about it now that he was back on nights. But when Wednesday came and went and the rain continued, he caught himself thinking, midway through treating an MVA patient, that Abby must’ve been bummed it rained on her first day of school. And that Beth, hopefully, wasn’t taking the slick freeway like the Indy 500.

Jack pulled his gaze from the window when Grier started to speak, hands half-raised, then stalled with a soft “huh,” like the words had caught somewhere behind his teeth. He clasped his hands together, thinking. Jack cracked his knuckles. Stumping his therapist wasn’t exactly the most reassuring feeling after the story he’d spent the first twenty minutes vomiting out. He then started twisting his ring without realizing it. It had become a nervous habit, one that used to drive Rach up the wall.

Grier opened his mouth again, gesturing to Jack with his joined fingers. “So let me get this straight. You and this girl—Beth—high school sweethearts. Madly in love. Full-blown small-town fairytale. You two make plans: you’ll head to boot camp, she’ll go off to college, you get married, she follows you, finishes her degree wherever you’re stationed.

She thinks she’s got a few more days with you, and what do you do? You give her one last good night like a dog you’re about to put down. Tell her you love her, promise to write, kiss her on the porch like you’re gonna see her again. The works. Yeah?”

Jack swallowed. “Yeah.”

“And then you leave the next morning without a word.”

Jack dropped his gaze when Grier leveled him with a look. The kind Jack was used to getting from men in uniform. He rubbed his thumb into the center of his palm, focusing instead on the pressure and rain slapping against the panes. But of course Grier noticed. The jackass always noticed. Fuck, why did he have to be good at his job? 

Grier didn’t let up.

“You don’t call, you don’t write. Just thirty years of radio silence.” His voice was calm, but the rhythm of it sharpened. “And then two weeks ago, she shows up in your ED out of the blue with her daughter, who is…?” He raised a single eyebrow, the implication heavy.

Jack’s head snapped up and he shook it quickly. “No. Not mine. She’s seventeen.”

“Mm.” Grier nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Right. Not yours.” He paused, drawing out the quiet like he was flipping through a case file in his head, then scribbled something on his pad before looking back up. “And now, just so I’m crystal clear, this same woman—this high school sweetheart you ‘ghosted’, as my grandson would put it—works at your hospital. Do I have that all right?”

Jack gave a dry exhale. “That about sums it up.”

Grier leaned back, dragged a hand down his face, and let out a long sigh. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “This sounds like some shit my husband would watch.” He slid his glasses back on with a snap and gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “And why, Jack, is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

“It didn’t seem important,” Jack muttered.

Grier barked out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Bullshit.”

He leaned forward, eyes flashing. “I’ve been your therapist for a decade, Abbot. A decade. I’ve heard about the alcoholic father. The IED. The PTSD episodes. Losing both your mom and your wife to the same goddamn cancer. Hell, I’ve even heard about the cat you ran over when you were twenty.”

Jack flinched slightly at that, jaw tightening.

“Not important ? These are the chapters we’ve been missing from the whole fucking story, Abbot. The missing piece. The silence between the verses. Don’t sit there and tell me it’s not important when you broke your life in half and decided this part didn’t make the cut.”

Jack stared at the floor, hands flexing uselessly in his lap. He knew. Of course he knew. He was the one who’d ripped those fucking pages out; torn them free and shoved them in some dark, forgotten drawer, convinced he’d never have to see them again. Until he walked into that room. Until it all came back like a sucker punch to the chest, slamming him down right back into the middle of the rest of the story.

Grier picked up his pen again, casually now, almost disarmingly. “So,” he said, clicking it once before leaning back, “do you want to start from the beginning? Or jump right to the now?”

Jack exhaled slowly. “Dealer’s choice.”

Grier nodded, already scribbling something down. “Then let’s start from the top.” He didn’t even look up when he asked, “You left. Why?”

Jack sank back into the familiar scratch of the couch, the coarse fabric dragging at his shirt the same way it had every week for the last ten years. It had never been comfortable, but today, it felt earned. Like penance. Like maybe he should squirm a little. He’d sat here and unraveled himself more times than he could count, laid bare the worst parts—war, grief, rage, regret—and somehow found the words for all of it, even when they scraped their way out like broken glass. But this? Her?

That was the part he’d buried too deep to touch. The part he let die quietly, years ago, before it could take him down with it. He’d locked it up so tightly it stopped feeling real. Never spoke her name. Never let it surface. Fuck, he hadn’t even told Rachel about her.

And now, it was clawing its way back up, uninvited. Sharp-edged. Blinding. Hopeful, in a way that felt sickening. Dizzying almost. Like it might split him open just to look at it too long.

It had hit him the second she said his name. A soft, stunned whisper under a pulse he thought had flatlined years ago. Like a thread tugging loose something he didn’t realize was still holding together. He pressed his nail into the flesh of his palm.

“I guess—”

“I don’t want to hear what you guess, ” Grier cut in, sharper now. “Your insurance pays me to guess. You tell me what you know. You loved this girl. She loved you. Then you left and didn’t turn back. Why? ”

Jack exhaled slowly, jaw flexing. His eyes fixed on a crack in the floorboard near the couch, like if he stared hard enough, it might swallow him whole.

Why. Wasn’t that the question of the last thirty years?

He’d explained it to himself over and over; first to the eighteen-year-old who stood on her porch that night, aching to stay. Who couldn’t pull himself away from her when she held his face in her hands and whispered against his lips that she loved him. Then to the same kid, sitting awake in the barracks at midnight, her letters in his lap, trying to convince himself he couldn’t go back. That he shouldn’t. That kid fought like hell, pushed back with everything he had against the voice in his head that said she’d be better off. That this was better. This was kinder.

Eventually, that voice stopped shouting and started whispering.

After her last letter came that January, the voice went hoarse. It only spoke in the dead of night, when that final envelope sat in front of him again, like maybe this time the words would be different. Like maybe the tear stains wouldn’t be there distorting her handwriting. Like maybe it would say “ Hey handsome ” again instead of just—“ Jack. ”

He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t look at Grier. Didn’t look at the window, either, because all he’d see there was that porch light from thirty years ago, and the way she’d looked at him with all that damn hope in her eyes that he had put there.

“I thought I’d ruin her,” he said finally, voice low. “So I left before I could.”

“And who told you that? That loving her would ruin her?”

Grier continued to watch him with that hard stare. Waiting. Challenging him to say something. Jack inhaled. Explaining it was inevitable; might as well rehearse with someone else first. He’d said so many ugly truths in this room over the years, what was one more?

“I saw what war did to my dad,” Jack said finally, his voice low. Controlled, but only just. He rubbed at his palm again, like he was trying to scrub something out of his skin. “I don’t remember him before Vietnam. Just the man who came back mean. Quiet in all the wrong places. Explosive in all the others. He used to hit my mom so hard the walls would shake. And when she died, it was my turn. It didn’t take much. Breathing too loud. Looking too long. Existing in his line of sight. Every time I thought maybe he was softening, that maybe it would be different, he’d come home drunk and pissed just to prove me wrong.”

Grier let the silence stretch.

“And then, first day of high school, I close my locker and there she is. Fighting with the damn combination like it owed her money. She looked up at me, and I swear the hallway went quiet.”

Jack let out a laugh that didn’t sound anything like amusement.

“Beth. God, she was everything . She was brilliant. Cheer captain. Class president. Valedictorian. Straight A’s like it was nothing. She got into Penn on early admission. Her folks were so damn proud. I was proud, too. Stupid proud. Told just about anyone who listened that my girl got into the Ivy League; that she was going to get the hell out of that town and be someone. I used to sit in the bleachers and watch her win debate competitions and lead pep rallies and wonder how the hell I got a girl like that to even look at me in the first place. And she still had time to help people; tutored freshmen during her lunch hour, volunteered at the hospital her mom worked at. She noticed people. And somehow, out of every kid in that school… she picked me .”

He shifted on the couch, the old frame creaking under him. 

“And then there I was. Stopping her.” His voice dropped lower. “She couldn’t go chase all that if she was stuck following the sad kid from the shitty blue house on Balch Street. Couldn’t become what she was meant to be if she was wasting time being held back because of someone like me .”

Grier nodded, pen scratching against paper, and tilted his head, tone calm but deliberate. “Is that how she saw you?”

Jack didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. It felt less uncomfortable than speaking the truth he had known just as resolutely then as he did now. 

Grier let the silence settle before pressing, quiet and razor-sharp. “As the sad kid on Balch Street?”

Jack’s mouth opened, then closed again. He blinked a few times, his jaw working silently before he finally answered.

“…No.”

It came out like it hurt. He cleared his throat and scrubbed his hand across his jaw. 

“No,” he said again, more certain this time. He shook his head. “She never made me feel like that.”

Jack shifted again, the couch frame groaning beneath him. He rubbed at the inside of his wrist, eyes fixed somewhere Grier couldn’t follow.

Fuck, he hated this. Hated the way it pulled things loose. Hated the way her memory did that—how it always had. He didn’t want to recall the way she looked at him then. Or now. Like she was seeing every part of him he tried to hide, cracking him open until he was gaping and raw only to touch him with careful fingers and gentle words.

“She never treated me like I was broken,” he said, finally. “Never looked at me like I needed fixing. She didn’t talk over the silence, didn’t try to make it go away. She just… sat with it. With me. And somehow it never felt like pity. She just… knew. Somehow just knew exactly what I needed before I did.”

He paused, rubbing his hands together like they might warm something cold inside him.

“The day my mom died, she passed early in the morning—sun wasn’t even up yet. I was in the room with her when she went. She’d been sick a long time, and I guess… I knew it was coming. But when it finally happened, I didn’t—” He faltered for a second. His hands stilled. “It was quiet. Peaceful, I guess. But after, I didn’t know what to do with myself. It’s not like people think, where you’re suddenly overwhelmed or sobbing or whatever. I just felt… hollow. Like the inside of me had gone missing. I didn’t know what you’re supposed to do in that moment. You stand up? You sit back down? You say something or stay quiet? I just felt… empty. Like I didn’t have any weight in my body anymore. Nothing holding me in place. I remember just staring at her for a while after the nurses left. Then, I walked out of the room. Just left. Like maybe that would help.”

His jaw clenched, teeth pressing together until the muscle ticked. “And Beth was there. Sitting in the waiting room. I don’t know how fast her mom must’ve called her, but she beat me out of the ICU. She was still in pajamas. No coat. No shoes. Just sitting there, arms wrapped around herself like she forgot how cold November is, her feet angry red from the salt and snow.”

Jack’s throat worked as he swallowed. Beth had never been much of a morning person then; he couldn’t count how many times she’d trudged down her drive with sleep in her eyes, half-awake and grumpy as hell on the mornings he’d pick her up before school. But that dark morning, too quiet as the world slept and continued on while his fell apart before dawn even purpled the horizon, she stood in front of him in one of her old cheer shirts from middle school with wild hair tied up without so much as a yawn. Just his sweet, beautiful girl, like the sun in that waiting room.

“She didn’t say anything. Just stood up when she saw me. Waited.”

Jack blinked slowly, the silence folding around him like a blanket he wasn’t sure how to sit under.

“I walked over and sat down in one of the waiting room chairs. And she sat beside me. Reached over, held my hand.” He swallowed. “Didn’t let go. We sat like that for hours. Four, I think. Maybe more. People came and went. Nurses. Orderlies. Didn’t matter. She never moved. Never let go. Just sat there with me and held my hand like the world hadn’t just fallen out from under my feet. And then at some point… I broke. Quiet. Ugly. Just kind of folded in on myself.”

“And she still didn’t say anything. Just pulled me to her and held me.” He looked up at Grier now, meeting his stare. “She loved me like it was easy. Made it feel like it was as simple as breathing.”

Grier’s pen was still. He didn’t write this time. Just watched Jack with that same calm, clinical stillness that somehow never felt cold.

“So,” he said carefully, “why didn’t you believe her?”

Jack’s eyes didn’t move. He stayed where he was, staring down at the floor again like it might offer him an answer. Grier’s voice was even softer the second time. “Her loving you like that. Why didn’t you believe it?”

“Because it didn’t make sense,” he said after a long moment. “Not to me. Not back then.”

Hell, it still didn’t make sense to him now. She had no business loving him like that. She met that boy with a love that always felt older than the two of them; like they skipped the teenaged starry-eyed bullshit and fell straight into something more grown. His mom, in the short year she knew Beth, would always roll her eyes and smile when she’d catch Beth fussing over him like they’d been married for thirty years instead of dating for just ten months. “That girl loves you like a wife already,” she’d tease, always with a smile. She liked Beth. Liked that she saw Jack clearly and stayed anyway.

Really, Jack was certain that she just liked that Beth was a Baker. They’re good people. You stick with them, she’d whisper to him after she’d closed the door behind Sheriff Baker on the nights he was called to the house; always called his mom ma’am, asked about her treatments, spoke to her like he was dropping by to shoot the shit about their kids and let her leave those nights with whatever bit of dignity she had left still intact. His thumb dragged slowly across the edge of his knee, like he was tracing some memory into the fabric.

“She had this way of seeing the world that made it feel… possible. Like it could still be good. Like I could still be good. And me? I was already carrying things I didn’t know how to name. Already angry. Already tired. I’d watch her walk into a room and light it up and think—what the hell is she doing with me? She looked at me like I was good. Not just okay; but good. Like I had something in me worth saving. And I wanted to be that version of myself so bad it ached. But wanting it didn’t make it real.”

He paused, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward the window where the rain had begun to smear the world into soft-edged shadows. It was coming down harder now, grey light thinning as the skies grew darker. Jack watched it bead along the window, little rivers chasing each other down the glass. 

She’d be off soon. Maybe he’d sneak a look at her tires before he went in for handoff. She was always shit about that; Rachel had been too. Burned through brake pads, ignored oil changes, let their tires go bald until they were driving on wires. He used to give them both hell for it. They’d just laugh and roll their eyes and tell him he worried too much.

It made his chest twist, that thought. That weird, quiet ache of care. He didn’t even know if Beth would let him do that now. Or if she’d even want him to.

“I’d be with her and start to forget. Start to think maybe she was right,” he said, still watching water bead against the pan. “And then I’d go home. Or hear my dad’s truck pull in. Or I’d catch her talking about college, or med school, and it’d hit me all over again—I didn’t belong in that part of her story.”

He looked down at his hands, rubbing a palm across the other like he was trying to erase something etched there.

“She didn’t know how broken it was in me. And I was scared that if she ever did—really did—she’d leave. I kept waiting for her to wake up one morning and see me the way I saw myself.”

He let out a breath, almost bitter. “Figured I’d save her the trouble.”

Grier sat back slightly, expression unreadable. He tapped his pen against the pad, watching Jack long enough to pull his attention from the window.

“But she didn’t,” Grier said—not a question, just fact. Somehow, that made it worse.

Jack shook his head, slow. “No. She never did.”

“Even when you were falling apart?”

He huffed out something close to a laugh. “Especially then.”

Grier nodded once, letting the quiet stretch long enough that Jack’s skin itched. “Then why didn’t you trust her to make her own choice?”

Jack’s eyes flicked up, surprised. Caught. The words hit like a punch he hadn’t braced for. He opened his mouth, stalled, then shut it again.

“Because that’s what I keep coming back to, Jack. You didn’t just leave,” Grier shook his head and leaned forward. “You made that choice for her. You didn’t just change your story when you left her on that porch. You changed hers, too.”

Jack shifted on the couch, spine stiff, throat dry. What could he say? It wasn’t like that? That wasn’t my intention? I thought I was saving her? That he’d sit at the stop sign at the end of her road every time he dropped her off at home that last week fighting tears until it made him sick, telling himself that he was doing what was best for the both of them, that this was sacrifice. That this was strength. This was mercy. That walking away was the best way he could love her. But time had stripped the shine off that lie. All that was left now was the echo of tires on gravel and the girl on the porch who never got a choice.

There wasn’t anything he could say that didn’t sound like an excuse. So he said nothing.

Grier pressed on, calm but firm. “You ever stop to think about what that did to her? What kind of grief she had to carry around after you disappeared like that? You want to talk about trauma—we’ve spent ten years unpacking yours—but what about hers?”

He sat back, eyes narrowing. “Because let me tell you, I’d love to swap notes with her therapist.”

Jack flinched. The words caught him in the chest like a blow. His jaw tensed, but he didn’t look up.

“You didn’t just disappear from her life. You detonated it. You left her alone to pick up the pieces of a future she thought she was building with someone who loved her. Someone who said goodbye like he meant it… and then never showed up again.”

Jack’s vision blurred for a second. He blinked fast, but the sting didn’t go. He hadn’t meant to do it like that. He hadn’t planned it to be cruel. But that didn’t matter , did it? Grier gave it a second, then added, quieter now, but no less cutting:

“I struggle with that; not only as a therapist, but as a father of two girls. They dated in high school, sure, but nothing like you just described. Didn’t make their heartbreaks any less gutting to watch them go through. That’s a helpless feeling, Jack, watching your child ache like that. And if it was my little girl? If some boy looked at her, saw how smart and kind and full of fire she was, and then decided he got to choose what she deserved? That she didn’t get to weigh in? You can bet your ass I’d still be waiting on that apology thirty years later.”

Grier didn’t let up. “She wasn’t just collateral damage in your origin story. She was a person. With her own plans. Her own heart. You think you were the only one bleeding when you walked away?”

Jack blinked again—once, twice, three times fast—but it didn’t help. His ribs ached. His throat tightened. He remembered the weight of her letters in his hands. The words written on those pages. The nights he almost called but didn’t.

Grier leaned in again, not unkind now, but insistent. “So I’ll ask again, Jack. Why’d you really leave?”

Jack swallowed hard. “Because I didn’t think I was enough for her.” 

The words came out rough, scraping past a throat that felt too tight to speak. Jack clenched his teeth. The air felt too thick in his lungs. It sounded pathetic now. Small. But it was the truth.

Grier nodded slowly. “And maybe you weren’t. But she should’ve gotten to decide that. Not you. You made the decision for both of you. For her. You looked at this girl—this unstoppable, brilliant girl you’ve described that you supposedly loved and who loved you—and instead of giving her the dignity of a choice, you left her like a coward.”

He flinched again. Coward . He hated that word. He’d spent his life trying not to be that. Trying to outrun the kid who had been one. He should have known that eventually, his lungs would give out, his muscles would ache, and that eighteen-year-old would catch up to him whether he was ready to face him or not.

“You didn’t sit down and say, ‘This is what I’m afraid of, this is what might happen, and I don’t know if I’ll make it back the same,’ and allow her to be a part of a conversation that was hers to have,” Grier continued. “You just took her off the board like she was some piece in your game. You left her standing on that porch thinking she was still in it, still part of the plan you two made, while you’d already flipped the last page and closed the book. She would’ve followed you. You know that. I know that you know that.”

Jack swallowed down against the lump is his throat. That one cut deeper than the rest. Because it had always made him angry; the way she’d looked at him like he was something worth staying for. Like she saw something good in him. He hadn’t known how to hold that without breaking it.

Fuck, he didn’t realize he was paying a copay just to get his ass handed to him by a former Marine on a father’s warpath.

Then again, maybe he was. Shit. He was, wasn’t he?

Fucking therapy. He still didn’t know why the hell he let Rachel talk him into this.

“You just couldn’t stand the idea that she wanted to. You didn’t believe you were worth loving. So you made sure she couldn’t. Tell me if I’m on the right track here.”

Jack swallowed hard, like the weight in his throat might choke him. “I thought if she hated me, it would be easier. For her, at least. That it would make it easier to move on. I thought I was doing what was best.”

“For who, Jack? For her? Or for you?” Grier shrugged. “You weren’t. You were saving yourself from the guilt of watching her sacrifice something you decided she’d regret without trusting her when she told you she wouldn’t. You didn’t just make a hard call, Jack. You didn’t fall on your sword. You dropped it then disappeared. And she had to live in the rubble you left behind. She had to rebuild, and it sounds like she did a hell of a job, but that doesn’t change the fact she had to do it alone. Without answers. Without closure. Without the decency of knowing whether you were dead, alive, or just too much of a chickenshit to write her back.”

Jack’s jaw clenched. “That’s not—”

“That’s exactly what it was,” Grier cut in. “And don’t give me some bullshit about doing it to protect her. You didn’t protect her. You left her.”

He let that hang a beat. Then, quieter, “And don’t sit here telling me it wasn’t important.”

Jack looked away again, rubbing at his ring.

“You were afraid she’d look at you someday and see your father.” The words hit like a bullet. His breath caught. A jagged breath came through his nose, too sharp. Grier let that hang a moment. He leaned forward, then, his voice softer, added, “But Jack, you’re not your father. And you don’t get to decide who sees differently.”

Jack leaned back into the stiff couch, eyes on the ceiling now like he couldn’t quite bear to look at the man across from him.

“She didn’t just lose you, Jack,” Grier continued. There was less edge to his voice now, something gentler to his words that didn’t make him any easier to look at. “She lost the life she thought she was building. You rewrote her story without asking if she was okay with the edit. Frankly, I don’t believe that you were ever okay with that edit either.”

Jack’s mouth worked silently for a second, trying desperately to form a defense that never came. For something easier than the truth.

“I didn’t think I deserved her,” he muttered.

“That might be true,” Grier said. “But it wasn’t your call to make.”

Jack exhaled sharply. “What the hell was I supposed to do? Ask her to stay? To risk being unhappy and resenting me for the rest of her life?”

“No,” Grier shook his head. “You were supposed to trust her. You were supposed to sit across from her and let her make the hard call with you. Not for her. With her. That’s what love is.”

Jack didn’t say anything for a long time. He just sat there, staring at the glass like maybe if he looked long enough, the answers would be up there in the sway of the trees. Written in the rivulets like cyphers. Threaded into the silence.

He should’ve said something. He should’ve said a thousand things. But all he could do was sit there, Grier’s words still echoing in the quiet that followed. 

She had loved him.

That was the part that undid him. Not the anger. Not the accusation. Just the truth of that. That she had loved him; fully, without hesitation, through every jagged, awful inch of him. Through all of it. Through his mother’s decline, through the long silences when he couldn’t find words for the ache inside him.  She’d stayed through those blood-crusted nights when he didn’t know who he was angry at; his father, himself, the whole goddamn world. She’d just unlock the window and scoot over, make room on the bed, press her hand to the back of his neck and say nothing until the shaking stopped.

She didn’t flinch from the mess. Never so much as blinked. But she’d stayed for the good, too.

The soft. The stupid. The ordinary.

She laughed at his jokes even when they didn’t land. Stole french fries off his plate like it was her God-given right. Knew every lyric to every Springsteen song when he sang off-key in the car and still rolled her eyes like it annoyed her. Kept the notes he’d pass her in class or leave on the front desk at work tucked in the drawer of her nightstand like the inside jokes written on gum wrappers were scripture.

She sat across from him at her parents’ dinner table and kicked him under the table just to make him smile. Held his hand like it was a normal thing, a safe thing. Would press those ice-cold little cadaver feet against his legs just to hear him groan and would giggle when he pushed them away. Kissed him slow on that rooftop when there was nothing they needed to escape.

She loved all of it. All of him. Not just the boy trying not to drown in his own bloodline, who didn’t know what to say and didn’t need him to, who was trying to survive, but the boy who forgot sometimes that he didn’t have to.

His throat tightened, and for a second, he wasn’t sure he could breathe around the lump lodged there. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of his ring. She would’ve followed him. He knew that. That was the worst part. She would’ve followed him through hell if he’d asked. But he hadn’t. He’d just walked away. And she had stayed.

And God, he loved her too. Every last bit of that beautiful, brilliant bit of wildfire that burned right through him.

Grier leaned back, his arms folded loosely across his chest. His thumb tapped absently against his bicep. “So tell me about the now,” he said. “Work. What’s that been like?”

Jack exhaled, slow and measured, like he was sifting through the question before answering. “Weird,” he said finally. “Not bad. Just… weird. Having her around again.”

“Weird how?”

Jack rubbed a hand over his jaw and shrugged. “The first couple days, we barely looked at each other. Kept things polite. Professional. Like we were both trying to prove something; mostly, I think, that we were fine. Almost like we were in this weird contest of who could act like they cared less.”

“And were you?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Not even a little. Every time I saw her, it was like the air went thin. Couldn’t catch my breath right.”

Grier nodded once. “And now?”

“Now it’s… different.” Jack paused. “Easier.”

“Easier how?”

“She’d nod when she walked past. Ask about a patient. I’d answer. We’d talk for a minute if she was at the desk. Nothing major. But it didn’t feel like walking a tightrope anymore. Didn’t feel like I had to brace myself every time she was in the room.”

Grier tilted his head slightly. “Did that surprise you?”

“Yeah,” Jack admitted. “Thought it’d be harder. Thought I’d spend every shift trying not to look at her too long. But it kind of just… leveled out. Like we slipped into some version of normal. Not what we were. Not even close. But not strangers, either.”

Grier didn’t say anything right away. Just watched him, head slightly tilted like he was waiting for the rest of it. Jack’s fingers fidgeted against the seam of his jeans.

He wasn’t going to admit it. Not outright.

Not that for the first time in his career, he actually preferred day shift. Not that he missed it his first night back like some green rookie who hadn’t learned to hate the sun yet. Not that he caught himself watching the clock now; not for calls or breaks, but for the few quiet minutes before handoff when she’d breeze past him with that small, practiced smile that never quite reached her eyes but still knocked the breath out of him just the same.

And every goddamn time she did, he’d spend the next twelve hours thinking about it. About her. About who on days might be willing to swap shifts. Just for a few days. Just long enough to stay in the orbit of that smile and try, just try, to see the real thing again.

He used to hate day shift. Hated the noise, the chaos, the way it crawled by under fluorescent lights and relentless chatter. He hated the way it felt too exposed, like the world could see too much of him.

But now? Now he missed it. Missed her. And it wasn’t just the smile. It was the way her hand lingered on the back of his chair when she laughed. The way she still clicked her pen when she was thinking. The way she jumped at every peds case that came in and talked to every kid in the gentle, soothing way like they were her own. The way her voice got quieter when she was delivering bad news, like she was trying to make the world softer for someone else. It was all those little things that shouldn’t matter anymore; except they did.

He didn’t say any of that. Just sat there, the truth swelling against the back of his throat like it was too big to fit through.

And still, Grier waited.

Jack tapped his fingers together, chewing his lip before he spoke. “Last week, she came through the ED with her kid for an ortho appointment. Left her wallet at the nurses station while she was helping a resident. Mike picked it up, said he’d drop it off, but I told him I was already headed that way.”

Grier raised an eyebrow. “Were you?”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “No.”

“Hm.” Grier didn’t press. Thank God for that. Jack wasn’t ready to unpack the way he and Robby had hovered over that wallet like they were rivals in an Indiana Jones movie and it was some sacred relic. Or how they’d politely bickered about who should return it like two idiots trying to ask the same girl to prom. 

“And?” Grier asked, voice low.

“And…” Jack hesitated, then huffed. “Her kid invited me in for dinner.”

Grier glanced up at him over the edge of his glasses and nodded slowly. “How was that?”

“Fine,” he said. “Good, actually.”

It had been more than good. He knew that. Knew it the second he stepped back out into the cool air that night and realized, for the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn’t feel like he had to turn on the scanner or open the window or find something, anything, to fill the silence. The quiet didn’t feel like punishment that night. It felt full. He liked it. Far more than he should have, really. He wrestled with that thought the entire drive home, wondering if he was even allowed to. But he had. He really had. It was still noise, but that noise hadn’t felt nearly as quiet as it did at home.

“It was really good,” Jack said. He sat up, mouth tugging up slightly. “Her kid, Abby, she’s something else. Reminds me a lot of Beth when she at that age. Smart as hell. Quick. But in this way where you don’t notice it at first. She’ll say something that sounds casual, and then two seconds later, it clicks and you realize she just roasted the hell out of you. She kept me on my toes the whole night.”

Grier smirked, his pen scraping against paper. “And Beth?”

“It was like nothing had changed,” his voice softened, something like a smile lifting his mouth as he remembered sitting there beside her with his shoulder pressed to hers. “Like we hadn’t lost years. Like we still had that shorthand; like she still knew me. Gave me shit. Rolled her eyes the same way when Abby and I would get goin’ on something. Called me out on stuff before I even said it. Had the same five Fleetwood Mac songs she played to death when we were kids on the speaker. It all just… fit . And the way she looked at me when—.” 

He paused before he could tell him about that moment in the kitchen, the memory nudging at the edge of his thoughts. The way she stood there, the warmth of her hand against his chest, the way her eyes found his and held. The way the air shifted, like something old and familiar was unfolding between them again and for one fragile second, they were still who they used to be. Like she was still his beautiful, brilliant girl who brought the sun with her and he was still that kid that wanted to deserve that light. 

But no. He didn’t say that.

Didn’t tell Grier about how her hands had felt steady, like they remembered him. The half a second when his own brushed against the curve of her, and she let it. Or the way her eyes had softened, blue and bright and so fucking open it made something in his chest ache.

Didn’t say how he hadn’t wanted to leave.

Instead, Jack rubbed his palms on his thighs and sat back slightly, letting out a breath.

“It was really good,” he said again, a little too quietly.

Grier studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowed slightly behind his glasses. “Do you think Beth felt the same?”

Jack’s gaze dropped to his hands, thumbs rubbing together unconsciously. “I think… there were moments where she did,” he said slowly. “Where she looked at me like she remembered exactly who I was. Like she wanted to feel it again.”

“And then?” Grier’s voice was gentle, coaxing.

Jack exhaled through his nose, the breath sharp at the end. “And then she’d shift,” he said quietly. “Like she remembered she wasn’t supposed to. Like it caught her off guard and she didn’t trust herself with it. Or maybe…” He trailed off, jaw working.

“Or maybe didn’t trust you,” Grier offered.

Jack nodded once. “Yeah.”

Silence settled between them, soft but heavy. Grier tilted his head, watching him with that same unreadable patience.

“Why do you think that is?” he asked.

“Because I left,” Jack sighed. “And maybe she thinks that if she lets herself feel it again, I’ll just do what I did last time. And the worst part is? I can’t even blame her for that.”

Grier rested his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped between them as he studied Jack; not interrogating, just listening. Then he spoke, voice quiet but certain. “But she still let you in.”

Jack blinked, the words catching him off guard. He opened his mouth, closed it again. His throat felt tight.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Yeah, she did.”

“She opened the door. She invited you to dinner,” Grier continued. “Let you sit at her table. Let you hear her laugh and see her live and know her child. That hesitation you’re seeing? That’s not distrust, Jack. That’s a scar. And the thing about scars? They’re proof the wound healed. Still hurt like hell, still visible, but healed.”

Grier leaned back, resting his notebook against his knee, eyes still fixed on Jack. “So what now?”

Jack glanced up, brow creased. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Grier said, tone even but direct, “are you going to keep knocking on that door?”

Jack stilled. His gaze dropped to the space between his boots, shoulders curving in like the question physically landed. Finally, he muttered, “I don’t know.”

Grier didn’t say anything at first. Just flipped a page in his notebook, then tapped his pen once against the binding. His voice was mild, almost casual. “Lying to your therapist only defeats the entire purpose of therapy.”

Jack huffed a dry breath, half irritation, half acknowledgment. “Jesus Christ, that line again?”

“You do know,” Grier said. “I think you’ve always known. You’ve known since the moment you saw her again. Hell, maybe since the moment you left. You’ve been carrying this answer around for thirty years, Jack. All that’s left is whether you’re going to let her see it, too.”

“So let me be clear,” Grier said, measured. “If you’re going to show up—then show up. Not a letter. Not a voicemail. Not some quiet vanishing act in the middle of the night.”

“But if you do,” Grier continued, quieter now, “you better be sure. Really sure. Because she’s not the only one who’d be risking something. There’s a kid in the mix now. A kid who set a place at the dinner table for you. That mother is going to defend her with everything she’s got. And if she even senses you’re unsure, you’re out. Deservedly. So if you’re going to knock? Make sure you stay. And if she slams that door in your face? Respect that. Honor that. Do not knock again.”

Grier didn’t press. Not right away. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he had all the time in the world. Like he hadn’t already asked the question that had been clawing at the inside of Jack’s chest for weeks.

Jack looked at him, jaw tight. “You’re not exactly selling this.”

“I’m not supposed to. You’re already paying,” Grier said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. “This isn’t a pitch, Jack. It’s therapy. It’s not meant to be comfortable. This is the part where you decide if she is worth being uncomfortable. Worth the risk of getting the answer you’re afraid of.”

Jack swallowed.

“I’m not asking if you think she’ll say yes,” Grier continued. “I’m asking if you’ll knock anyway.”

Jack didn’t lift his eyes. He kept them fixed on the frayed edge of the rug beneath his shoes. There was a thread coming loose at the corner. He toed at it absently.

He thought about the way Beth had looked at him when he showed up on her porch again after all those years; like her body wanted to step forward but her heart hadn’t decided. Like memory was at war with instinct. Like she didn’t know whether to close the door or fall into him. Like maybe she was trying to figure out if he was real or just another echo of what used to be.

He’d felt that, too.

The answer pressed against the inside of his chest, dull and insistent. It had been there for weeks; since the moment she turned around in Three. He’d just been pretending it wasn’t. But it lived in every memory that surfaced when he wasn’t paying attention. In the way she still said his name. In the way her kid had smiled at him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Grier knew it, too. The smug motherfucker. 

Grier had known the moment Jack sat down on that damn couch and said her name like it still meant something. Maybe because it did. Maybe because it always had.

Jack swallowed hard. The room felt too quiet.

He was so tired of running. Of pretending he didn’t already know the truth. The boy who left, who convinced himself it was easier that way, he wouldn’t survive another lap around this. And he didn’t want to.

And from the way Grier sat back, quiet, waiting, not pushing, he knew too. He let out a slow breath and nodded, meeting Grier’s gaze. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m gonna knock.”

Chapter Text

“Six still back, two pending admits, nothing crashing. Bed 3’s your NSTEMI. Cardiology’s taking him, heparin’s running, stable. Bed 6’s abdo pain, maybe appy, surgery’s watching, NPO. 9’s our frequent flyer; ETOH, tried to swing at the nurse, now sleeping it off. Bed 1’s your fall. C clean, PT eval pending, maybe home. Kid in 4 has a virus, waiting on a flu swab and for mom to get the hell of WebMD before she convinces herself that he has Ebola. And Jane Doe’s your OD; ICU bed’s being cleaned. Should be down to get her within the hour. Oh. Almost forgot. Rectal foreign body removal in Bed 7. No complications, unless you count the fact that it was a bottle of Frank’s RedHot. So, we’re officially zero days without ass stuff.”

Jack stifled a yawn as he passed the iPad across the counter to Beth, who blinked slowly and shook her head while she absorbed the last addition to his handoff. It hadn’t been a bad shift, exactly—nothing crashing, no codes, no unfixable disasters—but it had been relentless. A small mercy, he guessed. He hadn’t sat down more than twice in twelve hours, and he’d spent more of it than he cared to admit feeling like a dog who’d just had his nose rubbed in his own mess, courtesy of his little come-to-Jesus moment with Grier, so he’d take the ones he could get. 

And then, to top it all off, he had to figure out the best way to extract a piece of household recycling from a grown man’s rectum without ever making eye contact. He was beyond ready to get the hell out of there.

But he didn’t mind hanging around a few extra minutes for handoff. Especially when it was her morning.

Beth stood across from him at the counter, looking like the human embodiment of eight hours of sleep and none of the things he’d seen tonight. Her hair was still down, a plastic white bow-shaped clip that obviously belonged to the kid clipped to her vest. Glasses on. Clear-eyed and awake. Zero exposure to rectal contraband. She slung her stethoscope around her neck and set her mug down before she took the tablet from him. 

She scrolled with one finger. “Oh gee,” she murmured, brow lifting slightly. “How’d that end up in there?”

He leaned his elbows on the counter, feigning concern. “Actually, funny you should ask. Craziest thing, get this; he has no idea.”

“Of course not. Why would he know such a thing? How rude of me to even ask,” she smirked, glancing up at him over her glasses before her eyes returned to the screen to review the Jane Doe’s toxicology report. “That’s what…three days since our last incident? I’d say that’s a new record.”

“Historic,” Jack said. “We should call Guinness. Maybe we’ll get a plaque.”

That earned a quiet laugh; more breath than sound. She pressed her lips together like she was trying not to smile, but didn’t quite succeed.

Her gaze lifted, just for a second, and landed on his. It wasn’t much, barely a glance, but it held. Just long enough to stir something in his chest that he wasn’t about to name. Something that had been waiting there, patient and quiet, for longer than he liked to admit. She dropped her eyes first, back down to the screen like nothing had passed between them at all, and he leaned a little more heavily on the counter. But that little smile didn’t drop. 

“I think we have an obligation to, honestly,” Beth said, adjusting her glasses like she was considering. “It’s a matter of public record.”

Jack nodded solemnly. “We owe it to science. History will want to know.”

“Exactly,” she said, still fighting that smile he hadn’t realized something in him was chanting for. “This is a teaching hospital, after all. Future generations must learn from our suffering.”

“Three days without ass stuff,” he said, with all the gravity of a eulogy. “Let it be carved into the walls.”

That earned it; that laugh. Not a polite one, but a burst of real amusement that startled out of her and made something in his chest go painfully warm. She shook her head, smiling so hard it scrunched her nose and made her eyes go soft, and God, if that didn’t hit him the same way it always used to when they were kids. Back when that smile could stop him mid-sentence and make him forget whatever smartass thing he was about to say.

Still could, apparently.

She dipped her head and tried to hide the way her lips stayed curled even after the laugh was gone. Her fingers moved across the tablet again, all business, but her shoulders hadn’t quite settled. Jack just stood there like an idiot, soaking in the sound of her laugh like he could bottle it up and store it somewhere for later.

He eased against the counter, voice low and softer in a way that surprised him a little. “Good morning.”

Beth returned the look, a quiet smile tugging at her lips as she gently pulled her hair free from under the stethoscope. “Good morning. Sounds like you had a long night.”

Jack gave a dry little smile. “Nothing a shower, a few Advil, and a beer can’t fix. Or two. Fine. Maybe three.”

“Oh, so just the basics then?”

“Exactly. Textbook recovery plan. Good as new.”

That earned her full smile again. “I bet you’re dying to get out of here, then.”

“No kidding,” Jack said, but didn’t move.

Just a few more minutes wouldn’t kill anyone. 

She was still standing across from him, scrolling through the chart, brow creased in quiet concentration. Same look she used to get when she was buried in notes a lifetime ago, chewing on the end of a highlighter or tapping her foot without realizing it. He used to watch her then, too; half in awe, half wondering how someone could hold so much fire and still be so gentle with it.

Maybe he could think up another patient to fill her in on. Just one more bit of bullshit. Something to justify how long he had already stood around without being on the clock.

He cleared his throat. “9’s a biter, by the way. Nearly got me earlier. Consider yourself warned.”

“Careful,” she said without looking up, flipping to the next screen. “I think that’s how you end up with superpowers.”

“That how it works, nerd?”

She rolled her eyes, fighting a smirk. “That or rabies,” she replied flatly.

He huffed out a laugh. “Real toss-up.”

Another low laugh puffed from her and something burned bright in his chest at the smile it brought with it. It lingered only a moment, then her shoulders dipped slightly, eyes dropping quickly back to the screen and her face dropping with it. She set the tablet down and crossed her arms, her fingers toying with the clip for a moment like she was trying to think of what to say next. 

“I should probably let you get going then,” she said, looking up at the tracking board.

“Probably.”

Neither of them moved.

Beth stayed where she was, eyes flicking down the tablet again, one hand absently toying with the clip on her vest. She squeezed the hinge a few times like she didn’t even notice she was doing it. She probably didn’t; she hadn’t used too when she fidgeted. He’d placed his hand over tapping pens or fingers obsessing with the hem of her shirtsleeve more times than he could count when her mind started running faster than she could catch it. He didn’t need to look to know. He could sense it before it even started back then. Jack straightened up out of the lean, stretching his back a little, but didn’t take the step back he probably should have. 

He got it. If the chain was still on that door, he’d understand. He was the reason it was latched in the first place.

He crossed his arms, feeling the weight of the night still clinging to him like grime; thick behind his eyes, deep in his muscles. He shifted his weight again and cleared his throat, watching her thumb click the clip once more before he spoke.

“How was Abby’s first week back?” he asked, keeping his tone light. Casual, if a little rough from the end of shift and not enough water. Just a question between coworkers. Just small talk. Nothing else.

Beth’s hand stilled. The clip stayed pinched between her fingers for a beat before she let it go and looked up at him, something in her expression softening.

“Really good, actually,” Beth said, the hardened mask she slipped into fading as it was replaced by the soft curve of her lips. “She’s liking all of her classes so far. Went to the first home game last night, then had a few friends spend the night after. She’s off to another friend’s house tonight, thank god.”

Jack tipped his head slightly. “Empty house then, huh?”

“You have no idea,” she sighed, nervous hands toying with her stethoscope like her body was already halfway into the shift ahead. “My parents surprised her and came down for the week, and then I had four teenagers in my house last night. I love my girl, don’t get me wrong; but I need a little quiet.”

“Four, huh?” He leaned his weight back onto one hip. “And you survived to tell the tale? Quite the feat.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” she said, finally pulling her eyes from the board. Blue found him again, something fond and affectionate quickening her words. There she is, he thought. She always talked a mile a minute when she was talking about something she cared about like she needed to pour it all out before someone stopped listening. He never did. Not for a damn second.

She stepped casually toward the counter again. “I went to DisneyWorld with her cheer squad in February. I’ll take four over twenty any day of the week. And once volleyball starts back up, I’ll have the entire team in my living room.”

Jack gave a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “So you’re the fun house, huh?”

“ Obviously, ” she said with mock pride, reaching for her coffee like it was a trophy. “I wait until at least 2 a.m. before I start yelling at them to go to bed. It’s practically a frat.”

“Wow. How gracious of you.”

“What can I say?” She sighed and lifted one shoulder in a faux-humble shrug. “I’m not like a regular mom. I’m a cool mom.”

She laughed again, bright, easy, and real, and Jack felt it settle in him like a coin dropped into a deep well, hitting something old and familiar at the bottom that last night had knocked loose. He wasn’t quite sure if he even knew what that something was yet, but he knew he liked the feeling. The way it crept through him in a warm crawl until the last twelve hours felt like a distant memory he had to squint at before he could start to wonder if it was his to feel anymore. That eighteen-year-old who used to chase it like a storm, living for the next moment he could hear it with some stupid joke or kiss to her neck when she was pissed off at him surfaced for a moment, that dumb grin plastered across his face even now. 

He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched her skim the patient board again, her lips still tugged up faintly, her eyes clear. She leaned her elbows against the counter across from him, close enough that he could chart the faded freckles across her nose after she adjusted her glasses, mumbling under her breath as she read through the last of the patient charts. 

For a moment, he saw that girl he knew across from him clear as daylight. Like she was still that same girl who’d always known how to step into a room and quietly take care of everyone else before herself.

He cleared his throat lightly. “You’re good at that, you know.”

Beth didn’t glance up. “At yelling at teenagers?”

“No,” he said quietly, and this time he didn’t bother to look away. “At taking care of people.”

Beth’s fingers paused mid-scroll on the tablet. She didn’t look up at first, just went still like the words had caught her somewhere unexpected. And when she did finally glance over, it was slower; less guarded, but a little unsure, like she wasn’t sure if she’d imagined the softness in his voice. Color crept into her cheeks, and she ducked her head almost shyly, the motion so familiar it hit him like a kick in the gut. She tried to cover it with a sip from her mug, cleared her throat, and looked back at the screen like it demanded her full attention. But that smile tugged at her mouth anyway. For a quiet moment, she was just that girl, and he was just that boy chasing that smile the same as he used to.

Hell, maybe he still was. Maybe he never stopped. Maybe that’s why it felt so damn good now.

And God, it felt good.

Felt good the same way it had around that table last week, when her laugh had rung out louder than she meant it to and she’d tried to hide it behind her sleeve. The same way it had when she caught him watching her, and didn’t look away. Just raised her eyebrows like she used to, daring him to say whatever he was thinking. When he found himself working twice as hard to see an identical smile on the face across the table as well.

She’d always had that edge; like she’d been built from flint and dared the world to try her. Tough. Proud. Sharp enough to keep people from getting too close until they proved to her they should, only to be met with all that damn softness she kept protected behind those walls. Like she had something to prove in all of that confidence and grit and wit. Except him. She’d never had to prove a damn thing to him. 

She still didn’t.

She hadn’t changed much. Still careful with herself. Still guarded in all the same ways. And still, here he was, older, wearier, and no smarter, watching her, waiting on that smile like it was something he hadn’t already memorized a hundred times over.

Maybe that was the thing no one told him about getting older. Some parts didn’t. Some pieces stayed stuck in place the same for him as they had for her.

That same tough girl walked into the Pitt that first day just as guarded, those walls rebuilt a little higher, and damn him if that same boy wasn’t working just as hard to be let through the door.

That door had swung shut the moment he left. When her last letter came that first week of January, she made it clear she’d locked and deadbolted it behind him.

You left like I was never a reason to stay, she wrote. But leaving was your choice, Jack. Letting you go will be mine. 

He remembered every aching word of it like it was carved into him. He’d sat on the floor and let himself cry for the first time when she said it was the last letter. When she said goodbye. Because it meant that it really was over. At least when that letter came every week, he could pretend a little longer. Finality came sealed in an envelope addressed in handwriting he could still pick out of a lineup. Those letters lived in a box of his old Army shit in a storage unit beside the ones he never sent and could never bring himself to throw away. Words he’d been too cowardly to say. Words the girl who wrote every week despite it all deserved to read. 

But that girl peeked out from behind the door that she’d cracked open just barely when he knocked. And from the way she glanced up at him over her glasses, still leaned across from him in a hospital with a few more lines on their faces and a world’s worth of time between them, he knew he wasn’t done. 

What had she said to that burn patient a couple of weeks back? Ten seconds of brave? Hell, he did nearly an hour of it the night before. He could do ten seconds. She deserved far more than ten seconds.

So he knocked again.

“Hey,” Jack said, tapping his knuckles once against the counter absently, like he hadn’t fully decided to say something until the sound was already there between them. “Got any plans tomorrow night?”

Beth kept her focus on the tablet a second longer than necessary, scrolling once more before letting the screen go dark. Only then did she glance over at him, eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Yeah,” she said, that smile tilting just a little at the corner. “Don’t you?”

Jack’s brows furrowed. “Do I?”

Beth’s eyes narrowed, teasing, like she was waiting to see if he’d figure it out himself. He gave her a look, still not quite catching on.

“Javadi’s twenty-first?” she said, tilting her head like she couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. “Haggerty’s? Santos organized it. Sent a group text last week. Pretty sure you thumbs-up reacted to it.”

He let out a quiet groan, leaning on one elbow. “Right. That thing.”

“That thing.” Beth smirked, already picking her coffee back up. “You going? Or are you going to make the old lady babysit alone?”

“Isn’t Dana going? Seems like something she’d be all over.”

“Who do you think I’m babysitting?” She smirked, sipping from her mug.

Jack let out a breath of a laugh, nodding before he even fully meant to. He hadn’t planned on spending one of his rare nights off shoulder to shoulder in a sticky dive bar with half the staff drinking like monsters. And it sure as hell didn’t seem like the place to say Hey, sorry I walked out on you and broke your heart. I broke my own the moment I decided to go. That kind of thing didn’t land well between rounds of cheap tequila and shouting over karaoke.

But he nodded anyway. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

Beth smiled again at that. A smaller one, more to herself than to him, and something tugged tight in his chest when she murmured, “Good.”

He almost said something else. Something about how it would be nice to see her outside of handoffs and trauma bays. Something about how he missed seeing her smile like that. But Dana’s voice cut through the noise a second later, sharp and urgent. 

“Incoming GSW, ETA three minutes!”

“That’s my cue,” Beth was already turning, already moving like she hadn’t just knocked the wind out of him with a single word. She paused just long enough to look back over her shoulder. “Get some rest, Jack.”

He offered a little wave in return, two fingers lifted in lazy acknowledgment, but she was already in motion. He turned toward the ambulance bay doors, his body moving on autopilot even as his mind stayed two steps behind, still in that laugh, that smile, that soft murmur of good. Just before he cleared the doors, he glanced back, just long enough to catch the trailing edge of her ponytail disappearing around the corner.

Just long enough to feel something familiar settle in his chest again.

Good .

Chapter Text

Abby made her change her clothes three times.

Beth had barely made it in the door before Abby started circling her like a hawk. She had two hours between her shift ending and the time she was to meet everyone at Haggerty’s to shower the day off, change, and pretend she hadn’t spent the last twelve hours elbow-deep in other people’s bodily fluids. She’d barely made it down the stairs in jeans and what she thought was a very flattering top before Abby spotted her with a full-body once-over and scrunched her nose, followed by the world’s most judgmental, “That’s what you’re wearing?” like she’d walked down the stairs in Crocs and a prom dress. Before she could even argue, the fashion police seized her and marched her back upstairs. 

She’d sat on the edge of her bed watching the clock eat through her window while Abby rifled through her closet with surgical precision, plucking hangers like she was defusing a bomb. Beth’s occasional muttered, “I’m going to be late,” only earned her glares sharp enough to pierce skin. She nearly snapped back with a pointed “fix your face” until she remembered, unfortunately, that she had been the one her daughter learned that face from in the first place. 

The outfit they landed on looked suspiciously like the one Beth had started with; just a looser gray long sleeve and darker jeans that Abby retrieved from her own closet after declaring that everything in Beth’s closet was ‘too mom’ . She’d also delivered the very pointed newsflash that skinny jeans were, in fact, dead, which Beth had apparently missed the obituary. But this one, apparently, passed inspection. Beth made it halfway to the bedroom door before Abby called her back again. Jewelry (apparently silver jewelry washed her out). Then shoes (“Ew, you can’t wear sandals! Your dogs out? In a bar? Disgusting.”). Then…

“Oh my god, sit down, I’m doing your makeup.”

Oh, who else to nurture her self-esteem but a teenager?

Beth sighed, but she sat down anyway, tilting her chin as Abby dusted her face with a level of intensity usually reserved for red carpet prep. It took another ten minutes, a reminder that she was going to a bar, not infiltrating a beauty pageant to prevent an act of domestic terrorism, an explanation as to why that reference was funny and a promise to show her that movie, and a lecture on “natural but intentional” before she was cleared for departure. She was already forty minutes late by the time she pulled in front of the bar, and forty five minutes late once she parked three blocks from Haggerty’s, because parallel parking in front of an audience was not something she was willing to add to her evening.

A full hour had passed by the time Beth pulled open the door to Haggerty’s and stepped into a wall of warm air, beer, and laughter. It wasn’t exactly crowded, not for a Thursday, but the place still hummed with the easy chaos of end-of-shift regulars. She paused just inside, letting her eyes adjust, her ears filter the mess of sound into something coherent. 

This wasn’t new. It was familiar in a way that felt almost scripted. The too-crowded bar, the half-burnt-out Christmas lights strung up year-round like a low-budget constellation, the clatter of shot glasses hitting sticky tabletops. Every booth, every table, every corner was crammed with people trying to shake off the day, trying to feel normal among others who knew exactly what it was like to clean blood out of their hair or cry in the bathroom between patients. She’d been in bars just like it in Denver, Boston, San Francisco, and somehow, they all managed to feel like the same place.

There was always comfort in that sameness. In knowing you could walk into any of these places wearing the weight of a shift on your shoulders and be met with someone who’d nod like they could feel it too. Once, that comfort had included taking home one of those first responders or nurses for a night; brief relief in the form of someone else’s body, a distraction wrapped in sweat and adrenaline and the quiet agreement not to talk too much and be gone before the other woke up. But it had been a long time since she’d done that, or since that kind of loneliness felt fixable.

She exhaled through her nose, rolled her shoulders back, and tugged at the hem of her Abby-approved shirt. The lighting was just dim enough to hide how tired she looked; hopefully. She spotted a familiar head of hair in a booth near the back and made her way in, sidestepping a pair of off-duty firefighters arguing over a TouchTunes pick.

Dana glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the door, beer already in hand. Recognition flashed across her face the second her eyes landed on Beth. She set the bottle down with an exaggerated scoff and lifted her hands to tap her wrist like a watch.

“’Bout time you showed up!” Dana called over the noise as Beth approached. “I’ve been waiting on your ass for an hour now!”

Beth rolled her eyes and stepped in behind Dana’s chair, looping her arms around her neck in a quick squeeze. “Looks like you wasted no time waiting on me,” she teased, eyeing the table already littered with half-finished drinks; two beer bottles, a lowball glass with a melting ice cube, and a neon-blue shot that looked like a hangover waiting to happen.

Dana gave her a dry look over her shoulder. “I grieved. I moved on.”

Beth huffed a laugh and dropped her purse into the empty chair beside her. An hour late to a party might not have seemed like an offensive amount of time, but after nearly two decades in healthcare, she knew two things for absolute certain: an hour meant she was probably already two drinks behind, and to never, ever, go shot for shot with a charge nurse unless she wanted to spend the next forty-eight hours contemplating every decision that had brought her to that moment. And from the look of the corner the crew had taken command of—half the Pitt day shift and at least three night shifters wedged into the booth with drinks in hand, Shen and Donnie’s voices already raised in half-drunken debate—she needed to start drinking now if she was going to have a prayer of catching up.

“Blame it on my kid,” Beth said, accepting the drink Dana handed her with a grateful nod. “Had to live through an entire Queer Eye makeover before she even let me walk out of the house. I’m pretty sure Tan France personally approved my outfit.”

Dana laughed, shaking her head. “Teenagers are ruthless.”

Beth scanned the table as she stepped over to hug Heather. Santos, Mohan, and Mel were huddled over a phone, heads tipped toward each other like they were drafting a fantasy football team instead of arguing over the next jukebox pick. Donnie and Shen were deep in a debate about the Steelers’ defensive line, voices rising with the kind of intensity normally reserved for medical errors and cardiac rhythms. Whitaker was pressed in beside Robby like a nervous kid clinging to his dad’s leg at a cookout. When he spotted her, Dennis gave a little half-smile and an awkward wave. She returned both without thinking.

Robby had been right. Dennis had quickly become her favorite; earnest, careful, still not totally convinced he was allowed to be there. Most days, she had to remind herself that he was a twenty-seven year old man and not a puppy that she wanted to take home. She spotted a few more familiar faces around the booth; Jesse, Perlah, Princess, one of the night shifters whose name she couldn’t remember to save her life.

But no Jack.

Something dropped in her, quietly sinking like a penny dropped in the deep end. She hadn’t even realized it had been afloat.

She swallowed it down and straightened up, pasting on the same smile she used for waiting room updates and pitying pharmaceutical reps. The table lit up with greetings; Princess raised her glass, Jesse leaned over with a “Hey, Baker!” that was just a little too loud, and Beth smiled through it all, stepping closer to the warmth of it. She’d missed this. She’d tried to join in on one of Mercy’s nights out a few weeks back, but it had felt… different. Like the eyes she met across the table were farther away than they used to be. It felt nice to be looked at like she belonged and wasn’t just some side character that had been quickly written out. 

Robby’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer than the others’. As if he hadn’t seen her just three hours ago when they walked out of the hospital together. She let him look. It had been a while since someone looked at her that way, too. 

“Glad you made it, Baker,” he called. She offered him a quick smile, watching as he smiled back before turning toward Shen and Donnie to toss his opinion into the ring and join their two-man SportsCenter episode.

She hadn’t planned on coming when the text went out. If she was being quite honest, she hadn’t actively chosen to attend a 21st birthday since she was twenty-three and shepherded a crew of sorority sisters down South Street in matching tank tops for her little’s big night. She didn’t intend to choose it again until she took Abby to Vegas for hers, and even then, fun Aunt Becca would be running the show.

No, her last-minute decision to come tonight had been about getting to know the team better. Celebrating one of the kids. Showing up.

Certainly not because Jack would be here.

Of course not.

“Looking for someone?” Dana asked, brows raised. The blonde waved down a waitress moving frantically between the bar and tables, nodding when the girl raised one finger in acknowledgment.

Beth turned to face her. She hadn’t realized she’d been scanning the bar for a familiar profile until Dana’s voice broke through her scan. 

She didn’t know why it even mattered to her if he did. That was becoming a theme lately; things she used to know feeling blurry around the edges. The half-dozen conversations she’d had with her father after that night made that perfectly clear. After he and her mother showed up on her porch the next morning, despite Beth very specifically telling them not to, things had gone from blurred to downright scrambled.

Her mother, for what it was worth, had immediately clarified they weren’t there for her, obviously. They were there for Abby, to see their only granddaughter off on her first day of senior year. Not to hover over their adult daughter who’d had what her father diplomatically referred to as “a moment” on the phone the night before. Her dad hadn’t pushed; that had never been Tom Baker’s style. That belonged entirely to her mom. But, she knew that was bullshit as much as she knew her mom did too. And she knew Dad was still waiting. Waiting for her to give an answer to the question he’d asked her on the phone before the tears came, then again in the morning in the kitchen while the coffee brewed between them.

But the truth was, she didn’t know.

She hadn’t known when she saw Jack in that hospital room.

She hadn’t known when they stood on that rooftop.

She sure as hell hadn’t known when she opened her front door and found him standing on the other side like it was 1995 again and the last thirty years had been some fever dream she’d made up to keep herself warm.

Everything in her felt misaligned. Her body reacting without hesitation, without consent every time he was close. Her brain screaming to pull the emergency brake because she already knew how this story ended. And then something else entirely; something softer, more dangerous, that kicked up inside her chest like That Girl remembered being stupid and in love, and hadn’t learned a damn thing since.

She didn’t like not knowing. She’d spent her entire adult life building a world where knowing meant control. Knowing meant safety. She didn’t have to rely on anyone else to hand her the answers, because she’d carved them out herself. But Jack Abbot had always been the exception to that rule. He was the one variable she never could solve for.

And the little jump she felt against her ribs when she finally spotted him stepping away from the bar, long fingers curled loosely around a sweating beer bottle, told her exactly how unsolved he still was.

Fuck.

She needed to figure it the hell out. Because this? This not-knowing, breath-catching, heart-kicking mess he stirred up in her?

It wasn’t going anywhere.

Beth dropped her eyes before Jack could meet them, jaw tight as she turned back to Dana with a smile that felt just a little too forced.

“Where’s the birthday girl?”

Heather tipped her drink toward the back of the bar. “Over there. Pretending to be interested in pool.”

Beth followed the line of her glass. Under the murky green glow of the overhead lamp, Javadi stood with her arms tucked close, nodding along a little too eagerly as Mateo lined up a shot, wearing the kind of nervous, wide-eyed expression that practically screamed I like you, please notice me. He was talking, something about angle and follow-through, and she was hanging onto every word like it was gospel. Beth huffed a breath of a laugh. 

“Oh, she’s got it bad,” Beth snickered under her breath, still watching Javadi hang on every word like Mateo was reading from Psalms instead of explaining cue ball spin.

“Poor girl,” Heather said, shaking her head with a low laugh before sipping her drink. “She’s been barking up that tree for weeks. Not sure if he’s barking back, though.”

Perlah perked up from across the table, and leaned over with a conspiratorial smirk. “That’s because he’s too busy barking at McKay,” she said, voice dipped low in a teasing mutter.

Beth gasped softly, hand flying out to point at her as she wagged a finger. “Oh, I knew you all were holding out on me. Someone say more right now.”

Javadi looked up just then and caught her eye. Her face broke open in a smile, bright and sweet, and she waved like Beth had just made her night by showing up. Beth waved back and returned her grin, listening as Perlah and Princess tag-teamed their theories about how long Mateo and Cassie had been hooking up. But the moment she turned back toward the table, her attention snagged on the movement across from her.

Jack slid into the seat directly across from hers. Next to Robby. Of course.

She felt the denim of her jacket like a second skin all of a sudden; far too warm, clinging in the heat of the bar. She hadn’t even remembered putting it on until she was halfway to the bar, hadn’t even thought about why she’d grabbed this one. And now she was acutely aware of how aware he was of it.

The waitress appeared beside her just as she started to peel it off.

“What are you drinking?”

“Whatever’s on tap,” Beth said, not looking at Jack as she shrugged the jacket off. “And put her,” she nodded toward Javadi, “on my tab tonight. And another round for the table when you get a sec? My formal apology for being late.”

That earned a whoop from someone, maybe Donnie or Perlah, maybe Robby, and the waitress nodded and disappeared again.

Beth tossed her jacket over the back of her chair and dropped into it. Donnie lifted his bottle and gestured with the neck. “Vintage Wrangler, huh? Hell of a find. I’ve been trying to thrift one like that forever. Where’d you pick that up?”

“This?” Beth rested her arms on the table, grinning. “I’ve had it since high school. And for the love of God, don’t ever call something I got new at sixteen ‘vintage’ again, or I will walk into traffic.”

Well, she hadn’t got it, but she didn’t care to amend that. Laughter rippled across the table. Even Jack cracked a smile that made it clear that he had made the amendment without saying a word, though she didn’t look long enough to confirm it. She just reached for her drink when it came, took a long pull, and hoped it would be enough to quiet her skin.

It did little when his eyes stayed on her across the table. Goddamnit, she’d told herself one drink. That was certainly going to fly out the fucking window. She’d be Ubering home if he kept looking at her like that. She wrapped her hands around the cool bottle, suddenly too warm when she met his gaze. 

Jack smirked as he leaned across the table, voice pitched just for her under the noise. “Nice of you to join us. Thought I was gonna get stuck babysitting solo.”

Beth tossed him a look over her beer. “I said I’d be here, didn’t I? Got stuck doing mom stuff. And I can’t parallel park worth a damn, so I’m parked out in a lot somewhere near the moon. I think I met my step goal on the walk over.”

Jack leaned a little closer, elbow on the table like it was just a casual question. “Where’d you end up?”

She shrugged, too breezy. “The lot behind the bakery on 5th. Closest thing I could find.”

He groaned, shook his head, and held out a hand. “Absolutely not. That place gets hit every other night. No lights, no cameras. You’re not walking back there. Gimme your keys, I’ll move it.”

“It’s fine. I’m not staying long,” she said, brushing it off.

“Don’t care,” he said flatly. “There’s plenty of space open on the street.”

His hand stayed there, insistent. She’d seen this film before; watching him stand at the counter with grease on his knuckles and that same look in his eyes when she told him someone parked her in and she had to walk a block, and he looked at her like she’d just suggested hitchhiking home. Same look. Same annoying indignance. Same way he took care of her in that maddening, stubborn, Jack way. She remembered rolling her eyes then, too. 

“Jack.”

“Beth.”

She let out a breath through her nose. “You don’t have to make it a whole thing.”

“You never listen unless I make it a thing.”

Beth stared at his hand, still outstretched. For a second, she thought about telling him no just to prove she could. Just to remind him, and maybe herself, that she didn’t need looking after anymore. She didn’t need to be taken care of. Not like that. Not by him.

His hand didn’t move.

Beth muttered something under her breath and dug her keys out of her pocket, smacking them into his palm. “You are so annoying.”

“Tried to teach you,” he muttered as he stood, just loud enough for her to hear

“You were a terrible teacher.”

“Bullshit. You just didn’t pay attention.”

He glanced down at her fob and made a face, like the insignia on it had personally offended him. She smirked. He’d always had a thing again German-made; something about water hoses and a bunch of bullshit she’d never been able to follow once he got going.

“You got something to say?” she asked.

“Not a damn thing.” He was already turning away. “I’ll be back.”

“Abbot!” Shen called across the table, arms lifted like he’d been personally betrayed. A few playful boos followed. “You just got here, man!”

“I’ll be right back,” Jack said, already stepping away. “Try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

Shen threw both hands up, affronted. “How could we? You’re taking all the stupid with you!”

That earned a fresh ripple of laughter from the table. Beth just shook her head, lips tugging into a smile that she tried to hide behind her glass. She exhaled a quiet laugh and rolled her eyes. God, he still worried about the dumbest shit. Like prowlers and parking lots and the fact that she once left her trunk popped overnight and he acted like she’d left a sign out inviting theft. She’d called it protective once, back when things were still warm between them. Back when she hadn’t learned how to do everything without him.

She took a long sip of her beer, working hard not to look after him, trying not to think too hard about how that part of him hadn’t changed. Not to fidget. Not to reach up and smooth her hair just in case. She tapped her nails against the sweating glass and returned her focus to the rather animated exchange of gossip beside her, scanning the table casually.

No one seemed to notice the exchange.

Until she caught Robby watching.

Not long; just a half of a second, maybe. His eyes flicked from her to the direction Jack had gone, then back again. Not judgmental, not even particularly curious. Just…observant. Like he’d just seen something that didn’t quite line up with the picture he thought he was looking at.

Beth blinked, broke the glance, and reached for the napkin under her glass. By the time she looked back up, Robby had turned toward Shen, nodding along like nothing had happened.

She sat back and exhaled through her nose. Great. So much for subtlety. She was going to need to work on that.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want people to know.

It wasn’t even that she thought they couldn’t guess. Lord knows she wasn’t doing a particularly stellar job at playing it cool. But saying it out loud? Explaining why she and one of the other attendings could barely make eye contact across the nurses’ station without her stomach dropping through the floor? That felt…exhausting. Like handing out a mess she hadn’t even sorted through herself.

It was just easier this way. Simpler to keep it quiet. To let it live in the space between them, silent and unresolved. Their mess. Their broken thing. Their dirty laundry not worth stringing up on the line stretched across the Pitt.

Not when it felt like all it would take was one look, one real, honest, unguarded look, and she’d unravel.

Maybe that was the real reason.

Maybe some part of her knew that if she said it, if she named it, if she gave it air and shape and sound, then they’d have to deal with it. They’d have to decide if they were finally going to do something about it. And she wasn’t ready for that. Not while he was still looking at her like that; like she was something he remembered.

Beth sighed softly and drained the rest of her glass.  She set it down with a soft thunk and stood, eyes already looking for an opening at the bar.

She was going to need another drink.

“All I’m saying is—”

Shen and Robby groaned in unison.

Beth grinned and shrugged, already halfway through her second beer. “All I’m saying is that the Eagles have a deeper bench and a better shot at pulling ahead this season. Especially if Hurts stays healthy.”

“That’s it. You're not making sense anymore. I’m cutting you off,” Shen said, leaning over to grab for her glass. Beth batted his hand away like he was a toddler reaching for scissors.

“Oh please,” Beth snorted. “You’re just mad I’m right.”

“You’re not,” Robby said with an easy smile, “but that’s fine. You’re entitled to your wrong opinion.”

Beth raised a brow, a slow smile creeping up. “Careful, Robby. That’s how fights start.”

“Not a fight if I know you’re wrong.”

Beth snorted, shook her head, and tilted her chin toward Robby. “Alright, big guy. Wanna put your money where your mouth is?”

Robby leaned in, elbows on the table. “That depends. What are we betting?”

“If the Eagles finish with a better record than the Steelers,” Beth said, voice lilting with challenge, “you owe me dinner. Somewhere with real menus and cloth napkins. None of that wing night dive bar shit.”

Robby didn’t flinch. “And if the Steelers win?”

Beth paused, then tipped her head, playful. “Then you get to pick where we go. But I’m not wearing a jersey.”

“Coward.”

“No, I just have taste.”

They held the look for a beat too long, until someone at the far end of the table let out an exaggerated ooooh that broke the tension and sent Beth laughing into her beer again. She could feel her cheeks a little warm, but blamed it on the booze.

“Fine,” Robby said, lifting his bottle. “You’re on, Baker.”

She clinked hers against it with a grin. “Hope you like losing, Robinavitch.”

Robby scoffed. “Remind me…how many Super Bowls have you won?”

“Oh, goodness… let me see…” Beth made a show of counting off on her fingers before flipping Robby off with both hands. “This many? I think?”

He barked out a laugh and shook his head before taking another pull from his drink. Beth smiled and rolled her eyes, but beside her, Heather’s face tightened. Just for a second, but Beth caught it before she reached for her drink. Not a full grimace, just a flicker of something that hadn’t been there a moment ago when she had been listening in on their playfully heated debate about player averages and trades. Barely even a shift. But noticeable enough that Beth’s smile faltered.

But then Robby glanced across the table, too, his eyes flicking toward Heather in a look somewhere between discomfort and guilt. He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze from Beth’s like it stung to hold. Beth tried not to linger on it. Probably nothing. Probably the lighting. Probably the alcohol. Probably Heather just reacting to Robby being Robby. It wasn’t like it meant anything. Just a bit of harmless flirting. That’s all. Still enough that Beth knew Abby would have launched a full blown investigation over it.

Anyway, the real crime was unfolding over the bar speakers.

“Are you kidding me?” Beth leaned forward to look down the table, incredulous, when the opening chords abruptly cut off and transitioned into a Cardi B song. “Did you just skip Neon Moon?”

Santos, still fiddling with the playlist on her phone, glanced up. “What? It was a boring dad song!”

“Good lord, you sound like my kid. That boring dad song is a bar classic!”

Beth was still in the middle of mock-scolding Santos for her shit taste in music when she felt a light tap on her shoulder. She turned just as Jack held out her key fob.

Her hand moved on instinct, fingers brushing his as she took the fob. For a second, they almost closed around his; not quite a squeeze, just the muscle memory of a thousand small thank-yous that had once passed unspoken between them. She caught herself, pulled her hand back gently, and smiled up at him instead. 

Santos groaned, slumping forward on the table. “Oh my God. Don’t Mom-Voice us while you’re doing whatever that was.”

Jack stayed behind her, hands tucked in his pockets. “What did I walk into?” 

Beth leaned back in her chair, gesturing toward the phone still in Santos’s hand. “The children skipped Brooks and Dunn.”

“You can’t skip Brooks and Dunn,” Jack said immediately, eyebrows lifting in shared offense.

“Thank you!” Beth said, pointing at him like he’d proven her case in court.

“It’s country,” Santos made a gagging noise. “Who even are they anyway?”

Beth gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been struck. “Oh, consider yourself grounded, young lady. I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.”

That earned a snort from Robby and an exaggerated groan and eye roll from Santos, who shot to her feet. “I’m too sober for this boomer bullshit.”

Jack and Robby’s heads swiveled to the end of the table with similar expressions of offense to her own. “Boomer?”

Santos opened her mouth, then closed it with a hard roll of her eyes and muttered something about being underappreciated in this group before she wandered off toward the bar with Mohan in tow. She shouted for Javadi as she went, declaring shots would heal this generational trauma.

Jack dropped into the seat across from Beth. She handed him a fresh beer as he did.

“You’re on the street, one block up,” he said, nodding toward her car. “Your oil light’s on.”

Beth waved it off. “Oh, that’s been on. I’ll get to it.”

He let out a long, beleaguered sigh; the very same that used to follow her around when she said stuff like ‘It’s only making that sound when I turn left’ and followed it up with ‘Okay, whatever babe. Can you just fix it?’

She rolled her eyes. “Get over yourself. Consider the beer your valet fee.”

He huffed something almost like a laugh, looking at her in that same way he always used to; like she both exasperated and amused him in equal measure. Something about that look, that weightless smirk, got under her skin more than it should’ve. Made her a little warm in the chest. Made her sip her drink again to keep her hands busy. She was just a little buzzed is all, she told herself. It was easier to blame the heavy crawl through her veins on that.

Beth took another sip of her drink, eyes flicking to his hands; still scarred in the same places she used to press her thumbs into when he was half-asleep and she was trying to memorize him. Her gaze trailed up to the stretch of his forearms as he crossed them, muscle shifting beneath the fabric in a way that felt familiar and unfair all at once. The bar’s dim light threw shadows along his jaw, softening the hard edges but not enough to dull the way he still looked like him. He turned slightly, listening to something Robby said, his T-shirt tugging with the movement, drawing her attention like it always used to. And then he looked at her with that stupid fucking smirk tugging just enough at the corner of his mouth to make her stomach tighten. It was ridiculous, the way her chest fluttered. 

Fuck, he was still annoyingly good-looking. 

And how dare he be, honestly? Not only did he have the audacity to show up and turn her into…into this mess, but he didn’t have the decency to age into dad-bod obscurity like everyone else. No, he had to keep those same forearms she used to stare at when he was changing the oil in his truck. Had to keep that quiet little smirk she used to feel in the pit of her stomach when his hands would find her waist and pull her against him. He used to wrap those arms around her. Slide them under her thighs when he lifted her onto the hood of his truck. Lock her in against him while his mouth was on her neck and—

Jesus Christ, Elizabeth. Stop.

She pushed her glass a few inches away like that might stop her brain from spiraling deeper into a memory of sweat and breathless laughter and the feel of gravel under her sneakers.

You’re not eighteen. You’re a grown-ass woman in a bar full of coworkers. You don’t get to sit here and get hot over forearms like you’re some Austen heroine. Much less his. It’s been a while, but it hasn’t been that long.

She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. Jack didn’t say anything, but his smile edged up like he knew something. That smug little curl of his mouth. Like he could still read her the way he always did.

Asshole.

Beth narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to remember what I look like.”

He shrugged, that fucking look still fixed on her. “Who said I ever forgot?”

Her breath caught when his voice softened, his eyes still locked on hers like they were the only two people in the room. Not fucking fair, Abbot. 

She shot him a look; a warning that didn’t land. Not really; not when her cheeks were warm and her stomach was doing somersaults like it was seventeen again. She looked away fast. Back toward the table, back toward the noise. But that stupid little flutter remained, and so did the girl who begged her to just look at him. 

Her saving grace came in the form of Shen, still peeling the label off his beer bottle before he slapped the damp paper against Robby’s arm like a sticker.

“So,” Shen said, casual as ever as he batted Robby’s hand away, “are you from Philly?”

Oh, thank God.

Beth cleared her throat. “Oh, no. I just went to school there. I grew up about two hours north of here. Super small town in Jefferson County.”

“Oh, where?” Shen asked.

“Coldwater.”

Dana lifted a brow, looking between her and the face across the table who’d suddenly become very interested in the keyed-in initials on the tabletop. “Abbot, aren’t you from—?”

Jack cut in before she could finish and glanced toward Beth just long enough for it to feel deliberate. “How’d day shift go?”

Mel, pink-cheeked and just tipsy enough to lose her filter, perked up immediately from down the table. “A guy came in with no pants and a broken arm today.” She announced, with the same exuberance of someone telling them about a dog she found on the street. “He fell out of a window.” Then, flustered, quickly added, “Sorry, I don’t drink very often. My tolerance is really low and I’ve had—”

Beth passed her untouched water glass down the table to her. “It was a nineteen-year-old male with a broken arm,” she clarified, returning Mel’s small smile. “Fell off the roof while trying to sneak out of his girlfriend’s house.”

Jack grinned around the mouth of his beer. “Rookie move. You gotta scope out the escape route before you go in.”

Beth smiled, glancing at him sideways as she took another sip. “He was lucky he didn’t land on anything worse than the driveway.”

Mel, bright-eyed now, leaned in. “Does that even work? Sneaking out like that?”

And without missing a beat, both Beth and Jack said, “It works.”

They didn’t look at each other right away, but when they finally did, it was with that same knowing grin that used to pass between them like second nature. She fought the small smile, pulling her eyes away before he could look for too long.

Dana lifted her drink, a smirk curling at the edge of her mouth. “That sounds like a story.”

Beth waved it off with a laugh. “Oh, no. It’s nothing.”

Robby tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her. “What sounds like a story?”

Perlah leaned in, grinning. “Sounds like the kid in Twelve wasn’t the only one sneaking through windows.”

Across the table, Princess perked up. “I never brought anyone through my window,” she said, shrugged like that was amateur hour. “But I used to sneak out all the time. My boyfriend back then had this ’96 Mustang; stick shift, terrible suspension, smelled like weed and drugstore cologne. We had sex in that car so many times I’m pretty sure I can still name the exact make and model by the feel of the seatbelt buckle on the back of my thigh.”

A hush fell over the table as nine pairs of eyes turned to her in synchronous disbelief. Princess shrugged, completely unbothered, before she took a sip of her drink and added casually, “It was a good car. Real dependable.”

Beth opened her mouth, then closed it, and nodded with a soft, ‘hm’. Shen coughed into his beer. Dana pressed her lips together, visibly trying not to laugh.

Perlah clapped her hands once and turned back to her. “Alright, New Girl, your turn.”

“There’s nothing to spill!” Beth insisted, cheeks already warm as she laughed. “I used to sneak my boyfriend in while I was in high school. That’s all. The end.”

“Did you ever get caught?” 

“Oh, no,” she said, waving the idea off like it was absurd. She paused, held tilted in thought as a memory came flooding back in. “Actually… there was one time we almost did. But it’s—”

They were already groaning and goading her before she could finish.

“Come on!”

“Don’t tease it if you’re not gonna tell it!”

“I can’t hear!” Mel piped up from further down the table.

Chairs shifted to make room for her, the group squeezing in and reshuffling. Beth scooted around the edge of the table to let Mel slide in to her seat, and ended up right next to Jack. His arm brushed hers, just faintly, as she settled. She glanced over and caught that same quiet smirk on his face like he already knew exactly which story this was going to be.

“Fine, fine!” she laughed, holding up her hands in surrender. “But I promise, you’re all going to be disappointed. So, okay. I had the same boyfriend all through high school. We were… oh god, how old were we?”

She looked up at the ceiling and tapped her fingers against her cheeks, then glanced at Jack again without thinking. “It was… ‘93, maybe?”

“Sixteen,” Jack said automatically, then caught himself, lips twitching like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Beth shot him a look, half amused, half incredulous. “Yes. Sixteen. I was sixteen. He was seventeen; October birthday.”

“Is this the German boyfriend?” Jesse asked, squinting at her like he was cross-referencing a file in his head.

“Yes, it is!” Beth laughed, pointing the neck of her bottle toward him like a buzzer. “The dirty little rat, leaving me alone like that. Anyway, not important. So; my parents had gone out of town for the week to visit my aunt, and they took my little brother with them. I stayed home. Got the full dad speech beforehand. No parties, definitely no boys. He made it very clear that my boyfriend was not to be in the house. But did I listen? Of course not. My boyfriend was in the house before they even hit the interstate.”

Well, really before they even cleared the road. He’d been camped out like a surveillance van down the road waiting for the taillights of Mom’s old Honda to clear the corner before he was in the drive grinning like they’d just pulled off the heist of the century. The table laughed. Jack exhaled hard through his nose, eyes flicking to her like he remembered this version of her perfectly; reckless and thinking she was clever, grinning behind her parents’ backs. Beth didn’t look directly at him, but she could feel the weight of his attention.

“There was this freak snowstorm that week. Shut the whole town down. School was canceled, our jobs were closed, the roads were ice. We were basically snowed in, just the two of us, for like five days.”

Princess raised a brow. “Scandalous.”

“It was actually really sweet. We watched movies, burned damn near every meal we made, got drunk on my mom’s Bailey’s in our hot chocolate. Total domestic bliss. We thought we were so grown up.”

Jack made a sound, barely audible. A small exhale that might’ve been a laugh, but Beth felt it more than she heard it. She glanced over. He was looking down at his beer like it had gotten suddenly fascinating. The room was suddenly too warm again, heat crawling through her like molasses like her body remembered that week before her brain even caught up.

She could picture the way snow had stuck to the windows. The hiss of the radiator. The weight of his hoodie she’d kept stealing and his arms around her waist when he’d kiss her cheek while she brushed her teeth in the morning. The shape of him in her bed, lanky and seventeen and somehow already so familiar. Just two kids rehearsing for a forever that never got to take stage.

She tipped her glass back and cleared her throat. When she glanced at him this time, he didn’t look away. That same crooked smirk tugged at his mouth. Like he already knew the story. Like he remembered every detail and could’ve told it. Beth narrowed her eyes at him, but her mouth curved in spite of it when she mouthed ‘stop’ over the edge of her glass. He held up both hands in mock surrender.

“Wait, wait, you were just home all week? Your parents didn’t check in? I’m calling bullshit on this.”

“Oh please. It was the nineties. They were still running PSAs at 11 p.m. reminding our parents we existed,” Beth said. “But yes—they called. I was a model daughter over the phone. ‘No, Daddy. Of course he’s at home, Daddy. You said no boys, you really think I’d lie to you?’”

She snorted. “Meanwhile, my boyfriend’s flipping through the channels and asking me about dinner like he pays the damn mortgage.”

Beth hadn’t even finished setting her glass down when the waitress returned, eyeing the table like she was debating whether to interrupt.

Jack shifted slightly to let her through, his knee brushing against Beth’s under the table. It wasn’t intentional, not exactly, but he didn’t move it either until a long moment passed. When the waitress gestured toward Beth’s empty glass with a raised brow, Jack just nodded once on her behalf.

“Another?”

“Sure,” Beth said, her voice a little thinner than before. She huffed out a laugh, cheeks already going pink. and then started giggling when she caught Jack’s eye.

That look again. Quiet, amused, and too knowing by half.

“Oh, she’s gone,” Perlah said, slapping the table. “She’s lost to the giggles. We’re never getting the rest of the story now. Princess, tell us more about your sex Mustang.”

“Beth,” Dana sang. “Come on.”

Beth snorted and clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to pull herself together. She finally took a breath and held her hand up like a scout’s honor.

“Okay, okay. Sorry.” She laughed again, and this time Jack couldn’t help himself. A short, sharp snicker escaped him.

Beth caught Robby’s eyes flick toward him, curious. Jack cleared his throat and took a long sip of his beer, like it might shut him up.

Beth brushed her hair over her shoulder and continued. “Anyway, my parents weren’t supposed to be back until Sunday night. But…” She broke again, one hand pressed to her face. “Sorry! So, it’s Saturday night. My boyfriend and I are…” She gestured vaguely, grinning. “Doing what teenagers do when left to their own devices.”

“Baker!” Princess cried, scandalized and delighted.

Beth pointed at her. “Relax, Little Miss Mustang! Don’t act like I was some kind of degenerate. We were just… getting to the good part and then… the garage door opens. And we both freeze . I swear to you, I watched that poor boy’s stomach fall straight out of his ass.”

Laughter erupted around the table, but Beth could only focus on the way Jack tried to stifle a smile.

“I guess my brother got sick, so they ended their trip early and just came home. We could hear them coming up the stairs, and we were in full-blown panic mode. Silent mad dash. He dives out the window, still half-naked, into the middle of a Northern Pennsylvania winter. Not thirty seconds later, my dad walks into my room.”

“Nooo,” Mel gasped, snorting out a hiccuped giggle. “What did you do?”

“Me?” Beth said, with wide, mock-innocent eyes. “I lied my little ass off. Told them I had just gotten home from a run and was about to hop in the shower.”

“That is bullshit, they knew!”

“If they did, that’s none of my business,” Beth replied primly. “They never said a word. Scared the hell out of us, though.”

“Did you stop doing it?”

She scoffed and waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not. He was back in my bedroom not forty-eight hours later.”

“Doctor B!”

Beth threw her hands up. “What? We got really good at sneaking around! Which, by the way, terrifies me now that I have a teenage daughter who’s already a hell of a lot smarter than I ever was. And you all asked,” Beth added, laughing along with the rest of the table. “Don’t start acting scandalized now!”

Jack smiled at that, small and private, and turned his beer bottle slowly in his hands. Beth glanced at him just long enough to catch it, and the look he gave her in return made her pulse skip a beat. It was subtle. Casual. But the same quiet warmth from earlier curled behind it, tucked into the corners of his mouth. Like he wasn’t surprised by any part of the story. Like maybe he’d been remembering it all along.

And then, softly, almost imperceptibly, his knee bumped hers again under the table. This time, it stayed. Beth glanced down quickly, blaming the heat the burned brighter across her chest on the embarrassment.

“You’re kidding,” Perlah said, grinning wide. “That’s it? No grounding? No lecture? No wrath of God raining down?”

Beth shrugged, still laughing, a little red in the face. “Nope. Nothing. Not that time, anyway.”

“Unbelievable,” Princess muttered.

Dana smirked. “I swear, you people lived a different teenage life than I did. Mine was all AP classes and a crippling fear of authority.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Jesse said. “I’ve heard your stories.”

Beth was still trying to hide her blush when Jack chimed in, almost too casually. “I wasn’t as lucky. My girlfriend’s dad caught me once.”

Beth turned so fast her hair swept across her shoulder. “What?”

The word came out a little too loud, too shocked, and she immediately cleared her throat and tried to recover. “I mean—what? Seriously?”

Jack looked over, eyes full of amusement, and gave a solemn nod. “Sure did.”

Beth was already grinning, one hand pressed over her mouth to muffle it. Across the table, the others leaned in.

“No way,” she murmured, the words caught in her throat.

Why didn’t I know this? Why didn’t he tell me?

Why wasn’t he some cautionary tale every boy in Jefferson County grew up hearing; the one who got caught and was never seen again?

What the actual fuck?

Jack must’ve heard the storm behind her stare, because he shot her a glance; smug and amused while she gawked, trying not to look totally floored.

“Oh, way,” Jack said, chuckling low. “I was in high school too. Summer before senior year. I was dating the county sheriff’s daughter, so I was already playing with fire sneaking into his house, let alone his daughter’s bedroom, right? The guy was massive, too; six-five, built like he wrestled bears for fun, Tom Selleck ‘stache. Didn’t speak a word unless he had to, and looked at you like you’d committed a crime you didn’t even know about yet. Scared the shit out of me more than any drill sergeant ever did. But I respected the hell out of the man.”

Beth fought a smile, covering her mouth with her sleeve, trying not to look as mortified as she felt. He had always been so nervous around her dad. She always thought it was kind of sweet, but now it made a hell of a lot more sense.

“So,” Jack went on, “it’s one of his patrol nights, so I know I have until 0600 before I need to get the hell out of there. I’ve been dating her for two years at this point, so we have this down to a science. I’m heading toward her window, thinking I’m slick. And then— bam. Flashlight to the chest and I hear, ‘You could’ve used the damn door, son.’ He’s standing in the driveway like a horror movie villain, just staring at me, and I freeze.”

Beth barked out a laugh before she could stop it, sharp and sudden. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, cheeks already pink. “Sorry—sorry,” she said between snorts, waving the others off as they turned toward her, grinning

She didn’t finish the sentence. The image bloomed in her mind: her father at the end of the driveway, deadpan and enormous. And him; barefoot, wide-eyed, and seventeen, caught like a thief with no plan B. Beth bit down on her smile and dropped her hand to her lap, fingers brushing his knee. His was still there; warm, solid, and still against her own. 

Dana laughed. “What did you do?”

“What could I do? I climbed back down, tried not to piss myself, and then he goes, ‘Get in the truck.’”

Beth laughed, shaking her head. “Oh my god.”

“I sit there, thinking I’m about to be shot and buried in the woods. And he just drives. Doesn’t say a word for ten whole minutes, and I’m trying to remember the prayers I learned in Sunday School because I am convinced that I’m about to become a face on a milk carton. We pull onto this dark stretch of road a few miles outside of town, one of his usual speed traps, and he backs into the turnout. Sits there, puts the truck in park, doesn’t even look at me. Then finally goes, ‘Are you sleeping with my daughter?’”

Robby scoffed, shaking his head. “Jesus, he cut right to the chase, huh?”

Jack grinned, glancing over at him. “Oh no, he was one blunt son of a bitch. Always was.”

Beth covered her mouth again, eyes narrowing at him like she was trying to read between the lines, and maybe stop herself from laughing. Or crying. Hard to tell at that point, really.

“Holy fuck,” she started, eyes wide. “What did you say?”

Jack barked out a laugh. “I was freaking the fuck out at this point. I mean, heart pounding, sweating through my shirt, ready to jump out of a moving truck if it gave me a better shot at surviving. So I just go, ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir’ like I’m some dumbass at boot camp.” 

He glanced across the table, smirking at Beth. “Then he gives me this long look; you know the kind that makes you question your own alibi even when you haven’t done anything? That one. Then says: ‘My daughter’s a good girl.” And I nod, “Yes, sir. She is.” Then, nothing. I’m sitting there, waiting for the rest of it; for him to rip into me, but he doesn’t say a damn word. It was even more terrifying than anything he could say. I open my mouth to apologize again, but he turns to me and says, “if I catch your ass on my roof again, son, I’m calling it in as a trespass and dragging your ass into holding. Do I make myself clear?’”

Beth knew her eyes were too wide. She gawked at him and chuffed out a laugh, holding her face in her hands. That Girl who would have been absolutely mortified to know he’d been caught at her window burned bright red in her chest. Someone at the table let out a stunned laugh.

“No fucking way,” she said, a little too loud. Then caught herself, cheeks going pink. “That’s— Jesus.”

“Swear to God,” Jack said, holding up a hand like it was a sworn deposition. “Didn’t blink. Didn’t raise his voice. Just laid it all out like he was reading me my last rites.”

“Why didn’t you—?” Beth stopped herself, blinked hard, then smoothed her expression. “Did you ever tell her?”

Jack scoffed. “Hell no. Why would I?”

Oh, I don’t know, Jack. Maybe because my dad would’ve skinned us both alive if you cleared that window and actually made it into my bedroom instead of getting caught on the damn roof?

Beth let out another breathy laugh, but this one didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Dana jumped in before she could speak. “Why not?”

Jack shrugged, quieter now. “She was a total rule follower. Biggest Daddy’s girl you ever saw. If she knew he’d caught me, she would’ve shut it down before I ever had the chance to climb back in.” He gave a small shake of his head, almost to himself, and finished off his drink. “I wasn’t willing to lose a single second with that girl.”

Then Jack leaned back, tilting his head toward the memory like he could still see it playing out. “So, he lets me sweat it out for a few more minutes. Doesn’t say a word. I’m thinking, okay, maybe I’m off the hook. Then he reaches across the seat, and I swear to God I thought, ‘That’s it. I’m dead. He’s gonna kill me.’ But nope. Just opens the door, points down the road, and says, ‘Better get movin’, son. It’s a long walk back.’”

Beth bit back a laugh as Jack grinned. “Sun was coming up by the time I made it back to her place to get my truck. Could barely stand up the next day. Made football practice real fun. But I’ll tell you what,” He lifted his glass in salute, “I never got caught again.”

Jesse whistled low. “God damn. Was it worth it?”

Jack looked down at his beer, twisted the label between his fingers. “Every last mile.”

Beth resisted the urge to scoff. Every last mile, her ass. Big words from the guy who’d bolted the second things got real; who left without a glance back, without a goodbye, without even a note on the goddamn windshield.

She kept her mouth shut.

Her fingers curled lightly against her thigh, fussing with the hem of her shirt beneath the table. Jack’s knee hadn’t moved. His thigh was still warm and solid against hers, casual and constant like it had never left.

Someone across the table launched into a story—something about a college roommate coming home early and catching them mid-hookup—and the table erupted in laughter. Beth laughed, too, or at least pretended to, and forced the kind of polite smile that felt like something you wore instead of felt.

She kept rolling the fabric between her fingers, twisting, smoothing, twisting again, until she felt his fingers bump hers away. It was the lightest touch. He didn’t even look at her while he did it, or break his conversation. Just nudged her hand gently back to her lap, and returned his to his bottle like it was nothing.

But Beth’s breath caught in her throat. Her skin burned.

Because he used to do that.

Whenever she started fussing with the hem of her shirt or the band of her watch; when she was anxious, or lying, or just too tired to fake calm, he’d notice. And without a word, without needing to be told, he’d still her hand. Just like that. A quiet little gesture that once made her feel seen.

Now, it made her feel bare.

That Girl, the one who believed every word he said, who used to sleep in his old hoodie and play with his fingers on the roof off that old paper mill lurched forward. Her fingers moved like she was possessed by the glimmer of That Girl that fluttered against her ribs and wanted to reach back, to tangle her fingers with his.

But the Woman After knew better.

She folded her hands between her knees, laced them together tight, and kept her eyes on the condensation dripping down her drink.

The table erupted again, swapping stories; first kisses, near-misses, awkward run-ins with parents. Laughter swelled around the table as stories started piling on, but Beth barely heard them. She stood quickly, almost too suddenly.

“Bathroom?” she asked, nodding when a few pointed towards the back corner of the bar.

Jack looked up when Beth stood, the shift in movement catching his attention, but she didn’t look back. Just smoothed her shirt down, scooted her stool in with a soft scrape, and crossed the bar. She paused only once, long enough to pull Javadi into a quick hug and murmur “Happy birthday” with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then she slipped away, disappearing behind the flickering neon sign above the bathroom door.

Inside, the lighting was swampy and unkind, the overhead fluorescents buzzing faintly. One bulb flickered like it was hanging on by a thread. The mirror above the sink was chipped along the corners, a spiderweb crack climbing up from the faucet. Permanent marker graffiti crawled across the stalls; phone numbers and curse words and BT hearts RH scrawled in pink Sharpie above a crude drawing of what might’ve been a heart or an ass.

Beth leaned both hands against the sink and let out a slow breath. Her reflection stared back, eyes a little too wide, color high on her cheeks. She brushed a loosening curl over her shoulder and wiped at the smudge of mascara blooming under one eye, heat and humidity having already started to break down the careful work Abby had done. Not bad, she thought absently, tilting her face. Abby hadn’t gone overboard. She recognized the girl in the mirror.

Younger. Brighter. A little more hopeful.

She’d felt her, for a while. That Girl had stayed close, hovering just beside her, listening to the stories she used to star in.

But then his hand had brushed hers under the table.

Beth flinched at the memory and jumped again when the bathroom door creaked open behind her. She turned the sink on too fast, water splashing against the bowl, giving her an excuse to glance up naturally, like she hadn’t just had the wind knocked out of her chest.

Dana stood just inside the door, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her gaze unwavering as she met Beth’s eyes in the mirror.

Beth offered a quick smile and reached for the soap. “Sorry. I’m just about done,” she said lightly, washing her hands even though they were already clean. “I’ll get out of your way.”

Dana’s brow arched, unimpressed. “You and Abbot seem to be hitting it off.”

Beth let out a short, dry laugh. “Oh really? I don’t know about that. It’s been nice being around everyone tonight, though.”

“Mm.” Dana leaned back against the chipped tile wall. “You know, I’m pretty sure he’s from that same town you’re from. Coldwater, right?”

Beth froze, fingertips pressed against the paper towel dispenser. 

Well, fuck. Great.

She blinked once, then gave a half-hearted chuckle. “Oh really? Small world.”

Dana didn’t move.

Beth tried again. “Hey, what’s the story with Robby and Collins—?”

“Cut the shit.”

God damn it.

Beth sighed through her nose, tossed the paper towel into the trash, and turned to face her. “C’mon.”

“You two know each other.”

Beth didn’t answer. She didn’t have to; the answer was written clearly in the way she paled slightly. 

Dana’s eyes softened just enough to be dangerous. “Talk.”

Beth hesitated, then waved a hand toward the door and took a step forward. “Fine. But not in here. I’m not trying to get out of it,” she said, brushing past. “I’d just rather not tell that story in a bar bathroom with bad lighting and a Sharpie dick drawing staring me in the face.”

Dana smiled. “Fair. But you’re not off the hook, Red.”

Beth puffed out a long exhale as she passed through the doorframe with Dana on her heels. “Didn’t think I was.”

Chapter Text

“Holy shit, Baker.”

Holy shit, indeed.

The hum of the bar roared around them; karaoke started up in the corner, someone howling the opening lines of a Shania Twain song off-key, but it all blurred to static where they’d tucked themselves away. The far end of the bar was quieter, half-lit, mostly abandoned, and just loud enough to let them pretend they weren’t talking about the kind of thing that had pulled the floor right out from under her feet for the better part of a month.

Beth traced a finger around the rim of her untouched whiskey glass. Dana hadn’t so much as flinched as she listened, letting Beth talk from the beginning to the bitter end to the now; that strange, heavy now that Beth still hadn’t figured out how to carry. Her mouth was dry. Her chest felt hollow. And still Dana hadn’t moved from where she leaned forward on her elbows, watching Beth like she was trying to see the whole shape of her through the splinters.

“You sure that isn’t a Hallmark movie?”

Beth huffed a laugh. It sounded like it came from someone else. “If it is, then the screenwriter’s a goddamn sadist.”

Dana took a slow sip from her drink, then set it down gently. Her tone was mild, but her eyes were razor-sharp. “Does anyone else know?”

Beth shook her head once. “No. Just you.”

Dana’s brow lifted slightly. Beth went on, voice even, but quiet.

“Hasn’t exactly been something we’ve gone around announcing.”

Dana nursed the last of her drink, turning the glass slowly in place, condensation pooling beneath it. Her silence pressed in around them. It wasn’t judgmental. Just…dense. Measuring. Calculating. Watching Beth like she was waiting to see if she’d blink wrong.

“And when Abby came in that day…?” she asked carefully, voice barely above the buzz of the bar.

Beth stared at the ice in her glass, slowly melting, refracting the amber like stained glass. Her finger drew another slow ring around the rim.

“First time I’d seen him since,” she said finally. She clicked her nails against the glass and nodded. “Yep. You’ve got the gist of it.”

Dana let out a low breath, barely a whistle. “That son of a bitch.”

Beth looked up finally. “You’re tellin’ me.”

“Have you two talked about it?”

Beth shook her head. Her fingers trailed the rim of her glass, slow and idle, like she was drawing a circle she couldn’t step out of.

“Not yet,” she said finally.

Dana tilted her head. “Why the fuck not? Pretty big elephant to try to ignore.”

Beth gave a weak laugh, but it didn’t stick. She looked down again, like the answer might be scrawled in the water rings left on the bar. Dana stared at Beth across the narrow corner of the bar, the noise of the others dimming around them. She had that look on her face; tilted head, lips pursed, the one she used on residents when she knew they were hedging a diagnosis. Once upon a time, she would have sworn that they taught that look in nursing school. She was still fairly convinced of it now.

Beth felt it. That weight of waiting; of someone seeing straight through you and letting you squirm anyway. She took a sip, then set the glass down with too much care, like it might break and shatter if she let it fall too heavily. Like she might.

“I thought we’d never talk about it,” Beth said finally. “Honestly, D… I really believed that. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again; or at least stopped keeping up the hope that I would after a while. I spent years telling myself it didn’t matter. That I was over it. That what we had wasn’t real. And then I’d catch myself rewriting the ending in my head. Over and over. What I’d say if I saw him again. What he’d say. Sometimes I was calm. Sometimes I was furious. Sometimes I didn’t even let him speak.”

Beth’s jaw tightened. “But now that he’s actually here, now that we’re sitting at the same damn table… I don’t know a single word of it. I look at him, and I’m eighteen again. No script. Just… knots.”

“And he never told you why?” Dana asked.

“Nope. Isn’t that just the kicker of the whole thing?” Beth exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh trailing behind it. “At least with Russell, I knew what it was. I came home from work, seven months pregnant, and found an intern in our bed. That’s simple math; add betrayal, subtract a marriage. No closure needed. No second-guessing. Just packed up my shit, left, and filed for divorce the following week.”

Dana’s brows lifted slightly. She’d heard that story before. The lie about being stuck in surgery so he didn’t have to come to her OB appointment; just buying time while he fucked a girl less than half his age on sheets she’d slept under the night before. She hadn’t screamed when she found them. Hadn’t cried when she pulled the door shut and he followed her out into the dark driveway with nothing but excuses and deflections as to why it was her fault; how this would somehow make their marriage better. When that failed, he just got ugly. Said he’d never wanted this life, you know. She was the one who wanted to get married. That he was nearly fifty, for Christ’s sake, Beth. He was too old for all of this, for fatherhood. So the logical next step? Lure another wide-eyed intern into his bed the same as he had her and hope for a different outcome. 

She hadn’t blamed the girl; she was sure he sold her the same pretty lies Beth bought from him before she slammed his fingers in her car door and told him to go to hell. The bastard hadn’t even had the decency to show up for his own daughter’s birth. She went into labor a month early, terrified and alone in a hospital bed across the country from her family, while the fetal heart rate kept tanking. He was in Aspen with his girlfriend. Apparently, it was selfish of her to ask him to come when Kendra or Carly or whatever-the-fuck her name was hadn’t skied fresh powder before. I’ll be there in the morning, he’d told her. 

He met his daughter when she was two weeks old. Didn’t see her again for four months. By the time Abby’s first birthday rolled around and he didn’t show up, she finally told him to stop bothering. ‘ Just send your check, Russell. You’re off the hook. Stay the fuck away from her.’

Beth went on, her voice quieter now. “And even Russell, the piece of shit he was, he still had the courtesy to give me a reason. Told me a man has needs. Said I’d let myself go while I was pregnant, with his child, mind you. But he said it. Blunt and cruel and clear.”

She took another sip, but the whiskey had stopped burning some time ago. “But Jack? Nothing. No blowout. No betrayal. Just… silence. He left, and I got to fill in all the blanks myself.”

Dana looked down, thumb circling the rim of her glass. “Maybe he didn’t think he had the right.”

“Maybe,” Beth said with a shrug. “Or maybe I just wasn’t worth staying for.”

Across the bar, Jack glanced up at the sound of Robby’s laugh. His gaze found hers like it always seemed to. Unflinching. Familiar. Beth returned it with a tight-lipped little thing and looked back down at the name scratched in the counter.

Dana followed her line of sight, then back again. “You ever think maybe you let those eighteen-year-olds off the hook? And let the grown-ups have the conversation?”

Beth croaked out a laugh, but her throat tightened. She shook her head. “I’m not sure I want to hear the grown-up version.”

Why not?” Dana asked, something softening in her tone.

Beth shrugged. Her fingers toyed with the condensation on her glass, chasing a droplet down the side before she swept it away with a finger. “Because what if it’s worse than what I've let myself believe?” she said finally, voice low, like it might break if she raised it any higher. She swallowed down the tremor and propped her chin on a fist, turning to meet Dana’s eye. “What if the grown-up version still thinks I wasn’t worth sticking around for? I’ve spent years asking myself why. Why Jack. Why Russell. And there’s always a common denominator to all of it. The answer always circles back to me.”

Dana watched her, eyes steady. Then, gently, “You really think that’s what he’s been trying to say with those eyes he keeps making at you?”

Beth looked down, jaw tight, like she could shove the emotion back where it came from if she just stared hard enough at the bar top.

Dana let out a quiet scoff and leaned back, glass in hand. “You two aren’t hiding things as well as you think, Red.”

Beth huffed out a half-smile, all breath and no warmth. “That obvious?”

“Did you not sit there and listen to you two with the rest of us? Painfully so.”

Beth chuckled before they lapsed into silence. She finished what was left in her glass, the ice clinking against her teeth before she set it down with a soft thud. 

“Closure’s a myth, you know,” Dana said softly, more matter-of-fact than anything else. “People like to act like there’s this perfect full-circle moment. That if you just get the right conversation, the right apology, the right goodbye, it’ll all make sense. But that’s not how people work. They’re messy. They leave loose ends.”

Beth finally spoke, voice low. “I know it sounds ridiculous.”

Dana looked over. “What does?”

Beth shrugged, eyes locked on her hands, still wrapped around the now-empty glass. “Being this torn up about a boy from high school.”

Dana arched a brow. “Beth—”

“No, I mean it.” She shook her head, gave a soft laugh, small and self-deprecating, like she was already bracing for how it would sound out loud. “I’m a grown woman. A mom. I’ve been married, divorced, built a whole life for myself. I’ve seen shit most people can’t even spell. And yet the second I saw Jack, it was like…” She trailed off, breath catching. “Like no time had passed at all. Like I’m…” 

“Standing on that porch all over again?” Dana finished gently. Beth nodded. The bartender caught her eye and dipped his chin toward her glass, already going for the bottle before Beth shook her head tightly and he moved on to the next patron with a nod.

“He wasn’t just some boy I dated, Dana,” she continued, almost like she didn’t trust herself to stop once she did. “He was it. He was the best friend, the boyfriend, the stupid loud truck in the driveway every day. I couldn’t say my own name without someone adding his after it. We did everything together. We didn’t make plans with each other, we made them as each other. He practically lived with my family during the summers. Went to Montana with my dad and brother every year and worked at my grandparents' ranch for two weeks like he was one of the grandkids. Shit, our boss would check with me about Jack’s schedule before even bothering to ask him, because he knew Jack would just tell him to check with me anyway.”

Her voice softened. “He spent every holiday at our house. Came on every family vacation. My dad taught him how to hunt and fish right alongside my brother like he was just another one of his boys. And, well, I guess he taught him a lesson like one of his boys too, from the sound of that story.”

Dana smiled gently as Beth gave a small dry laugh.

“For a while, we really thought that was it,” Beth said, her voice quieter again. “That we’d go off, have our little adventures wherever the Army sent us, and then come back. Settle down, buy a house near my parents. Maybe buy out the garage we worked at. Have a couple of kids, get a dog we can’t stand.” She smiled faintly, but it didn’t last. “Simple. Happy.”

The next laugh was sharper. “It was dumb. We were kids. But it didn’t feel dumb then. It felt inevitable. And then one day, he was just… gone. No fight. No warning. Just gone.”

The crack of the cue ball split the din of the bar, chased by a roar of laughter. Beth leaned her cheek against her clasped hands, swaying slightly to the opening notes of Wonderwall that sound like a memory wrapped in melody. Dana bumped her shoulder gently against hers, pulling her attention back.

“That kind of love doesn’t get erased just because time passed,” Dana said. “Doesn’t matter if you were eighteen or forty-eight. You know that. Shit, I met my husband when we were nineteen and I knew I loved Mitch before I turned twenty. If it mattered, it mattered.”

Beth swallowed, her throat tight. “Yeah,” she whispered. “It did.”

Dana’s voice was soft. “And now?”

Now?

Now it felt like something was unspooling inside her; slow and fragile and impossible to stop. Like she’d been holding her breath for years without realizing it, and one look at him had undone all the tightness in her chest. It was color where there had only been gray, bleeding back in golden and burning red at the edges. The kind of warmth that made you ache because you hadn’t realized how cold you were. She saw him and every part of her that had been packed away came rushing back, wild and intact and unbearably tender. Like it had just been waiting for permission. And it terrified her.

Beth looked down again, thumb tracing the rim of her glass. “Now I look at him, and it’s like I’m still that girl who used to write his last name in the margins of her notebooks and sneak him in while my dad was at work.”

Beth took a breath. “It’s not that I’m unhappy, or that I wish things were different. I could have dealt without all the bullshit, sure, but I love my life now. I worked hard for this. I earned every bit of it and became exactly who I wanted to be. I’ve built a good life. A damn good one. I’ve seen places I never thought I’d go, done work I’m proud of, and I got to do it all with my girl. She’s the best thing I’ve ever done, Dana. She’s smart and stubborn and brave and funny as hell and everything I wasn’t when I was her age. I wouldn’t trade a second of the last seventeen years—not for anything. That little girl is every dream I’ve ever had brought to life.”

Dana gave a small nod, a soft smile stretching her face. “She really is. You did good, Beth.”

Beth chewed her lip, hands wrapped around her empty glass. “And in all of this, I keep coming back to that. I’m a mother. I’ve got a daughter to protect. I will not let another man into her life who’s going to let her down. Her father did enough damage. I won’t be the reason it happens again.”

“You’re not wrong to protect her, Beth. That’s your job–that’s what us mamas do. And you’re damn good at it.”

“I can’t afford to be reckless,” Beth said firmly, shaking her head. “Not with her. Not with my baby.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Dana said gently. “But protecting yourself doesn’t mean you have to shut the door on something that might be good. You just... take your time with it. Let it earn its place.”

Beth gave a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Well. That’s the thing, D. There’s this…this piece of me that still remembers who I was before all of it. And with Jack… it’s like she’s right there again. Just under the surface. Like I never really put her down. Just tucked her away until it felt safe.”

Dana reached over and placed a hand over Beth’s. “Maybe she deserves some space, too. Doesn’t have to be all or nothing, babe. Maybe she gets a seat at the table with the woman you’ve become.”

Beth smiled at that, faint and aching. She leaned over and rested her head on Dana’s shoulder with a sigh. “You always were annoyingly wise when I needed it least.”

Dana grinned and rested her cheek on Beth’s hair. “That’s why you keep me around.”

From across the bar, someone called Dana’s name, half-laughed, half-shouted over the music. She glanced that way, then back at Beth, apology already in her eyes.

“Go,” Beth said gently, tilting her head toward the table. “You don’t need to sit around with my sorry ass.”

Dana didn’t budge right away. “You gonna be okay?”

Beth hesitated, her lips pressing together for a moment as she considered. She smiled weakly. “Ask me in five minutes.”

Dana gave her hand one last squeeze before standing. “You want another drink?”

Beth exhaled. “No. I need to drive home. You go. I’ll be behind you in a minute.”

Dana leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to the top of Beth’s head. “You’ve got this, Red. And if you need me to beat his ass, just give me the word.”

Beth chuckled and nodded, not trusting her voice. Then Dana was gone, weaving back through the bar crowd, her silhouette shrinking with each step until she disappeared into the mess of bodies and shit lighting. Beth stayed where she was, elbows on the table, chin resting against her knuckles for a moment. The song had changed. Something newer, but the feeling was the same. Laughter spilled from the back tables. Glasses clinked. The world kept turning like it didn’t know what had been pulled loose inside her.

She took a breath, slow and steady, and turned toward the table. Across the room, her eyes caught on Jack. He was leaning against the wall of the booth, half-listening to someone beside him. But when she looked up, he was already looking at her. He smiled, and it was simple. Soft. The kind of smile you didn’t think about before you gave it away. She smiled back, just as soft, just as instinctive. She turned away quickly before it could stretch into something else.

Back at the table, the younger staff was already gathering coats, downing last sips, and pulling out phones. Santos was laughing about the next place being louder and cheaper and more likely to get Javadi ‘absolutely hammered’ and ‘loosen Crash up a little’.

Mateo grinned and pointed at her. “You coming, Doctor B? C’mon. One more drink.

Beth shook her head with a laugh, already tugging her jacket back on. Jack’s eyes followed her as she reached for her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “I think it’s past my bedtime, folks. I don’t trust myself not to tell stories I’ll regret in the morning if I keep drinking.”

Groans and playful protests rose up, but she was already reaching across the table, hugging Javadi in a tight squeeze and slipping a folded bill into her hand.

“Buy the first round on me, and stop giving your attention to boys who aren’t going to return it. You’re too good of a catch to be wasting your time like that,” she murmured. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Victoria nodded and squeezed her back. “Thanks, Doctor B.”

Santos and Dennis each got a discreet press of cash, too, along with a wink and a mock-stern, “Make good choices.”

They grinned and thanked her as she gave the table one last wave, called her final goodnights, and paused beside Mel just long enough to tuck a couple packets of LiquidIV into her bag with instructions to use them both before she continued to the bar to settle her tab. By the time she flagged down the bartender and gave her name, someone slid into the open space beside her.

“Not going to keep the party going?” she asked, eyes still on the receipt being printed.

Robby chuckled, leaning against the counter. “Some of us have to work tomorrow.”

“Oof. Rookie mistake.” She smiled, soft and a little wry.

The bartender returned with her check, and she reached for the pen. Robby shifted beside her, brown eyes fixed on her until the bartender handed him his own receipt.

“You need a walk out?” he asked casually, pen scraping against paper before he handed it back to the guy with a polite nod. “Heard you parked out in the back forty.”

She glanced over at him. He was being kind. Or flirty. Or both; she couldn’t always tell.

It was familiar. A question dressed in chivalry, nothing pushy, nothing overt. Just a gesture. But she’d been around long enough to know what might live underneath it. She’d had nights that ended like that; half-laughed goodbyes, the hush of a gravel lot, a hand brushing hers, the heat of something new distracting her from everything else for a little while. Those nights always stuck to a one-night standard. That was the deal. That was the boundary. You let it be enough. You told yourself it was enough.

She’d had her fair share of those nights. Hell, she met Eddie on one of those nights. She lost a patient the same night he had to fire his gun for the first time in years during a raid gone sideways. Her dead kid had been eight. His had been twenty-two. Just two people trying to sweat out the ache in their chests, letting the weight of the day melt into something physical. But she remembered waking up the next morning with his arm around her waist and his legs tangled in hers, his breath warm against the back of her neck, and a quiet, raspy “don’t go yet” murmured into her hair.

She didn’t always get that part.

It would’ve been easy to say yes.

It always was. That was the trick of it; the beginning was never the hard part. Just a nod, a smile, maybe a hand brushing his as they stepped out together before they parted ways and she slipped into her car alone, or was pressed against her car door by a body just in need of somebody. The decision came clean, wrapped in the heat of the moment and the comfort of knowing how it would end. That part never asked much of her. Not until the morning, when the light came in sideways and everything started to feel more complicated.

The yes didn’t require much, and for a second, she almost gave it. The yes was right there, tucked between her teeth while he watched her, close enough to feel like a decision waiting to happen. Easy.

Almost. Until something made her glance behind her. Heather was still at their table, laughing at something someone said as they stood around it readying themselves to leave, but her eyes weren’t on them anymore. They were on Robby, looking between him and Beth leaned against the bar with what remained of her drink in her hand. The flicker across her face was small, barely there, but Beth had worked enough shifts to recognize the moment someone covered pain with a smile and a sip of beer.

Beth offered Heather a small smile, soft at the edges in a way she hoped didn’t read as apologetic. Heather returned it with a quick, honest little wave, but her gaze didn’t drift far. Even as she turned back to Dana, her eyes clung to Robby in the way people do when they think they’re being subtle. Beth recognized it immediately; the quiet calculation, the glance you hope no one notices. 

Across the bar, Dana caught Heather’s gaze. She lifted her brows slightly and tilted her head just so, a silent question hanging between them. Before Beth could respond, movement beside her drew her attention. A presence settled close, warm and familiar. A voice, low and steady, gave the bartender a last name she didn’t need to hear to know. Her eyes flicked up without needing to fully turn.

Jack stood beside her, car key tapping idly against the bar, turned slightly in her direction like gravity had chosen her on his behalf.

And just like that, easy stopped feeling simple. Maybe it never really was. 

Beth shook herself from the thought and offered him a kind smile as she signed the slip. “That’s sweet of you, but I called an Uber. Gotta drink responsibly, right?”

His eyes flicked over her shoulder to Jack, then back to her, something knowing in the tilt of his head that she wasn’t sure he had meant for her to take notice of. Beth had to fight a groan. Good lord, how obvious had they been? He nodded, a little disappointed maybe, but still gracious. “Right. Good call.”

“Have a good night, Robby.”

“You too, Beth.”

She gave a final wave to the few still hanging around the table, caught Jack’s eye briefly from where he stood down the bar, then turned toward the door.

Beth stepped out into the cool night air, the buzz from her drinks softened by the crispness around her. She glanced toward the street, where her car gleamed softly under the glow of the streetlamp, almost too still and quiet after the noise inside. Maybe she should wait a bit; let the night settle, let the alcohol. Maybe even grab a bite before heading home. She wasn’t in a rush. The house would be quiet. Just her and the dog that hogged the covers.

She pulled her phone out of the pocket of her jacket, scrolling through nearby restaurants, only half paying attention to the names that flicked by. 

“Calling it a night already?”

She turned, surprised to see Jack stepping out behind her. The low roar of voices and clinking glass dimmed to a hush as the bar door swung shut behind him, leaving just the two of them in the stillness of the street. The quiet settled like dust. A sharp gust of autumn air funneled down the sidewalk, tugging at the hem of her jacket and ruffling her hair. Beth pulled her coat tighter and crossed her arms to keep the warmth in. 

“Not joining the bar crawl, I take it?” she asked, her smile soft but a little unsure.

Jack shook his head, hands tucked deep in his coat pockets. “One bar was plenty. Let the kids have their fun.”

“Oh, boo,” she teased, eyebrows lifting as she turned toward him. “How wildly uncool of you. Abby would be ashamed.”

Jack smirked, his shoulders lifting in a shrug. “Just gives her more to roast me for.”

Beth huffed a laugh, the sound breathy and surprised. “Like she needs any help. You should have seen the runaround I got over my outfit before I left. She’s ruthless.”

“Wonder where she got that from,” he said, tone dry.

Beth didn’t take the bait. Instead, she smiled and looked down at her shoes, toeing a crack in the sidewalk before glancing back up. She cleared her throat, looked away. “She made me promise to tell you she got an A on that paper she was telling you about. Wouldn’t let it go until I agreed.”

Jack’s smile widened, something proud tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah? That’s great. She worked hard on it.”

“She did.” Beth nodded, her voice quieter now. “She was really proud.”

“Well,” he said, soft and sincere, “you can tell her I’m impressed.”

“I will.”

Silence stretched between them again, comfortable but heavy. A car passed on the street behind them, headlights briefly throwing their shadows long across the sidewalk. Beth shifted her weight and glanced up at him again. Neither seemed in a rush to move. Cold air puffed around them in silvery clouds, and the bar behind them felt a thousand miles away.

Beth smiled, her exhale misting in the cold air. “Tonight was fun.”

“Yeah. It was.” Jack nodded, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “I’m glad you showed up. Even if you were late.

She rolled her eyes and looked away for a moment, trying to hide her smile, then back at him. “It was nice talking about all of that,” she said. Then added, softer, “The good stuff.”

“There was a lot of good stuff to talk about,” he agreed, eyes steady on her.

“Yeah,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “There was.”

Jack hesitated, then asked, “Can I walk you to where your Uber is picking you up?”

Beth blinked, confusion flickering across her face for a moment. Uber? She hadn’t called an Uber. She frowned, thinking, then remembered what she’d said back at the bar; how she’d claimed to call an Uber to keep things simple.

“Oh… I haven’t actually called one,” she admitted, cheeks warming just a little. “Abby’s at a movie with some friends tonight, so I was planning to grab something to eat and sober up before I drive home.”

There was something knowing in the way his grin deepened, amused and approving. “Smart move.”

A pause settled between them again, neither one quite sure what to do with the moment. Jack finally gave a small nod toward the street. “Well… I’ll let you get to it. Got quite the hike to my car.”

Beth’s brow furrowed, and a curious smile played at her lips. “Where’d you park?”

“Lot behind the bakery on 5th.” He nodded toward her car. “Swapped mine out with yours when I moved you. Got lucky the spot was still open when I came back.”

She scoffed, still smiling. “I thought you said there was plenty of street parking?”

“There was,” he said, grinning like a kid who got away with something. “Once I moved.”

Beth shook her head, smiling despite herself. Of course he had. Of course he did. Beth rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered as she looked at him. “Goodnight, Jack.”

“Night, Beth.”

He started up the street, hands back in his pockets, his shoulders hunched slightly against the cold. She watched his figure retreat, his shadow stretching long as she stood there.  She stood still a moment longer, something tightening and then unraveling in her chest. That Girl stirred; the one who used to get her hopes up, who used to ask instead of waiting to be asked, and Beth didn’t shoo her away. Maybe there was still room at the table, she thought. Maybe she could still ask.

“Hey, Jack?”

He turned, halfway to the corner, framed in the golden wash of the streetlamp.

“There’s a pizza place a couple blocks from here I was going to try,” she called, her voice carrying just enough. She gestured loosely up the street, the motion small and a little nervous. “Would you… want to join me?”

There was a flicker in his eyes; hesitation, maybe surprise, something she couldn’t quite name, but then he smiled. “I’d like that.”

Beth felt a flutter start in her chest, light and unfamiliar. She tried not to notice it. “Me too.”

Jack walked back toward her, slow and steady, until he stopped just beside her.

“Lead the way, Baker.”

She smiled and turned, falling into step beside him as they headed up the street; quietly side by side, the space between them not quite touching, but not so wide anymore.

It was nice. Being beside him like that.

“You? In South Boston? No. Bullshit.”

Beth let out a startled laugh beside him, half a snort, half a gasp, and covered her mouth with the back of her hand like she could push the sound back in. “Yes! South Boston! I was at BWH for almost six years.”

Jack gave her a disbelieving look and shook his head, already grinning, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets as they strolled through the quiet park path. “I just—really can’t picture you working elbow-to-elbow with a bunch of Southies.”

“Excuse you,” Beth said, tipping her chin at him with mock offense. “I’m a half-Irish redhead. I fit right in. Once I figured out everyone just sounds like Mark fuckin’ Wahlberg giving medical advice, I was golden.”

Jack let out a laugh, sharp and surprised. “No shit, huh?”

The breeze picked up again, threading cold fingers through the trees, and Beth crossed her arms tighter over herself as they walked. The sidewalks gleamed faintly in the moonlight, the skeletal branches overhead rattling with the wind. Somewhere behind them was the pizza joint full of noisy undergrads and sticky counters where they’d inhaled two slices each. The food was long gone, but the warmth lingered; maybe from the laughter, or the company, or the way Jack’s hand brushed lightly against hers as they rounded a bend in the path. Neither pulled away. Whatever wall had stood between them earlier in the evening had quietly fallen, leaving something softer in its place.

“Dead serious,” she laughed. “My first week, I thought they were speaking a different language. I had this one triage nurse—swear to God, her name was Maureen—and she calls back vitals on a guy and goes,” She deepened her voice and adopted the thickest Southie accent she could muster, “Hey, Baker, this guy’s been yakkin’ since the Sox lost, right? We gave him some Zofran, but he’s still lookin’ wicked green. Tachy, BP’s wicked low, kid’s clammy as shit—might be, like, a total code brown, but I dunno, doc. Up to you. You wanna toss in a banana bag or just chill?’”

Jack let out a bark of laughter, throwing his head back. “Come on. You’re making that up.”

“I am not!” she insisted, eyes bright. “I just nodded and went, ‘Sure, got it,’ and then immediately asked someone what the hell she said.”

Still chuckling, he shook his head and started walking again. “You’re telling me you lasted six years in that chaos?”

“Thrived, actually,” Beth said, feigning pride. “I swear, someone once told me a guy had ‘bad vibes’ instead of listing actual symptoms. I had to translate everything twice; once from Bostonese to English, then to medical. I even started swearing more creatively.”

“That I believe. God, I forgot how funny you are,” he said, still grinning as they kept walking, shoulders brushing now and then. “And here I was picturing you in some tidy, serene little hospital.”

Beth smiled, gaze drifting upward to the trees overhead. “Not exactly. But… I liked it. It was a mess, but it was a good mess.”

They walked in a lazy drift, neither in a hurry. The sound of the city had quieted behind them into the occasional gust of wind and the low shuffle of their footsteps and scrape of dry leaves on the path. Jack glanced over at her, their hands just brushing now and then as they strolled beneath the haloed streetlamps. 

“Do you ever miss it?” he asked quietly.

“Sometime. It was loud and chaotic and a little unhinged, but… it was mine.” She glanced at him then, and there was something more layered in the way she smiled with a little nod. “But I like where I am now. I like this. I don’t know…it fits.”

They kept walking, slower now as the looped path curled back toward the street. Her car came into view up ahead, glowing faintly under the streetlight, polished white against the asphalt.

Jack nodded toward it, smirking faintly. “I thought I told you to never get a BMW.”

Beth let out a quiet scoff, amused. “I thought you told me you were going to write.”

“Ouch.”

“Uh-huh.” She grinned, but the stretch of it felt too tight on her cheeks. Unearned. The bit of humor she found in the jab faded quickly into the heavy quiet between them. They walked a few more paces in silence, the sound of their steps soft against the path. As they neared the edge of the park, something shifted in the air; less light, less easy. The warmth hadn’t vanished, but it had thinned.

“I wrote to you,” Beth said, almost casually, but her voice caught just enough to give her away. “Every week after you left. At first, anyway. Not sure if you ever got them.”

Jack’s gaze dropped. “I got them.”

She slowed, just a step, enough that he had to match her pace. Her voice was low but somehow, she managed to keep it steady. “Then why didn’t you ever write back, Jack?”

He exhaled through his nose, the breath fogging in front of him. “I didn’t know what to say. I just… was never able to find the words for all of it.”

Beth stopped walking. Not abruptly, but enough to plant herself there in the cold, in the question. She turned to look at him, but the look she leveled at him wasn’t angry when she crossed her arms. Just tired. Tired of carrying the part of this he wouldn’t touch. The wind cut between them and tossed her hair across her face, biting at her cheeks. She pulled her jacket tighter around her.

“I’m sorry would’ve been a good place to start.”

He didn’t argue. Just nodded once. It wasn’t enough, but it wasn’t nothing.

“You’re right.” He murmured. “It would have.”

They stood for a second longer, the hum of a passing car somewhere behind them. Beth took a step toward her car but didn’t get far. She hesitated, then turned back.

“That story you told earlier,” she said. “About my dad.”

Jack’s brows lifted a little, cautious.

Beth’s voice was steady now. “That’s not all he said to you. Is it?”

He looked at her for a long second before shaking his head. “No. It’s not.”

Beth crossed her arms, mostly for warmth, but also to steady herself. Her gaze didn’t leave his.

“So… tell me the real ending.”

They reached her car in silence, the curve of it catching the streetlight overhead. It glowed pearly white, the windshield fogged faintly from the drop in temperature. Beth slowed beside the driver’s door and turned, leaning back against it, arms still crossed, and waited.

Jack stood a few feet away, motionless except for the slow shift of his breath into the night air. He looked like he might bolt, which would just be par for the fucking course if he did. But then he didn’t. He stayed, and she did too. His jaw worked for a long moment before he puffed a sigh out into the cold. When he finally spoke, his voice was low.

“He asked me what my plan was. If I got you pregnant.”

Beth held back a laugh that barely cracked through her exhale. That sounded like her dad. Direct. No nonsense. She nodded, arms hugging herself a little tighter, watching as Jack stepped forward with a quiet groan, leaning next to her on the car.

“And I told him. Right away. Didn’t even hesitate. Told him what you said to me in the bathroom at work that day, after the condom broke in the truck and you were late and we were trying not to lose our minds. You remember that?”

Beth’s brows pinched just faintly. She nodded. “I do,” she said quietly. 

She pushed off the door and leaned against her shoulder to face him. She remembered it; the panic in her throat while they waited on the bathroom floor, three agonizing minutes on the clock. Her stomach had been in knots. Her fingers were shaking, twisting her hair until it pulled at the roots. Jack hadn’t broken a sweat. Not outwardly. But she knew better. He’d stepped out the moment she started to come apart, and returned with the notepad from her desk and a pen.

“Alright,” he’d said, sitting across from her, dropping the pad between them. “Lay it out for me, Sparky. What’s the plan?”

And she had. Rambling and terrified, she talked about finances and housing and how they’d tell her family. She must’ve made three versions of that plan, her voice quivering the whole way through. He listened to every single one. Didn’t make her feel stupid. Let her toy with his fingers while he checked her math and pointed out where she forgot to budget for diapers or rent. By the time he offered up a version of the plan that still let her finish school, even if it meant him taking on another job at night, her hands had started shaking a little less.

“I’m not taking that away from you,” he’d told her when she tried to argue. “Not because of something I did.”

The timer had gone off and she’d nearly dropped the test from relief. Negative. She’d cried as she dropped it in the trash. Cried harder when he wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her to his chest. He made some dumb joke about trying again in six years, teasing that he’d always liked the name Harrison. And she’d laughed, wet and wobbly, because in that moment, it felt like maybe they really could figure it out. Just a couple of kids thinking they had a damn clue about any of it.

Most days, he had been solid.

“I told him we’d get married. That I’d go full-time at the shop after graduation. That I’d figure it out; how to make it work so you didn’t have to worry about a damn thing. That I’d spend the rest of my life trying to prove I was good enough for you. For both of you. I think I even said I’d try to be someone like him.” He gave a rough, bitter-sounding laugh. “I remember that part real clearly. Because that was the moment he opened the door.”

Beth tilted her head. “And?”

“He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared ahead for a second. Then he leaned back, looked me dead in the eye, and said, ‘Prove it.’” Jack’s jaw flexed once, mouth twitching up into a smile as he huffed a laugh through his nose. “And then he kicked me out of the truck. Didn’t have to tell me twice. I just got out and started walking.”

Beth smiled faintly and looked down. The wind caught in the branches above, his breath slow beside her. She looked at him then and her eyes found his in the low dark, searching for something. Maybe the boy she used to know who had known how to make her safe on that bathroom floor when the world felt too scary, maybe the man who’d left, or some shadow between. Maybe just some proof that this hadn’t all been in her head.

“I loved you too, you know.”

They hung there for a moment, those words. Unsteady. A little fragile. Like she’d had to pry them loose. They hurt as they left her throat. Ached, twisted like they had rusted and warped over time. Not hollow, just worn down at the edges. Like they’d been turned over in her mouth too many times to still shine. And still, she gave them to him.

Jack didn’t look surprised, but she noticed the quiet shift in his jaw. His answer came with a small shake of his head, like it was the only truth he still knew how to say. “More than I probably deserved.”

Beth frowned at that. Not in anger, but something more exhausted at the weight of it. The old shape of that wound that seemed to rip right back open every time he’d knock twice against the window frame and crawl in already trembling. He’d slip under her sheets and hold her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. When he couldn’t stop shaking, and couldn’t fall asleep unless she was wound around him tight enough to quiet whatever was clawing at him from the inside. Her fingers in his hair. His head on her collarbone when he’d whisper I don’t deserve you against her chest like it was a prayer until she kissed his forehead and told him that he was wrong and exhausted and that she loved him bigger than all of that. 

She had. She always had. That was the thing she just couldn’t fold up neatly enough for him; he’d deserved her even then, even when he hadn’t believed it and she had to breathe it into him until he started to exhale it himself. They had deserved each other. She hadn’t wanted anything else.

“No,” she said, firm in a way that made it clear she’d said it before. Not out loud, maybe, but she’d said it before in whispers just the same as she did now. “You always made it sound like I was some test you were going to fail. Like I was something you had to earn. But I wasn’t. I never was. I was… I was just yours, Jack. That’s all there ever was to it. You knew that. I know you did.”

She paused and chewed her lip like she could bite back the words, watching him breathe like it physically weighed something in his chest. She shifted, arms still crossed, still cold. The air seemed to pull taut between them. Jack’s eyes flicked to the ground, then back to her. He looked like he might say something. But he didn’t. So, Beth kept going.

“I just wish…” She stopped herself. Started again. “I wish you would’ve told me that story.”

He swallowed and looked at her, and in the quiet that followed, something cracked; not loudly, not in pieces, but like a slow shift beneath the surface. Another gust sent dry leaves scraping across the concrete and pulled her hair from behind her ears again. Before she could reach to push it away, warm fingers brushed lightly against her face. He pushed her hair out of her eyes, fingertips rough against her cheek. Beth stiffened, wrestling with That Girl who still wanted to lean into his hand, before he dropped it. It didn't fall to his side immediately when he pulled it away, instead fixing the collar of the jacket before he finally brought his hand to his side.

“I should have,” he said, voice rough. “I should’ve told you a lot of things.”

“You should have.”

Beth’s words hung between them; not angry. God, she was so tired of being angry. She wasn’t even sure what she was angry at anymore; him. The way he left. The way he looked at her under the glow of the streetlamp like a memory of that boy who sat with her on the bathroom floor dipped in gold and made her want to feel anything but. Instead, it was just an ache. Like a bruise she kept pressing, hoping maybe this time it wouldn’t hurt.

The quiet returned, heavier now. She turned the key fob over in her hand, the plastic warm from her palm. The hibiscus flower key chain embossed with Kauai in yellow block letters jingled too merrily in the space between them, but she didn’t unlock the car. And he didn’t leave.

Jack shifted his weight. “So,” he said gently, “tonight then?”

The words weren’t a demand, nor were they even really a question. Just a thread he offered her to pick up if she wanted it; something soft tucked inside something brave. Her own words from the roof weeks ago echoed back and handed to her cautiously. Beth exhaled slowly and kept her eyes on his chest before she lifted them to his face.

Before she could answer, her eyes caught on something just above his pocket. A smudge of pollen or lint, pale against the dark cotton.

She reached before thinking. “Wait, hold still,” she murmured, stepping closer. “You’ve got something… right here.”

Her hand landed flat on his chest, warm and solid under her skin, and brushed the spot lightly until the smudge disappeared. Typical, she thought. He’d always been the messiest person she knew. She used to fix him without thinking; straightening collars before class, smoothing his hair with the same tenderness she gave to her own reflection. The Sunday mornings when her mom dragged them to church were worse. She’d still be rubbing something off of his cheek while they climbed the steps. Some things never changed, she figured.

When she looked up, she realized she’d stepped between him and the car door. Close enough to feel his breath warm on her face. Her fingers stilled against the soft pull of cotton, his chest rising gently beneath her palm. His hands stayed in his pockets, but she felt him tense under her touch.

He looked at her like he remembered everything.

Maybe he did. Those nights in her bed, wrapped in her arms, when she’d let him use her body as a landing place. The way he’d press his forehead to hers in the dark, touching her like it was the only language he knew to say he needed something. It never felt like those nights were about numbing or escape; they were something gentler. She hadn’t given herself to feel nothing; she’d given herself because it felt like everything. Like love. Because maybe it was. For her, it was.

Beth’s gaze dropped to his mouth. She bit the inside of her cheek, holding the bite longer than she should’ve, eyes caught on the soft mist of his breath between them and on the way his eyes traced her lips, too.

It would be so easy.

But easy didn’t feel so simple. It never had. Not where he was involved.

But god, she wanted it to. And right now? It did. It did feel that simple. It did feel that easy. Just That Girl and That Boy leaned against her car with her hands on his chest and hazel eyes on her like she was the only thing he could make out in the dark.

Couldn’t it just stay that way? That Girl asked. Just for a little longer? Please?

And for one impossible moment, Beth almost said yes.

Her pulse thudded in her throat. Her hand curled into the cotton of his shirt.

Then, slowly, painfully, she let go.

“No,” she whispered. “Not tonight. Not on a good night.”

Her voice cracked around the word good, like she was holding onto it a little too tightly.

“I just… I just needed you to know.”

He nodded. “Okay,” the word came out barely a breath. 

Beth offered a little half-smile and brushed her hand lightly along the front of his shirt once more, a farewell in the shape of something smaller.

“Okay.” She repeated, the whispered syllables feeling heavier than they weighed leaving her lips. 

His hand reached for hers and gave it a gentle squeeze, but he didn’t drop it from where it sat on his chest. That flutter returned behind her ribs, and instead of pushing it down until that hummingbird retreated, she welcomed the creature like a friend before she could even think it through.

Oh no.

“Goodnight, Jack,” she whispered.

His lips tugged up a moment before he squeezed her hand again and let it go. “Goodnight, Beth.”

She opened the car door, slid in, and closed it quietly behind her. She didn’t do her seatbelt, or start the engine, or open Audible to queue up her book for the drive home. Just watched him walk away in her rearview mirror, his figure growing smaller with each step until the dark swallowed him whole.

Her breath came out all at once. She dropped her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes, her head spinning in a way that had nothing to do with cheap beer and half-finished whiskey, the ghost of his hand still burning on her skin.

Uh-oh.

Chapter Text

Well. 

This sucked major ass.

Thick rain slapped against the cracked windshield of her car, the deep gray of the morning sky making the early hour feel less like 7 a.m and more zero dark thirty. Abby turned her key over again, but it was no use. The lights didn’t so much as flutter. She didn’t know a lot about cars; frankly, she knew jack shit, but she was fairly certain they weren’t supposed to click like that. She muttered a few words that would get her totally grounded and chewed on the drawstring of her hoodie. 

She deserved this, really. Mom told her straight home from Kenadie’s house that morning so she’d have time to eat breakfast, work on her college applications, and change before her PT appointment at ten. But, her drive home from her sleepover took her right past the Target with an Ulta in it, and she ran out of her perfume earlier that week, and Sol De Janeiro just released a new scent, and it would literally take her ten minutes. What could it hurt?

Her, apparently. Figures that she was now Life of Pi-ing it in the Target parking lot with a car that sounded like its navigation system ran on echolocation. 

At least she got the perfume though. She may be totally fucked, but at least she’ll smell pretty. 

Abby sighed and flopped back heavily against the seat. The cowboy hat-wearing disco ball fastened around her rearview mirror swung lazily, fractals of light dotting the rain-soaked windshield. She tugged open her belt bag, pulled out her phone, and thumbed it to life. Scrolling through recent calls, she tapped on Mother. It was still early enough in her shift that Abby figured Mom wouldn’t be too entirely pissed if she called requesting a rescue mission. She might even be able to talk her way through the McDonald’s drive thru if she acted especially pathetic. 

Abby tapped the speaker button and let the phone fall to her lap, the dial tone echoing through the silent car. Mom usually picked up by the second ring. Sometimes even the first, like she had her phone holstered to her hip like a pager from 2004. Abby waited.

Ring one…

Two…

Three?

…four?

Five?

Voicemail.

Um, hello?

She jerked the phone away from her ear and stared at the screen like it had just betrayed her personally. She called Mom, right? She double-checked the contact photo just in case her thumb had slipped.

Nope. There it was; Mother, little red heart emoji and everything, above the world’s most cursed Christmas photo: her mom in Grandma’s kitchen, mid-cookie chaos, jaw dropped in a tragic “oops” face as a beater fell off the hand mixer. Flour in her hair. Mismatched socks. The face of a woman who’d lost the will to fight a poorly assembled KitchenAid.

Mom hated that picture. Abby had refused to change it. 

“This is Beth. I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave me a message with your–”

Abby rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt.

“Are you there, Mom? It’s me. Your only child. Hope whatever you’re doing is worth ignoring me. Anyway, my car is dead. Like, gone to Jesus, and I’m stranded in a parking lot and will probably get axe-murdered by a psychopath, but whatever. Take your time calling me back. I’m sure I won’t succumb to my injuries that quickly.”

She hung up and immediately fired off a text: just a wall of question marks, aggressive and needy and 100% justified.

Then she tried the key again.

Click.

Nothing.

The car was still dead. She was still alone. And she was still probably going to become the subject of an unsolved true crime podcast.

It was totaled, right? That’s what that meant. When a car just… gave up. When it made one last dying click and slumped into silence like a soldier in a war movie. That meant it was done. Cooked. RIP.

They’d have to throw the whole thing away. Where did you even throw cars away? Was there, like, a car graveyard? A fiery barge sent out to sea a la Viking funeral where Imprezas went to rest? She pictured a crane just yeeting it into a canyon.

Maybe this was her shot. A fresh start. A sleek upgrade. She’d start dropping hints about 4Runners. Or a Jeep. Maybe a Bronco. Something cute. Something that didn’t make dolphin noises when it was under pressure.

Abby redialed.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Voicemail.

Honestly, Elizabeth? How dare you. The nerve.

“Oh my God , woman!” Abby said sharply, yanking the phone away from her ear like she could scold it into working. “What could you possibly be doing? I’m your whole life! I am your pride and joy. The fruit of your loins. Pick. Up. Your. Phone!”

She exhaled dramatically, then added, “And if I die out here, which is looking increasingly likely, make sure Keith Morrison does my Dateline episode. Keith, Mom. Keith. Morrison. I swear, if you let them assign me to one of the new people, I will haunt you forever. You’ll never know peace. I’ll make the garbage disposal turn on in the middle of the night. I’ll make Alexa talk to you when you’re home alone. And don’t let him do the whole “she lit up a room” thing, either. I was a hater until the bitter end and will be remembered as such.”

She hung up, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, and let her head thump back against the rest. The rain was still going strong, streaking down the windshield like her life was in slow-motion freefall.

No one was coming.

Obviously.

Her mom was probably dead. That was it. That was the only explanation that made sense. Literally why else wouldn’t she answer immediately? Not like she had a boyfriend to yap at or anything. At least, not yet. No, she was either dead, or slipped on a puddle of questionable bodily fluids in the ER and cracked her head open and now had amnesia and didn’t even know she had a daughter slowly wasting away next to a Chick-fil-A like some dumbass Gray’s Anatomy storyline. 

Something was wrong. Abby would get home, if she ever got home, and find the house empty and cold and weird. Her mom, gone. No note. Just an open cabinet and maybe a flickering lamp like a 20/20 cutaway.

Or maybe she’d never get home at all. Maybe this Target parking lot was the end. She’d just rot here like a forgotten banana in the produce section.

Abby sagged against the steering wheel, forehead pressed to the faux leather. Rain hammered against the car like a slow, mocking applause. She was going to die out here. Like, die to death. Done. Dead. Deceased. She was going to starve. 

Abby reached across to the passenger seat,  grabbed a new handful of chocolate covered pretzels she impulse bought at self-checkout, and stuffed them into her mouth. She chewed disapprovingly while she typed out another terroristic text to her mother. 

A realization barrelled into her so hard, she nearly dropped her phone. Oh, God. Who was going to feed Atlas if she was dead?

Sure, he had an automatic feeder, but he was sensitive. He needed enrichment. They had a routine. He was complicated. Emotional. Sometimes he just sat next to the window and stared out like a tortured Victorian poet. He’d know. He’d feel her absence in his soul.

And what about the cat? They didn’t have a cat. But she wanted one. She couldn’t get one if she was some sad little skeleton rotting in a Subaru.

She wasn’t ready to die. Taylor Swift still wasn’t married. She still hadn’t been to a Trader Joe’s. She hadn’t found a sushi place that wasn’t totally mid yet. She still wasn’t allowed to read Fourth Wing. She still didn’t know what the stock market is.

No. She must persevere.

Beyoncé once said, “I’m a survivor, I’m not gon’ give up.”

And Abby Baker was many things, but she was not a quitter. She would survive this Target parking lot. She would overcome. She would rise. Because dammit, she would not let Beyoncé down.

With renewed purpose (and half a pretzel in her mouth), Abby tapped Mom’s name again.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

‘This is Beth. I can’t—’  

“Oh my God!” she barked into the air, flinging her head back against the seat so hard she almost gave herself whiplash. She didn’t even bother leaving another voicemail. What was the point? She’d already told her she was dying once. Twice felt needy.

Fine then. Nuclear option it was.

She shoved another chocolate pretzel in her mouth, licked the salt off her fingers, and called the hospital. She already knew the drill: Press one for administration. Eight for emergency department. Enter extension. Wait. Listen to a painfully cheery automated voice tell her her call was very important.

Finally—finally—a real human answered.

“Emergency Department, this is Lupe.”

“Hi…uh, hi. I’m trying to reach my mom. Doctor Baker. I think she just got in for her shift?”

“Oh, sure, sweetheart. She did; she just got here a little while ago. Let me transfer you, okay?”

Abby sagged in relief. “Thank you so much, Miss Lupe.”

“Of course, hon. Transferring you now.”

Hold music kicked in; a weirdly upbeat instrumental that felt aggressively inappropriate for someone who had been emotionally abandoned by both her mother and her car. Still, it was something. It was progress.

Thank God. Finally. She didn’t know if she was going to yell at her or cry when she finally picked up. Probably both. But at least she wasn’t tragically lost to wither away.

The music cut away with a soft beep before a familiar voice filled the car.

“Emergency Department, this is Dana.”

“Hi, Miss Dana. It’s Abby.” She grimaced hard enough to feel it in her teeth before she could even say her last name. Ugh. She couldn’t wait to change that the second she turned eighteen. “Morgan,” she added, quickly. “Is my mom right there? My car broke down and I’ve been trying to call her.”

“Oh, honey.” Dana’s voice shifted instantly, all warm concern and mom-mode authority. “She’s in a code blue, sweetheart. Just came in a few minutes ago.”

Abby winced and immediately shrank in her seat, guilt flooding her chest like someone turned on a faucet and let the shame come pouring in. Her mom was literally trying to keep someone from dying, and she was out here threatening to fake her own death over voicemail.

“Oh,” she said, quieter now. “Okay. That makes sense. Sorry. I didn’t mean to… um. Sorry.”

“You good? You’re not in the middle of the road or anything, are you? I can call Mitch and have him leave work to come grab you.”

“No, no. I’m okay, Miss Dana. You don’t need to call Mr. Evans. Thank you, though. I’m just in a parking lot. I can wait until she’s not, you know… doing CPR and stuff. It’s not urgent. I mean, it is, but not like… actual emergency room urgent.”

Dana didn’t sound convinced. “Well, hold on. Let me ask someone if they’ve got eyes on her.”

Abby heard the sound of a hand over the receiver, a muffle of voices and footsteps and hospital chaos in miniature. Then Dana again, calling out:

“Hey, you got eyes on Baker? Her kid’s trying to get a hold of her.”

Another voice came through, faint but growing clearer as it got closer, just garbled enough by the muffled receiver for her to still recognize it. “What’s going on?”

“Abby’s car broke down. She’s trying to get a hold of her mom.”

“Give me the phone.”

A shuffle of movement scraped through the call before Jack’s voice spoke again, low and rough and kind, and Abby felt her shoulders relax slightly at the sound. “Hey, House. You good?” 

She smiled before she could stop herself. “Hey, Doctor Mullet.”

“Wasn’t a mullet.”

“And I’m not up shit’s creek without a paddle. Now we’re both lying.” She rolled her eyes, picking at her thumb nail while she watched raindrops race down the windshield. 

“Yeah, Dana told me that your car took a shit. You alright?”

“Oh, it took a fat dump,” she scoffed. She jumped slightly at the sound of a car door slamming somewhere in the parking lot behind her and glanced over her seat, shoulders slumping slightly. She turned forward again, adding softly, “I’m okay.”

“Good. That’s what’s important.”

His voice was firm, but softer than it had been before he took the phone from Miss Dana, like he’d unclenched a little once she said she was okay. It made her chest ease just slightly. It was a little weird. But a nice weird. She tucked a hand into her pocket and shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it. 

“So,” Jack said, “what’s goin’ on?”

“I was driving home from Kenadie’s,” Abby started, wiping the fog from the window with the sleeve of her hoodie. “And I was going straight home, I swear, but I passed the Target with the Ulta in it. That’s a makeup store, by the way. Since you’re like, decrepit. And male.”

“I’ve seen a Sephora before, kid. I’m not a fossil.”

“Could have fooled me,” she said, rolling her eyes. “ Anyway. I needed, like, one thing, and now my car won’t start. Not even a little bit. It’s just clicking at me like I personally offended it.”

Jack fell silent enough that the only way she was sure that the call hadn’t dropped was the faint crackle of background noise from the ED. He let out a faint hum of disapproval. “Didn’t your mother tell you to drive straight home this morning? Thought I heard her say that on the phone before shift change last night.”

Abby groaned and slumped further into the seat, rain streaking sideways across the windshield, gathering into thick rivulets that curved down like tear tracks. “Ew, be so for real right now. Lecture me later.”

He huffed something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “At least you’re not on the side of the road. Did you leave anything on? Lights, radio?”

“No one listens to the radio anymore, grandpa,” She sighed, biting into another pretzel. She looked down at the charging cord attached to her phone and hesitated, chewing slowly before she answered. “No… but my phone was dying, so I left it charging while I ran in.”

Jack went quiet for a long moment. Then came the sigh. Long. Deep. Probably through his nose with his eyes closed like Mom did pretty much anytime she did anything slightly disappointing. She knew the sound well. 

“Abby…”

She groaned again and sank into the seat. “What? Am I not supposed to?”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, not to her exactly, but about her, which was annoying in that weird-but-nice way. “You Baker girls…”

It was weirdly comforting; the grumble, the cadence, the familiar sigh that didn’t sound angry so much as tired. Like this was something he expected. Like he’d been here before, but was listening anyway. Her mom made that noise, too, like she was trying to be annoyed but couldn’t quite commit to it. Abby would usually hear it down the hall when her laundry was molding in the washer or her makeup was still spread across the vanity. That sigh would drift up the stairs right before her mom muttered something under her breath and quietly took care of it. The last time she’d heard it was the night Jack stayed for dinner. Her mom had come upstairs afterward, thinking she was asleep, and poked her head into the room. Just a soft, “Abby Dabby, what am I going to do with you… ” followed by a kiss to her forehead before the door clicked shut.

It always made her feel a little bad—guilty, maybe—but also taken care of. Like no matter how much of a pain she was, someone still cared enough to clean up after her mess; to show up. To stay. Jack’s kinda sounded like that, too. Just a little.

“Sorry,” she muttered, tugging at the strings of her sweatshirt. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t, kid. Put me on speaker and try to turn the engine over,” he sighed. “I’ve got a hunch.”

“Sure, Sherlock,” Abby said, switching the call to speaker and turning the key.

Click.

Just that. One, lonely, final click. Not even a flutter of life.

Whatever it was that he was listening for in the noise, he must’ve heard it, because Jack made a quiet, affirming noise. 

“That’s a dead battery,” he said. “Which was probably already on its way out before your phone took it out to pasture.”

“Great,” she deadpanned. “Love that for me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m not sure. I’m at a Target in Greenfield.”

“Do you know the cross streets?”

“No, Magellan. I don’t.”

“What’s around you, smartass?”

She shifted in her seat, glancing past the rivulets of rain on the passenger window. “Um… a Dunkin’, a Chipotle, and a bank with one of those sad little drive-up ATMs. Would you like me to draw a map or send up smoke signals?”

“My personal preference would be lighting the beacons,” he said flatly. Abby rolled her eyes. Okay, nerd. And what did that make her, since she got the reference? Whatever. That felt like Mom’s fault. And it was a little cool, if she was being honest. Another point for Doctor Mullet. You go, Doctor Mullet. And none for Hoodie Guy.

“Chipotle across the street from the bank?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Okay. I know where you are. I’m coming to get you.”

Abby blinked at her phone, nose wrinkling, and sat up a little straighter. “You don’t have to do that. Seriously. I’ll just wait for my mom. She’ll call me back eventually.” Her voice faltered slightly as she added, “Don’t you work nights? You’re probably tired and totally over it and trying to go home. It’s really not that deep, I can just–.”

“Abby.” Jack interrupted gently.

She stopped talking, mouth snapping shut around the excuse she’d been halfway through. Her fingers tugged absently at a loose string on the hem of her sweatshirt, winding it tight around her pinky until it turned purple. She opened her mouth to argue again, but he cut her off like he knew it was coming.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “And yes, I am. But I’m not gonna leave you sitting in a parking lot waiting for your mom to finish a code, or for some creep to pull over pretending to be helpful. You’re not waiting around for that. I’ll be there in thirty. I’ll give you a jump and make sure you get home. Alright?”

Movement rustled on the other end of the call before she could even find the words to argue. He didn’t need to come; he literally had no obligation to. He was just her mom’s… coworker, she guessed? Her coworker that she had some Riverdale-level high school romance with and absolutely still had a fat crush on and was a key component in Abby’s after high school plans for her mother? That felt like a mouthful. Her mom’s Jack? Yeah. Her mom’s Jack. She’d go with that. Her mom’s Jack had no reason to leave work after a twelve hour shift to come save her from her own stupidity, but he said it like it was just blatantly obvious that he would. 

Something tight and anxious unspooled in her chest. Not all the way—she was still stuck in a parking lot she wasn’t supposed to be in—but better. Like someone had dropped an arm around her shoulders and said, Hey. I got it.

“…Okay,” she said softly.

“I’m going to give you my number,” his voice cut out for a moment before it sounded too close again, like he was putting on a coat and tucked the phone under his cheek. “If anything sketchy happens, or you start feeling weird about anything, call me, yeah?”

Abby rolled her eyes, but the small smile she was losing a fight with stayed. “I’ll be fine, Jack.”

“I’m sure you will be,” he said. “I mean it. You call me.”

She nodded, then realized that was stupid and added, “Yeah, okay. What is it?”

He rattled it off. Abby entered it, labeled it “Doctor Mullet 💀,” and hit save. She’d have to dig out Mom’s prom picture later. If he was going to be in her phone, then he needed a cringe contact picture, too. 

Her finger hovered for a second before she let the contact screen fall away and leaned back against the headrest. Outside, the rain softened a little, no longer angry and slapping, just a steady drumbeat on the roof. She chewed her lip and glanced out the window. The parking lot was still mostly empty, the air heavy and gray, but it didn't look as totally hopeless as it had a little while ago.

Jack’s voice dropped slightly, just enough that she could tell he was talking to someone nearby. “Hey, Dana? Can you fill Baker in when she’s out? Tell her I’ve got it handled.”

“You got it,” came Dana’s reply.

“Alright, House. Stay put. I’m on my way.”

Abby stared down at the dark dashboard and scoffed. “Literally where would I go?”

“Exactly. Stay in the car.”

“Hey, Jack?”

“Yeah, kid?”

Abby hooked a hand under the knee of her not-totally-broken leg and pulled it up onto the seat, hugging it to her chest. She twisted the string around her finger again. “Thank you.”

There was a pause. Not long, but long enough to feel like he meant it when he said, “Anytime, kid. Hang tight.”

The call ended with a soft beep. Abby let her phone fall into her lap, silence creeping back into the car, only now it didn’t feel so suffocating. Her fingers twitched against her phone like she could will it to play something to pass the time, before she remembered that she’d murdered her poor little car in cold blood via charging cable and rendered her CarPlay useless.

“Right,” she muttered. “Dumbass.”

For a few seconds, she just sat there, listening to the quiet rhythm of rain drumming against the concrete. Her stomach growled. Her foot bounced. She was still damp from her earlier slow sprint through the parking lot, and the sleeves of her hoodie clung to her arms uncomfortably. She didn’t bother to look in the visor mirror—she already knew she looked like the epitome of a wet rat. So much for Hot Girl Summer. Welcome back, Rat Fall.

She reached for another pretzel, but found the bag tragically empty, and stared at the red Target sign through the rain like it was some sort of neon siren song. Thirty minutes. She could either sit here like some sad Victorian orphan or…

Whatever.

She unbuckled, grabbed her belt bag off the passenger seat, and opened the door. The rain had eased up to a lazy drizzle, more mist than downpour now, that smelled like concrete and impending capitalism. Fine. If she was going to be stranded, she might as well be stranded with a new pair of fuzzy socks and Starbucks.

She’d make sure she was back in the car by the time Jack got there. Not like it was going anywhere.

Chapter Text

Since when did they start putting out Halloween stuff in September?

Abby squinted at a towering endcap display of skeleton-themed dog toys and off-brand candy corn, brow furrowed. Like, yes, she loved Halloween. Duh. It was a top-tier holiday. It literally went Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving in the correct ranking of holidays. But it was barely sweater weather yet and they already had inflatable zombies clawing their way out of fake grave dirt. Seemed aggressive when these aisles literally had school supplies in them three weeks ago.

She shoved her hands deeper into the sleeves of her hoodie as she wandered through the back half of the store. An animatronic witch cackled weakly from a half-unpacked display, one of its eyes not lighting up. Mood, honestly. She passed a row of plastic pumpkins and plastic skulls and plastic buckets shaped like dismembered hands. Capitalism really popped off this time of year.

She slowed in front of the chocolate section and grabbed a bag of Take 5s, because sure, maybe her mom said something about going home to eat a good breakfast, but Abby had watched that same woman absolutely demolish a half-thawed breakfast sandwich and a sugar-free Redbull at 5:47 a.m. on a Tuesday like it was a three-course meal, so honestly? The hypocrisy could stay tucked in her scrub pockets. They could both be nutritionally questionable in peace.

The store was basically empty, as expected for 8 a.m. on a Saturday. The Target hum buzzed around her: quiet music, faraway beeps, occasional walkie chatter from an employee on the other side of the store. Nobody else in the candy aisle. Nobody in the next one either. Just her and the Take 5s, waiting on the world together.

She drifted past the back corner of the store, toward the half-stocked costume section. Not because she needed anything, obviously, but because she always looked. Every year. It was kind of a tradition. Some part of her still liked the cheap fabric and the weird little masks and the way everything smelled vaguely like plastic and glitter glue. It was mostly kid stuff this early in the season; rows of tiny jumpsuits, itchy capes, polyester wings. 

She paused in front of a Moana costume, thumb brushing the edge of the plastic, and smiled just barely. She used to go as a princess every year when they still lived in Boston without fail. The crown, the wig, the itchy glittery tights; full commitment.

The best years were the Frozen ones. Obviously. For three Halloweens straight, she’d gone full Elsa mode and forced her mom to dress as Anna to match. Not that it took much convincing; Mom donned the uniform and braided her hair without any complaint every year. They’d blast the Frozen soundtrack in the car on the way to Beacon Hill for trick-or-treating and belt For the First Time in Forever like their lives depended on it. Really, she thought Mom was secretly kinda bummed when she moved on to her Miraculous Ladybug phase and she returned to following Abby and her friends around in leggings and her Eagles sweatshirt again. 

The year they went to Disneyland for Halloween was peak, though. The apex of the Frozen era;  Abby in her Elsa gown, her mom in a handmade Anna cape she found on Etsy, her eyes wide as her six-year-old self spotted Olaf and lost her damn mind at the Halloween party-thing they did after park hours. That picture was still framed in her room. Just her and Mom, cheek to cheek, both of them grinning like idiots, Abby’s crown crooked and sparkly, and the streak of white clipped into mom’s braids because they were nothing if not committed to the bit.

She glanced down the aisle again. Nothing but a sea of little princess dresses and tiny superhero masks, hanging in crooked rows. She wasn’t sure when she got too old to dress up. It wasn’t like it happened all at once. It just… faded out over time. Trick-or-treating turned into movie nights with friends. Costumes turned into hoodies and sweatpants. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. She pressed her fingers against the costume bag, then pulled them back.

It was stupid to miss something like that. She was almost grown. She had real problems now. College applications. A broken car. A tragically single mother to strategically push into the arms of her high school boyfriend. Serious adult things.

Still. She kinda missed Frozen singalongs in the car.

Abby started to turn out of the costume aisle when something caught her eye; a hot dog suit, complete with foam bun and mustard squiggle, squished between a ghost tutu and a toddler firefighter outfit. She blinked, then laughed under her breath. Incredible. She snapped a photo and fired it off to the group chat: okay but glizzies for the halloween night game this year???

Mia responded a second later: oh my godddd not the glizzy girlies lol followed by also why tf r u up. Abby rolled her eyes and typed, car’s dead lmao fml. She gave the hot dog one last approving nod. Not practical. Not flattering. Literally iconic.

Abby tapped the side button on her phone and winced. Twenty-seven minutes. Which meant she had approximately three to make it back to the car and look like she’d been patiently sitting there the whole time instead of contemplating a hot dog costume and the existential decline of Halloween spirit. She stuffed her phone into her belt bag and sighed. Her two-minute walk was more like five with the crutches, especially now that her arm was starting to ache from using them longer than intended. Hopefully, she was down to her last few weeks with them; if PT went well, she’d be free. Finally.

She eyed the bag of Take 5s in her hand, sighed again, and tucked it back on the shelf. Maybe her mom had a point about real breakfast or whatever. She turned toward the front of the store, preparing to hobble her way back toward the entrance, and, ultimately, her lie of omission, when a small voice behind her squealed, delighted. “Daddy! Look!”

She turned toward the voice just in time to see a little girl in a cart a few feet down, still in her pajamas, bedhead poking out from beneath the hood of a too-big raincoat. She was reaching for the Moana costume Abby had stopped at earlier, fingers outstretched toward the plastic packaging like it was treasure. A man, her dad, probably, nudged the cart closer and leaned down to eye the costume.

“That the one?” he asked.

The girl nodded with the kind of enthusiasm only toddlers could pull off.  “She’s my favorite. She’s brave.”

“Yeah?” He smiled and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “She is pretty brave, huh. Alright, toss her in. Let’s get back home before Mommy wakes up and sees that we’re out of creamer.”

“She’d be grumpy.”

“You said it, Junie. Not me,” the man chuckled, taking the bag from his daughter and tossing it in beside the bottle of vanilla creamer and carton of eggs. 

Abby made herself look incredibly interested in the unit price of the M&Ms as they passed, the wheel of the cart squeaking as they turned down another aisle, disappearing between rows of cereal and snack cakes. She stood there a moment longer, that familiar tightness tugging at her chest like a rubber band pulled just a little too far. She didn’t know what to call it; never had, really. For a long time, she thought everyone walked around with it, that same quiet ache. It wasn’t until later she realized most people didn’t. It was just something she’d learned to ignore and grit her teeth through, like growing pains. Easier to ignore than to name. Easier to pretend it wasn’t there at all.

Ew. Not the daddy issues before noon.

Abby exhaled through her nose, shook her head, and forced herself to keep moving. She adjusted her hoodie sleeves and started toward the front of the store again. She really should get back to the car. Jack seemed like the type to deliver a full PowerPoint on consequences, and honestly, she didn’t need that energy today. He also kind of had Grandpa’s disappointed stare down, and that one-two punch combo of Mom and Jack both giving her The Look was not on her Saturday bingo card.

The glass doors opened with a hiss, and a blast of damp air hit her face. Rain still came down in a slow drizzle, soft enough to feel harmless but cold enough to be annoying. Abby pulled up her hood, tucking the tail of her braid inside it, and eyed the lot. Her car sat alone in its row, same as she left it, just close enough to the entrance that she didn’t have to trek too far through the rain, thank God. A gray truck was parked across the aisle; empty, thankfully. Good. She’d timed it right.

She started across the lot, crutch tapping steadily against the concrete. She was almost halfway to the car when a voice rang out; too loud, too familiar in tone, the kind she instinctively braced against.

“Hey gorgeous! Need some help?”

Abby didn’t respond. Maybe he wasn’t talking to her. Maybe he was yelling into the void. Or at the sky. Or a pigeon. Please let it be a pigeon.

Okay, Jack. Where are you? 

But then she heard sneakers slap against wet asphalt, faster than her own slow, uneven crutch rhythm. She kept her head down and her pace steady, zeroing in on her car across the lot. Mom told her never to engage; don’t look, don’t respond. Just keep moving and be aware of who was around her in case she needed help. She scanned over the parking lot; maybe that girl dad from the store was already out here. He looked like a big guy.

“Damn, you’re really gonna ignore me?” the voice asked, this time closer. She glanced over, and instantly regretted it.

He looked like if bleach damage were a person. Stringy platinum-blonde hair, too-skinny build, and a jawline that tried really hard to carry all his confidence. He had that vibe. The “works at a vape shop, calls women ‘females,’ thinks he’s deep because he owns a vinyl of Rumors” vibe. Looked vaguely like Timothée Chalamet in that one SNL skit, if Timothée Chalamet had an iron deficiency and a nicotine addiction. 

“I’m good,” Abby said flatly, trying to speed up. Which was… comical, considering the crutches.

“C’mon,” he said, flashing what he probably thought was a charming smile. “Pretty little thing like you all by yourself out here? At least let me walk to your car. Name’s Travis—”

“Hard pass.”

He chuckled, like this was all a big game. Like she was just being coy. “Damn, baby. You always this cold, or just today?”

Abby gritted her teeth and didn’t answer. Her keys were already in her hand, clenched tight. Almost there. Twenty more feet, maybe. Fifteen. Close enough to make out the shine of the holographic ‘don’t tailgate me I have rabies’ sticker on her back windshield. The guy continued to walk beside her, close enough to smell the reek of cigarettes and too much cologne that radiated off of him. She adjusted her grip on her crutches with sweaty palms.

Please be close, Jack.

“I’m fine,” she said again, sharper this time. “You can go.”

But he didn’t take the hint. Of course he didn’t. Guys like this never did. He just kept walking beside her, like this was some flirty little game instead of the waking nightmare that it was.

“Damn, why you so mean?” he drawled, tone faux-hurt. “I’m just being nice. You should smile more. Might help that attitude.”

Abby stopped walking. Turned just slightly, just enough to look at him full-on.

“Ew,” she said flatly. “Literally ew. Be so for real right now. Was this your big plan for the weekend? Harassing a girl on crutches at eight in the morning in the rain while looking like a Great Value Machine Gun Kelly?” she snapped. “Get a grip, dude. I’m not gonna smile for you. I’m not flattered. You’re not charming. You’re gross. I don’t owe you shit, so take the damn hint and leave me alone.”

Her voice came out steady, but her stomach twisted, a slow, cold knot forming in her belly. That wiped the smugness off his face for a second. Then it shifted. She turned toward her car, so close now she could practically hear Jack’s lecture. It would be 100% earned. She should have just stayed in the car. She caught her reflection in the driver’s side window; and his. Still there. Still behind her.

Her pulse jumped.

Please be close. 

She fumbled in her hoodie pocket for her keys, trying to remember where she shoved the pepper spray after the keychain broke off last month. Cupholder? Glovebox? God, why hadn’t she fixed it? Her mind raced, already picturing Jack’s name in her recent calls, trying to gauge how long it would take her to get her phone out and press his name. She could probably call him and scream at the same time. Maybe. 

He stepped closer. Abby’s back hit the car door, keys clutched tight in her fist like she could remember how Uncle Chris showed her to use them—point out, between the fingers, jab as hard as you can. Don’t hesitate.

But she did. But her brain was too loud, her thoughts too fast. Her breathing was quick, shallow. She was stuck. Her heart was pounding hard enough to drown out everything else except the sound of his voice and the smell of cigarette breath too close to her face.

Please be close. Please be close. Please be close.

“C’mon baby, don’t be like that. We’re just getting to know each other,” the guy muttered, the edge of his smirk twitching. “You don’t need be such a bitch. Just take the fucking compliment.”

“Aw, I’m sorry. Did I shatter your fragile male ego? Poor baby,” she said, though her voice shook more than she wanted it too. “Following me isn’t a compliment, jackass. I’m waiting for someone. He’s going to be here any second. Literally fuck all the way off.”

The guy chuffed out something like a laugh. He leaned closer. Abby’s back locked. “What? You think I’m afraid of your little boyfriend? What’s he gonna do?”

Please. Please. Please. 

Abby looked around the parking lot again, mind racing. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She spotted movement a few rows over; the girl dad from the store. He was loading his daughter into their car, carefully buckling her in with his back to her.

All it would take was one shout. One word. Her fingers twitched at her side. She opened her mouth to call out, but the dad was already turning. The door clicked shut, and he straightened up to turn to the empty cart. 

His eyes scanned the lot and caught on her. His brow furrowed. The shift was subtle; his shoulders tensed, mouth drawn tight. He knew. He didn’t even need to hear it.

He saw her. And he saw him. Abby’s lips parted to call for him—

“Abby!”

Jack’s voice rang out like a gunshot. 

Loud. Sharp. It cut through the parking lot air with the precision of someone used to yelling over chaos. She figured he was, the whole Army and ER doctor thing and all that, but it stopped the creep dead in his tracks before he could take another step toward her. She didn’t even turn around, just exhaled sharply, relief flooding her chest and dropping her shoulders so fast that it made her stomach churn. The guy flinched, eyes darting toward the sound. Abby finally glanced over her shoulder.

Jack was already striding across the lot, the shoulders of his Carhartt jacket dark with rainwater, jaw tight and eyes locked on Not Machine Gun Kelly. The dad stepped forward, still close to his car, but enough of a step to make it clear that he was watching. Jack was closing the distance between them fast. The guy clocked it and looked from one man to the other, calculating, shoulders bunching like he was about to make a very stupid decision.

“That’s my mom’s boyfriend,” she said quickly. She wasn’t really sure where the words came from, but it made the guy’s eyes flick down to her for just a moment. “He just got out of prison.”

The guy blinked.

“Really?” he scoffed, but his smirk wobbled.

“Yeah.” Abby didn’t blink, keeping her voice as even as she could as she continued on with the lie. It seemed to be working, and from the look on Jack’s face, the guy seemed to be buying it. She wanted to scoff at the stupidity of it; typical that he wasn’t worried until he knew a guy was watching, but it hardly seemed like the time for it. “He was in for, like, ten years. My mom said that he totally should have been in even longer, but they couldn’t really prove that he killed that guy. Probably why he only got manslaughter. Well, that, and the fact they couldn’t find the other guy.”

She let that hang and watched his face pale just a little, a flicker of unease blooming behind his eyes. 

“I’m sure you’ll be fine though!” she added brightly.

He cleared his throat and stepped back, eyes never leaving Jack as his footsteps fell heavy against the wet concrete. The guy threw his hands up.

“We’re just talking, bro,” the guy said, like that made it better. 

Jack didn’t respond. He stepped between them, slipping one arm around her shoulders without breaking stride, steering her away from the car and toward the truck with a quiet, “Come here.”

The guy opened his mouth and took a step back, but Jack didn’t so much as glance at him. Instead, he handed Abby his keys and said, calmly, “Wait for me in the truck.”

She took them without arguing, her fingers trembling as she did. She hit the unlock button and the lights of the truck parked across from her flashed.

“And lock the door,” he added, his tone soft, but the weight behind it unmistakable.

The guy had started to step back, maybe thinking he could just shrug it off and walk away. Jack didn’t let him.

“I wouldn’t, 8 Mile,” Jack said, voice level enough to make the guy stiffen. “Back it up. We’re gonna talk.”

Abby nodded and turned toward the truck, not looking back to try and listen to whatever Jack had started saying to the guy in that same, low measured tone. Her heart still pounded, but her feet moved on autopilot now. She climbed in and shut the door, locking it with a firm click before she even settled in the seat.

It was still warm inside, the faint scent of hospital and coffee lingering like he hadn’t been gone long. She could picture it a little too easily for the guilt that tightened her throat; Jack pulling into the lot, spotting her empty car, not getting an answer when he called. The way the truck was probably barely in park before he was out of it and tore into the store. She should’ve just waited. Being bored would have been better than this.

She angled herself in the seat, watching through the windshield. Abby couldn’t hear what came next, but she didn’t need to. She watched the guy’s posture shift; hands still up, then down, bravado leaking out like air from a balloon along with the color in his face. Whatever Jack said, it worked. The cockiness melted from his expression, replaced with something cold and tight and rattled.

The guy nodded at whatever Jack finished with, then turned without a word and bolted. Jack watched him go, still stone-still, still watching until he disappeared. Then, he turned towards her car, still watching for a moment before he finally looked away and reached for her car door, trying the handle. Abby clicked her fob to unlock it with still shaking hands. He pulled open her door and popped her hood long enough to see whatever he was looking for. He shook his head and closed the hood again with a loud thunk before he finally turned to walk back toward the truck, rain still coming down in light, steady sheets.

Abby sat up straighter, trying not to look like she’d been watching the whole time. She didn’t quite manage it. 

Jack climbed into the driver’s seat without a word. The door thunked shut behind him, and the rain softened against the windshield. He sat there for a moment, quiet, hands on the wheel, jaw tense. Then he exhaled through his nose, turned to her, and looked her over her, gaze dragging over her face like he was doing triage with his eyes and he had to see for himself that she really was okay.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

No.

“Yeah,” she said. Her voice cracked a little. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

She nodded, more insistently this time. “I’m fine, Jack.”

He didn’t look convinced. She shoved her hands deeper into her hoodie sleeves, suddenly aware they were still shaking. Jack leaned back slightly, then reached up and rubbed a hand over his face. His shoulders dropped just barely, like whatever tightly wound knot in him had loosened now that she was in one piece and not fending off discount Marshall Mathers in the middle of a parking lot.

“Good,” he said. “Now why the hell weren’t you in your damn car?”

Abby’s mouth opened, then closed again. Okay, she couldn’t say she didn’t see that coming. She hadn’t expected it to land like a rock in her gut when he asked it though. She busied herself with the peeling edge of her nail polish, picking the purple gel off.

“I was just going in for five minutes. It was literally fine. He was just some weird—”

“No,” Jack cut in, shaking his head. “It wasn’t ‘literally’ fine. It was almost literally really not fine . Do you have any idea what went through my head when I pulled up and your car was empty? Then, you don’t answer your phone, and I have to go looking for you? Come on, House.”

“I know. I know, I just…” She trailed off, eyes dropping to her lap. “I didn’t think it would be a big deal. It’s early. The store was empty. It was just a quick—”

Jack didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to. The quiet, clipped disbelief in his tone was enough.

“You think I’d have made it out there in time if that guy did more than run his mouth?”

Abby flinched, but didn’t answer. Okay, she deserved that too. Her fingers curled into the fabric of the pocket of her sweatshirt. Jack exhaled again. Calmer this time, like he’d gotten it out of his system.

“You scared the hell out of me, kid,” he said finally, softer now. “Next time I tell you to stay in the car, you stay in the car. Got it?”

“Got it,” she said, her voice quiet. The cab of the truck was quiet a moment before she quickly added, “I’m sorry I scared you.”

Jack looked at her. She blinked fast, trying to push back the sting in her eyes before it turned to actual tears. Jack didn’t push her, which she appreciated. Last thing she wanted to do was burst into tears and look totally pathetic. She swiped her sleeve across her face quickly. He gave a quiet nod and turned back toward the windshield.

“Your mom used to do that, too,” he said. “Pretend things didn’t rattle her. Some guy cornered her in the office at work once when we were your age; he was pissed off about his bill or some shit. She tried to handle it on her own for a while before one of us picked our heads up and noticed what was going on. She swore up and down she was good then, too, but I knew better. Still let her pretend, though.”

That stung a little, in a good way. Abby blinked hard and kept her eyes on the glove box.

“He didn’t do anything,” she said, voice small.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jack said. “You’re allowed to be afraid, kid. I already know you’re tough; I watched you white knuckle a broken leg like it was nothing. You don’t need to pretend now, either.”

That got a small, watery laugh out of her. Jack’s mouth twitched up into a half-smile at the sound, keeping his eyes forward when she sniffled to allow her a moment to wipe her eyes again. “Can we… maybe not tell my mom about that? She’ll, like, totally crash out.”

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “About what?”

They shared a look; one of those silent, threadbare smirks.

“Exactly,” Abby said, smiling faintly.

Jack leaned back and started the engine. “You eat yet? Or are you going to try and tell me that cup of overpriced creamer rotting in your car is a meal?”

“There’s coffee in it, Jack.” He snorted. Loudly. She rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Good. Me either,” he said, already easing the truck into reverse with one hand on the wheel. “I know a decent place near here.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I think we’re well past things I have to do, House.” He glanced over at her. “You hungry?”

She nodded, quieter this time. “Yeah. What about my car, though?”

“Lock it,” he said, shifting into drive and reaching over to bump the heater up a notch. “I’ll deal with it later. Battery’s toast. No use trying to jump it; thing’s three years expired. We’ll get a new one after we eat.”

Abby made a face. “They expire?”

Jack gave her a long, slow look, somewhere between exasperated and resigned. “Jesus Christ… you really are your mother’s daughter.”

Abby couldn’t help it; she laughed, the tension bleeding out of her in bits. Her head bumped back against the seat. “Thanks,” she said, and this time, she meant it.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, eyes flicking between the road and the rearview. “Text your mom. Let her know what’s up. And don’t tell me you’ll do it and then not do it.”

“Sir yes sir,” she muttered. She pulled her phone out of her hoodie pocket and typed quickly with both thumbs.

car’s super dead. i guess i need a new battery

She looked down at the text as it joined the line of still unanswered texts above it. She scrolled through them, wincing slightly at her dramatics that suddenly felt a lot less funny. She glanced back up at Jack as she thumbed through them, then sent a second right after.

i’m ok tho. jack’s here :)

The truck hummed steadily along the wet road, windshield wipers swiping in lazy intervals, the heater clicking quietly as it fought off the lingering chill. Rain streaked sideways across the window, streetlights smearing into pale gold ribbons as they passed. Abby leaned her head against the cool glass for a moment before her brow furrowed.

“…Ew,” she said suddenly, sitting up straighter. “What are you even listening to?”

Jack didn’t look away from the road. “What now?”

She let out a dramatic sigh, toeing off her shoe and propping her socked foot up on the dash like she owned the place. “Talk radio? Seriously?” She lowered the back of her seat slightly and pulled her hood up, already swiping through Bluetooth settings on her phone.

“Is that not allowed, your highness?” he asked. He reached across the center console to swat at her foot. “And get your dirty ass feet off of my dash.”

She moved her foot out of his reach and ignored the command. “Ew, you would. What are you, eighty?”

“It’s the news.”

“Even worse.” Her phone chirped as it connected to his truck. “I’m doing you a favor.”

“Abby—”

Too late. A fast, synth-heavy beat pulsed through the speakers, vibrating faintly in the door panels. “Absolutely not.”

She grinned, already shimmying her shoulders a little as she settled deeper into the seat, smug. “Too late. You’re in it now.”

Jack glanced over at her with a flat look—the kind of look that said you’re the reason I have blood pressure problems—before he repeated, firmly, “No.”

“Literally why not?”

He huffed. “Because this sounds like a computer having a seizure. What even is this? You listening to a blender?”

“It’s music,” she said, grinning as she flicked through her playlist. She could give him this one, she guessed. “You just don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t,” Jack muttered. “Because it’s not music. It’s noise. Change it before I throw us both out of this truck.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, scrolling until her thumb hit shuffle again. A slower, moodier guitar intro filtered in. Abby leaned her head back, smug. “There. Better, grandpa?”

Jack listened for a second. He squinted. “Wait. Is this—no. This is Springsteen .”

“It’s Sam Fender,” Abby said. “You said to change it! What’s wrong with this?”

Jack’s head snapped toward her like she just told him she thought Pearl Jam was a brand of jelly. “It’s what?”

“Sam Fender. You know, the guy who sings this song?”

“That’s Bruce Springsteen,” Jack said, like she’d just told him that vaccinations don’t work. “This is a cover.”

Abby gaped at him, genuinely scandalized. “It is not. This is his song.”

“Good lord.” Jack rubbed a hand down his face. “It’s a Bruce Springsteen song, Abby. I’m right. Pull it up. You’re gonna get an education, kid.”

“Hey everyone, gather around. The old guy’s talking,” she muttered. Jack scoffed beside her. “Not the Dad Rock 101. I don’t want one. I’m happy being musically illiterate.”

“Tough.” Jack tapped the wheel like it was a chalkboard. “Class is in session.”

She groaned and slumped deeper into the seat, hoodie pulled over half her face while she tapped at her screen and found the song. But there was a smile underneath it, small and stubborn, tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Jack glanced over, saw it, and smirked too. “You’ll thank me one day.”

“Can’t wait,” she muttered, then smiled wider.

Honestly, the diner looked like every diner that had ever existed in the history of diners.

Chrome-rimmed stools, syrup-sticky tables, a faint smell of bacon grease that had probably seeped into the walls sometime around 1983. Abby was pretty sure it was a federal law that all diners had to smell like that. And the interior? Checkered floors. Sun-faded Pepsi signs. A radio station stuck on Hank, Cash, and Strait in a medley Grandpa would’ve called “the last of the good music, before you kids ruined it.” And, of course, a wall of license plates from states that looked vaguely haunted. She’d walked into places just like this with her mom a thousand times; roadside pit stops on summer road trips to national parks, half the fun being whether or not the bathrooms were terrifying.

It also kind of reminded her of the diner Grandpa liked in Coldwater. Same vibe. Same waitress named Judy or Jan or Patty who had probably worked there since the moon landing. 

It was kind of cute, honestly. In a retro, vintage-y Americana kind of way that made you wonder if the ketchup packets had expiration dates or not. Probably not. 

But now that the adrenaline of her brush with Macklemore-If-Life-Had-Been-Unkinder had worn off, she was seriously too hungry to even care where Jack had taken her to eat. Whatever brain cells were still firing at this point were entirely focused on the chocolate chip pancakes and bacon she could see the waitress bringing to their booth.

Sheryl, their waitress—as declared by a glitter-puffy name badge—appeared like summoned diner magic with their food in hand. Really, she could have been the long lost twin of the waitress in Coldwater that always hit on Grandpa. Blue eyeshadow. Bubblegum pink nails. Hair that could survive a tornado without even budging. Abby was way too tempted to ask her if she had a sister named Linda who had a thing for retired grumpy sheriffs who have been married for fifty years.

Sheryl set their plates down in front of them heavily and refilled Jack’s mug with a, “There you go, hon,” before giving Abby a polite smile. “Hanging out with Dad today?”

Jack opened his mouth. “Oh, no, she’s my—”

“What do you mean?” Abby cut in smoothly, reaching for her fork without missing a beat. “He’s my boyfriend. Obviously.”

Sheryl froze.

Like, froze . Coffee pot hovering mid-pour, eyes flicking between the two of them, brain clearly trying to reroute the situation with the urgency of a GPS in a canyon. Jack rubbed his face and sighed like a man who had been through an entire war, a car fire, and an earthquake all in the same day. He laced his fingers together and rested his chin on them. “She’s kidding,” he said wearily. “Abby. Tell her you’re kidding.”

Abby smiled brightly. “I apologize. I had a rough morning and now I’m projecting. My therapist says it’s a coping mechanism. I think it just makes me really funny.”

Sheryl blinked. “Oh… uh…” She glanced down at the untouched pancakes, then back at Abby, then at Jack. “I’ll be right back with… uh...”

She turned and walked away like she was late for a fire drill.

Abby waited a full two seconds before she started snickering; more at the horror on Jack’s face bleeding into full “I’m so done with your shit, kid” exasperation than at Sheryl’s mad dash to go call To Catch a Predator.

Joke’s on her. That show wasn’t even on anymore.

As soon as Sheryl disappeared around the corner, Jack turned toward her with a look that was equal parts horrified and begrudgingly impressed. Abby was already biting down a laugh. He narrowed his eyes. 

“Why the hell would you say that?” He asked. His mouth twitched. He tried, he really did; but a short laugh slipped out anyway, low and incredulous.  Jesus, kid. What is wrong with you?”

Abby blew the wrapper off her straw like a sniper taking a shot. It sailed across the table and hit him square between the eyes.

She grinned and let out a long sigh as she dunked her straw into her glass of orange juice. “Oh, Doctor Mullet, where to begin .”

“Christ, you bounce back fast,” he muttered. Jack closed his eyes for a long moment, then shook his head like he was reevaluating every life decision that had led him to this moment. “I’m gonna have to tip double now. You’re a weird kid, you know that?”

“No, Jack. I’m hanging out with a fifty-year-old man on a Saturday because I’m a well adjusted child, obviously.” Abby dug into her pancakes, pleased as hell with herself. “Yeah,” she said through a mouthful of chocolate chips. “You should. I’m the worst. I’d tip triple.”

Jack snorted into his coffee and gestured to her plate. “Eat your food, menace. And try not to say anything else that’s gonna get the FBI knocking on my door.”

“You’re no fun,” Abby muttered, but she dug in anyway. 

He watched her drizzle maple syrup over her eggs like she was performing a hate crime. His face twisted. “Oh, gross .”

“What? My mom does it.”

“I know. I told her the same thing,” he said, taking a long sip of coffee before picking up his own fork with one last disapproving look at her eggs. “Your grandfather did, too. Never got it.”

Abby tilted her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “Wait—how’d you know that?”

“I spent a lot of mornings at your grandparents’ kitchen table, kid.”

“So… you and Mom dated for a long time?”

This time, Jack’s smile slipped a little. He leaned back slightly, letting the question sit for a second. “Yeah,” he said, finally. “Yeah, we did.”

He didn’t deflect, or joke, or find a snarky way out of it like she would when someone asked her a question she didn’t want to answer. Just looked at her for a second before turning his attention back to the mug in his hands. There was something in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Not regret, exactly. Not longing either. Just weight. Like those years still sat somewhere in his chest, untouched but not forgotten. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but not that.

Jack swirled his coffee once. “Met her on our first day of high school. She was… a lot like you. Smart. Stubborn. Big mouth,” he added, glancing over at her plate. “Didn’t know a damn thing about taking care of her car.”

“Look, if God wanted me to know, I’d know, Jack,” Abby said with all the certainty of someone who had absolutely no intention of learning anything about how a car worked. She’d made it this far without knowing. She’d make it another seventeen years. Jack let out a quiet huff of amusement, then rolled his eyes. 

Abby took a sip from her glass before she asked, “Did you have to do the whole rescue-then-breakfast routine a lot for my mom?”

He nodded. “A handful of times. Never for her battery, though. Always because she ran out of gas.” He sipped his coffee, lips tugging up slightly like the memory still lived rent-free somewhere in his mind. “She treated the fuel gauge like a suggestion. I got pretty good at pretending to be surprised when she’d call from some pay phone. Learned fast that showing up with a gas can and an ‘I told you so’ usually got me in more trouble with her than I usually already was.”

“Were you in trouble with her a lot?”

“Only on the days that end with Y.”

Abby snorted. “You know you usually get another ten miles once it hits empty, right?”

Jack looked up from his plate with a long, slow blink that conveyed the exact amount of grief that sentence had brought into his life. She burst out laughing. He just shook his head with a small smile, slicing through his eggs. “Good lord, you girls...”

His voice didn’t quite match his words, which she liked, though she wasn’t really sure why. Abby grinned and took a sip of orange juice. “I can’t even picture that. Mom fills up every Sunday morning like it’s church. She gets mad if you leave trash in the cupholders.”

“Yeah. I used to make her do that.” Jack smiled faintly. “I’m glad it stuck,” he added. Then, more to himself than to her, “My wife was the same way. I don’t think her car even knew gas existed unless I filled it. Had to save her a few times too.”

God damn it.

The mouthful of juice went sour as she swallowed it down. Abby had to keep herself from smacking down her fork at the word wife . First the human embodiment of nicotine addiction and now this? Literally what was today. The universe had to be shitting her. Had she seriously been trying to set her mom up with a married dude this whole fucking time? Ain’t no way. She chewed her eggs slowly, eyes flicking between the wedding ring on his hand— how had she missed that? —and her plate.

Oh my god.

I’ve been trying to set Mom up with a married dude.

She’s a homewrecker. Actually, no. It didn’t work that way, did it? Mom would be the homewrecker. But she was pushing it. She had a plan. They were homewreckers in cahoots. Co-homewreckers. 

But also, like, slut behavior on his part. Like, showing up to their house and then coming to get her like he didn’t have a wife? Whore. Everyone knows that’s what guys do when they like your mom. So, she guessed he was a homewrecker, too. They all sucked together. Dolly Parton could write a song about all of them.

Ugh, damn it. She was going to have to divert this entire operation, wasn’t she? She didn’t have time to dedicate to ruining his life for being gross, she was taking AP Calculus this semester. Ew, this meant she was going to have to get on board with Hoodie Guy. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he’d talk Mom into letting her get a cat. He looked like a cat guy. Who was she kidding? It was that bad. She was really going to have to have a stepdad named Robby. Tragic. 

This sucked . She had such a good feeling about this one, too. 

Abby cleared her throat and tried to recover. There were levels to this. She needed to figure out just how deep they were in this. God, she felt gross. 

Abby pushed a piece of bacon through her syrup, trying not to look like she was spiraling. But she was. Hard. Her brain was already building a roster of people they’d hurt. People they were currently hurting. People who were probably in a group chat titled Justice 4 Mrs. Doctor Mullet or something.

“Were your kids better about it?” she asked before she could stop herself. Casual. Breezy. Totally not fishing for info to determine how many people she and her mom were emotionally steamrolling.

Because if he had kids, like real, actual kids, then how many people were they hurting, Jack? And were any of them minors? Was it legal for them to try and fight her? Could she take them? She didn’t think so. Not because she never learned how to fight, but because she’d never learned how to fight and her mouth ran entirely too fast for someone who didn’t know how to throw a punch. God, please let them be adults . 

Jack paused. Just for a second, but it was enough. His mouth twitched in a way that didn’t quite make it to a smile, and he set his fork down gently.

“If I had any,” he said. “I’m sure they would be.”

Abby blinked. “Oh. Um… sorry.”

And just like that, her stomach dropped, fast, heavy, and unexpected—like missing a step in the dark. She’d thought she was just poking fun, maybe buying herself a little clarity. Instead, she’d stepped directly into another pile of shit she wasn’t supposed to see. 

He shook his head, a small wave of dismissal that didn’t quite hide the way his voice had gone softer. “It’s fine.”

She picked at her eggs and tried not to wince at herself. That felt like she’d poked a bruise she hadn’t known was there. She wasn’t trying to fish, not really. She’d just… wanted to know where the lines were.

Okay, so no kids. That’s good. Unless he wants kids. Unless he wanted them and couldn’t. Oh no. What if he still wants them? Did he know that Mom didn’t…well… even without that , she was fairly certain Mom was too old to even have a kid anyway. What if she’s out here ruining someone’s dream? And I’m aiding and abetting. We’re gonna be in court. Or therapy. Probably both. And I’m already in therapy. Ugh, Doctor Cam’s going to have a hay day with this, isn't he?

Wait, I’m literally a kid. Fuck, what if he doesn’t want kids?

Abby took a long drink of orange juice, as if hydration might flush the guilt out of her system. It didn’t. She hesitated, then tried again, quieter this time. “Did you guys… not want kids?”

Things were about to get really awkward if he didn’t answer the way she hoped.

Like, catastrophic levels of awkward. Full system shutdown. Reboot required. Like, cancel the mission, burn the evidence, retreat to a cave in the woods and never speak again awkward. She could already feel her face starting to heat, her fork hovering uncertainly above her plate like it was trying to help her backpedal. This whole mission was hanging by a thread and she hadn’t even gotten to the part where they fall in love and live happily ever after and she gets to be the maid of honor at their wedding or whatever. And now she’d gone and asked that question. But it was too late. The question was out there now. Floating between them with all the subtlety of a live grenade.

Jack didn’t rush. He just sat there for a second, eyes on his coffee, like he was winding back the clock to somewhere quieter.

“We did,” he said. “She passed away before we got the chance to.”

Abby’s stomach dipped. She blinked, her hand going still on the table.

Oh my god, he said was.

Dumbass.

Context clues, Abigail. Seriously.

And you wanna go to Penn? With this brain? Tragic.

“Oh,” she said softly, and immediately felt stupid about it. Like that word could hold the weight of what he just said. She pushed a bite of pancake through the syrup, suddenly not quite as hungry anymore on account of the self inflicted man whore-to-widower whiplash she was currently suffering from. 

“I’m sorry,” she added. This time it landed better.

Jack gave a small nod, not brushing it off exactly, but not wanting to stay there too long either. “It’s alright, kid. You didn’t know.”

The quiet crept in again, a little thicker this time. Abby didn’t mind it. Not really. It gave her a second to breathe, to think. To replay the word was over and over like it might suddenly sound like something else.

She stared at her plate and nudged a piece of pancake into a syrup puddle and watched it soak, heart doing that annoying thing where it beat just a little too hard for the situation. She wasn’t sure why she couldn’t let it go. Why it mattered so much. It hadn’t mattered to her this much when Mom started dating Ed. Then again, Ed’s wife just dumped him and left with their son to move to Vermont because he worked too much or whatever he told Mom on their first date. This felt… different, though. 

But before she could talk herself out of it, the words slipped out, small and a little unsteady.

“Do you… still want them?”

Her voice didn’t sound like she expected it to. Too quiet. A little too hopeful. Not as casual as she’d meant. She felt stupid as soon as it left her mouth; not only was it totally not her business, it came out in the most pick-me tone in the world, and she had literally no idea why. Again, she hadn’t given a single thought to it with Ed. He had Adam, and made it pretty clear that was enough for him. Jack glanced at her then, and she felt it even though she didn’t look back. Felt him pause. Felt the shift.

“I do.” 

Abby looked down quickly, hiding the flicker of a smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth before it could fully land. She took a sip of juice to buy time, to quiet the way her stomach had twisted itself into something weird and hopeful.

She could work with that. 

Maybe it wasn’t a failed operation after all.

“Cool.”

She stabbed a bite of pancake and chewed it like it might shut her brain up. She didn’t look up at him as they ate in silence. Her heart was doing a weird fluttery thing and she didn’t really trust her face not to show it.

So, naturally, she followed that deeply vulnerable moment up with the dumbest question possible.

“So, like… given all that… what’s the projected timeline on dating my mom?”

Jack choked on his coffee so hard, Sheryl turned from across the diner to check if he was dying.

“Just so we’re on the same page,” she added, sipping from her glass while he coughed and tried to catch his breath.

Jack coughed into his fist, eyes watering as he tried, and failed, to recover with dignity. Abby didn’t offer help. Just watched him, unimpressed, while she dragged a piece of egg through the syrup like she wasn’t currently blowing up his entire worldview.

“You good there, bud?” she asked dryly, arching a brow. He coughed again. “Ew, I’m not asking again. Literally just die.”

Jack finally cleared his throat and reached for his water like it might save him from further emotional whiplash. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice still rough. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me,” Abby replied, far too smug for someone who’d just witnessed a man nearly die via breakfast beverage.

Jack shook his head, exhaling slowly. “Abby,” he said, carefully, like he was trying to diffuse a very polite bomb. “Your mom and I haven’t seen each other in a really long time. We’re just… friends.”

This is a load of barnacles… Friends my ass, dude. You just worked from nighttime to daytime and left work to come get me. I’m cool, but I’m not that cool. You want to kiss my mom. Duh. He didn’t look at her when he said it. His voice trailed a little at the end, thinned in a way that made it sound less like a fact and more like a thing he was trying to convince himself of.

Abby caught it and zeroed in on it like a heat-seeking missile.

“Wrong,” she said immediately, cutting him off with a dramatic, drawn-out boo like they were at a talent show and he’d just juggled poorly.

Jack blinked. “What?”

“Boooo,” she repeated, louder. “Bad answer. You sound like a divorced youth pastor trying to convince himself he’s fine.”

He stared at her, his jaw slightly agape. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, taking another bite. “But it felt accurate.”

Jack stared at her like he was trying to decide whether or not to keep arguing or just drown himself in his coffee.

“Look,” he tried again, slow and patient like he was explaining nuclear fusion to a squirrel, “adult relationships are complicated.”

Abby gave him the most deadpan look she could muster. “Okay, but are they complicated, or are you just chicken?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she said, mimicking his earlier tone. “You like her. She likes you. It’s, like, disgustingly obvious. I already gave you my blessing; what more do you need, Mullet? A handwritten note from the president? You won’t get one. You might get a tweet, though.”

He rubbed his hand down his face. “It’s not that simple, Abby.”

“Oh, womp womp, Jack. It’s exactly that simple.” She pointed her fork at him like it was a gavel. “You’re over here saying stuff like ‘I used to make her fill up on Sundays ’ and ‘I do’ when I ask if you still want kids—”

Jack’s face did something unreadable at that, but she plowed on. 

“—and you’re telling me it’s complicated?  Lame. What’s complicated? That you haven’t seen her in a while? Dude, you literally ran out of my mom. You technically didn’t even dump her. I’m pretty sure you owe her, like, thirty years worth of anniversary flowers. People come back from space after longer breaks and NASA still lets them touch buttons.”

Jack opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. “…Did you just compare your mom to NASA?”

“No,” Abby said, “I compared you to a guy who hasn’t touched a button in a long time and needs to get over himself. It’s giving Weenie Hut Jr. And maybe I did—she likes space. She’d be cool with it.”

He let out a stunned breath, then slowly leaned back in the booth, watching her like she’d just run circles around him in a debate. Which, frankly, she had.

“Do not compare your mother to a button. That’s just…don’t,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. Jack exhaled like he already knew where this was going and wasn’t sure he was ready for it. “Abby—”

“I’m seventeen, not seven,” she cut in, not missing a beat. “Drop the sugar coating.”

He hesitated again.

“Do you still love her?”

Boom, bitch. There it was. She said it clean and plain, like she wasn’t holding her breath. Like it didn’t matter that much. Newsflash, it did.

Jack dragged a hand down his face. “It’s not that simple, House.”

“It literally is. Yes or no. That’s as simple as it gets. It’s not even an essay question. Multiple choice. Pick a bubble.”

Still, nothing. Just silence. His eyes dropped to the table. His mouth stayed shut. Abby took a sip of juice, letting the moment stretch, letting the power tilt. She watched him flounder in his own silence. 

God, this was brutal. New tactic.

“If you’re in love with my mom, say what,” she mumbled quickly before she reached for her drink.

“What?”

She pointed at him in triumph. “Ooo, got your ass.”

He groaned and reached for his coffee like it might save him. “Jesus Christ.”

“You walked right into that,” she said, totally unapologetic. “It’s not my fault I’m quicker than you in my young age. Ooo, Jack has a crush on my moooom.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“And you’re in love with my mom, fuckin’ loser.”

Jack muttered something into his mug. Abby didn’t ask what it was. She just watched the way the corners of his mouth tugged like he was trying not to smile, the faint shake of his head as he bit back a chuckle.

Yeah. She caught that.

She let it settle for a beat before she leaned back against the booth, arms folding across her chest, voice softer now. “You know… my mom’s kind of the best person in the world.”

Jack blinked at her. The shift caught him off guard. She saw it.

“She is,” he agreed.

“She’s smart,” Abby went on. “Like, scary smart. And strong. Like… gets-up-every-day-and-does-the-hard-stuff kind of strong. She doesn’t ask for help, even when she should, and she always figures it out anyway. She dropped everything to help during the pandemic when I know she was terrified, and she still never let me see it. It was really, really badass. She’s, like, the whole reason I want to be a doctor, honestly.”

Jack didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t looking away either. Just listening.

Abby’s fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin, voice soft but sure. “And I know raising me alone wasn’t as easy as she made it look. But she still did it. All of it. She’s been through a lot. And I don’t know if she talks about it with you. Probably not. She’s weird about that kind of stuff. But she deserves to be happy, Jack.” Abby shrugged a little, but her voice didn’t waver. “And I want her to be. More than anything. She’s my best friend. Not in the way kids say like ‘oh, my mom’s my best friend’. She really is, Jack.”

She looked over at him then. “So if you still love her… don’t be an idiot. If you’re just planning on leaving again and breaking her heart, then just stay gone. She deserves better than that, Jack. I don’t… I don’t think she can handle that again.”

Jack didn’t say anything. But something flickered across his face at that last part. Not quite a wince, not quite surprise. Just… something. A shift she couldn’t name, but understood. He didn’t look away though; his gaze stayed fixed on her, hands still curled loosely around his mug like he was actually listening. That alone made her chest tug a little. Abby glanced down at her plate, then pushed her fork through a syrupy piece of egg— yikes, she really drowned this, hadn’t she? Oops — before speaking again.

“I think she’s actually… really happy you’re back.” Abby cleared her throat and glanced up at Jack, catching the hopefully little thing his eyebrows did at that. “I mean it,” Abby said. “I don’t think she was expecting you to show up again, but she’s been different lately. In a good way. Lighter. She laughs more. It’s kinda nice to hear again.”

Abby glanced up at him and tried to make it seem offhand, like it didn’t matter, and shrugged one shoulder. “And I’m glad you’re back, too. I mean… I kinda like hanging out with you… or whatever...”

It sat there a second, quiet and honest in the space between them. It came out softer than she meant. A little quieter. Like she wasn’t sure what he’d do with it, so she didn’t look up to find out. The bit of warmth that bloomed in her cheeks felt less embarrassing than looking up and finding that he was totally—

Thwap.

The wrapper hit her square in the forehead.

Abby recoiled dramatically, hand flying to the spot. “What the hell!”

Jack was already smirking, elbow on the table, his straw now floating aimlessly in his water glass like it had nothing to do with the literal crime just committed. “I like hanging out with you too, kid.”

She squinted at him, rubbing her forehead like he’d wounded her pride more than anything. “You’re so annoying.”

“Right back at ya, House.” Abby rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite kill the grin tugging at her lips. Jack tapped her plate with the side of his fork. “Alright. Eat. We need to get movin’ if we’re gonna find you a new battery and get it swapped before your appointment. I need to drop by my place and let Moose out at some point, too.”

Abby looked up. “Wait, who’s Moose?”

“My dog.”

Oh, fuck yes. Amazing. A million points to Doctor Mullet. Hoodie Guy wasn’t even on the board anymore. Two dogs? Forget a cat. Never heard of her.

“You have a dog and I’m just finding out now?” Her voice pitched upward with genuine betrayal. “What the hell, Jack? How dare you. Picture. Now.”

He sighed like she was exhausting, but he was already pulling his phone out. “I fully intend on continuing your musical education the second we get back in the truck, by the way,” he said as he scrolled. “I don’t care how much slander you throw around; ‘Springsteen was kinda good’ is not a full apology.”

“I said kinda!” she fired back, just as he slid his phone across the table.

The argument evaporated.

She gasped, loud and sharp, nearly knocking over her orange juice. “Oh my God.”

Staring back at her was the goofiest-looking, chunkiest German Shepherd she’d ever seen. Big ears, crossed eyes, gray all over his muzzle and ears like he’d face-planted into a powered donut. He looked thrilled about it. Zero thoughts, just vibes. She loved him already. She was fairly certain he was the love of her life and she would die for him. She understood John Wick fully now. She wanted to make him wear a silly little hat.

Abby slapped her hand against the table. “Jack. Jack. He’s so baby.”

Jack chuckled into his coffee. “He’s a moron.”

“I have to meet him. Now. Can we leave?”

“You will,” he said. “Now eat your damn pancakes.”

She narrowed her eyes but grabbed her fork again, muttering something about “withholding critical information” while she cut another bite. Jack reached over and stole a piece just to irritate her.

“Unreal,” she said, but there was no heat behind it.

He just shrugged and chewed, satisfied. “Your mom ever tell you about her dog growing up?”

“Penny?”

“Penny,” he nodded. “She was a cool dog. She ever tell you about the time we lost Penny camping and your grandpa and I had to track her down?”

Abby shook her head and took another bite, slower this time. Jack launched into the story like someone who’d been waiting for an excuse to tell it for years. He talked with his whole face; eyebrows up, grin already forming before he even got to the good part. A certified yapper, no question. The kind of guy who used his hands like punctuation and laughed halfway through the punchline.

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t stop him. It was dumb. And pointless. And kind of nice.

She didn’t remember the last time someone told her a story like that, just to tell it. Just because they could. Most of the men in her life were background noise: teachers, coaches, her friends’ tired-looking dads who forgot her name and called her “sport.” Jack was... different.

She chewed her food and watched him, and somewhere in the middle of him describing her grandpa trying to track a runaway golden retriever through a campground in the rain, her brain took a left turn.

And just like that, she was thinking about dads again.

She’d always told herself she didn’t need a dad. She’d been too little to remember her own, and that was probably for the best. What little she did remember wasn’t exactly the stuff of warm fuzzy bedtime stories. When birthday cards started showing up–always late, always written in loopy handwriting that obviously wasn’t his that changed every year–she stopped opening them. Stopped pretending it mattered or hurt when her name was spelled with an e or an i. She never bothered to cash the checks that came in them. They felt like hush money anyway; like he was trying to throw money at a mistake to make it go away.

She had Grandpa. She had Uncle Chris. She had Mom. And Mom never let her feel like she was missing anything.

But part of her would sometimes wonder what it would be like. Not often, but sometimes; like on certain Sundays in June when the stores would be filled with stupid mugs and fishing themed cards, or when she saw her friends leave volleyball games with their dad’s arm slung over their shoulders and their bags on his.

Mia used to joke that Abby could just borrow her dad if she wanted. Neither of them thought Scott would mind. He’d always had a painfully obvious crush on her mom, anyway. But still, it had to be nice, right? Having someone to blast corny-ass Dad music like Matchbox 20 and OneRepublic and Coldplay, someone who’d threaten your boyfriend before prom in a weirdly heartfelt way, or fall asleep on the couch with the tv on and lie that he was watching it when someone tried to change the channel.

Someone who cared. Even if you didn’t ask. Someone who showed up. Not because they had to. Just because they wanted to.

Abby looked over at Jack, still yapping about Penny stealing a sandwich right off her grandpa’s plate and sprinting into the woods with it, still animated as hell, like the story couldn’t sit still in his chest. He had no reason to be here. No obligation. No rule that said he had to come help or show up or talk to her like this. But he had. Just because.

It was kind of a bummer honestly that he and his wife never got to have kids. They would’ve been lucky.

She swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat and stabbed at her pancake again, chewing like it might push the thought away before it finished forming. Because the truth was… Jack probably would’ve been a pretty good dad. 

He cared. 

And it would’ve been cool, she thought. Having a dad who cared. Even if just for a little while.

Chapter Text

Beth had fought with Abby on the phone that morning.

It had been stupid. God, it was always stupid. She hadn’t even wanted Abby to spend the night at Kenadie’s in the first place. She’d said as much the night before. PT at ten, a calculus test to study for, a mountain of homework she swore she’d finish and probably would, but still; it was the principle of it. And her first round of college applications were due in three weeks, which Beth had reminded her of multiple times because, somehow, she had become the only one in that house who seemed even remotely alarmed about deadlines. 

But Abby had insisted; they were all going to go shopping for homecoming and finish their senior overalls before next week’s game and like always, Beth folded. Because it was her senior year. Because she was tired of being the bad guy. Because she knew her brilliant, bossy little girl would get it all done anyhow and she promised that she’d be up in the morning and home by the time Beth told her to be when she threatened to check the doorbell camera at 7:15 to make sure she was there. 

She hadn’t been. Beth called four times to wake her up. By the fifth, her tone had turned sharp. By the time Beth was halfway through her drive to work, they were arguing; snapping at each other, short and exasperated, talking over one another until they finally hung up. She couldn’t remember if she told her daughter she loved her before they ended the call. Couldn’t remember what her last words were. She’d tossed her phone in her locker the second she arrived, already irritated, not realizing her watch had died sometime in the night. Not realizing Abby had been trying to call her.

That girl had been driving home from a sleepover too before she died on the table in Trauma One with her blood all over Beth’s hands. She was seventeen. Running late and driving too fast on wet, oil slick roads when she wrapped her car around a fucking telephone pole. Beth had spent the last hour trying to keep her alive, trying to keep her heart beating, trying to fix something that was already too far gone by the time she got there because someone was waiting for her to come home, too.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the fight. The way Abby’s voice had sounded, groggy and annoyed, the beep of the call ending too fast. And the last thing Beth said… was it about calculus? About her alarm? Or was it I love you? She couldn’t remember. 

Beth hadn’t let herself feel it in the trauma bay. Not while she had a job to do; her hands were working and her voice was calm and her mind was running on protocol. But when she stepped out, when she caught her reflection in the glass of the empty exam room and realized how pale she looked, how her hands were still trembling, it hit her like a wave.

That morning could’ve been their last conversation. 

And all Beth could think about—couldn’t stop thinking about—was how annoyed she’d been. How right she’d felt. How easily her baby could’ve died with her voice in her ears, saying something small and stupid and mean because she wanted her to do her fucking homework.

She couldn’t even remember if she said I love you.

And then Abby called her three fucking times because she needed her and she didn’t answer her. 

She nearly lost her fucking mind when she heard her daughter’s name in that trauma bay.

Jack had come in with that grim, tight look he always wore when something was wrong. The second she heard him say “Abby’s car,” her whole body snapped to attention like a rubber band stretched too far. Her ears rang. Her vision tunneled. She swore she couldn’t hear anything past those two words. She felt the sting of bile crawl up her throat and her pulse spike so high it made her dizzy. Her fingers stilled where they’d been suturing, and she turned so sharply she nearly dropped the needle.

“What?” she’d barked. No—she’d shouted . Voice sharp, high, panicked enough that everyone looked up for a moment before they resumed what they were doing. “What happened? What’s wrong? Jack—.”

“Hey. Hey . Look at me.” His hands came up like he was calming a spooked animal, which frankly, she felt like until he leaned in. “She’s fine,” he said quickly, his voice low. “She’s fine, Sparky. I just talked to her. She’s okay. Just a dead battery. That’s all. I’m going to go get her now, alright?”

That name knocked the air from her lungs in a completely different way. Her brain hiccuped, jolted by the softness in his voice. He hadn’t called her that in a long time. No one had. It hit her chest with more force than it should’ve. Like a match flicking to life after years left cold. She didn’t even realize how much she missed it until it fell out of his mouth like it was second nature.

Then his hand touched her back, careful and warm through her scrubs, and she felt her whole body lean into it without thinking.

“I’ve got her,” he murmured. “I promise.”

She nodded, barely managing it, afraid that if she opened her mouth she’d fall apart. She turned back to her patient, to the bleeding and the chaos and the work but Jack’s voice stayed with her. His handprint stayed like a phantom, along with that strange flutter in her chest when he told her “I’ve got her” and every muscle in her body relaxed at once. 

It had been nearly an hour before Robby made her call it. Beth knew. Somewhere deep inside, she’d known fifteen minutes in. But she couldn’t stop. Couldn’t bring herself to say it. Not when the girl was seventeen. Not when she was supposed to be home.

Beth had tried. God, she tried . Chest compressions, meds, lines, suction; everything . Her voice had stayed level, her hands steady, even as her stomach turned and her mind kept circling back to Abby. To the missed calls. To the fight. To what she would’ve done if it had been her daughter’s blood on the floor.

When the time of death left her mouth, it tasted like bile. Beth stood there for a moment after she said it, like her body couldn’t figure out how to move. Her gloves snapped when she tore them off of shaking hands, shoved them into the bin, and walked out without a word. Robby had tried to stop her, tried to say something comforting that never made it over the ringing in her ears before she shook him off. When she finally found the stairwell, she sat down hard on the landing and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth so no one would hear her sob.

She cried until her chest ached. Until she remembered that Abby was probably waiting for her, and she had no idea that her mother had spent the morning trying to save someone else’s baby who never made it home.

It took everything she had to go back in.

But she did. Because there were going to be more someone else’s babies right after that one. Plenty of teenagers who were stupid and reckless and thought that all the bad in the world would never touch them because the people waiting for them at home had protected them from all of it until they couldn’t. Ones that reminded her of Abby and who always wanted the same thing when they were brought to her.

They always wanted their mom. 

Abby had wanted her. And she didn’t answer the phone. And still couldn’t remember if she’d told her that she loved her.

She’d lost patients before. Hell, in this specialty, it was practically just part of the work week. There were nights she could still see their faces behind her eyelids when she blinked too long, voices she wasn’t sure she was imagining when the trauma bay went still. Most days, she could put it in the file, sign the paperwork, and move on to the next case before the blood on her gloves even dried. Not because she didn’t care, but because she had to. Never apathy, always survival. Because if she let herself feel all of it, she wouldn’t survive the month.

But some days, some faces, they slipped through the cracks. They seeped into the spaces of a heart she glued back together after every shift, rebuilt from splinters and spit and whatever stubborn thread kept her showing up for another one. This girl had one of those faces. Beth had felt that girl’s ribs crack under her hands. Had whispered please under her breath while pressing hard and fast on a chest too young to be still. Had looked down at her face and seen Abby. Seen her in the way her lashes clumped together. In the curve of her cheek. In the chipped purple polish on her fingernails. 

This girl found the places in Beth that she hadn't repackaged as cleanly as she told herself she had when she went home the night before. The ones that still ached if you pressed too hard. The ones that opened wide when Jack said “Abby’s car” like her world could really, truly end mid-suture. But she got lucky. Her baby just had a dead battery and was pissed off and wet and alive in her car. Why couldn’t this mother have gotten that lucky? 

Some days, it didn’t matter how long she’d been doing this. Twenty years or two, she still walked into that room and tried to save them. She still stood there afterward and watched a mother scream into her hands and wondered how the hell the world hadn’t stopped spinning. Or, in this case, stood at the hub waiting for parents who had gotten a call from a strange number at work and were racing to a hospital to hear words that never got easier to say.

She’d try to patch the cracks when she got home. The ones that girl had slipped through. The ones she’d held together with adrenaline and procedure and the soft press of Jack’s hand between her shoulder blades. She’d seal them, gently, with the sound of Abby’s voice; sharp and sarcastic and full of opinions about everything with a conviction that Beth hoped she’d never lose for a damn moment. She’d lean against the kitchen counter while her daughter talked a mile a minute, fingers flying with barely-contained outrage over a teacher’s unfair grading policy or the group project she’d inevitably ended up doing herself. Beth would pretend to listen passively, like she hadn’t been aching to hear her voice all day. She’d nod, throw in the occasional “mhm” or “she did what?” while stirring dinner, stealing glances at her girl just to reassure herself she was still there; still fine.

After dinner, after the dishwasher hummed to life and the homework was spread across the dining room table like a crime scene, they’d settle onto the couch under that crocheted blanket Beth’s mother made for Abby three Christmases ago. The one Abby claimed made her itch but always ended up curled under anyway. They’d queue up Gilmore Girls —season four, probably, even though they both agreed the writing started slipping after Chilton. Abby would quote every line. They’d compare themselves to Lorelai and Rory like they always did. They’d pass a pint of ice cream back and forth and pretend the world outside the blanket didn’t exist. And if Abby fell asleep beside her like she used to when she was little, Beth might even let herself cry, just a little. Quietly. Gratefully.

But first, she had to make it through this shift. She had to keep putting one foot in front of the other and do the next right thing. Chart the notes. Deliver the news. Keep her hands from shaking. Ignore the ghost of his hand on her back and the phantom press of his voice in her ear. Ignore the warmth still blooming there where he’d brushed his thumb against her back like he used to across the back of her hand, or how he said “I’m going to go get her” like it was the simplest thing in the world. The way The Girl Before stood beside her in the trauma room and whispered, breathless and beaming after he left, “Did you hear him? Did you hear what he called you?”

How when she finally ripped her locker open and unlocked her phone, that stupid little flutter returned the moment she read ‘i’m ok tho. jack’s here :)’ and the full body exhale that left her like it wasn’t the strangest string of sentences she’d ever fucking read. 

How it made her feel still again. 

No. Stop that.

She couldn’t think about that right now. Couldn’t let her mind drift to the brush of his fingers, the warmth of his breath on her cheek when he leaned in, or the way something had lit up her spine like a live wire the moment he touched her and stayed there, thrumming, as his voice echoed in her head. I’ve got her. I promise.

She just needed to get home. She needed to see Abby.  To wrap both arms around her and not let go.

All of… this —whatever it was—couldn’t matter. 

Then why did it feel like it did?

Nope. Focus, Baker. 

Beth kept her eyes locked on the monitor in front of her. She filed the thought away and shoved it into the same overstuffed drawer she’d been avoiding since the other night beside her car, when he’d looked at her like that. She wasn’t opening that one, either. 

Instead, she pretended the numbers on the lab order required her full concentration. They didn’t. She could have submitted it in half the time, but she wasn’t moving. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard like she was waiting for someone to hit pause on the entire goddamn day. She blinked hard, rubbed under her glasses and pushed them up on top of her head, and ignored the loose strands of hair clinging to the sweat drying on her neck. Her ponytail had given up hours ago, just like the rest of her. 

She should step into the bathroom and fix it, she thought. Take the sixty seconds she’d need to splash water on her face, breathe, maybe look a little less like she’d just walked out of the worst trauma of the week. But she didn’t. She kept entering cultures like the CDC depended on it and gnashed at the inside of her cheek like it would relieve the tension in her jaw. 

She didn’t look up when she caught movement in her periphery, or heard the heavy fall of footsteps of linoleum. Eye contact felt like a dangerous game at the moment, and she preferred not to become known to the nurses as the attending who broke down over every dead teenager. She’d already burned through whatever scrap of composure she had left pretending Robby’s little post-mortem powwow he’d pulled her into when she came back in was anything more than suppressing grief in nicer packaging while she stood there with hands at her sides and picked at a hangnail until it bled. Still, he stood across the counter, hands stuffed into the front pockets of his hoodie he wore every shift like a second skin like he’d wandered over without a plan. 

“You did good work in there,” he said gently.

Beth kept her eyes on the monitor and blinked fast against the sting in her eyes. Bit the inside of her cheek until it stung. Don’t look up, she told herself. Don’t look up. Don’t look up. 

“There was nothing else you could’ve done.”

She bit down on her tongue hard. She knew that. Of course she knew that. But knowing it didn’t do a damn thing for the ache in her chest or the way her jaw kept locking tight around the noise she refused to let out. It wasn’t going to do a damn thing for that little girl’s mother, either. 

“I can talk to the girl’s parents when they get here,” Robby offered. 

Beth’s fingers hesitated above the keyboard. 

Alyja, she wanted to snap. The girl’s name was Alyja. She had purple glitter nail polish, and mismatched socks—one with little oranges, one gray and white striped. I noticed when I was cutting her clothes off. It probably drives— she swallowed hard— drove her mom nuts that she wouldn’t just match her socks when she did her laundry. She was seventeen. She was someone’s baby. Someone was waiting for her. 

Her voice came low, tight. “No. I’ve got it.”

“You sure?”

Don’t look up. She sent off the requests and clicked into the next chart. “I’m sure,” she said flatly. 

“Hey, why don’t you take the afternoon?” he asked. “Go home? Be with Abby?”

Beth shook her head immediately. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Beth hummed and logged out of the terminal with a click that felt a little too loud. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a terrible flirt, Robinavich?” She allowed herself a quick glance up, meeting big, soft brown eyes with a tight smile before she stepped out from behind the counter and lied again. “I’m fine. Really. I’ve got a toe to sew back on in Eight.”

She left him at the counter before he could push again. She didn’t want to be coddled. Didn’t want to be sent home early like it was a pat on the head or met with soft, understanding looks from across ER counters like she was made of glass. She just wanted to get through the rest of her shift. To keep her head down and her hands busy and not think about the girl in Trauma One or her mother, wherever she was, not knowing yet.

Beth closed her eyes and drew in a slow, steadying breath, then pulled out her phone, checking for a text from Abby. Still nothing new. Just the same one from nearly an hour ago under the barrage of her snarky texts that hit her like a gut punch: jack’s taking me to get a new battery. all good, promise :)

She read it again. And again. And that stupid flutter returned. Low and persistent like a hummingbird trapped behind her ribs that she just couldn't release.

She didn’t understand why. That was never a name she expected to hear from her daughter, much less in that context. Not like that. Not with trust behind it. Not with a smiley face. Not like it meant something. She didn’t know what to do with that. With the picture it painted; him showing up, sitting behind the wheel, letting her pick the music and rolling his eyes at her jabs before throwing them back like they had spent the last seventeen years perfectly in sync.

She didn’t know what to do with the way something warm settled in her chest every time she thought about it. The same way it had that night at the dinner table, when Abby laughed so hard she snorted and Jack grinned like he’d won something.

Beth hadn’t let herself look too closely at that feeling then. And she didn’t now. And yet, there it was. Jack . Of all people. Pressing his hand against her back and whispering ‘I’ve got her’ before picking her up from a Target parking lot like it was just a line item on his to-do list. Like he meant every word he said.

She’d thought he meant every word he’d said then, too.

Still, something persistent coiled in her chest, the same feeling that had bloomed, uninvited, when she watched him make her daughter laugh across the dinner table and smile like he had won something. She hadn’t immediately tamped it down now the way she had then. That was the part that stuck with her. It lingered—warm and gentle and dangerously pleasant—and damn her, she liked it.

Fuck, what was he doing to her?

She’d been just fine for the last thirty years. Everything had its place. Things had been quiet; maybe not pretty, maybe not easy, but settled. Functional. Clean. Things had been packed up and labeled, shoved into the deepest corners of her chest where she didn’t have to look at them. Then he came back in like the damn mess he’d always been, and now the contents of everything she’d boxed up and buried were suddenly scattered across the floor again like it hadn’t taken her years to get them put away.

Two months. That’s all he’d been back. And already, every time he looked at her like that, like he was seeing every year that passed and still chose to step closer, That Girl stirred. That version of herself she thought she’d grown out of; the stupid, hopeful version of herself she thought she’d buried a lifetime ago sat up and leaned forward, aching for his eyes the way they used to be: soft. Certain. Hers .

That Girl had been with her in the trauma bay. Standing at her shoulder when he said that stupid fucking nickname he gave her when she accidentally started an electrical fire in the chem lab sophomore year like it was still theirs, wide-eyed and soft. She’d followed them to her car after the bar, curled up in her chest and whispered, just let it be like that again. Just for a moment. Just until it stopped feeling like pretending and stopped hurting, just for a minute.

She hated how fast that girl came alive. How easily she slipped in beside her and whispered things Beth had worked so hard not to want anymore. She hated that part of herself that hadn’t packed away those boxes as neatly as she’d always claimed. That hopeless, foolish, stupid part of her that, for one brief second on that sidewalk, had wanted to curl her fingers into his shirt and tell him just to come home , even if it was only for the night. Even if they’d both just be pretending. The part that still remembered every promise he ever made, the ones that echoed in the shape of what had passed between them in that trauma bay when she had to fight the urge to turn into him, to press her face to his neck and whisper thank you. 

The part that still, stupidly, met his eye every time he looked at her that way and wanted it to be something.

God help her, she wanted it to be.

Stupid girl.

Beth’s jaw tightened as the flutter in her chest refused to settle. She thumbed her phone screen off and shoved it deep into the pocket of her vest like it burned.

Enough .

It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t. She was tired, wrung out, bleeding at the seams. That was all.

She exhaled hard through her nose and pushed into the exam room, not giving herself another second to think before she introduced herself with a smile she hoped passed for genuine. Not about her chest. Not about how shitty of a mom she felt like. Not about Jack. Not about the girl in Trauma One. Her hands moved on autopilot, reaching for gloves, scanning the chart, noting the toe; clean laceration, clean break, clean fix.

Good. She needed clean. She could do that. One clean injury, one clean solution. Something she could sew back on and walk away from. Not whatever the hell this mess was. This… this feeling that refused to be boxed up no matter how many times she tried. She needed something she could fix. She needed to fix something .

And more than anything, she needed to stop letting the warmth in her chest win.

Beth pulled on gloves with a snap, grabbed the chart, and forced herself to focus on the numbers, the margins, the wound. Let her hands do what her head couldn’t. She wasn’t That Girl. Not anymore. Not now. That girl didn’t belong in this room, didn’t belong in this shift, didn’t belong in her.

So she’d sew the damn toe back on, and she’d do what she always had; she’d do the next right thing and keep moving. One clean line at a time.

DIY home renovations in flip-flops was a… bold choice. Professionally, she wouldn’t recommend putting new tile down in the kitchen with your ‘dogs out’, as Abby would so delicately put it. But judging by the earful the patient’s wife had been delivering for the entire duration of the suture job, she probably didn’t need to hear it from the ER doc too.

Then again, she wouldn’t consider herself the authority on proper home reno footwear. She’d torn out the wall between her dining room and living room last summer in a pair of Ugg slippers on an HGTV whim after an episode of Love It or List It convinced her that it would really open up the space. She still remembered the way the drywall dust clung to them, and how Abby had threatened to film her for one of those “midlife crisis mom” TikToks. But at least she hadn’t left a tile saw on the floor. Just ruined a perfectly good pair of slippers. It did really open up the first floor, though. And the TikTok she and Abby made was pretty cute.

Beth stepped out of the exam room and peeled her gloves off with a tired snap, tossing them in the bin before pulling the curtain closed behind her. She sighed and pushed both hands into her hair, trying to tame whatever had come loose and shoved her glasses back up on top of her head in an attempt to secure it. They slid a little, but she didn’t care enough to fix them.

At the tracking board, she checked her phone on reflex and immediately felt the twist of guilt in her chest. A missed call and voicemail from Abby illuminated her screen, the timestamp stared back at her like a disapproving glare. Figured. She’d been busy stitching up a woman who’d nearly filleted her toe in the name of a “simple kitchen update” while she smiled and nodded while silently judging every Home Depot commercial ever made, all the while proving to her daughter that she was as shitty a mom as she already felt. 

God, she needed to charge her damn watch. Maybe she’d order an extra charger tonight, keep it in the glove box. Fifteen bucks seemed like a small price to pay to avoid this awful sour feeling again. 

She tapped the voicemail and brought the phone to her ear. She startled a little at the first sound; Abby’s laugh. Bright and high and joyful. The most beautiful thing she’d heard all day.

“Oh my god! I’m doing it, Jack. Stop nagging. I’m calling her,” she laughed, some Gracie Abrams song playing under the sound of his own laughter. Beth swallowed the twist in her chest at the noise of those two sounds mingling and listened. “Hi Mom! I guess you’re, like, super busy or something but whatever. Jack wanted me to call and tell you that I’m not dead, so. Here I am. Not dead. Hope work is okay. Love you! There, Mullet. Happy?”

“Oh, absolutely thrilled,” she heard Jack say flatly, a laugh edging his tone. “Ecstatic, really. You know, I think this might actually be the–”

“Oh my god, don’t start–”

She didn’t pull the phone from her ear right away when the voicemail cut out. She stood frozen in front of the tracking board with the hum of the ER around her and the sound of Abby’s voice echoing in her ear. Even though the message had cut out mid-word, it had been just enough–those few seconds–to settle the churning in her stomach before it returned, different and tight, when she considered the second laugh.

When she finally blinked and glanced down, the screen had already gone dark. She tapped it once, illuminating the screensaver image of her and Abby in Kauai that spring that she’d asked a stranger to take. She just needed to be sure, she told her. Maybe it was just a trick of her exhaustion. 

But the proof came in the shape of Abby’s name right about the file of a voicemail she’d never expected. Of two laughs– two –she’d never expected to hear together outside of daydreams when she had been younger and trapped in the delirious exhaustion of new motherhood. Her daughter and…him. 

Beth’s thumb hovered over the play button. She knew she shouldn’t; that it was ridiculous to listen again. She already knew what was there. She should put her phone away. Take the next patient. Consider why it didn’t feel stranger to her that her daughter was spending the morning with a nearly fifty-year-old man, much less one who was her ex-boyfriend. But she listened again anyway to the brief flash of her daughter’s voice, bright and so damn happy , and then his dry reply in the background.

When it ended, she let the phone rest against her chest and stared up at the screen, her arms crossed tight over her chest like it could hold back what threatened to pour out as something in her cracked right down the middle.

She likes him , That Girl whispered, gripping Beth’s arm and bouncing on her toes as she grinned. He likes her. They sounded like something. This could be our something.

Beth didn’t tell her that she was wrong. Didn’t shake her off or throw her back to the tides. But she didn’t admit that she was right, either. It sounded like that life she’d packed away and labeled Do Not Touch before she buried it so deep she thought it had rotted through. It was there. Her daughter. Her Jack. Laughing together like they’d always known how.

She didn’t tell That Girl that she liked it. Instead, she squeezed her hand and hid the small smile she couldn’t keep hiding before she turned her ringer all the way on and typed out a text with fingers that ached from the morning:

Hi boo. So sorry I keep missing you today. Call me when you get this—my ringer is on. If I don’t answer, call Miss Dana. Love you so big.

She stared at it for a second, rereading “Love you so big” twice before hitting send.

She slipped her phone into her pocket and wandered over to the hub, where Dana was scribbling something onto a clipboard with the same focused fury she always had when they were short-staffed. She hadn’t realized that she was still smiling until she caught her reflection in the dim screen of one of the monitors, tugging at her mouth like it had been waiting to slip out all day.

Before she could tame her face, Dana clocked it almost instantly. A small smirk tugged at her lips as she watched Beth over her glasses. “What’s that about?”

“Nothing,” Beth said quickly, still trying to school her face into something neutral, but her friend raised her brows with a disbelieving look.

“Oh yeah?” Dana arched a brow. “You sure it doesn’t have anything to do with a certain handsome nightshifter swooping in to save the day like some ER cowboy?”

Beth exhaled a soft laugh and rolled her eyes, but the heat that crawled up her neck betrayed her. “It was a dead battery. Not exactly a daring rescue.”

“And I suppose you blushing over your phone like a teenager is just a coincidence then?” Beth opened her mouth, then closed it, caught. She tried to mask it with a little shrug, but the gesture only seemed to confirm that wicked way Dana grinned at her. Dana stepped closer and leaned against the counter, her voice dropping. “Just sayin’, Red. If someone who looked at me the way he looks at you went rushing out of here to help out my kid? I’d be feeling a little appreciative, too.”

“You’re terrible,” Beth snorted, chewing her lip to keep from smiling again as heat crawled across her chest. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

Dana’s smile softened. “You don’t have to keep pretending that it’s nothing, Beth,” she said. “He’s good to her.”

Beth didn’t answer. She looked down at her hands, still trembling faintly from adrenaline, from the crash of grief, from whatever the hell Jack stirred up in her chest again, and let out a long breath. “He is, isn’t he?”

“That’s gotta count for something.”

It counts for too much. That’s the problem.

Beth toyed with the cuff of her quarter zip. It wasn’t the top she’d shown up in the morning. A sorority girl with alcohol poisoning had made quick work of that. “ Any word from the girl’s parents?” Beth asked.

Dana looked up and gave a small shake of her head, holding out the discharge paperwork for Toeanna Gaines in Exam Eight that Beth had forgotten she printed. “Not yet. They’re on their way, though. Kiara’s keeping an eye out.”

“Thanks, D,” Beth said absently, grabbing the printed discharge papers from the nurse’s outstretched hand.

She straightened up with a wince. Her ponytail officially gave up the ghost; threw in the towel, turned in its letter of resignation and flipped off Gloria on the way out. A rogue section of hair dropped straight into her eyes as if it had been waiting for the opportunity just to piss her off. She blew it away half-heartedly, but it clung stubbornly to the sweat at her temple.

Beth let out an annoyed breath. That was it.

She ripped the hair tie out of her hair with one hand, dragging her fingers through the mess, and marched herself to the nearest bathroom like she had a purpose. She didn’t. Not really. But for the first time since the trauma, she let herself take the sixty seconds she hadn’t let herself have. Just a minute. Just to breathe. Just to stop pretending her chest wasn’t still tight. She leaned back against the door as it shut behind her, the cool of the metal bleeding through the fabric of her top. Her hands went to her hips. Her head tipped back. The overhead light buzzed softly above her, casting everything in that particular, unflattering yellow hospital wash. For once, she didn’t care.

She tried her best not to meet her reflection in the mirror as she hastily threw her hair up. But, as if the universe just needed to jab at her one final time, the elastic snapped and broke in her hand. Beth let her hair fall around her shoulders and exhaled heavily, closing her eyes. 

Fine. 

She sighed and turned towards the door. There had to be a clip in her locker. Probably one of Abby’s; that pink one she snagged on her way out of the door last week or the one with stupid little teeth that never held her hair right, but still. It would do the trick. She’d order her more tonight to replace the ones she’d borrowed. And a charger. One for her car, maybe one for work, too. She was done gambling with dead batteries.

Some days, the Leanne Baker Rule didn’t work as well as it did on others.

Beth had followed it anyway. Stripped out of her scrubs like shedding skin, traded them for the soft familiarity of yoga pants and an old college sweatshirt two sizes too big like worn cotton and elastic waistbands would erase the day. She’d stepped out of sneakers stained in blood she couldn’t get out and didn’t try to anymore. Let her ponytail give up the fight to gravity somewhere around the exit sign in the staff parking lot. 

It was all muscle memory. Going through the motions like doing the right things in the right order might trick her brain into thinking she was okay.

But the weight of it stayed with her, clinging like smoke. That heaviness didn’t care about clean clothes or comfort. It sat with her on the drive home; silent, full of judgment, and impossible to ignore.

She didn’t get out of the car right away. She sat in the driveway, parked in front of the house while the opening chords of Boulevard of Broken Dreams crackled through the speakers. She’d cranked the volume somewhere around the freeway, somewhere between needing to feel something and needing to hear anything but that mother’s scream before she collapsed into Beth’s arms and begged. The music didn’t help; not really. But the silence felt worse.

She stayed like that for a while. Long enough for the song to end and another to start. Long enough to feel the ache creep back into her chest despite the sweatshirt emblazoned with the insignia of the school she’d ruined them for. 

When Robby had offered to send her home early again, she hadn’t argued. She hadn’t even waited for him to finish the sentence. She’d already been halfway to her locker, keys in hand, heartbeat in her ears. She couldn’t stand another second in that building with the memory of that trauma bay echoing in the tiles. Not with That Girl still whispering she likes him like it meant something. Not with the ghost of Alyja’s blood still on her hands, under her nails, soaked into her skin like it had a right to stay.

No, the Leanne Baker Rule didn’t fix it today. But she followed it anyway, because some days, the motions were just all she could manage.

Beth watched the rain slap against the windshield, her wipers idle now, streaks of water distorting the world just enough to make everything feel a little farther away. The sky was still that dull, heavy grey that made everything look colorless except for the trees. The red and orange leaves clung stubbornly to the branches lining their street, defiantly bright against the gloom. Abby’s car sat just ahead of hers, right where it should be. That dumb “ don’t tailgate me I have rabies ” sticker was crooked on the back windshield, just below the streak left by the wiper blade. The disco ball hung from the mirror, catching no light, just a dim, scattered reflection in the rain-muted dark.

Beth’s chest ached. She closed her eyes and let the final chords of Brain Stew rattle through the frame of the car, the heavy percussion shaking the silence loose from her ribcage. Then, with a breath she didn’t fully release, she turned the key, let the engine die, and stepped out onto the rain-dappled sidewalk. The cold bit through the soft cotton of her sweatshirt almost immediately, but she didn’t rush.

The red brick house was quiet from the outside. The lights were on inside, muted yellow behind the curtains. She came through the door without thinking, the motion weightless until the gym bag thunked to the hardwood with a heavy slap. She didn’t look down at it when she nudged it aside with her foot. She’d deal with the scrubs later when she had the energy to dump them in the washer and not think about how much of today still clung to them. Tomorrow morning, maybe. Right now, she wanted to shower, order something shitty, and sit with her kid.

The tv was on when she came in, far too loud as usual, but the sound made her pause in the doorway for just a moment, if only because of how wholly expected it was. She tossed her keys into the dish beside Abby’s and started to shrug off her jacket to hang it by the door with her purse when she heard it: nails on hardwood, the jingle of tags, and a low thud that could only mean one thing.

Or so she thought.

Her first instinct was automatic, conditioned by years of routine. She looked down, ready to greet the dog that—

That’s not my dog.

A startled breath caught in her throat as a rather rotund graying German shepherd rolled onto his back at her feet, tail thumping, ears flopped back like a doofus in a dog suit. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, teeth displayed in a goofy grin, panting happily as he presented his round belly like she was someone he’d known all his life.

Beth blinked at him, stunned. “What in the hell…?”

He panted harder, as if to say Well, are you gonna scratch it or what?

She did. 

She stopped halfway through taking off her jacket when she straightened back up, watching Not-Atlas warily until she spotted the unfamiliar Carhartt hanging on the hook beside Abby’s jacket and her own purse, faded brown and damp around the hem, heavy with rain. She let the denim fall back to her shoulders while she looked between it and the dog. Not-Atlas twisted around clumsily and stood, sneezing before he lumbered off to the living room and jumped up on the couch.

The mystery of the dog and jacket didn’t stay unsolved for long. A voice echoed from her kitchen with infuriating casualness over the sound of the tv. 

“So when does she start dating the Kelce kid?”

Beth stilled in the entryway, hands halfway to the collar of her jacket. She hadn’t quite managed to attempt to shrug the wet denim off a second time before the conversation stopped her in her tracks the same as the strange dog in her house. She stepped down the entryway and the couch came into view, the glow of the tv throwing shadows around the room. She swallowed down the noise in her throat when she saw Abby leaned back into the cushions, the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up over her head, her school laptop open in her lap and balanced atop the Christmas blanket. Atlas was curled in a tight little knot against her hip, nose tucked to tail. Not-Atlas was splayed dramatically on his back beside her with his paws in the air like a cartoon drawing of a dead bug, tongue lolling, completely unbothered by the fact that this was absolutely not his house.

Beth’s heart tugged once, tight and quiet, then let go. She lingered in the entryway, watching the exchange quietly. 

“Oh my god, Jack. We are years away from that,” Abby said, exasperated and amused all at once. She lifted a hand from her keyboard to pat Not-Atlas’s side. The dog wiggled happily and pushed his head into her side with a contented grunt. “We haven’t even hit the Matty Healy era yet. Pay attention.”

“Right, sorry,” Jack’s voice floated in from the kitchen, easy over the rush of the faucet and the clicking of Abby’s typing. “So, this Scooter Brown—.”

“Scooter Braun,” she groaned, shooting a dry glare toward the kitchen doorway. 

“That’s what I said. Who’s not listening now? Anyway, Skipper Vaughn—.”

Abby sighed, but Beth caught the little smile illuminated in the glow of her laptop screen. “You are so exhausting.”

“I’m just trying to keep up, kid,” Jack called back, unbothered. “You’re like a damn soap opera recap in there. Not sure what any of this has to do with that calc test.”

“I knew you weren’t listening,” Abby said with a sigh, but she didn’t sound mad. If anything, she sounded a little pleased. 

Beth stood in the entryway, watching them. For a second, it didn’t even feel like she’d walked in. It was like she’d been standing there forever, on the edge of something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to step into. She hadn’t seen Abby smile like that in… well, how long had it been? Her stubborn, brilliant little girl didn’t share that smile easily; all teeth and wide enough to push up her cheeks and crinkle her nose. But there it was, shining from her like gold, while Jack moved through her home like he was simply a part of the furniture. Like he’d always known how to be the soft landing for a kid that wasn’t his. For a cruel, brief, beautiful, aching moment, it felt like home.

Beth’s fingers stilled on the jacket as that hummingbird came on quiet and warm, fluttering in her gut like it was trying to escape. Jack glanced at Abby from the kitchen doorway, something softening in his face when she rolled her eyes at him and laughed before returning to her homework, and that flutter turned into a steady beating. The way he teased her, gently, and left room to push back, didn’t bristle to her snark, but rather returned it with his own clever jab that drew out that rare smile. The way he looked at her girl like he saw her. No one had looked at her like that before. Not her teachers, not her coaches, not her friends’ parents, not Ed. Certainly not Russell. But Jack didn’t look at Abby like she was some puzzle to crack or some problem he had to fix. 

He looked at her the same way he had Beth all those years ago.

“I was!” Jack called back defensively.

“You’re not. But okay,” Abby muttered, still typing without looking up. “And for the record? If I have to listen to your boomer road trip playlist every time we get in the truck, you can absolutely suffer through my Swiftie TED Talk.”

He chuckled from the kitchen. “My music’s not that old. Some of it’s from the 2000s.”

“Oh wow. Next you’ll tell me your taste in women is just as current.”

Jack choked on his laugh and stepped into the kitchen doorway with an exaggeratedly offended look, dishrag in hand. “That felt targeted.”

“It was.” Abby grinned, sinking a little deeper into the couch cushions, smug and glowing with the satisfaction of a well-landed jab. “Now shut up and pay attention.”

He rolled his eyes and wiped his hands. “Bossy.”

“Old,” she shot back without missing a beat.

“Watch it,” Jack warned, pointing the dishrag at her like a white flag he wasn’t really waving before stepping back into the kitchen. “I can go pull that alternator right back out, kid. Keep it up. Hey, where does your mom keep the dish soap? This Bath & Body Works crap you have in here sucks.”

Beth watched from the shadows of the entryway, the smile curling at the edge of her mouth as involuntary as the sting in her eyes. She placed a hand on the wall to steady herself as she kicked off her sneakers, still watching Abby smile and toss back another quip that Jack volleyed back.

“It’s under the sink,” she called out, her voice catching in the quiet between their laughter.

Abby’s head snapped up. “Hey, Mom!” she beamed, immediately brightening. One hand reached for Atlas, who stirred just slightly against her hip before resettling with a grumble. 

Beth’s breath left her in a slow exhale. Not-Atlas thumped his tail lazily at the sound of her voice. She stepped further into the room, returning Abby’s smile with one that didn’t feel forced as she crossed the living room to wrap her arms around her from behind the couch.

Jack appeared in the kitchen doorway a second later, dishrag still in hand. He leaned one shoulder against the frame, easy and at home in a way that made something twist in Beth’s chest and made the trauma bay feel far away. A well-worn hoodie replaced the scrub top she’d seen him in that morning, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, his forearms streaked in grease. His hair was still damp from the rain, flattened a bit, curls sticking in every direction like he’d dragged his hand through it one too many times. 

He met her eyes and offered a soft, crooked smile; quiet and familiar. Beth felt the weight of it settle somewhere low in her belly.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” she breathed. 

“Mom, you’re choking me.”

Beth loosened her grip automatically, but didn’t let go. She pressed a kiss to the top of Abby’s head instead, then pulled back just enough to see her face; cheeks pink, eyes bright, safe. Whole. Breathing. That flutter in her chest ached and swelled all at once.

She looked up and found Jack still leaning in the doorway, watching them with something quiet and unreadable behind his eyes. She met his gaze and gave him a small, tired smile.

“Thanks for going to get her,” she said, her voice soft but steady.

Jack shrugged, brow hitching as he made a dismissive little noise. “No big deal. Happy to help.”

“Seriously.” She meant it. Let it hang there in the quiet between them, heavy with more than just gratitude.

He just nodded, and Beth could almost believe that was enough. She brushed Abby’s hair back gently, eyes still on Jack as she asked, “Why aren’t you home? You didn’t have to stick around.” She winced the second the words were out, biting lightly at the inside of her cheek. “I just mean—”

“He had to play mechanic in the driveway,” Abby cut in, as if she could rescue her from the stumble. “My car was, like, big dead.”

Beth’s eyebrows lifted, eyes flicking to Jack again. “Big dead?”

Jack grinned, a little smug. “Terminal.”

“Anyway,” Abby went on, “we got a new battery after breakfast.”

Beth’s gaze darted back to her daughter. “Breakfast?”

Abby nodded casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Yeah. Jack took me to get something to eat after he got me. Made me listen to his old-man music in the truck.”

Jack groaned and tipped his head back like he was begging the ceiling for patience. “You have no taste.”

“Oh my god, I’m literally talking,” she snapped, not looking up from her screen.

“Oh my god, I literally hear you,” Jack shot back.

“Shut up, Jack.”

Beth couldn’t help it—she laughed. It started small, curled at the corner of her mouth, then bloomed into something fuller, looser, warm in her throat. She looked at Jack again and saw the same smile reflected there. Abby looked up at the sound of it, then ducked her head with a grin of her own, cheeks flushed. For a second, they were just here; in the living room, together, with dogs and dumb jokes and the kind of ease Beth hadn’t felt in months. The tightness in her chest let go. Not all the way, but enough that she finally felt like she could take a full breath. 

“ Anyway, ” Abby said, lifting her chin with exaggerated dignity, “as I was saying before I was interrupted—” she shot a pointed glare at Jack, “—we got a new battery for my car. Did you know they expire? I thought you had the same battery for, like, ever. But apparently, you’re supposed to get a new one every five years? Jack said mine was the original. Wild, right?”

Damn it. She’d been meaning to replace that. Beth raised an eyebrow, already halfway to a smirk. “Honey, do we keep the same batteries in the remote?”

Abby frowned. “No… oh—wait.” Her eyes widened as the metaphor clicked into place. “They’re like a battery -battery? You didn’t say that.”

Jack dragged a hand down his face. “Why would it be called a battery if it wasn’t a—?” He gave up halfway through, muttering something under his breath that Beth was pretty sure ended in Jesus Christ.

Abby snorted, actually snorted , and then covered her mouth with both hands, wide-eyed. Beth blinked, startled by the sound. It was so sudden, so full and real that her own eyebrows flew up like they’d been pulled on a string. When was the last time she had heard that ?

“Oh my god, Jack!” she said between giggles. “Stop interrupting! I’m trying to talk!”

Jack lifted his hands, a smug little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “By all means. Please continue the riveting saga of the world’s most abused Subaru. I’ll keep the commentary to myself.”

Beth didn’t interrupt. She just listened and let herself enjoy it, letting That Girl sit on the arm of the couch and watch in wonder as her Abby laughed. Beth snorted a quiet laugh when Jack rolled his eyes and chuckled, and her smile pulled a little wider despite herself. 

“Alright,” she said, glancing between them, “so you two got a new battery?”

“Well, kinda,” Abby said, already gearing up. “We got one, and Jack showed me how to change it, which was actually kinda cool. But my car still wouldn’t start. He thought it was something wrong with my…” She turned toward Jack, lifting her eyebrows in question. “Alternator, right?”

He nodded once, that proud little half-smile blooming on his face, quick and subtle, but full of something warm that made Beth’s cheeks feel hot.

Abby caught it and grinned back, then turned to her mom with a shrug. “So he said he’d just drive me to my appointment since he, like, crashed out over the idea of me taking an Uber or whatever. And we went to go look for a new alternator after so he could fix my car. And I got to meet Moose, which was the best part. Even though someone never told me he had a dog. Like, rude.”

Beth’s gaze drifted to the dog, still upside down and very much asleep on her couch like he paid rent.

“This is Moose,” Abby added, giving his belly a pat. “He’s literally the stupidest dog I’ve ever met.”

Moose snorted in his sleep, tongue flopping even further out the side of his mouth like he’d taken that as a compliment.

Jack crossed his arms loosely over his chest from the doorway. “He’s not stupid. He’s just… simple. He’s a good boy.”

“He’s a great boy,” Abby said proudly, scratching behind Moose’s ear. “And I love him.”

Beth just shook her head, smiling into Abby’s hood. It was too easy to slip into this; into them, like them was even something they were. And that was maybe the scariest part of all. Beth looked between them, letting her eyes linger just a second too long on Jack. There was something in her expression when she looked at him, a tug at the corner of her mouth that didn’t quite become a smile, but wasn’t nothing either. Familiar. Fond, even. Maybe a little curious.

“Sounds like you two have had a busy morning.”

“Yeah,” Abby said, already halfway through scritching Moose’s ears. “Jack just finished. It’s been kinda fun, though.”

Beth’s gaze lingered on Jack. Her voice softened just slightly. “Sounds like it.”

“He also told me you ran out of gas, like, all the time,” Abby added cheerfully.

Beth rolled her eyes. “It was not all the time. ” A short laugh slipped free as she turned to Jack, pointing an accusing finger. “It was twice . Stop lying to her.”

Jack smirked, not even pretending to feel bad. “It was three times.”

“Whatever.”

Beth shook her head, but the smile stayed. At least until Abby tilted her head and asked, “Wait, why are you home so early? Don’t you get off at seven? It’s, like… three.”

Beth’s breath caught just enough to make Jack glance up.

“Oh, um…” She stiffened and gave Abby’s hair a little smoothing pass with her fingers, like the contact might anchor her. “They didn’t need me at work, so they sent me home. Kind of nice, huh?”

Abby nodded slowly, but Beth could tell she wasn’t buying it. Her daughter didn’t push, though. She turned back to Moose, who had begun lazily licking her cheek with impressive commitment.

“Dude,” Abby said, scrunching her face. “Your breath smells like straight ass . Get out of here.”

Moose flopped against her harder, satisfied.

Beth laughed softly but felt it waver at the end. She glanced toward the kitchen and caught Jack watching her. It wasn’t obvious. But it was the kind of attention that made her skin feel too tight, like the seams of her sweatshirt didn’t sit right on her shoulders. He wasn’t grinning now. Just looking at her the way he used to when they were younger, when she’d try to pretend everything was fine and he never let her get away with it; like he could still see the fault lines under her skin before they shifted and shook. She looked away first and bent to grab her gym bag without saying anything more, clutching the straps like she needed the weight in her hands.

“I’m gonna throw these in the wash,” she murmured, already turning toward the hall. “Be right back.”

Beth didn’t let herself breathe until she reached the laundry room. The hallway felt too long, like walking through molasses, her bag thumping against her thigh with every step. Her hand clenched the strap so tightly her knuckles ached. She didn’t glance back, didn’t check to see if Jack was still watching her. She knew he was. She could feel it like a weight at the base of her neck.

She stepped inside the laundry room and shut the door behind her with a soft click. Only then did she exhale, shaky and uneven, like it had been caught in her chest for hours. The silence felt too loud in here, but it was private. Dim, except for the strip of afternoon light bleeding through the half-shut blinds above the washer. She dropped the gym bag on top of the machine with more force than she meant to, the vibration of it jarring through her wrists.

Her fingers trembled as she found the zipper. It stuck once, because why the fuck wouldn’t it, and she tugged it harder. The sound of it opening felt louder than it should’ve, echoing in the close space.

Beth didn’t look at what she pulled out. Just gripped each piece of clothing and shoved it into the washer one at a time like the day itself could be laundered away if she just moved fast enough. The scrubs were still damp with sweat, sleeves sticking together, pants bunched in on themselves like they wanted to be anywhere else. She forced them down into the metal drum. Shirt. Pants. Compression socks. Her badge slid out when she tugged out her compression jacket and hit the tile floor with a light, accusing thud.

She didn’t look up when she heard footsteps in the hallway behind her, too heavy to be Abby, too familiar not to brace for. The door creaked open behind her.

“Hey,” Jack said softly. “You good?”

Beth flinched just slightly, then caught herself. She glanced over her shoulder, lips pulling into a smile that didn’t quite land. “I’m good.”

“Your kid this morning?” he asked, gentler this time.

Beth froze, her hands tightening on the blue jacket still half-folded in her bag. Her jaw locked, her breath stalled.

“Her name was Alyja,” she said quietly, the syllables catching like splinters in her throat. She swiped a quick, rough hand across her cheek and turned toward him, trying to pretend her voice didn’t shake. “Thank you again. For everything today. For Abby. You didn’t have to…”

Her words trailed off. Her voice cracked on Abby’s name.

Jack was already moving. “Hey, hey,” he murmured, stepping forward and catching her wrist before she could turn away. “Stop.”

“I’m okay, I’m just—” Beth started, but her voice faltered when he said her name again, soft but firm. She shook her head, blinking fast, already trying to pull back. “Jack—”

“Beth.” Just her name, soft and firm, and steady in a way that undid her.

She stopped fighting. She stared at him through watery eyes, her mouth pressed in a flat line she couldn’t hold much longer.

“She was two blocks away from home,” she whispered. Jack didn’t speak. His fingers stayed around her wrist, warm and gentle, his thumb brushing against her skin like he could ease the ache beneath it.

“She was seventeen years old, Jack,” Beth choked out. “All I could think of when you came in that room—” Her voice caught. She covered her mouth like she could shove the rest back in. “All I could think of was Abby.”

Jack stepped closer. “You did everything you could.”

“It doesn’t feel like enough anymore,” she said, a hollow sound in her chest. “Not when I had to look at that girl’s mom and—” She broke off, sniffled, shook her head. “Sorry.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I know. I shouldn’t. I’ve been doing this for half my life, I shouldn’t be getting this worked up—”

“No. Not that.” His voice was quiet but certain. “You don’t have to apologize, Sparky. Not to me.”

Beth went still again, eyes glassy as she blinked at the floor between them. Jack reached for the front of her jacket, fingers curling in the fabric just enough to pull her forward.

Beth didn’t move at first.

Jack’s hand on her jacket was gentle; like he was offering, not asking. She hovered in the space between them, stiff and brittle, hands braced against his chest like that was as close as she’d let herself get. Her breath caught high in her throat. She could feel the steady rise and fall on his chest beneath her palms, the slow pull of breath like it cost him nothing to be here while everything inside her was screaming.

Please , That Girl breathed. Please. 

He guided her in, slow and sure, one arm slipping low around her waist, the other rising to cradle the back of her head. He tucked her in beneath his chin like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The fan whirred softly above them, the hum of the washer ticking by behind her like a second hand, but none of it seemed real except him. The heat of him. The clean weight of his arms. The way his heartbeat beat slow and patient under her ear, like he wasn’t in a rush to make her okay. She smelled rain on him. Oil. That faint, stubborn soap he never swapped out for anything better; warm and old and familiar and undeniably Jack . Something that made her ache down to the marrow.

Please , That Girl inside her whispered. Please just stay.

Beth’s breath hitched again. Her fingers twitched once, then curled into the front of his sweatshirt like she was grabbing fistfuls of time. Like she could hold it still if she held on tight enough.

And then she folded. Slowly, like a wave collapsing on the shore. She closed her eyes, her forehead tucked into the curve of his collarbone, her knees softening as the last bit of resistance bled out of her. Her breath shuddered against him, and Jack pulled her in closer, his arm strong around her waist.

His hand moved gently over her back, the other threading through her hair, anchoring her in place. Not to keep her from leaving, but to give her somewhere to land. She could feel him breathe her in. She could feel the way his chin dipped, the press of his mouth to her temple, just barely there. A moment she could almost pretend she imagined, and had convinced herself she didn’t want to for such a long time. For the first time in a long time, she let herself be held. 

Jack held her in the quiet, his arms firm and steady, like he was content to stay that way as long as she needed. His chin rested against the top of her head, and for a little while, neither of them said anything. Beth stayed pressed to his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heartbeat under her ear. 

Jack shifted just a little, adjusting his arms, but didn’t let her go as he broke the silence. “I really need to teach Abby how to fix her own car.” Beth let out a small, surprised laugh that caught in her throat. It cracked something open in the silence. “Just as helpless as her mother,” he added, teasing.

“Hey,” she protested weakly, but there was no heat in it.

“I’m serious,” he said, pulling back just enough to glance down at her face, still damp with tears. “You worked in that shop for, what…two years? And never paid attention?”

Beth sniffed, her mouth twitching into a tired grin. “I paid some attention.”

Jack raised a brow. He chuckled, low and warm, and the sound curled around her like a blanket.

“I could’ve learned,” Beth said, a little smile playing on her lips. “But it was more fun watching my cute boyfriend do it.”

He huffed a laugh. “Ah. So you were useless on purpose. ”

“I was being supportive.”

He grinned. “Right. By standing in the doorway and flirting while I did all the work.”

“Exactly.”

His thumb brushed her cheek, slow and careful. It stayed there a second longer than it needed to before his fingers moved to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.

“You always were a sucker for a guy with dirty hands,” he murmured.

I was always a sucker for you, That Girl whispered. I guess I still am.

The way he looked at her in that moment made her chest ache; like time hadn’t passed at all, like she hadn’t spent years trying to forget how easy this used to be. Her smile faltered, just barely, but she didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

“I was,” she whispered.

Beth let her head fall gently back against his chest. The movement was small, almost shy, but Jack didn’t shift or flinch. He just held her like she belonged there.

She had once. Or at least, she had thought she did.

She closed her eyes and listened.

The steady churn of the washing machine filled the quiet. Jack’s breathing moved slow and deep under her ear, solid and calm. Down the hall, Abby laughed, something bright and real that made Beth’s throat tighten all over again. A few muffled words followed, soft and amused, directed at the dogs no doubt, and the answering thump of a tail against the couch leg made her smile through the ache in her chest.

This was her home. Her little world. And yet, this moment didn’t feel like something she was meant to keep. Logically, she knew she shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not like this. Not tucked against him in the dim light of her laundry room, his arms steady around her, like no time had passed at all. Like the weight of the years and the heartbreak and the silence hadn’t existed. Like she hadn’t spent the better part of her life learning how to live without him.

She’d trained herself not to wonder. Not to imagine. Not to let her thoughts drift back to what it would’ve been like if he hadn’t left, if she’d been able to make him stay, if they hadn’t both been so young and stupid and scared. She’d buried those fantasies beneath practicality and motherhood and reality. She’d taught herself to live with the choice.

But then he walked into that exam room, and her world shifted. And ever since, she’d been losing ground. And now here she was. Letting herself lean. Letting herself remember. Letting herself feel what it was to be held by someone who knew her. Beth swallowed hard, the guilt and longing braided so tightly together she couldn’t tell one from the other.

She should pull away. She should move. She should say something that created space.

But she didn’t. Not yet.

She just stood there, quietly stealing this moment that didn’t belong to her, and wishing she could stop time long enough to convince herself it did. She knew it was foolish, this aching, impossible tenderness blooming in her chest. But she didn’t move.

Jack’s arms stayed around her like they’d never learned how not to be, like thirty years hadn’t carved out a lifetime between them. And maybe that’s why she stayed for just a moment longer. Maybe that’s why she let her eyes close and let the weight of her head rest where it wanted. Because it was foolish, yes, but it also felt so safe. Dangerous in a way she hadn’t let herself feel in so long.

After things ended with Russell, after everything went to hell and her dad moved her into that shitty apartment by the hospital she never wanted to be in, there were nights when she let herself wonder.

Only in the dark. Only in those fragile, unraveling hours between midnight and morning. When the apartment was too quiet and too cold, and Abby was so small she could barely fill the newborn clothes Becca had bought in bulk. When she could hear her daughter breathing through the monitor beside her bed, soft and steady and perfect, and she’d stare at the crack in the ceiling above her mattress, too exhausted to sleep but too wrung out to cry.

She would lie there and think about names.

Think about that name.

The one she hadn’t said in years. The one she hadn’t let herself touch until it slipped free, unbidden, out of her mouth when the nurse asked what’s her name? and she was too tired, too undone to lie.

Beth hadn’t let herself think of Jack until that moment; until that name left her lips before she even had the chance to stop it. Abby.

And then it was over. The floodgate cracked open. And she let herself wonder again: What if he had come back?

Maybe, in some other life, things would’ve been different. Maybe they would’ve lived near the ocean like they always talked about; some little weather-beaten house with peeling paint that he’d work on every weekend. He’d curse at the porch steps and threaten to tear out the kitchen cabinets every other Saturday, but he’d do it all with sawdust on his sleeves and the sun in his eyes and a smile tucked beneath his stubble. And the house would be theirs . Imperfect and loud and full of dog hair and laughter, but it would be theirs .

Maybe they’d have moved back to Coldwater so Abby could grow up near her grandparents; familiar streets and old neighbors waving from porches. Maybe Beth would’ve taken the job at the clinic, the one her mother used to talk about when they were kids. Maybe they would’ve bought her parents’ house once they retired, let it live a new life full of grass stained feet and bike tracks and home-cooked dinners.

Maybe Jack would’ve kissed her on his way out the door every morning, pressed his lips to her forehead like a promise. Maybe he’d bring her lunch when she forgot it on the counter, roll his eyes and tease her about it later like it didn’t matter at all. Maybe he’d let her sleep in on her days off without her even asking, because he’d know the way exhaustion settled deep in her bones. He’d have seen it. He always did see her.

Maybe in some other universe—some parallel thread where he never left—he’d be lying beside her in that apartment, their hands tangled between them, listening to the soft, steady sounds of their daughter breathing through the monitor on the nightstand. Maybe he’d love them. Stay for them.

Maybe Abby would’ve had a father who never missed a moment. Who would’ve been there for her first breath, his hands shaking as he reached for her. Who would’ve cried when they put her in his arms for the first time, whispering wonderstruck things into her tiny ears. Who wouldn’t have hesitated, not even for a second, when they rushed her away to the NICU.

He would’ve known what to say. Knew the right words when Beth couldn’t find any.

He would’ve pitched a fucking tent in that NICU if they’d let him, stubborn and protective, refusing to leave Abby’s side. He would’ve curled himself around their daughter like he could shield her from everything that was broken in the world. 

And when the bleeding started, when it wouldn’t stop, and Beth woke up in the recovery room—panicked and confused, without her baby or the womb that carried her into this world—he wouldn’t have stared at her like she was a disappointment, like she’d failed at the one thing she was supposed to do. He wouldn’t have turned cold or silent or resentful.

No.

Jack would’ve been there, eyes wet and voice low, kissing her temple and telling her it was okay. That she was okay. He would’ve known exactly what to whisper into her hair when she broke apart. He would’ve crawled into that tiny hospital bed with her and held her together when she was heartbroken and terrified. Would’ve made sure she never had to bear any of it by herself.

This is all I need. She could hear him whisper on those nights. This is all I’ve ever needed. Just you and her. In that dream, they were safe. They were happy. Love was still kind. She would fall asleep wrapped in arms that never felt too far away and wake up to coffee already brewing and laughter down the hall. The sheets wouldn’t feel cold. The silence wouldn’t feel so loud.

They’d be happy. Because they’d have him.

But that wasn’t the life she got.

The life she got was one where the bed cooled far too quickly. Where a baby stirred in the next room, a baby who would grow up flinching at the last name he used as a bargaining chip whenever someone said it aloud in class or across a doctor’s office like it was something to be embarrassed by. Like the weight of it still hung on a ghost of a man who hadn’t earned it.

And Beth still woke up alone.

She used to stare at the sky through the blinds of her apartment and wonder if he was looking up at the same stars. The ones that used to be theirs. She’d whisper to them like they could answer. Like they could tell her what she did wrong. Like they could explain why love stopped being enough.

Maybe in some other life, she wouldn’t have to beg the universe to trade skies. Maybe in that life, Jack would’ve come home. And if he had, the door would have been unlocked. It always was. Even when it shouldn’t have been. Damn her, maybe it still was now.

She told herself she’d stopped wondering a long time ago. Told herself she’d buried that version of him, and the girl she used to be when she loved him, so deep inside her that they couldn’t claw their way back to the surface.

But then he stood in her laundry room. He stood in her life again. With his arms around her and the smell of rain in his clothes and that look on his face like he still saw all the broken parts of her and didn’t flinch. And for the first time in years, she let herself lean into something that felt like home.

And she hated herself for it, because it wasn’t just about her anymore. It was watching him race out of the hospital to pick up a child who wasn’t his, watching him wipe grease off his hands after fixing her car. It was the way he made her daughter laugh, the way he smiled when she rolled her eyes at him and called him annoying, like it didn’t sting a little that she was seventeen and just now learning how to laugh with a man like that.

It was watching Abby light up, watching Jack be there with a fierce, casual certainty that didn’t ask for anything in return. No bargaining. No begging. No ultimatums.

Just there . And there meant that he could be gone again, too.

But Beth let herself wonder again. What if that had been her life? What if Abby had grown up with this?

What if she never had to field the bruises of silence and absence, of birthdays missed and promises broken? What if she’d had someone to fight for her? Someone who would’ve never let go? She wouldn’t don the same armor Beth knew she’d inherited from her, guarding herself with a sharp tongue and a need to prove that she was smart and funny and worth staying for. She’d never be ashamed. She’d never be angry. She’d never be unwanted. She’d have a dad who loved her. Who loved them.

Beth could see it then. See that life, blurry and shining across the room like some cruel mirage. Close enough to touch, but never to keep.

The worst part, the part that made her throat close and her chest go tight, was that for the first time in so long, she wasn’t just mourning what could’ve been for herself. She was mourning it for her daughter.

And now here he was. Warm and real, and so heartbreakingly steady. In her house. In her life. Holding her now like he hadn’t missed all these years. Like the fault lines between then and now didn’t scare him. Like she hadn’t bled alone. Like she hadn’t raised Abby in the wake of a man who’d never even tried to stay for her, either.

Jack let out a breath above her head, the motion barely brushing her hair. One of his thumbs still moved gently along the curve of her spine like he didn’t even know he was doing it. Beth swallowed hard. She didn’t let herself speak. She stood there in the quiet of the laundry room, wrapped in arms she never thought she’d feel again, and let the weight of everything she’d carried for years settle, just for a second, into someone else. She stayed pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her ear like it was some kind of lullaby she remembered from a lifetime ago.

And maybe it was. She wondered for a moment if it could be again before she swallowed it down.

She didn’t want to wonder. She couldn’t.

Because wondering meant hoping, and hope was a fire she’d already burned herself in once before. It always started slow: a what if, a flicker, a softness. But it spread fast. Lit up everything she had spent years trying to rebuild. And when it burned out, when it always burned out, it left her hollow.

He’d left her once. Things had been like this then, too. Quiet. Close. Familiar in all the ways that made her forget how much it hurt to remember.

She couldn’t live through that again. She couldn’t let herself fall and claw her way back up again only to drown. That Girl in the tides, the one who had sobbed into her pillow at eighteen until she made herself sick, who’d begged the stars to bring him home, she wouldn’t come back from it this time.

But, God.

God , how good would it be if he just stayed.

If he stayed and didn’t flinch at the weight of it all. If he stayed and helped her carry the pieces she’d had to learn to lift alone. If he stayed and made good on every promise they never had the chance to keep. That heartbroken, lovesick little girl inside her would have loved him every day of her life if he had just stayed.

But he didn’t.

And somehow, against every good instinct, every word of warning she whispered to herself in the dark, she had loved him anyway.

Even in the silence. Even in the absence.

And now, with her head tucked beneath his chin, like she was still That Girl, still eighteen and stupid and hopelessly in love, Beth let her stay. She let her lean into him and let him hold her a little tighter. Let that warmth spread through her in a gentle crawl until all she could feel was him.

She let herself wonder if things would be like this if he stayed this time. 

Just for a moment.

Because this felt like something.

Chapter Text

They always said they’d never come back to that town.

Not for good, anyway. Not for real. They’d spent too many nights breaking curfew and dreaming themselves out of it; laid out on the roof of the old mill, fingers laced tight, the whole world stretched above them like a promise. Coldwater was too small, too quiet, too weighed down by last names in yearbooks that never left. They weren’t going to be the ones who stuck around. No, Coldwater was never the destination. It was the starting line. The jump.

And for a while, they jumped.

She went off to Philly. He went to Georgia. By New Years, she was headed back to school with a ring on her finger they could barely afford and a new last name that still made him grin every time he said, “My wife, Beth”. They were stupid and in love and barely scraping by, but God, they were happy. The first orders sent them to Texas; a one-bathroom rental with a ceiling that leaked every time it rained and what they told themselves was a cat living in the walls and absolutely not anything else. She turned it into a home anyway, hanging curtains she found on sale and piecing the living room together with secondhand store furniture.

Next came Germany. Their favorite. Just barely into their mid-twenties, they burned through every paycheck on Eurail passes and cheap flights when they were both off to see everything they could. She kept a map on the fridge with little red check marks through every country they saw until he deployed for the first time. She spent her weekends wandering new cities with friends from base after that, sending postcards he hung beside his bunk. 

From there, it was JBLM. Along came a white coat draped over the back of a kitchen chair after twelve hour shifts and few new letters after their last name. She’d come home exhausted with complaints about that one attending she swore was an absolute misogynist, and he’d listen and tell her how right she was when she curled up to him in bed and talked until she fell asleep.

Then she came, and the whole world tilted off its axis.

He’d known, even before he heard her heartbeat for the first time in that ultrasound room, that out of all the adventures they’d had, this one—this tiny, squirming, perfect girl they made together—would be his favorite. When Abby cried for the first time, something shifted. Something rewrote him, almost like his heart stopped beating for himself. Beth looked at him like the world had narrowed to the three of them, and he swore right then and there: This. This is it. This is all I’ll ever need.

For a while, it was the three of them. Long nights full of bottles and diapers and keeping the window cracked because she would only sleep if she could hear the rain. Perfect days of chasing every possible moment he could get with the two of them. It stayed that way until what they’d both remember as his longest deployment. That final one; he remembered her shaking hands and her tear-soaked laugh in the hospital room, cradling his bruised face and whispering, “One thing. I asked you to do one thing. Don’t get blown up. And what do you do, Jack Abbot? You get yourself blown up. What am I going to do with you?” 

He had laughed. So had she. But she didn’t let go of him the whole night.

And somehow, after all that, life circled back.

Back to the town they swore they’d never return to. Back to gravel driveways he used to drive down to pick her up before school and weather-worn porch steps he kissed her goodnight on. This time though, he was allowed upstairs without needing to leave her bedroom door open, and didn’t have to sneak through her window to sleep next to his wife. This time, a badge with the town clinic’s insignia hung from the lanyard she left looped over the rearview mirror of her car before she came inside, and a different last name was painted on the mailbox at the end of the road. The window stayed locked. The bedroom door shut behind them. This time, her father pressed the house keys into his palm with a look that said ‘prove it’ even as it softened, even as he looked down at the little girl clinging to his pant leg and said, “Do something good with it.”

And they had.

Mornings like this one, he slept a little past his alarm. The house was already alive with the quiet rustle of the day beginning as he rounded the bottom of the stairs, already dressed and hair still shower damp, floorboards creaking under his feet as he reached the landing. Morning hummed around him in a familiar glow; soft light slipping in through the curtains above the sink, the faint clink of a spoon in a bowl, the smell of coffee drifting down the hallway. Sunlight spilled over the kitchen floor, catching on cereal bowls and unopened mail, painting the god awful wallpaper his mother-in-law had put up long before either of them had driver’s licenses in shades of yellow. 

God, he really needed to take that down. Maybe he’d tackle it over the weekend. 

Ah, he’d get to it. 

He padded into the kitchen, frowning at his phone. “Hey babe, what’s the Amazon password?”

Beth didn’t look up. She was already in motion, dressed for work in navy scrubs, her old denim jacket thrown over them, hair loose around her shoulders and glasses perched on top of her head like they’d been shoved there in a moment of distraction and forgotten. One hand gripped a travel mug that only had a fifty percent chance of making it off of the kitchen counter when she left, the other rifling through drawers with increasing urgency while she frowned down at the contents like someone else had placed them there. 

“Madigan dash eleven nineteen zero eight,” she said, pushing loose batteries and pens to the side with a frustrated sigh.

“That didn’t work.”

“Did you capitalize the M?”

“I did,” Jack lied, quickly hitting backspace before typing it in again. “Nevermind, I got it.”

Abby sat at the kitchen table, legs too short to touch the floor, her socked feet swinging idly beneath the chair. Her spelling word list was spread out in front of her, untouched cereal soggy in her bowl while she studied the slip of crumpled paper like it was a dissertation. She looked up when Jack stepped closer, breaking into a gap-toothed grin.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he murmured, bending down to kiss the top of the fourth grader’s head and brush a hand over her hair. “Sleep okay?”

She nodded, flashing her mother’s smile at him again before she returned to picking at her breakfast. Beth glanced over her shoulder at the exchange with a soft smile, then turned back to raiding the cabinets. 

“Why is the password the name of the hospital I was born in and my birthday? Why not my name and my birthday?” Abby asked, poking a piece of cereal around her bowl with her spoon.

“Because Daddy was deployed, you were a baby, I was tired, it was the first thing I could think of, and we’ve never bothered to change it,” Beth said, exhaling hard. She pressed a kiss to Abby’s head in passing and started scouring the cluttered kitchen table next. “Eat, baby. The bus’ll be here soon.”

“Do I have to take the bus?”

Jack finished typing and clicked his screen off, tucking his phone away in his pocket. “Nah. I’ll drive you.”

Beth leaned up as she passed him, still juggling her travel mug, bag, and keys, and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Good morning,” she mumbled against his mouth before pulling back. “You slept in.”

Jack hummed, hand skimming her waist and giving her hip a squeeze as she moved past him toward the sink. “Is that alright with you, boss?”

She shot him a quick look over her shoulder as he opened the cupboard. The inside of the door was streaked with half a dozen paint swatches; sun-faded stripes of pale green and dusty blue and something she swore looked different on the sample card. She still hadn’t picked one. Two years should have been enough time to pick a paint color, but he knew better than to broach that issue while she was already frazzled if he intended on ending the day with a wife who didn’t suddenly have a headache the moment he got into bed beside her. 

He grabbed a mug—hers, actually, the chipped one with the faded Coldwater Clinic logo—and poured coffee. He leaned against the counter, watching as she rushed to collect the last of her things, still frantically searching.

“It’s your day off,” she said distractedly, rifling through her bag with one hand while she adjusted her glasses with the other. “You’re supposed to sleep in.”

Jack sipped his coffee, eyes still on her. “Guess you did too.”

“I did.” She scoffed and pushed herself up on her toes to feel across the top of the fridge. “Forgot to set my alarm last night.”

He hummed, smirking at her from over the rim of his mug. “You were a little…distracted when we went up last night.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder, half warning, half flustered, but there was a smile tugging at her mouth as her cheeks pinked. “Don’t start, Abbot.”

“Never stopped, gorgeous,” he shrugged, crossing to the fridge where the day’s list was pinned up under that ridiculous magnet shaped like a lemon. Jack nodded toward the paper. “Those my marching orders for the day?”

“Your mission, if you choose to accept it,” she hummed. “I just need the first three done. I can get to the rest over the weekend if you don’t.”

He nodded before he folded the paper and set it onto the counter beside him, gathering her into his arms before she could step away again. “I love it when you get all type-A on me. It’s sexy.”

She rolled her eyes and toyed with the collar of his shirt. “Keep talking and I’ll add ‘clean the gutters’ to it.”

“Oh, now you’re just talking dirty,” Jack laughed. He kissed her temple, the scent of her shampoo tugging something low in his chest, then bent slightly to press one to her shoulder over the soft worn denim of that old jacket she still refused to throw out.  “I’m serious,” he murmured. “You’re hot when you’re bossing me around.”

Abby made a dramatic gagging noise from the table. “Gross. In front of my cereal? I’m trying to eat here, people.”

Beth just shook her head, smiling as she brushed past him. “Yeah, Dad. Gross.”

Beth returned to her search, muttering something under her breath as she rattled through the junk drawer again like whatever she was looking for might appear there if she tried hard enough. Jack half-read the honey-do list, eyes flicking over things like call water company, trim hedges, change furnace filters, before glancing up at her over the paper. 

“What are you looking for, honey?”

“My glasses,” she huffed, pushing aside an old pack of gum and an expired coupon like she expected them to be hiding underneath. “Did you put them somewhere?”

Jack didn’t look up from the list. Every damn morning. “Gee, the last time I wore them…”

“Don’t, Jack Elliott,” she grumbled, straightening up just long enough to shoot him a look. “Do you know where they are?”

“They’re on your head, Leanne,” Abby supplied from the table.

Jack looked up, grinning, and reached for them, plucking the crooked glasses from their perch in her hair. He kissed her cheek as he handed them over. “Would you look at that. Crisis averted.”

Beth blinked behind the lenses, then turned to their daughter. “How long have you known they were up there?”

“Since you started looking,” Abby said sweetly.

Beth narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Abby shrugged, spoon still in hand. “I wanted to see how long it would take you to figure it out.”

Beth made a sound that landed somewhere between a groan and a laugh, tugging her denim jacket tighter around her scrubs as she slung her bag over her shoulder. 

“How rude,” she teased, reaching out to tickle Abby’s side on her way past. The little girl giggled as she squirmed away. “Where’s that permission slip you needed me to sign, boo?”

“In my take-home folder.”

“Then go grab it and find me a pen, please. Chop chop.”

Abby nodded and slid off the chair, feet padding out of the kitchen in search of the folder. Beth let her head fall back with a sigh and bent to tug her other shoe on. Jack watched her from over the rim of his coffee cup and just took her in for a second; the same way he had from across classrooms and from bed while she brushed her teeth in whatever tiny bathroom they shared. Hair a little messy, cheeks a little flushed from rushing around, her mug half-full on the counter and the morning sunlight slipping through the kitchen window and catching on her hair. Just as beautiful now as the day he shut his locker and found her on the other side, looking just as annoyed.

God, he loved her.

Beth turned toward the sink and knocked it on with her wrist, the faucet sputtering to life as she rinsed out Abby’s cereal bowl. Jack moved in behind her and slipped an arm around her waist, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

“Leave it,” he murmured, lips brushing the curve of her neck. “I’ll take care of it.”

She laughed quietly, a soft, breathy sound that tightened something in his chest. “I’m already late.”

“So be a little later.” He nudged her jaw with his lips. She leaned into him slightly, breath catching when his mouth skimmed down her neck.

“Jack…” she whined, the sweet, breathy way she said his name twisting something hot and low in his gut. Her warning was lost to the soft gasp that puffed from her when his hands slid over her hips and pulled them flush to him, thumbs brushing against bare skin under her scrub top. 

“Beth…” he teased, smirking against her skin when she let her head fall to his shoulder with a sigh. He traced his fingers along her jaw, lifting her chin to press his lips against hers. “C’mere, pretty girl.”

She huffed, but didn’t resist when he turned her in his arms. Her hands smoothed up the front of his shirt, warm over the fabric, fingertips catching the line of buttons before they came to rest at the nape of his neck. She kissed him; slow, familiar, like she didn’t have two minutes to spare but wanted to take five anyway.

“I have to go to work,” she whispered against his lips, fingers combing through his hair absently. “And your daughter is in the other room.”

Jack grinned, lowering his lips to her ear. “Funny. Didn’t seem to stop you in the laundry room yesterday. In fact, if I remember correctly, there were quite a few ‘please Jack’s and ‘don’t stop’s used while I was—.”

“Shh! Your daughter is going to hear you,” She giggled, pressing her fingers over his mouth. She rolled her eyes, cheeks flushing. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet.” He dipped his head, mouth brushing hers again. “Here you are.”

Beth touched his face, thumb tracing his bottom lip. “Raincheck?”

“Only if I get to cash it in tonight,” he said, smiling into her next kiss.

Abby appeared in the doorway before Beth could answer, take-home folder in one hand, a look of long-suffering etched across her nine-year-old face.

“I can’t leave you two alone for a minute without you being disgusting?”

Beth pulled back from Jack, trying, unsuccessfully, not to laugh. Jack grinned. “One day you’ll appreciate how lucky you are to have parents who still like each other.”

Abby shrugged, unimpressed. “If you didn’t, I’d get two Christmases.”

That earned a snort from Beth, who pressed her lips together and shook her head, biting back a laugh as she pressed a final kiss to his cheek and reached for her bag.

“Smartass,” Jack said under his breath as Abby approached, folder in hand. 

“Said the pot to the kettle,” Abby said, holding it up wordlessly.

Jack took it, flipping it open to the permission slip tucked inside. Abby handed him a pen like the world’s smallest, most overworked public defender. He signed it quickly and handed it back. Abby studied the scrawl with narrowed eyes.

“Your handwriting’s really messy.”

“I’m aware,” Jack said, straight-faced. “They teach you that in medical school.”

“You should work on that. I’m going to be able to forge this so easily when I’m older.”

“That’s the idea,” Jack replied, giving her a wink. “Gotta set you up for success.”

“Forgery’s a felony, you know.”

“You’ve gotta stop watching court TV with your grandfather.”

“Why? So I can be uninformed of my rights?”

“You’re nine. You don’t have any rights.”

“Don’t I know it. This country really fell apart after Obama left office.”

“You’re telling me, kid,” Jack muttered, lips twitching around a grin. “Go get your shoes on.”

Beth glanced at the clock and swore under her breath. She turned to him again and brushed her lips against his in a quick kiss. “Dentist appointment after school,” she reminded him, grabbing her bag off the counter. “Don’t forget!” she called, pausing just long enough to press a kiss to Abby’s cheek. “Be good, boo.”

“No promises, lady,” Abby shot back, beaming as Beth shook her head and pulled open the front door.

“Love you both!”

Jack followed her through the kitchen doorway just as the door slammed shut. He found Abby sitting on the stairs, legs stretched out in front of her, sneakers on but laces trailing behind like streamers.

He raised a brow. “You planning on tying those, or just waiting to trip over ‘em?”

Abby looked up at him with a straight face. “Isn’t that what we keep you around for?”

Jack sighed, crouching down in front of her. “Stick ‘em up, kid.”

She plopped her feet in his lap without hesitation.  As he tightened the laces, she cocked her head. “Were you really on Amazon earlier? ‘Cause I thought Mom was the only one who wasted our money on that dumb app.”

“You sure do hear a lot for someone who pretends not to when it’s time to clean their room.”

“I only listen to things that are interesting,” she said sweetly.

He chuckled. “No, I wasn’t on Amazon. I was logging into Mom’s email so I could excuse you from school.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Mom’s gonna be mad.”

“She’s been mad at me since ‘91, bug. That’s nothing new.”

“But I have school,” she said, trying to sound earnest.

Jack raised a brow. “Really? Because I thought you weren’t feeling well?”

A slow smile crept across Abby’s face. She nodded solemnly, then gave a theatrical little cough. “I am feeling a little ill.”

Jack tapped her knee. “Guess you’ll have to stick close to me today. Make sure it doesn’t get worse.”

“Pancakes might help.”

“Well then,” he said, standing and offering his hand, “we better get movin’. Doctor’s orders.”

She grinned and reached for him.

But his fingers closed around nothing.

They always did.

The sharp wail of a siren jolted him awake.

Jack inhaled sharply, hand dragging over his face as he blinked blearily at the ceiling. The living room around him was half-dark, late afternoon sun spilling through the slats of the blinds in long, gold-tipped shadows. He was on the couch again, neck crooked at an angle that would punish him for the rest of the night. The TV was still on, muted now, playing to an audience of none and tossing a blue glow against the walls. Somewhere in the kitchen, the scanner on the counter crackled with garbled dispatch codes he didn’t bother translating.

No cabinets and drawers opening and closing. No little voice sassing at anything that moved. No coffee brewing or feet on the stairs or hands warm against his chest.

Just silence.

Moose grunted where he was curled between Jack’s leg and the couch cushion before he gave a sleepy stretch, shoving off the last scrap of blanket covering the both of them with a lazy kick.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack muttered, voice still rough. He reached for his phone on the coffee table and checked the time. Shift started in less than two hours. He should get up.

He didn’t. Instead, he laid there just a moment longer with the phone still in his hand, eyes falling shut again like maybe—just maybe—if he concentrated hard enough, it might come back. The clink of a spoon in a cereal bowl. The smell of her shampoo. A little voice asking questions from the kitchen table. Noise. Warmth. Color. But it never lasted long enough. The harder he tried to hold on, the quicker it bled from his grasp. The warmth always faded. The house fell quiet. The silence settled back in.

He felt all those things standing with her in that laundry room, pressed to his chest with his fingers in her hair, his dog on her couch curled up beside the girl that wasn’t his just down the hall. That hadn’t lasted long enough, either. He rubbed his face again, like he could press the image into his skin and exhaled heavily. 

She was younger this time. Abby, not Beth. That was new.

Usually, when they showed up in dreams, Abby was seventeen and stubborn, full of quick wit and sharper comebacks, just like her mother. But this time… this time she’d been small. Feet swinging beneath the table. Cereal bowl in front of her. Eyes bright when she looked at him like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing.

Like he was home.

And he’d felt it; bone-deep, like the kind of truth you didn’t question because it just was. That warmth. That rhythm. Her reaching for him like he was the whole damn world.

She just reached. Called him Daddy. Smiled like he’d hung the moon. Like he was hers, and she was his, while Beth watched like they were everything.

And then it was gone. That kicked his ass harder this time than it usually did, when the fog would lift and he’d sit in a silence that felt a little more difficult to face with the weight of a loss of something that was never his to lose. He’d given that up before he ever had the chance to know what it felt like in anything other than his subconscious.

It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up trying to cling to whispers. Fuck, it wasn’t even the tenth. He’d woken up from versions of that dream for years; sometimes different settings, different routines, different timelines. The house shifted. The kids varied. The roles changed. But not her. Beth was always there, always the same as he remembered; bright and brilliant and sharp as she’d always been.

There was something almost National Lampoon about it all. Like he and Beth were playing the leads in some long-running series that changed sets and side characters but never the stars. Like they were still trying to get it right in every variation. Like the universe kept handing him do-overs in sleep, then yanking them back by daylight like a punishment. A thousand lives. A thousand timelines. A thousand versions of the same what-if.

Sometimes there were two kids, sometimes one. Another time, there were triplets that tore through the house like maniacs. In some, those kids were toddlers. Sometimes teenagers. Once, there was a thirty-year-old son who called him every Sunday and still let his mom kiss his face when he came home for Thanksgiving and made him proud in a way that nearly brought him to his knees. The names changed. The faces, too. Lately, there was just one freckled face rolling her mother’s eyes at him any time he so much as breathed.

But Beth was constant. Like gravity. Like breathing. He used to think it meant something. Some cosmic breadcrumb trail that meant that maybe someday, he’d find her again. Some sign that he’d right all of his wrongs and somehow be forgiven by the girl whose eyes he saw every time it rained. 

It had been a hell of a long time since those images filled his nights.

Back then, it was easy to believe in them. Waking up in some dusty cot with his gear stacked by the door, half-drunk on the remnants of a dream that smelled like her shampoo. There’d be a moment, just one, where he’d think maybe she was waiting for him somewhere. That he’d come home to a porch light left on, to feet racing down a hallway to crash against him at the door, to a hand sliding into his under the blankets. But the fog always cleared. Reality always cut through. 

He’d lie still just a second longer than necessary, dragging himself back into the kind of clarity that cut. He remembered that ache. The bone-deep throb of knowing he’d made a choice. That he’d traded the what-if for the certainty of something easier to lose only to lie awake and read her letters in the dark like words on paper would give her back to him for just a minute longer.

But lately, the dreams had started again. Vivid. Unrelenting. Full of moments too tender to have come from anywhere but truth. And in all of them now, there was just one kid; just Abby, with that wiseass grin and Beth beside her, steady as a star. No false starts. No rotating cast. Just the two of them, waiting.

They’d only gotten worse since the night in the laundry room. His brain hadn’t let go of the way she’d leaned into him, soft and warm and easy, like the place she was supposed to be had always been his chest. He kept hearing that watery little laugh, feeling it pressed into the fabric of his sweatshirt. The way her hands had fisted in it like she didn’t trust him not to bolt—like she was scared he’d disappear again if she blinked too long. He hadn’t deserved that kind of fear. Not from her. Not the way that, for a quiet moment with her in his arms, it felt like forgiveness. But it still gutted him, the way she’d clung like if she loosened her grip, he’d run again. But, fuck, he was so tired of running.

He couldn’t run like he used to anyway. Losing a leg does that to a guy. But even if he could’ve, he didn’t want to anymore. He wanted to slow down. He wanted Beth’s laugh and Abby’s smart mouth picking apart everything he did. He wanted mornings that started with coffee and to-do lists he’d half finish only to hear her scold him for it in the evenings. He wanted fingers knotted in his sweatshirt and eyes on him that didn’t carry the weight of all the hurt he’d left behind. He wanted to stay.

And Moose…well, Moose didn’t seem like he’d mind either. Jack thought he was going to have to carry the jackass out of her house that night. The mutt had practically welded himself to the couch cushion, hunkered down and groaning like the betrayal of leaving was personal. Jack had tried to haul him up. Called him. Bribed him like a hostage negotiator. Nothing. Not until Abby walked to the door in her fuzzy socks and said, “Come on, boy,” like they’d done it a thousand times. Then Moose popped right up and trotted over like it had been his idea all along.

Figures. Even the dog knew where he wanted to be. 

Jack opened his eyes with a sigh and sat up with a grunt, his whole body protesting another day spent twisted on the couch. His spine cracked in three different places and his hip gave a pointed throb of disapproval. He ignored it, just like he ignored the tightness behind his eyes and the dull, lingering ache in his chest that always followed dreams like that.

With a quiet groan, he leaned forward and grabbed his prosthesis from where it rested beside the couch, setting it on the coffee table with a soft clunk. He stared at it for a second, like maybe if he just stayed still long enough, the next part of the day might just skip him. But it never did. Reality always came knocking.

Shift in two hours. Time to move.

Moose lifted his head at the sound, ears perked and eyes hopeful, already drooling like he hadn’t eaten in days and not like he was on a prescription raw diet that cost more than most of Jack’s meals combined. His thick tail gave one half-hearted thump against the couch cushion as he watched Jack reach for the prosthesis, gauging his odds.

When Jack stood up and turned toward the bedroom instead of the kitchen, Moose flopped back down with a loud, theatrical groan, all sixty prescription-fed, coddled, bougie-ass pounds of him vibrating with disappointment.

Jack snorted and reached over the back of the couch to pat his side. “Oh, relax, fat ass. You’ll get it after I change.”

Moose huffed, unimpressed.

Jack moved toward the hallway, rolling his shoulder as he went. The house was quiet. The warm light in the living room didn’t follow him down the hall, and for a moment it felt like stepping out of one world and into another. The moment was over, dreams dissipating back into duty. 

He moved toward the bedroom, but the coat by the door caught him in the corner of his eye. Still hanging where it always did. Wool, dark green, just long enough to brush the back of her knees when she wore it. Rachel’s coat.

Jack froze mid-step. The guilt hit so fast and so hard it stole his breath.

He stared at it like it had just materialized there, like it hadn’t been hanging on that hook every day for years, untouched. The silence after that dream had already hollowed him out, but this—this was the part that made him feel like a bastard. Dreaming about another woman in an apartment still full of his wife. Waking up heartsick for a family that was never his when the one he had, the one he lost, was still echoing off these walls.

His hand moved before he could stop it, brushing the sleeve. He stroked his thumb over the worn spot near the seam. He used to grab her there when they walked, her elbow looped through his, laughing at nothing, always smiling like she knew something the rest of the world didn’t. God, she was good at that. At joy. 

He loved her. That was something he never questioned for a goddamn minute. He loved her in that quiet, unshakeable, forever way that never needed explaining, though he wished to hell he’d told her more. She gave him a second life when he thought the first had taken too much. Saw him through surgeries and scars and nightmares, and made all of it feel… survivable. Like maybe he wasn’t as broken as he thought. It was kind. It was calm. It was gentle. And Christ, it was fun. They were fun. Rach made every day feel like some beautiful inside joke he was lucky enough to be in on.

For the longest time, it was always her in the dreams. Her voice echoing through the fog. Her laugh. Her face across the pillow. Her goodbye. She lived in every shadow of sleep, constant and cruel in her comfort. There was a part of him that thought it would always be that way. That her face was all his mind had left to offer. And maybe that should’ve been enough. He told himself it was. That if the only place he could still keep her was between his ears, then fine. He’d learn to live there.

But lately…

Lately it hadn’t been her.

Lately it was Beth’s eyes he saw when he closed his own. Beth’s hand in his. Beth’s daughter laughing across the table from him like it was where she belonged.

And what the hell did that say about him? That some selfish, buried part of his soul that stayed eighteen years old was ready to rewrite the ending? That he’d moved on in the one place Rachel couldn’t follow?

He exhaled hard through his nose and stepped back, like even standing near it was too much. That was the kind of guilt that didn’t let him breathe right for the rest of the day. The kind that settled heavy in his chest and made everything ache when he stood on the roof and wondered what the fuck he was even doing.

Jack swallowed it down anyway. Didn’t have the time for it. Didn’t have the right, either.

Ah, Grier would have a field day with that one on Thursday. Probably give him one of those long, slow looks over the rim of his glasses before tearing his entire internal world apart with a few goddamn words. He always did, the motherfucker.

The bedroom was dark, as usual, when he turned into it. He didn’t bother turning on the light. Didn’t need it. The layout hadn’t changed in years. The room hadn’t either. The same dresser. Same bed.  Same sheets pulled tight in some places, rumpled in others. Like someone had started straightening it and then stopped when they remembered no one was coming home. He only came in here to change these days, and even that felt like a chore. Jack couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in the bed. A few weeks? A couple of months? Hell, maybe more.

Jack kept his eyes ahead and made for the closet.

His foot caught on something just past the edge of the bed, and he swore quietly, stumbling a little, hand going out to catch himself on the dresser. He looked down, ready to bark at himself for leaving more laundry on the floor.

But no. Of course not.

Should’ve known he wouldn’t get that lucky.

It was just that dumb fucking box. That ancient, beat up, slightly water stained Home Depot moving box that was held together with duct tape.

He’d picked it up after therapy. Couldn’t say why. Didn’t even realize where he was headed until he pulled into the lot and stared at the corrugated steel of his storage unit. He’d shoved it into the cab of the truck, slammed the door shut, and drove around with it in the backseat for the better part of a week like it was something he could ignore.

He didn’t open it. Didn’t touch it. Pretended he didn’t see it. It wasn’t until Abby asked him what was in it when she turned in the passenger seat to pet Moose that he decided it was time to take it out. “Just some old shit,” he told her. It wasn’t entirely a lie. He’d dropped the box in the bedroom like it was just another thing to deal with eventually, and then shut the door behind him like it might crawl out if he didn’t.

The scrawl across the top was his; sloppy black marker faded to a bruised gray. 1995–2000. That’s all it said now. Just years. Once, it had her name written across it. Before Rachel. Back when he was still dumb enough to believe time could be boxed and shelved without consequence.

He’d covered it when Rachel moved in. Threw a few strips of duct tape over the top and changed the label like it was just tax documents or old gear. Innocuous enough to keep him from having to explain it when it got pushed up on the top shelf of the closet. But every time he saw it, he felt like he was smuggling contraband into their bedroom and lying through omission. Like he was hiding something shameful in plain sight. Like Rachel had trusted him with her whole heart and he’d stuffed some ghost of a girl in a box in the closet and called that moving on. He’d buried it deep in the storage unit for years, like distance would dilute it.

It didn’t.

Jack crouched down slowly, knees crackling, and pulled back the flaps.

An old blanket lay on top, still folded the way it had been when he left. Frayed on the corners and still smelling faintly of bonfire smoke and whatever perfume she wore on the nights he laid her down on it if he pressed his face to it on the right day. He set it beside him on the floor with more reverence than he meant to show.

Next came a shoebox, nestled on top of high school yearbooks. He lifted it out and moved to the bed, sitting slowly on the edge like the mattress might protest; like the room might.

He shouldn’t. Not here. Not in this room. He didn’t have time. He needed to change, get to the hospital, meet her for handoff so the ghost of whatever little smile he could work out of her could follow him around for twelve hours until she came back and he could do it all over again. 

But he opened it anyway.

The envelopes inside were already open. All of them. Stacked in the order she sent them, or close enough. Bent and wrinkled and fragile in a way that made his chest hurt. The ink had faded in spots, bled in others, the paper crinkled and soft with time. Looping handwriting that he could pick out in a lineup covered the front of each, her home address on the corner of some, the address to her dorm at Penn on others. But it was the photo on top that pulled the air from his lungs.

A seventeen-year-old Beth smiled up at him, face half hidden with the hand she put out when he took her picture, wearing the hoodie he used to live in. Her cheeks flushed, a wry twist to her grin that made her look like she’d just won an argument, and probably had done just that. Campfire smoke clung to her, visible even in the picture, the edge of someone else’s sleeping bag behind her. She was sitting on a log, knees tucked up, cutoffs frayed at the edges. She hated that picture. It had always been his favorite. 

It had lived on the dash of his first truck for years. Faded in the sun. Corners curled. He’d only taken two things out of that truck when he left town for good; the blanket and her picture.

He brushed his thumb against the photo before he laid it on top of the blanket and returned to the letters. He thumbed through them slowly, each one more familiar than the last. He didn’t need to read the dates or skim the openings. He knew them by feel. By weight.

The first five all started with “Abby.”

Each one was numbered in the corner inside of a little heart like she was worried he wouldn’t read them in order. Sent before he broke her heart. Before the goodbyes. Back when he still had a place in the life she was dreaming about before he lit the match and sent it all up in flames. He still read them in order, like she told him to. Every single time like a ritual. A confession. A punishment.

But tonight, he flipped past them. Past the ones that started with To my favorite pain in the ass and Hi Handsome, past the ones that started with just his name, if she bothered to address it at all before angry words spilled over the paper. She was drunk when she wrote the most hateful of them; she’d written as much. He still deserved that I hate you it ended with. He turned to the one at the very back.

The last one.

The envelope was thinner, the fold lines worn soft from being opened and closed so many times he’d lost count. Notebook paper, not stationary. No hearts on this one. No doodles. Just “Jack,” neatly at the top.

He pulled it free and set the box aside like it was suddenly too heavy.

The paper was dotted with old stains; water or tears, hers or his, he couldn’t say anymore. The ink was smudged in places, but the words still burned clear.

Jack,

Today is Christmas.

You told me before you left that I would have forgotten you by now. I haven’t, and I’m starting to fear that I never will.

That’s as far as he got.

His jaw clenched. The burn behind his eyes came fast, sharp and bitter. He folded it quickly, hands shaking more than he wanted to admit, and tucked it back in the envelope like it might catch fire if he looked at it too long.

Fifteen years. He hadn’t read that letter in fifteen years, but he still remembered every goddamn word. They were etched into him, like they would find each word carved into his bones. 

Jack scrubbed his hands down his face and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, the letter heavy in his chest even after it was folded and put away. He sat there like that for a long moment, head down, the clock on the nightstand ticking louder than it should’ve. He needed to leave soon. Get dressed. Rip himself out of the past and drag his ass to the hospital, where the world still spun and people still needed him.

But he didn’t move.

He reached back down into the box and slid out the yearbooks. He didn’t bother opening them—just tossed them beside the old blanket on the floor with a dull thud. He wasn’t looking for that kind of nostalgia. Not for prom pictures or awkward group shots or memories that felt like they belonged to someone else.

No—he was looking for what lay beneath.

A stack of notebooks, neat and purposeful in a way his life hadn’t been in years. Some were spiral-bound, others stiff and battered. A few were the kind of tactical field books you could drop in mud and still write in. The covers were labeled in permanent marker, months and years written across them in a hand that had gotten shakier with time.

He pulled the one on top free: Aug–Nov 1994.

The spine creaked when he opened it. The first page was dated August 13th, written in the kind of messy scrawl only he could read, every inch filled in with ballpoint pen. At the top of the page, one word was underlined twice.

Sparky,

I’m sorry.

He stared at it. He wrote six pages that night. He could still remember writing it, one leg bouncing, chewing on the edge of the pen cap and waiting for words to come that didn’t feel too small. He hadn’t known what to say, not at first. Not really. He just knew that he needed to say something. He hadn’t even known if she’d want to read it; hell, he still didn’t. But he wrote anyway. 

He came back the next night. Then again the night after. And again, and again, and again, telling himself every time that this was the last one. One night, three months into his first deployment, he wrote five times in the span of a single day; couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, just kept flipping pages and talking to someone who wasn’t there.

Sometimes he told her about the boredom. Sometimes about the blood. Sometimes he made her laugh; he hoped he did. He wrote like she might find it someday and laugh and say You’re an idiot, Jack Abbot, and then maybe forgive him just a little.

But he never sent a single one.

Not one.

They just stacked up, month after month, deployment after deployment. Pages filled with things he didn’t know how to say out loud. To her. To anyone.

And here they were. Dozens of notebooks, years old and collecting dust in a box he’d nearly tripped over in the dark.

He ran his thumb along the edge of the page, the ink faint in spots where his hand had smudged it. Then he shut the cover, laid the notebook across his knees, and stared down at it like it might open its mouth and tell him what the hell he was supposed to do now.

He already knew, though.

He’d get up.

He’d change his clothes.

He’d feed his dog his ridiculous refrigerated food.

He’d go to work.

That’s what he’d do. That’s what he’d always done.

Muscle memory carried him through it, the same way it had through firefights and funerals and intubations and sleepless nights. The same way it carried him now, day after day, out the door and into the next thing, like maybe forward momentum could outrun the past if he just didn’t stop moving.

He’d see her at handoff. She’d be standing there with her hair pulled back and her glasses sliding down her nose, flipping through a chart and pretending not to notice him walk in. He’d say something to get under her skin, something dry or dumb that made her smirk despite herself. Then she’d tell him goodnight, and he’d say good morning, and she’d walk away down the hall.

And he’d watch her go like a man half-starved, chasing that feeling for the next twelve hours until he could do it again.

But before he left, he hesitated.

He sat back down on the edge of the bed like the weight of the room pressed too hard on his shoulders to walk out just yet.

He opened the notebook again; August to November, 1994. The first six pages were nearly illegible, written in a cramped scrawl that filled every inch of the paper like it had been clawed out of his chest. Sparky. The first entry. The first letter he never sent.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then, without overthinking it, he tore those six pages free. Folded them and ran his thumb over the creases like they were edges of something he couldn’t let go of just yet.

He slid them into the inner sleeve of his backpack, behind a med kit and a battered old flashlight like they had every right to come with him.

He didn’t know why.

But he carried them anyway. He already had been for the last thirty years, anyway.

“Damn, dude. You look like shit.”

Jack didn’t even bother hiding his sigh as he shoved the locker door open with his shoulder. 

Hello to you too, Shen.

Not exactly the first face he wanted to see when he got in, but it could’ve been worse. Could’ve been Walsh. He didn’t have the energy for her bullshit today. He already had one snarky little shit to manage. He didn’t need to babysit the one at work too.

He dropped his bag onto the bench with a thud, unzipping it just enough to shove the flap of torn notebook pages deeper inside. Jack peeled off his jacket and hung it up, slow and deliberate. “And you look like you haven’t had a glass of water in four days. Are we really gonna start this early?”

Shen lifted his drink slightly in salute. 

“Hydration’s a scam, man.” Shen leaned lazily against the lockers across from him, one foot kicked up behind him, iced coffee in hand like it was an extension of his arm. The straw squeaked against the plastic lid as he took a sip and looked Jack up and down. “Seriously though. You look like you haven’t slept in a week. You die and come back or something?”

“Did no one tell you?” He said, slamming his locker shut. “Three days of rest and I have returned. I’m ER Jesus.”

“He is Risen, babygirl.”

Jack smirked. “You seen Baker yet?”

Shen snorted, shaking his head. “No, thank God. Eagles won 35–7 last night, so she’s gonna be insufferable.”

Jack chuckled, heading for the door with Shen trailing behind. Yeah. She was. Probably would gloat like a motherfucker. She was cute when she talked shit, though. 

Jack headed toward the hub, something tight and eager jumping in his chest as he scanned for familiar copper through the usual evening chaos. He didn’t let himself pick up his pace, but his stride hitched a little as he spotted Robby at the terminal near the nurse’s station.

“Look at that. You are here,” Robby said, not looking up.

“In the flesh,” Jack answered, glancing around.

“I checked the roof before you clocked in. You weren’t up there. Got worried I’d have to scrape you off the sidewalk. Would have been mighty inconsiderate of you to make me end my shift that way.”

“You’d be thanking me for the overtime,” Jack said, smirking faintly. “Not today. Woke up optimistic.”

“That’s new.”

“Please. Compared to you, I’m a fuckin’ Care Bear, Mike.” Robby chuckled, returning his attention to the screen in front of him. Jack let his gaze pass over the unit again; no flash of red hair, no sideways glance from where she usually stood, already half-done with the board and talking shit with Perlah about whoever hadn’t restocked the suture trays. “Baker around?”

Robby finally looked up, one brow raised. “You got me this morning, sweetheart.”

“No Baker?” The question came out flatter than he meant it to.

“Ouch. Here I was thinking I was your best friend,” Robby said flatly, fingers stilling on the keyboard before he turned to Jack fully. “No, she didn’t work today. Her kid had something going on.”

Jack straightened a little, jaw tightening as he gave a short nod. “Right.”

It wasn’t disappointment. Not exactly. But whatever had been quietly humming in his chest fell still.

“Right.” He pushed off the counter with a palm and let the weight settle back onto his shoulders. “Let’s get to it, then.”

Jack was halfway through handoff with Robby when Shen wandered over, sipping his iced coffee like it was the lifeblood keeping him vertical. Without warning, he rested his chin on Jack’s shoulder, watching the screen over his arm.

Jack barely glanced at him. “Off.”

Shen sighed dramatically. “You used to be fun.”

Jack elbowed him lightly in the stomach and gave him a shove.

“Vitals on 14 tanked around three,” Robby said, “but he stabilized with fluids. Still looks like he’s circling the drain, though.”

Before Jack could respond, a voice called out down the hall—

“How ‘bout those fuckin’ Birds, huh?”

Shen exhaled through his nose, long-suffering, and shared a look with Robby.

Beth stepped up next to him like he’d manifested her, her hair down in soft curls that bounced just a little as she moved. She leaned over the counter and set down her travel mug before she tucked her hands in the pockets of her vest, the sleeves of her quarter zip already rolled. She crossed one ankle over the other, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her shoulder against his arm.

Jack felt that hum again, buzzing deep in his chest when her eyes found his and she offered a small, knowing smile. Quick, almost shy, but it was there.

He swallowed it down like always, that flicker of something reckless and hopeful.

She turned toward Shen and Robby, voice light but sharp. “Heard your boys had a rough night last night. How’s that Steelers heartbreak holding up? Playoffs are looking better every week.”

Robby chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s October, Beth. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“No, no. I have a sixth sense for these things. Call it intuition.” She gave a half-smile, shrugging like she’d already marked the win before leaning into the counter and flashing Robby one of those pretty little grins. “You all hold up okay without me this morning, big guy? Or did you just stand around ‘cause I wasn’t holding your hand all day?”

Jack stiffened beside her.

Robby smirked. “Mostly just stared out the window and whispered your name to passing ambulances.”

“Aww,” Beth hummed, sipping from her mug. She glanced at Jack, caught his eye, and hid the curl of her smile behind another sip. “Poor baby.”

Jack’s jaw ticked just once and he rolled it out like that would loosen the grip around his ribs. He tried not to read into it. Beth had always been a little flirty. That was just her. Quick with a joke, a wink, a smile that could knock the wind out of you if you weren’t paying attention. He used to think she did it on purpose just to get under his skin; and maybe she had. Back in high school, it worked every damn time.

He remembered junior year; how he’d drive her home from school grumbling about her lab partner’s obvious crush, and how she’d try not to smile when she told him he was being dramatic. He’d admit she was probably right, right up until the day he saw Kevin Campbell leaning against her locker after chem, just a little too close.

She was laughing at something Kevin said, head tilted, lips glossy, before she met his eyes with a smile across the hallway.

Jack didn’t even think.

He just walked up and kissed her; pressed her back against the locker like a man starved. She gasped, half-startled, half breathless, and giggled “Babe!” before she looped her arms around his neck and kissed him back like she belonged to him.

Because she did. But that was then. She was his then. She wasn’t his now.

And whatever this was, the twist in his gut, the ache blooming quietly beneath his ribs, he’d just have to live with it like everything else.

Beth reached for her mug and reached absently into the pockets of her vest, then her scrub pants, then back again; distracted, brow furrowed. Jack didn’t say a word when he reached up, took the glasses from where they were perched on her head, and held them out to her.

She blinked, startled for half a second, then smiled; one of those soft, crooked things that hit him right in the chest. He didn’t smile back. Just gave her the glasses and turned to Robby like the moment hadn’t lodged somewhere deep.

“See ya in the morning, then?”

Robby nodded, already standing to leave. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Bit late for that,” Jack muttered.

Robby pushed off the counter with a lazy wave, already halfway to the double doors. Beth turned as he left, slipping her glasses on. She caught Jack watching Robby disappear down the hall and smirked. Just a little. Like she knew exactly what he was thinking and didn’t mind letting him sit with it.

“Thanks,” she said softly, nodding toward the glasses now perched on her nose.

Jack shrugged. “Don’t mention it, Leanne.”

She laughed softly and leaned back against the counter, sipping from her mug. The scent of whatever flavored nonsense she drank drifted up—hazelnut, maybe vanilla—and curled into the quiet between them.

“Thought you were off today?” he asked finally.

Beth shook her head, loose curls swaying. “Swapped with Yeo this week.” She took another sip, voice light as she added, “You’re stuck with me until Tuesday.”

Something about the way she said it made the corners of his mouth twitch, but he caught himself before it turned into a real smile.

“Lucky me,” he said, and meant it a little more than he should’ve.

Beth hummed, pushing off the counter with an easy roll of her hip. “Lucky you,” she echoed, voice light as she glanced up at the board. “You got anything fun for me?”

Jack rubbed his jaw, eyes scanning the list. “Abscess in Nine.”

She made a face, flat and unimpressed. “Ooo, yum.” 

Still, she reached for a tablet and tapped into the chart, the ghost of a smile pulling at her lips. Then, softer, a little more like something meant just for him, she looked at him again and said, “Good morning.”

It landed low in his chest.

Jack’s own smile crept up slowly, gentler than he meant for it to be. “Good morning.”

He watched as she turned, already skimming the chart on the tablet as she made her way down the hall. The soft sway of her hips caught his attention before he could look away.

He exhaled hard, running a hand over the back of his neck before he stepped away from the counter.

Fuck, this was going to be a long week.

Chapter Text

“Abigail Quinn,” Beth said, voice clipped, as the break room lights flickered on overhead. “I have already said no.”

She should’ve known better than to answer the phone. Her first break all night—only a few hours in, and she was already starving, overcaffeinated, and running mostly on spite. She wedged the phone between her shoulder and cheek, balancing the triage iPad under one arm while trying to coax the coffee machine into cooperation with the other. It wheezed out something vaguely brown. The carafe was still half full of lukewarm coffee she didn’t bother to dump out, the paper cups were nearly gone, she had her first moment to stand still in hours, and, instead of finding a moment of blissful disassociation in the stairwell, she was spending it arguing with her daughter over the phone in a stale hospital break room that reeked of microwaved fish. Of course. Ah, motherhood. Why had no one told her it would be so glamorous?

“But you’re not even home tonight!” Abby’s voice snapped through the speaker, full of that stubborn, righteous whine that always made Beth want to bang her head against the nearest solid surface. “Why does it even matter where I sleep? It’s not even late! What’s the big deal?”

Beth exhaled slowly through her nose. This girl was going to be the death of her one of these days. Her cause of death would be clearly listed: chronic exposure to sass, secondary to maternal overexertion. They’d be rolling her in a trauma bay with an embolism because Abigail Quinn Baker could not take fucking no for an answer. The side effect of being raised by a former debate team captain who, also, could never take fucking no for an answer, she guessed. Raise her strong, she’d told herself. Guess she’d been successful at that. 

God help this girl’s future husband. Whatever poor soul she decided to bulldoze through life with was going to need it. She hoped she found someone sweet and patient enough to just let her do it. Maybe Whitaker had a little brother he hadn’t told her about. 

The waiting room was full of the usual nonsense—head colds, sprained ankles, vague chest pains that would turn out to be gas—but nothing urgent. The half-baked kind of shift that dragged, slow and heavy, leaving everyone restless. She used to love night shift, back when she could feel the pulse of the ER and move with it like a second heartbeat. She met Russell on night shift, back when she was still a resident and he was the charming McDreamy trauma surgeon nearly fifteen years her senior who always managed to find an excuse to wander into the ER, even when no one had paged him.

She fell in love with him between sutures and central lines, in moments snatched under humming fluorescent lights. Got married. Got pregnant. Thought she’d finally figured it all out; a good man, a good life. That all of that ache had led her to something safe. And then Russell insisted she switch to days. At the time, she thought he was protecting her. That he didn’t want her missing the early kicks of pregnancy and bedtime stories to come, how it would be so much better for her body, so much better for their marriage. She knew better now. It had a lot less to do with family and more to do with that fresh-faced surgical intern he kept mentoring a little too closely. She hadn’t worked a night shift since. Hadn’t wanted to. 

So, yeah. She was not a fan of night shift.

But Abby’s last Homecoming was next weekend, and if she wanted that night off, she had to take this one in trade. So here she was, back on nights, trying to make coffee with one hand while wrangling a pissed off seventeen-year-old with the other.

“The big deal is that I said no,” Beth repeated, reaching for the cup as the last weak splash of coffee trickled out into the carafe. “It’s not a debate. It’s ten o’clock, and Charlee’s parents aren’t home. No. That’s a full sentence. Period.”

Abby groaned.

“You want to make it to Homecoming next weekend,” Beth continued, “I suggest you stop arguing before I rethink letting you go at all, child.”

Beth sighed as she tilted the carafe, but her breath caught and she coughed hard, only for coffee to slosh over the rim and spill across the back of her hand with a hot flash of pain.

“Shit,” she hissed, jerking it away with an annoyed, pained gasp. 

The iPad slipped awkwardly down her side, and the phone nearly dropped from where it balanced against her shoulder. She gave up and clicked it over to speaker, tossing it unceremoniously onto the counter beside the iPad as she yanked a wad of rough paper towels from the wall dispenser.

“Oh my god, you literally can’t even do that!” Abby’s voice blared into the room, shrill and emphatic. “It’s Homecoming! Gavin just asked me this week!”

Beth muttered something under her breath that definitely wouldn’t hold up in family court, and started mopping at the counter. Half-listening, half-debating whether she should just break her no-energy-drinks rule and hit the vending machine for a Redbull. The door creaked open behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder.

Jack stepped in, the fluorescent lights catching the silver at his temples. He gave her a small, tight smile and raised an eyebrow as he crossed to the fridge.

She’s on speaker, Beth mouthed. Save me.

He smirked and nodded. Abby coughed, then continued, “It’s literally the most important night of the year. Okay, the second most important, but still! You can’t do that! There are, like, laws against it! Everyone’s going. Gavin—”

“That sounds familiar,” Jack murmured, opening the fridge.

Beth shot him a look, but it didn’t hold. Her mouth tugged at the corners. She tried to hide it by looking back down at the spill. Of course it sounded familiar. Her mom had once said the same thing to her word for word. Senior year, after she and Jack blew curfew for the third time that week and tried sneaking down the drive like they’d been there the entire time, and absolutely had not rolled in twenty minutes after they were supposed to. Her mom had dragged them both inside, ripped them both a new asshole, and threatened to ground both of them like she had jurisdiction over someone else’s kid. 

Beth knew how this ended. Abby would go, same as they had. But, the threat still sounded good.

“Oh my god,” Beth echoed, voice dry as she dabbed at her stinging hand. Jack glanced over, brows knitting with concern. She waved him off, mouthing, It’s fine, but he stepped towards her anyway. “I literally can. Try me, kid.”

Jack stepped in front of her without a word. Beth startled when his fingers closed gently around hers, but it wasn’t the sting of the burn that made her jump, or caused the sudden lurch in her chest when he came close enough to smell the coffee and antiseptic clinging to his scrubs. 

One hand cradled hers from beneath, the other examining the back of it, the way he would with any patient. His thumbs worked with quiet precision, turning her wrist, checking for blisters. It was superficial. She knew that. She’d send a patient home with some burn cream and a discharge sheet in under twenty minutes. Still, she didn’t pull away when his fingers brushed between hers, lingering there a moment too long while he examined the angry red mark. 

“That hurt?” He murmured. She shook her head. 

“I wouldn’t push it, House,” Jack said mildly, still focused on her hand. His thumb circled the reddened skin as he turned her wrist over. Beth looked up, surprised, but his eyes stayed on her skin. “I know your mom. She’ll make good on it. Trust me.”

Beth huffed, tapping his shin with the toe of her sneaker, trying not to smile. He smirked, but didn’t look up.

“Ugh, Jack! Finally, someone sane,” Abby groaned through the phone. “Back me up! Tell her it’s not even that big of a deal!”

Jack took her wrist again gently, his hand warm and steady. Then, his other hand settled lightly on the small of her back, guiding her out of the way. Beth’s breath hitched just a little at the contact, sending a small shock up her spine that had nothing to do with the burn. She swallowed it down, keeping her eyes down, keeping herself from stepping forward like her body so desperately wanted her to do. 

“Go rinse it. I’ve got this,” Jack said, quiet but firm.

“Jack—”

He was already reaching for a fresh towel and started to clean the counter without looking up. “Go, Beth.”

She hesitated for a moment, too aware of the phantom warmth where Jack’s hand had been on her back, still buzzing like static, before she turned toward the sink, a new tickle in her throat sending her into another brief coughing fit. She rubbed her chest with a groan. Weird, she hadn’t had that this morning. Must have inhaled wrong, because that just happened to be a fucking thing that happens when you’re almost fifty, or her daughter was finally finishing the job and causing her organs to shut down out of pure annoyance. She cleared her throat and continued to the sink. She knew the drill; cool water, pat dry, maybe some Silvadene if it blistered, which was unlikely. She focused on that instead of the way her mind raced, grateful for the excuse to turn away before her face could turn just as red.

Jack’s voice floated from behind her as wiped down the counter, low under the rush of the tap. “Don’t rope me into this, kid. This is between you and your mom. I’m just an innocent bystander.”

“But she’s being totally unfair! She’s not even home!” Abby shot back, frustration bleeding through her voice.

Jack shrugged, tossing the crumpled paper towel into the trash and reaching for another. 

“You know what your mom and I see in here every night?” He said evenly, almost matter-of-fact. “She’s saying no for a reason, House.”

“Ugh, don’t give me the ER doc speech,” Abby groaned.

“It’s not a speech, Abs. It’s just the truth. It’s late, it’s pissing down rain, your tires are so bald, I can see the wires, so you’d be sliding all over the road. And it’s payday weekend, so add drunk drivers to the mix. I’m telling you, your mom’s got the right call.”

“Of course you’d take her side,” Abby muttered.

Beth turned off the tap and rolled her eyes, dabbing at her hand as she stepped back toward him, reaching for her phone. “Abigail—”

“It’s not about sides, Abby,” Jack said calmly, still wiping the last of the coffee from the triage iPad. “It’s about keeping you safe. The last thing your mom and I want is to see you wheeled in—”

Beth didn’t hear the rest.

Her brain snagged on four simple words: your mom and I.

He hadn’t said it to provoke, or assume a role. He’d just… said it. Like it still fit. Like it hadn’t been years and miles and entire lives lived in between when it had been you and I.

It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to speak with that kind of authority over Abby. She’d heard it before; from teachers during conferences after being told that her daughter struggled with being too bossy or too strong-willed while she bit her tongue and prepped her you don’t water yourself down speech for the drive home. From Ed, from her own parents, which always seemed to drive her the most up the wall. 

She should have bristled. She usually did. She hated when people tried to parent Abby without permission. But this wasn’t that. It didn’t feel like overstepping. It just felt…nice. 

Maybe it was the way he said it; gently, without posturing, without claim, or the way Abby seemed to argue with him less than she would with others. Just calm, quiet care. He wasn’t trying to parent her kid, wasn’t trying to insert himself. He was just… standing next to her. Saying we like it still meant something. Like it had standing in his arms in her laundry room; like just for a moment, it still could. 

She blinked, startled by the warmth pressing against her ribs. She didn’t trust it, didn’t know what to make of it, but she didn’t look away either, or drown out the whisperings that burned bright through her.

Jack turned and held the iPad out to her without a word. She took it slowly, her fingers brushing his, and that flutter tightened.

He was still talking to Abby, but she barely registered the words. Something about the way he was with her daughter—firm, respectful, measured—made her feel something sharp and startling in her chest. Not big. Not overwhelming. Just enough to notice. Just enough to make her pause. Enough to make her wonder; when was the last time she had this? Someone on her side. Another voice in the room. A time when she didn’t feel like she had to do all of this alone. She wasn’t sure if she ever had. 

She was used to doing this alone. Had been for a long time now. Decisions. Discipline. All of it had fallen on her shoulders, and she was happy to carry that weight. Most of the time, she preferred it that way. It was cleaner that way. Simpler. She didn’t have to rely on others, or beg them to be involved, or to just back me up this once. Please.

But that wasn’t what Jack had said. Not you, not your mother wants. No. Your mom and I, like he was shouldering it with her. She hadn’t hated the way it sounded coming out of his mouth.

And she really didn’t hate the way that Abby seemed to listen when he said it. That…well that did something low and hot in her gut that she wasn’t too proud of.

“Charlee’s mom wouldn’t care,” Abby muttered.

“That’s great for Charlee,” Beth said, finally finding her words again. “But I’m not Charlee’s mom. I’m yours.”

Jack stepped away from the counter, brushing his hands off on a paper towel. “Well, maybe Charlee’s mom hasn’t spent every Saturday night this year sewing kids back together,” he said lightly. “But your mom and I have.”

There it was again. That punch to the chest at those words that felt so foreign and familiar all at once in a way that terrified her and thrilled her in the same breath. Beth glanced sideways at him, a flicker of gratitude behind her tired eyes.

“We need to go back to work,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest, trying to ignore the way his shoulder brushed against her own. “You need to go to bed. And if I open Life360 and find that your butt is anywhere else but in your bedroom, you can kiss—.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Abby mumbled. Beth could almost picture her, flopped down on her bed like a Victorian heroine draped across a velvet chaise with a long suffering stare up at the ceiling fan. “Whatever. You two are so lame. I’m going to bed.”

“Good choice. ’Night, boo,” Beth said softly. “I love you big.”

“Love you bigger. ’Night,” she grumbled out, barely audible. Then, before the call disconnected with a quiet beep, she added, “‘Night, Jack.”

“‘Night, House.”

Oh. 

Why had that felt nice too?

The call ended, and the room fell quiet again, now that seventy decibels of teenage melodrama weren’t filling the air. Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable. Just…charged. The way the air feels before it starts to thunder.

Jack crumpled the paper towel in his hand and dropped it into the trash, brushing his palms on his scrub pants. “How’s the hand?”

Beth looked down, flexing her fingers. The red mark had faded to a soft pink, just a faint sting now. “It’s fine,” she said. “I think they’ll let me keep it.”

“Ah, that’s a shame,” His mouth tipped into a crooked smile. “You with one hand and me with one leg? We’d make quite the pair.”

A laugh slipped out before she could stop it, soft and genuine. “Yeah,” she said, smiling back, “I guess we would.”

Jack held his hand out. “Let me see it.”

She hesitated only a second before placing her hand in his, the warmth of his palm curling under her fingers as he guided her hand into better light. His brows knit as he turned it gently, and his thumb swept across her knuckles, featherlight, sending that restless flutter through her chest again.

“I guess you’ll live,” he murmured. “Just get something on it before your next set of rounds. Does it hurt?”

“No,” she said quietly, though her voice felt different in her own ears; low, a little unsteady, as though the sting in her hand had nothing to do with why her heart had kicked up a beat.

“Good,” he said. His fingers gave hers an absent squeeze before he lowered her hand, but he didn’t let go.

Beth’s gaze dropped to where their hands still hung between them, her fingers folded into his, his thumb brushing lightly against hers as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The sight tugged something low in her chest, something she’d tucked away for years and hadn’t dared to reopen. But it stood beside her, whispering excitedly.

After a long moment, he finally let go.

Before she could stop herself; before she could even think really, her hand darted forward again, fingers sliding back into his. Like she was eighteen again, standing on her parents’ porch under a flickering light, certain the world was so wide and they had all the time in it. She felt her own breath catch, startled by her own impulsiveness. Her fingers tightened around his. She didn’t look up, afraid of what might be written across his face, but she felt the answering squeeze all the same.

She swallowed, mind still racing, grasping for words that wouldn’t come. 

“Thank you,” she said finally, her voice softer than she meant it to be. She gave his hand a quick, grateful squeeze before dropping it, tucking her own into her pocket as if to keep herself from reaching for him again. “For having my back there with Abby. She can be… pretty relentless when she wants something.”

“I wonder where she got that from,” he said, his voice warm with amusement.

Beth felt the corner of her mouth lift. She crossed her arms loosely over her chest, leaning her hip against the counter, trying to look unaffected even as her heart hadn’t quite settled back into rhythm. “Watch yourself, Abbot.”

Jack chuckled, low and easy, and for a second it felt like the years between them folded in on themselves; like they were back on her parents’ porch after curfew, trading quiet jabs under the glow of a porch light, hands brushing, rolling her eyes and whispering, You’re an idiot, Jack Abbot.

She wasn’t sure who the idiot was now, with her pulse thundering in her ears.

Beth let out a slow breath, trying to ease some of the tension wound tight in her chest. Her arms were still crossed, but her shoulders eased as she looked at him.

Jack’s mouth tipped into that easy half-smile. “Don’t mention. Half the shit I said was just repeating what I heard your old man say back in the day, anyway. ‘If you’re arguing this hard, you already know the answer.’ Remember that one?”

Beth’s smile deepened, the memory tugging warm and bittersweet at the edges. “Yeah. I remember. I’m surprised you do.”

“How could I forget?” He shrugged, pulling open the fridge for a bottle of water. “I probably heard him say it to you eight times a week for four years.”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

Jack turned over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, and gave her a dry, disbelieving look. “You keep telling yourself that. I could’ve said the sky was blue, and you’d argue it was green just to hear the sound of your own voice, Sparky.”

Beth rolled her eyes, a laugh slipping out as she shook her head. “God, you’re impossible.” The word Sparky still sparked in her chest like an old match struck in the dark. She let the smile settle, softer now. “Still… thank you. Really.”

Jack’s eyes softened too, and she could feel the weight of his presence steadying her in a way she hadn’t let herself lean on in years. She glanced down, picking at a loose thread on her vest, then back up at him. “Abby really likes you, you know.”

We both do, The Girl Before whispered from somewhere inside her chest, I always have. I still do. Say you still like me too. Even if I’m not brand new. Even if I’m a little broken. 

But she didn’t hush her this time. Didn’t shove her back into some locked box labeled then. Lately, that voice had stopped feeling like a stranger from a lifetime ago and more like something woven into her now. Not separate, not a whisper of someone she used to be before the world grew cold and she gained cracks in the foundation of herself that she’d never been able to fill, but just… her. She wasn’t some ghost hovering over Beth’s shoulder; she was tangled up in Beth herself now, stitched into every memory, every heartbeat.  She couldn’t remember the last time she knew that girl.

Jack’s smile deepened, slow and sure. 

“Well, the feeling’s mutual,” he said, and for a heartbeat, something shifted. 

Beth wasn’t sure what to make of that. Of him, of her own voice, of the warm hum in her chest that wouldn’t settle. Maybe it was best she didn’t try. She’d spent decades in her own head, sorting through and categorizing until everything she feared could hurt her was tucked away in places she didn’t have to deal with. She didn’t want to deal with this. She didn’t want to revisit this file. Not because it hurt, but because things, finally, were starting to feel like something. Not what they’d been back then. Not shiny or new or wide‑eyed with firsts, not that breathless rush of teenagers who thought that love would be enough and that it would never sting.

But something… familiar. Something she remembered the shape of even after all these years. Something good.

And if she said something, if she reached for him the way she wanted to, if she asked that question that had crawled through her like rot for thirty years, the one she had turned over in her mind in a thousand different ways—it might all go away.

She could lose this. Him. Lose the fragile, quiet thing that was starting to grow between them before it ever had a chance to become something better than just good. She couldn’t do that again. If he walked away the second time, then that would be it. The cracks she’d spent years patching would open up and swallow her whole, and she would not chase The Girl Before again. She would cease to be, and a new version would take her place, whispering, I told you so.

So she didn’t say it. Didn’t ask. Didn’t risk the air between them shifting too far too soon. Instead, she held his gaze, a small, private smile tugging at his mouth, and let herself stand in it a little longer without needing to name a single thing.

“I missed that,” she said instead, the words barely more than a breath.

Jack tipped his head. “Missed what, Sparky?”

“That,” she said. Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to reach out, to touch, but she held back. “You calling me that.”

Jack’s eyes softened, a flicker of something tender surfacing behind his usual guarded expression he wore at work. A slow smile curved his lips, warm and real. “I missed it too.”

“I’ve missed you.” That Girl said before Beth could keep it from falling out of her mouth. She wasn’t even sure if The Girl Before had been the one to say it. But it hung there between them, quiet and heavy.

She bit down hard on her lip, uncertain if she had crossed whatever imaginary line they’d pretended to draw only to kick the sand and redraw it again and again when they crossed it.

Jack stepped forward just a fraction, close enough that she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, to count the freckles she used to trace her fingers along.

“That feeling’s mutual, too,” he murmured.

Her gaze dropped to his lips, parted slightly as if he might say something more, but he didn’t.

He was so close. Close enough to put her hands on his chest the way she had in the laundry room. Close enough to let his arms fold around her waist and sink into him like she’d wanted to for years. Close enough to tilt her chin and stop ignoring what had been trying to claw its way out of her since the moment she saw him, like it was compelled by the force of him. 

Close enough to finally ask the questions that still burned holes in her chest:

Why did you go?

What did I do wrong?

If I fix myself, will you come back?

God, he was just so close.

Her hands found his chest before she even realized she’d moved.

Who was she kidding? She realized. 

She knew exactly what she was doing as she stepped in, closing the narrow span of air that still existed between them. Jack didn’t flinch. His hand came up, covering hers where it pressed over his heart, fingers curling around hers like he was pinning her down before she could float away. His thumb brushed across her knuckles in a slow circle, and his other hand lifted, settling against her back, his fingers splayed wide like he couldn’t decide which part of her he needed to feel most.

She felt it under her palm; the quickened rhythm of his heart, steady but racing, a drumbeat that pulled a memory straight through time. Your heart is beating so fast, she’d whispered to him that night on top of the mill, her own laughter caught in her breath as his lips hovered over hers for the very first time. It’s like you’re afraid of me.

I am, he’d said, laughter soft and sweet against her mouth.

Her throat tightened. He was looking down at her now, eyes dark and searching, his palm still firm against her back as though urging her just a little closer. He looked at her like she was something precious and complicated all at once, like a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for decades, carefully fitting the fractured pieces of her together in his mind until they resembled something he recognized; something they both once knew.

Ask him, That Girl urged, a voice raw and desperate inside her ribcage. Just ask. Please. Make him stay.

Her lips parted. She could feel the words burning at the back of her throat; how close it all was to tumbling free.

Why did you go?

What did I do wrong?

Please don’t leave.

She swallowed hard, the motion thick in her throat as her eyes flicked up to the hazel she had once spent entire afternoons memorizing, cataloging every fleck of green and gold and how they shifted in the light. Then down to his mouth, the shape of it still etched somewhere deep in her memory. Her teeth caught her bottom lip like maybe, if she bit hard enough, she could keep the words from slipping free. Could keep herself from ruining it. From ruining herself.

“Jack…” she breathed, the syllable trembling, breaking the fragile silence.

A low sound escaped his throat in response, something rough and unsteady, his fingers curling tighter into the back of her vest as though the very idea of her moving away was unbearable. 

His forehead tipped forward until it rested gently against hers, the bridge of his nose brushing hers, his breath shaky and warm as it ghosted over her skin. She felt the tiny tremor that ran through him, the way his chest rose and fell like he was fighting the same current pulling at her. So close. He was so close she could almost taste the memory of him, every heartbeat between them loud enough to drown out whatever reason she still clung to.

“Say it,” he murmured, voice low, barely a command, more like a confession begging to be spoken aloud.

Stay. Don’t go. Don’t leave again. Come home.

The words trembled on her tongue, heavy and dangerous like they could tear the air wide open between them. Her pulse thudded against her ribs, loud enough she swore he could feel it through his palm, through the inches of fabric between them, through the years they’d both carried like scars.

Say it, That Girl whispered, fierce and aching. Say it before you lose it again.

Her lips parted, breath catching—unsure and sure all at once—as the words rose to the edge of her tongue. The question, the confession, all of it trembled there, waiting to spill into the space between them. 

Say it. Say it. Say it.

And then the door swung open.

“Baker, I’ve got a—”

Shit. 

Beth startled, jumping back like she’d been struck with a soft gasp, her hand slipping from Jack’s chest like it burned. His fingers hovered in the air for a fraction of a second before falling uselessly to his sides. 

Bridget stopped mid‑stride in the doorway, eyes landing on them with surgical precision. She didn’t bother to hide the way her gaze dropped to Beth’s flushed face, then to Jack, who looked like he’d just been caught red‑handed sneaking out of someone’s bedroom at seventeen. Bridget stood in the doorway, a chart in her hand, her sharp eyes cutting from Beth to Jack and back again. She didn’t smile, didn’t frown.

“Hm.” It was flat, unimpressed, and somehow louder than any accusation could have been.

Shit. 

“We were—” Jack started, straightening, his voice too quick, too smooth to be anything but a cover.

“Don’t need to know. Less paperwork that way,” Bridget cut in, dry as salt, shutting down the explanation without so much as a blink. She turned her attention fully on Beth. “I’ve got a pregnant woman, thirty‑two years old, thirty‑six weeks. She was in earlier today with Braxton‑Hicks, McKay sent her home. Says the contractions are getting worse. She’s in Five when you two are done…” her gaze slid briefly to Jack, then back to Beth, “…doing whatever you were doing.”

This is not fucking happening. 

Beth felt her stomach drop, her face heating like she’d been caught doing something far worse than standing too close. She managed a quick nod, not even looking at Jack in fear that she would blush so hard she’d incinerate. 

Jack cleared his throat, his hand still hovering slightly near her like he hadn’t quite told it to stand down yet.

“We were… consulting,” he said, the pause betraying him before the word even landed.

Beth cringed. Really? That’s the best you can do?

Bridget’s brows climbed, her lips pressing into a thin line that was one part amusement and three parts disbelief.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“Mhm,” she said at last, letting the syllable stretch with every ounce of judgment she could fit into it. She turned toward the hallway, shaking her head, already muttering under her breath about some General Hospital, Gray’s Anatomy bullshit as she pulled the door closed.

The latch clicked, and the break room fell deafeningly silent again, except for the ragged sound of Beth’s breath as she tried to collect it.

Oh my god.

She still hadn’t moved from where she’d stumbled back, her palm gripping the edge of the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her knuckles were pale against the laminate, the tremor running through her fingers impossible to steady.

What the fuck are you doing? You are at work. You can’t just… you can’t just do that. 

He glanced at her, eyes still shadowed, still burning. She wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Not with her face still flushed, or her head still spinning, or that heat in her belly still trying to burn through her, or her heart still trying to settle after nearly leaping into his hands. If she met his eyes again, she wasn’t sure what would happen; if she’d bolt toward him instead of away, if she’d finally say all the things she wasn’t ready to let loose. If she looked, she didn’t know if she’d stop.

What were you even doing? Did you even think? Where was your brain, Beth? You can’t do… that. Not with…not with him. Not at work.

So she pushed off the counter, pulse thundering, and bolted toward the door before he could say anything. The latch rattled under her hand as she yanked it open, the cool hallway air rushing in like a slap of reality. The door swung wide, and for half a second, she thought she heard him say her name; soft, low, almost hesitant. 

But she didn’t stop. She didn’t trust herself to. 

She turned towards Five, shoving down the way he looked at her. The weight of his forehead on hers, the heat of his breath, the way he gripped her when she said his name like it was his undoing. Like she still was.

“Say it.”

No. Don’t. Not here.

Do your job, you dumb bitch.

Fucking consulting. 

You’re an idiot, Jack Abbot.

She guessed she was one, too.

Chapter Text

“Bitch, you did what?”

Beth flinched, a low groan escaping her throat as she buried her face in both hands, elbows braced on the railing of the roof. The freezing metal bit into her skin as she rubbed her palms over her eyes like she could scrub the last hour off her face and out of her memory.

The roof around her hummed with the distant thrum of generators and the occasional hiss of a vent, the city noise below muffled and far away. Night air rolled over her in sharp gusts, carrying the damp bite of recent rain. Clouds drifted across the moon, silver light blinking in and out, and the stars—those few faint ones she could make out—felt too far to reach. She dropped her hands to rub at her temples, then laced her fingers together and let her chin rest on them against the railing, drawing in a long, thin breath that curled into the cold air before her.

“Please don’t make me say it again,” she mumbled.

On the other end of the call, Becca went silent for a moment of stunned silence. Or maybe just savoring the drama. She was never quite sure which. Beth could hear waves in the background, a lazy roll and crash that felt a million miles away. Becca always did know how to land somewhere sun‑soaked when her own life imploded. Beth could picture her now; on some wraparound balcony, a ridiculous beach hat tipped over her face, bronzed legs up on a lounge chair, some old rich boyfriend’s AmEx footing the bill. Maybe Beth would get lucky and this one would have a younger brother.

“That little fuck,” Becca hissed, voice low and dangerous and full of incredulous delight. “I’ll kill him.”

“Becca…” Beth said weakly, but Becca didn’t give her the chance.

“No! This is the same guy I’ve been planning to Goodbye Earl since we were eighteen. And you—” Beth could hear the clink of ice against a glass, “God, Beth! What the hell were you thinking?”

Beth groaned again, covering her face, elbows digging harder into the icy railing. The chill seeped straight through the sleeves of her compression jacket, biting into her skin. She rubbed her eyes hard, as if she could scrub away the image burned behind them: his hand over hers, thumb brushing slow circles, the heat of his palm through the fabric of her vest. That soft rasp in his voice: Say it. Her pulse kicked hard against her ribs at the memory, shame and longing colliding so fiercely she felt dizzy.

“I wasn’t,” she murmured into the night air. Her breath curled white in front of her face. “God, I wasn’t thinking at all, Becs.”

“No shit,” Becca shot back in her ear, sharp and fond through the phone. “Something was thinking. Just not your fucking brain.”

“Ew.”

“Ew is right! Very ew! Do you want me to fly back and personally shake you? Because I will.”

Beth peeked at her reflection in the dark glass of the stairwell door nearby, grimacing. The sodium lights lining the roof made her skin look sallow, the deep circles under her eyes like bruises. Her pulse still hadn’t slowed. Her chest still ached with something she wasn’t ready to name. 

“Please don’t,” she whispered, voice snagging on the wind.

“You’re lucky I’m on a beach and mildly drunk,” Becca said, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Otherwise, I’d be buying a ticket right now.”

Beth let her forehead tip into her palm, eyes squeezing shut as a cold breeze pushed her hair across her face. The air smelled of wet tar and faint disinfectant from the vents, and somewhere below, a siren wailed, distant and mournful. “How is this different than any other time you call me?”

On the other end, Becca laughed, loud and unrestrained. “Shut the fuck up.”

Beth’s fingers dug into the railing, the cold metal numbing her palms, October wind needling through her scrubs until she shivered. She wasn’t entirely sure what she’d expected when she called Becca. Maybe for someone to tell her she was fine, or maybe for someone to tell her she wasn’t. The mom‑to‑be in Five had been a welcome distraction; six centimeters, active labor, vitals steady. On paper, everything was progressing exactly as it should, but the girl was shaking, panic pouring off her like static, and Beth knew that language better than she ever wanted to.

She’d stayed, even when she didn’t have to. Pulled a stool up to the bedside, chart balanced on her knee, just listening. The rhythm of contractions, the ragged breathing, the halting confessions of a woman caught between pain and fear. She was a sweet, nervous thing. She’d apologized to everyone on the way back—every patient in a waiting chair, every volunteer in a vest—like active labor fell somewhere below bloody noses and coughs on the triage scale. The woman, Violet, had talked about her husband in broken, fond little bursts between contractions; John, a PPD cop, night shifts, SWAT callouts. A good man, she said, and the way her voice caught made Beth believe it. He’s my best friend, she said with a watery smile. I’ve never loved anyone like I love him. Beth had stayed because she recognized that look in Violet’s eyes every time she checked her phone. That raw, bone‑deep terror of being left to do this alone.

And God, Beth remembered. She remembered white‑knuckling her own rails, the hard brightness of the lights, the way the nurse’s voice had softened when she’d stayed beside her long after her shift ended, even though she didn’t have to. Beth had clung to that woman’s hand like a lifeline while her world collapsed in slow motion; phone calls unanswered, her daughter’s father snapping at her that she was interrupting his night before hanging up. Fuck that guy, the nurse had said. We’ve got you, baby. You’re gonna be just fine. She had told the nurse she was fine, told herself she was fine. She had lied.

When Violet’s phone finally rang through, Beth had felt her own pulse spike, some old muscle memory firing. Jack had come in just as the call connected, his words—something about OB being on their way down—fading into background noise as the sound of sirens cut through the speaker and John’s voice broke with apology. I’m sorry, baby. I’m on my way. I won’t miss it. I love you. I’m so proud of you, Vi.

Beth’s throat had tightened as Violet’s hand trembled in hers, as relief turned the girl’s tears into laughter. Hurry, Violet had begged, and Beth had felt that like an echo through the years, back to her own hospital bed, her own empty door.

She’d stayed until a resident arrived to take over. Then she’d slipped out before Jack could look at her too long; before anyone could see the way her own hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The roof had been her first thought, the only place to breathe, the night air cutting sharp against her skin as she dialed Becca with the same urgency she’d felt all those years ago, when she needed someone, anyone, to stay on the line. And the same as she always had, Becca answered on the second ring.

“And let’s back up a damn minute,” Becca said, slow and dangerous, like Beth had just confessed to hiding a body. “He told you to say it?”

Beth closed her eyes, already wincing. “Yeah.”

There was a beat of dead silence, only the hiss of distant surf threading through the line. Then, as she usually did;

Becca detonated.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

Beth jerked the phone back from her ear, wincing. “Jesus, Bec—”

“No! Shut up! No, no, no. Absolutely not. He does not get to pull that shit!” Becca’s voice climbed, sharp with outrage that braided through it like razor wire. “He disappears off the face of the earth for thirty goddamn years and then he has the balls to tell you to say it? Oh my God, Beth, are you hearing yourself right now?”

I am. That’s the fucking problem.

Beth groaned, dragging both hands down her face until they dropped limply to her sides, knuckles brushing the slick railing. The wind cut through her scrubs, sharp and damp with the lingering smell of rain, and she shivered, hugging her arms around herself. Her pulse still hadn’t slowed. She could still feel the imprint of his hand on her back, the ghost of his breath as his nose brushed hers, and she hated—God, she hated—that some part of her wanted to feel it again.

Why did I even call her? What did I think she’d say? That this was fine? That I hadn’t just lit a match in the middle of a hospital break room?

“No! Uh‑uh!” Becca barreled on, not letting her answer. “He can fucking say it! That is not on you, Beth! He left! He’s the one who went radio silent, and now he’s standing there all smoldery and telling you to—” She broke off with a furious sound, half laugh, half snarl. “Oh my God! I swear to God, Beth, if I wasn’t—actually, no! Fuck that. Charlie!” Her voice went muffled, sharp in the background. “Call James! Tell him to meet us at the airport! We’re leaving! That little motherfucker…”

Beth’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “No you are not, Becca!”

“Yes, I am! If we leave Belize now, I’ll be back in L.A. by morning and on the next flight to Pittsburgh.”

“And do what?”

“Buy a gun. Go to his house. Kill him to death. With a gun.”

Beth let out a helpless little laugh that almost sounded like a sob. So this is where Abby gets it. God help me.

“Will you stop?”

“No! I will not stop!” Becca snapped, fiery and unrelenting. “He can say it! He owes you that. He owes you every single word!”

Beth dropped her head into her hands again, the cold metal of the railing biting into her forearms as her chest tightened with that awful, aching mix of humor and heartbreak. She wanted to tell Becca she was right. She wanted to tell her to shut up. She wanted—God, she didn’t even know what she wanted. Just to stop feeling like she was coming apart at the seams.

But all she said was a muffled, “I know,” into her palms, letting the wind’s low whistle and Becca’s righteous fury fill up the empty places she didn’t want to look at yet.

Becca was still mid‑tirade when her voice shifted into something lower, calmer, but no less adamant.

“It is not your responsibility to start that conversation, Beth. Do you hear me? Not yours. This—ugh—this reminds me of something my life coach told me during my last divorce… when you—”

Beth groaned, cutting her off, one hand dragging down her face. “I do not want to hear what your white-guy-dreads life coach had to say.”

“He was very wise,” Becca shot back, unbothered.

Beth barked out a humorless laugh, staring at her own exhausted eyes in the mirror. “He was twenty‑nine and you were fucking him.”

There was a snort, then Becca said, utterly unrepentant, “Like I said. He was very wise.”

Beth dropped her head into her hands again with a muttered curse, torn between laughter and despair. God help me, she thought, because somehow this is actually making me feel better—and I don’t know if that’s pathetic or perfect.

Becca kept going, voice warming with that sharp‑edged affection only she could pull off. “Beth. I’m serious. Don’t you carry that weight. If that man wants to dig up thirty years of ghosts, he can start talking. He can choke on the first word if he has to, but it’s not on you. You’ve done enough.”

Beth let out a shaky breath, feeling the truth of it and hating how much it hurt. Her pulse was still a mess, her thoughts still back in that break room, back under the heat of his hand. And still, Becca’s words landed, solid as stone, wedging themselves somewhere between the ache and the anger.

“I hear you,” she said softly, more to herself than to Becca.

“Good,” Becca replied, the sound of surf crashing somewhere behind her, glass clinking softly as she took another drink. “Now say it louder for the dumbass on the roof.”

Beth stared up at the bruised sky above her, lips curving into something halfway between a laugh and a grimace.

“I hear you,” she repeated.

“Good,” Becca said, her voice softer now. After a pause, she asked, “So… have you two actually talked about it? About everything?”

Beth swallowed hard, the knot tightening in her chest. She wanted to say yes, wanted to pretend things were simpler than they were, but the truth settled heavily on her tongue. “No.”

“Elizabeth…” Becca sighed.

Beth felt the familiar twist of panic and shame. Of course we haven’t talked. How do you even start after all this time? “I know, I know… I guess, I just don’t want—”

“Okay, be honest with me. Is he still hot?”

The question hit her like a sudden punch to the head. Her mind scrambled, trying to shove it away, but it was impossible to ignore. God, yes. “What? Why does that matter?”

“Because there has to be some reason he’s got the smartest person I know acting like a fucking idiot,” Becca said, sharp and teasing. “You always were a little dumb when it came to him. He’d make eyes at you, and your pants were gone as fast as your brain was.”

Beth’s throat tightened. 

Excuse me? Absolutely not.

…Okay, maybe not absolutely not.

And for the record, it wasn’t always pants. I had a whole rotation of skirts back then, thank you very much.

…Yeah, great, that’s so much better—‘quick access,’ good job, Beth.

Fine. Maybe I was a little… quick to forgiveness.

 “Why do you care? You didn’t even like him.”

Becca snorted, the sound so familiar it made Beth’s heart ache. “Of course I didn’t. He drove me fucking insane. Doesn’t mean I didn’t think he was hot. Answer the question.”

Beth hesitated, the silence stretching so long it felt like the air was pressing down on her. How do you admit that the thing you’ve tried to forget still burns inside you?

“Beth…” Becca prompted.

“He’s really hot, alright?” Beth snapped, a little too sharp, frustrated at herself for finally saying it aloud. “He looks fucking great. Is that what you want me to say? He smells good, he’s gone gray and it’s… and his arms—God, Becs, his arms are still amazing. He’s still so funny and sweet, and he’s so good with Abby. She was being an absolute asshole on the phone earlier, and he just stepped in, and he was so calm, and Abby actually listened. It was so fucking sexy, Becca. Why is that hot? That he’s good with my kid and she listens to him and likes him? What the hell is wrong with me?”

Her chest tightened, heat rising in her cheeks despite the cool autumn air.

Becca laughed, breathless and real. “I don’t think you’re supposed to call your kid an asshole.”

Beth shook her head, a dry chuckle escaping. “That’s because you don’t have kids and don’t know that they can be assholes, Becca.”

“And thank God I don’t,” Becca shot back, smug and amused. “How else do you think I’m able to call you from Belize right now? Being the fun aunt is far more exciting.”

“Rebecca, I’m on a hospital roof in the middle of a fucking crisis. Can you please shut the fuck about your childless vacation right now?”

Becca’s voice dropped to a mock-whisper. “Alright, alright.”

“Thank you.”

Beth leaned against the railing, closing her eyes for a moment. The night wind moved around her in restless currents, carrying the distant wail of a siren, but the heat in her chest wouldn’t fade.

“So, when’s the last time you even got laid?”

Beth choked on a breath. “Becca!”

“I’m serious,” Becca shot back, laughter edging into her voice. “Because you sound like a damn cat in heat over there.”

Heat crept up Beth’s neck so fast it made her ears ring. Oh my god. Shut up. Shut up. She pressed her palms over her face, elbows digging into the railing. It had been a damn minute, but she didn’t need her best friend calling her out like that, not when her head was already full of Jack’s hands and Jack’s mouth and the way his voice had dipped when his grip on her tightened and he’d told her to say it, and how her brain was now stuck between all of the words she wanted to say and everything she wanted to hear him say like that.

“I have a kid, Becca,” Beth muttered into her hands, the words muffled. “I don’t exactly have the time to—”

“You have a teenager, not a toddler,” Becca cut in, blunt and unapologetic. “Stop making excuses. Now answer the question.”

Beth dropped her hands, glaring up at the glow of moonlight through the clouds that felt like an interrogation spotlight. When was the last time? Her mind scrambled through months like cards shuffled in a deck, but she came up empty at first.

“Beth?” Becca prompted, sing-song, not giving her an inch.

Beth groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I don’t know… March?”

God, listen to yourself. 

“March?” Becca echoed, incredulous. “Who?”

Beth’s stomach dropped. She stared up at the skies, wishing they would open up and swallow her.

“Don’t say Ed…” Becca warned.

Beth winced. “…Ed.”

“Beth!”

Beth’s shoulders curled in, forehead thunking lightly into her hands. God, why did I say that out loud? Why did I call her? Beth sighed, the sound heavy enough to fog in the cold. God, I know I shouldn’t. I knew it even while I was doing it.

It hadn’t been like that, though. It hadn’t been like that in years. Just a handful of weak moments when loneliness edged out common sense; when the house felt too big, or the silence too loud, or she just needed someone’s hands on her skin to remind her she was still there. That night in March had been the last. There’d never been any whispered promises, no late-night confessions, no pretense of something more. She was hardly the first person in the world to hook up with an ex.

“Was it at least good?” Becca asked, suspicion and curiosity twining together, sharp as ever.

Beth’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Was it ever?

It had been fine. That was the truth. Ed wasn’t selfish; never had been. He’d been willing enough to try new things when they were together and experiment in a way that felt almost polite, to ask what she wanted, to be attentive in that methodical way he did most things. But there was never any real spark; never that dizzying heat that left her shaking afterward. No ravenous, need-you-now moments when she caught his eyes across a room and felt herself unravel. No brushes of fingertips or lingering breaths that left her aching.

She had tried, though. God, she’d tried. Tried to coax out that kind of urgency, to find the breathlessness that never seemed to come. A lingerie drawer full of lace that felt more like costumes than invitations. Flirty text messages fired off under tables at dinner with friends, only to watch him skim them with the same mild attention he gave an email before sliding his phone away and leaning in to murmur, “Behave,” without even a hint of the growl of what was waiting for her at home if she didn’t.

Once, she’d brought his service cuffs into the bedroom with a crooked grin and some half‑joking suggestion, only to be met with a gentle, “That’s not what they’re for, Beth.” Another night, in a moment of boldness, she slipped a few raunchy Polaroids she’d snapped with an old camera she found in the attic into his wallet. A few in lingerie, a few in nothing at all. For a few minutes she’d felt young and sexy and a little dangerous. But his reaction had been a mild laugh and a mumbled, “You’re something else,” against her lips before tucking them away like grocery receipts. 

She’d smiled back, let him kiss her cheek, and tucked the sting somewhere deep, willing herself not to mind.

With Ed, it was always the same handful of positions she could run through like choreography, a mediocre orgasm she almost always had to finish herself while he was in the shower, and that dull, predictable safety that wrapped around her like a weighted blanket. That night in March had been no different. Never passionate, never burning, never breathless. Just…

“It was,” she said finally, voice low, flat, “fine.”

Becca groaned, long and low, like she was too tired for this but too stubborn to let it go. 

“We don’t have time to unpack that right now…” she whispered, her voice tight with exasperation. “But you two,” she inhaled sharply, “you and Jack, need to figure this out.”

Beth pressed her fingers to her eyes until little sparks bloomed behind her lids. She rubbed a hand over her mouth, the edge of her nail scraping against her bottom lip. “I know,” she whispered.

“No, I mean it, Beth.” Becca’s voice dropped lower, steadier, the way she sounded when she was dead serious. “I’ve known you since we were seven years old. You can tell everyone else you’re fine. You can even tell yourself. But I know better. You weren’t the same after he left. You let something in you go with him.”

Beth stared down at the rooftop beneath her sneakers. A crack in the concrete curved like a crescent moon, and she fixed on it; anything to keep from feeling the way her chest tightened.

“I’m over that, Becca. I have been for a long time.”

“You named your daughter after him, Beth.”

Beth’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Her stomach dipped like an elevator dropping floors.

“You’re not over it,” Becca said, gentler now, but no less sharp. “Babe, I don’t think you ever got over it. I was there, remember? I watched you write those letters in our dorm. I’d hear you crying in your sleep, and you’d deny it the next morning. I watched you wear that jacket every day like a security blanket; like maybe if you held onto it tight enough, he’d come back for it.”

Beth blinked hard, the glow of the city below blurring and doubling in her vision.

“You never stopped loving him,” Becca said quietly, like it wasn’t an accusation but a fact they’d both been circling for decades. “Even when he didn’t deserve for you to. And now he’s back…” Becca sighed, the scrape of glass on metal echoing through the dark. “…now he’s back, and you don’t know what to do with the fact that you’re not writing letters to a memory anymore. Do you?”

Beth gripped the cold metal railing until her knuckles blanched, fighting the burn in her chest, fighting the sting in her eyes. She wanted to argue. She wanted to laugh it off. Instead, she stood there, listening to the hum of distant traffic rising up from the streets below, breath catching as she stared out over the dark city. Becca’s words sat heavy in her ear, right in all the ways Beth didn’t want her to be. All she could do was stand in the truth of it, hot and unwelcome, throbbing in her chest like the wound she’d never quite let heal. Still there, now gaping and raw again.

“I don’t need him,” Beth said quietly, like saying it out loud might make it truer. “I did it all without him.”

But I wanted him. I wanted to do it all with him.

“Of course you don’t, babe,” Becca shot back instantly, her voice warm but firm. “You did just fine without him. You didn’t need Russell, either. You’ve only ever needed you, because you’re Elizabeth fucking Baker. You’re the one who put yourself back together, said ‘fuck you’ to the messes they left, and kept moving. You built a career. You’ve got a cool‑ass kid. You made your own money, your own life. You didn’t do that with anyone’s help but your own.”

Beth drew in a shaky breath, her eyes fixed on the three faint stars strung in a row, dim against the murky sky. A part of her ached to argue; to say but it still hurt, to confess I never wanted to—but the words lodged tight in her throat and went no further.

“You’re a bad bitch, Elizabeth Baker.”

“Becca…”

“No,” Becca snapped, all edges and the conviction Jack used to bristle over every time they were in the same room. “You are. Say it.”

Beth gave a weak laugh, scrubbing a hand over her mouth. “I am at work. I’m not going to—”

“What? Make out with your ex‑boyfriend in the break room? We’re well past the list of shit you aren’t going to do at work.” She paused, then Becca’s voice came through, low and sharp, “Say it. Say you’re a bad bitch.”

A bad bitch? They needed to stop spending so much time with Abby. God, she didn’t feel like one. She felt messy. Shaken. Like she’d just stepped off a cliff she didn’t even mean to jump from. But Becca’s tone left no room for argument.

Beth’s lips parted, reluctant. “…I’m a bad bitch.”

“Louder!”

Beth’s brow furrowed, and this time it came out steadier. “I’m a bad bitch.”

“Fuck yeah you are,” Becca crowed. “Don’t let some guy—any guy—make you forget that. Especially Jack fucking Abbot, the dumb son of a bitch. I’ll beat his ass.”

Beth pressed her lips together, shaking her head, but for the first time since she’d slipped onto the roof, she felt her chest ease, the tightness uncoiling just a little.

“Listen to me,” Becca said, her voice dropping into that dangerous calm she only got when she was about to go full scorched earth. “You’ve done your part. You wrote every word. You’ve been carrying that weight for decades. But you’re done writing now.”

Beth’s fingers curled tight on the railing, knuckles whitening. Done writing. God, if only it were that easy to stop.

“It’s the memory’s turn to pick up the pen,” Becca continued, fierce now. “It’s his turn to show up, to give you the closure you should’ve had a lifetime ago. He owes you that. And if he doesn’t—”

Beth could hear a chair scrape against tile on the other end of the line, the wind carrying the distant crash of waves. She could picture Becca standing there barefoot, sunglasses in her hair, drink in hand, already plotting.

“—if he doesn’t,” Becca said, low and lethal, “If he thinks he gets to waltz in, light you up again, and walk away without giving you what you deserve, then I swear to God, I will get on a plane and make him.”

A breathless laugh escaped Beth before she could stop it, shaky and bright all at once. “Becca…”

“—because I don’t need closure, Liz,” Becca snapped, righteous and feral. “I need to hit that man with my car.”

Beth dropped her forehead into her palm, laughter spilling out before it softened into something achy and warm. God, only Becca could make her laugh when her heart felt like it was splitting down the middle. Beth scrubbed at her cheeks with the heels of her hands.

“Oh, I miss you,” she breathed, and it ached in a way she didn’t expect.

“Then miss me less and get your ass to L.A.,” Becca said, bright and bossy. “Seriously, bring Abby. Take a damn break. Let the kid tour some schools out here. She could move closer to her favorite aunt, live in the sunshine, let me corrupt her properly. Charlie’s treat.”

Beth let out another laugh, softer this time, and shook her head. 

“Does he know he’s treating us?” she said, though the thought of Abby within arm’s reach of Becca made her stomach tighten. Last thing I need is my teenage daughter attending Sugar Baby University under the instruction of her half-feral luxury realtor aunt, she thought, lips quirking. And God, Abby on the other side of the country? Over my dead body.

“Of course not. That’s half the fun.”

She laughed again and swallowed hard, feeling that strange pull in her chest again. “Yeah,” Beth said softly, because it was easier than arguing, “maybe.”

The roof door creaked open behind her. Beth didn’t turn. She kept her eyes on the faint scatter of stars above the city, the phone pressed tight to her ear, wind tugging at a loose strand of hair.

“Becs,” she murmured, voice low, “I’ve gotta go.”

There was a soft sigh on the other end, then Becca’s familiar warmth: “Alright. But you better call me back, Elizabeth Baker.”

Beth’s lips curved, small and tired. “I will.”

“Love you, babe.”

Beth’s chest ached in that sharp, welcome way. She let the words sit there for a breath before answering, “Love you too.”

She lowered the phone, ended the call, and slipped it into her pocket, shoulders squaring as the door thudded shut behind whoever had stepped out onto the roof. She had her guesses as to who. Beth stayed where she was, eyes fixed on the sky above the city.

She never did like that she couldn’t see the stars here.

Coldwater had always felt too small, too tight, but at least the sky there had been endless. She’d thought leaving would open up something brighter; thought the world would feel bigger once they finally got out. When she had to do it alone, part of her hoped that the world would still open up the second she left. Make it easier to forget what she had left behind. But when she moved to Philadelphia after that summer, it wasn’t the independence or the buzz of campus life that hit her first. It wasn’t the laughter spilling from dorm windows or the thrum of music down hallways.

It was the dark.

She’d snuck out that first night, climbed to the roof of Ware when the city noise dulled to a hum, and looked up to a sky that felt wrong. Empty. Too thin. Like another part of her had gone dark, too.

Now, on this roof, years later, she tilted her head back and searched. Through the murk, through the city’s orange haze, she found faint pinpricks of light scattered like forgotten promises. A breath dragged deep into her lungs, sharp with the cold. It wasn’t the same—no rich decay of fallen leaves, no damp earth like it had been on Ware’s roof—but the sterile tang of cleaning supplies mingled with the ghost of exhaust rising from the ambulance bay, settling heavy in her chest as she exhaled.

She kept looking, searching those dim constellations as though they might still show her something bright, tracing those scattered lights like they might piece something whole together again.

Beth stood by the railing, arms wrapped tight around herself, the metal biting cold through the thin sleeves of her long sleeve. She should have grabbed her jacket before she came up, but the bite kept her brain moving. Far below, the hospital’s loading bays and service roads sprawled out in a dim patchwork of sodium lights and shadow, and she hated how close she was to the edge. She never liked heights; not where she could see what waited if she slipped, didn’t like how easily her eyes traced the distance down to the parking deck and the ambulance bay. But up here, the city stretched wide and the view was better; what little of it the haze hadn’t swallowed.

Clouds moved steadily across the night sky, blotting out the moon for long stretches before letting silver light spill over the roof again. Beth tilted her head back, eyes locked on the faint scatter of stars still visible between the haze, trying to steady herself with them.

She heard him before she saw him, the uneven rhythm of his steps on the concrete, that familiar hitch in his gait, and her shoulders tensed. He didn’t say anything right away, just stopped beside her, close enough she could feel the shift of air as he leaned against the rail too. Feel the distant warmth of him. A breath left him, quiet but tight, like he wasn’t sure if he should be there. Beth kept her gaze skyward, but she heard him follow her line of sight.

“Is that the one you wanted to name her after?”

Beth risked a look at him, just for a heartbeat.

The moon caught him in pieces; silver threading through the stubble on his jaw, shadow carving deep at his cheekbones. His eyes stayed locked on the sky, steady, intent, like he could will the stars into speaking if he stared long enough. His shoulders rose with a slow breath, then fell, jaw set tight.

She turned away before it could feel like more than a glance, before she could acknowledge the way her hands flexed around her biceps, letting her gaze settle back on the faint pinpricks above them. Her arms tightened around herself, shoulders curling against the wind.

“No,” she said softly, voice thinning in the cold air. Her breath fogged, drifting between them. “Penelope doesn’t have a constellation. No, that one is Orion.”

A low sound rumbled in his chest, not quite a hum, not quite agreement; just a recognition that folded into the night.

“You always liked that one,” Jack said, still looking up.

Beth’s arms tightened around herself, the October wind slipping under her sleeves as the city hummed far below. But in her mind it wasn’t rooftops and sirens—it was the mill roof back in Coldwater, rusted tin under her sneakers and stars so thick they felt close enough to touch. Sixteen, breathless, heart tripping like she might never get it back again.

“You’re not even listening,” she’d chided softly, tilting her head as his lips brushed along the slope of her neck, warm in the early autumn chill.

“I am,” he’d murmured, shifting her hair over her shoulder, that little crooked grin in his voice. “Stepped on a scorpion, right? Hell of a hunter.”

Beth had swatted at his shoulder, laughter shaking through her. “That’s not the point and you know it.”

“Then tell me, Sparky,” he’d said, leaning in closer, his forehead brushing hers, voice low and teasing.

“She kept him.”

Jack’s breath had caught then, and she’d felt it against her lips when he asked, quiet and so damn certain, “Would you keep me?”

“Forever,” she’d whispered back, right before he kissed her under that sky full of light.

Beth blinked hard, staring at Orion’s faint glow through the city haze. Her chest ached with the memory, sharp and tender all at once, like an old scar caught in the cold.

Beth turned just enough to catch him in the corner of her eye. “I liked the ending,” she admitted. “That she didn’t let him disappear.”

Jack shifted beside her, that uneven gait carrying him close until his shoulder nearly brushed hers. He tipped his head back, following her gaze.

“Remind me,” he said quietly. “How does it go again?”

Her breath caught, then came slow, deliberate. “Orion,” she began, “the hunter. He loved her; Artemis, the goddess of the hunt. Some stories say he chased her, some say they walked together. But he died. A scorpion, an arrow… depends on who you ask. And she…” Beth’s voice softened, “…she couldn’t stand to lose him. So she placed him up there, in the sky, where she’d always see him.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. His eyes stayed on the constellation, but his voice was rougher when he spoke. “She kept him.”

“She kept him,” Beth echoed, almost a whisper. The words felt heavier than she meant them to. Silence stretched between them, full and taut, until Beth’s voice broke it. 

“We’re not up here to talk about the stars, are we, Jack?”

“No.” His answer came rough, almost a breath. “No, Beth. We’re not.”

Her fingers tightened on her arms. She turned just enough to catch him in her peripheral, the pale light carving sharp lines across his face. “Tonight, then?”

Jack finally looked at her, eyes dark, shoulders rising with a breath that shook.

“Yeah,” he said, quiet but certain. “Tonight.”

Jack didn’t move right away. He kept his eyes on Orion like he could anchor himself there, jaw flexing, breath fogging in the chill. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent in the way he whispered out into the dark.

“I never stopped, Beth.”

She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t; not with the sound of his voice breaking something loose inside her. 

“Never stopped what?” she whispered.

“Loving you.”

Beth’s eyes slipped shut, her breath catching like he’d driven a fist straight through her chest. 

“Not once,” Jack went on, his voice rough but steady. “Not a day in thirty years. Not for a goddamn moment. I’ve told myself for years I had no right to—that I stopped deserving to the second I made that choice. But I’ve never stopped, Beth. Not then. Not now.”

Beth’s throat tightened. Her fingers dug into the sleeves of her shirt, gripping herself like she could hold in the pieces splintering loose. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, as if she could hold her ribs together, as if she could stop the sudden ache blooming there. The cold air rushed between them, carrying the faint hum of the city below, the bitter tang of asphalt and rain.

For a long moment, all she heard was the low hum of traffic below, the distant wail of a siren carried on the night air. Jack shifted beside her, dragging a hand down his jaw, letting it rest there like the words were stuck behind his teeth.

Beth shivered, the sharp wind slipping straight through her thin sleeves. She hadn’t realized how hard she was hugging herself until her arms ached from it. Somewhere beside her there was the faint rustle of fabric, and then a heavy weight settled over her shoulders; warm, still holding the shape of him, faintly smelling of soap and something sharper, like cedar and cold air. She didn’t have to look to know whose jacket it was.

She tugged it closer without thinking, throat tight. The city hummed far below, and for a while neither of them spoke.

“You and I…” He exhaled, slow, unsteady. “We met before freshman year. Before that morning at our lockers. You know that?”

Beth turned her head just enough to look at him, confusion knitting her brow.

“What are you talking about?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “When my dad lost his job and we ended up on Balch Street when I was in seventh grade, I got bounced to a new school. Millstone. First day, I’ve got a shiner from the old man I’ve already had to explain away to the guidance counselor, I’m late, I don’t know where the hell I’m going. And I hear this sweet little voice behind me asking, ‘Are you lost?’”

Beth blinked at him, a strange ache tightening in her chest.

“I turn around,” Jack went on, eyes still fixed on the constellation above them, “and there you are. Prettiest damn girl I’d ever seen. I swear to God, I thought my dad had hit me so hard I’d hallucinated you.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“‘Course you don’t.” His mouth curved faintly, not quite a smile. “We only talked for thirty seconds, maybe. Well… you talked. I just stood there, staring like an idiot while you explained how to get to North Hall. Didn’t hear a damn thing you said.”

A laugh escaped her, quiet and disbelieving, and she shook her head again, blinking hard against the sting behind her eyes.

“You’re making that up.”

Jack’s gaze finally left the stars. He looked at her, and the weight of that look was enough to stop her breath.

“Beth,” he murmured, voice breaking soft, “I’ve been gone a long time. But I’ve never had to make up a single thing about you.”

Jack’s breath left him in a slow cloud, his eyes returning to the dim scatter of stars.

“You asked if I got it,” he said quietly. “And I nodded. Didn’t trust myself to say a word. Then you were gone. Just swallowed up by the crowd.”

Beth hugged his jacket tighter around herself, the weight of it grounding her as the October wind slipped icy fingers down her collar.

“I can still see you,” Jack went on. “Purple bands in your braces. Hair in braids. And this green Eagles sweatshirt that made no damn sense in that town.”

A small, surprised laugh escaped her. “At least it wasn’t my Cowboys sweatshirt,” she said softly.

“Your dad’s from fuckin’ Montana, why the hell is he a—?” His lips curved faintly when she laughed again. 

“Doesn’t matter. You were the prettiest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. I thought about you all day,” he said, his voice dropping, almost shy. “After school, I’m standing there, trying to remember what bus I was supposed to get on, and I see you again. Decided I was gonna say something; didn’t even know what, just… something. Watched you walk out with Becca, smiling that smile that knocked the air outta me. Finally got the nerve. Finally remembered my own name. Figured I’d tell it to you. Maybe ask yours.”

He paused, and she could hear the smile fade from his voice.

“And then that county sheriff’s truck pulled up—the same one that’d already been parked outside my house twice that week.” Jack let out a rough breath, his jaw tightening. “And I watched you smile at the guy behind the wheel—this big Tom-Selleck-lookin’ son of a bitch who’d stepped into my living room and become the first thing I’d ever seen my old man be afraid of—and then you climbed right in. And that was it.”

Beth turned her head just enough to look at him, the night wind catching her hair. Her voice was quiet, almost caught on a breath.

“You… you remember all that?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the sky, but the corner of his mouth lifted with something tired and tender.

“Beth,” he said, low and sure, “I’ve never forgotten a second of you.”

Jack finally tore his eyes from the constellation, looking at her like he was peeling back years with every second. He leaned his back against the railing and his voice dropped, rough and steady.

“You saw what I grew up with, Beth. You saw it.” He let out a breath that fogged in the cold. “I knew your dad’s first name before I even knew yours. How the hell was I ever supposed to get a girl like you to look at someone like me?”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“And then you did,” Jack went on, voice catching just enough to make her chest ache. “You did, and… fuck, Beth, I didn’t know what to do with that. I felt like some goddamn circus act most days—just trying to keep your eyes on me long enough to keep you from seeing all the parts I didn’t want you to notice.” His hand rubbed over his jaw, the movement almost nervous. “Because I was terrified. Terrified that you’d see everything I was trying so hard to hide… and book it in the other direction.”

He shook his head slightly, a faint, disbelieving sound leaving him, and when he looked back at her, the moonlight caught in his eyes.

“I was in love with you before I even knew your name, Beth. How was I supposed to be okay with you deciding that I wasn’t worth the trouble?”

Beth closed her eyes against the sting behind them, gripping his jacket tighter around her shoulders. For a long moment, all she could hear was the low thrum of the city below and the rasp of his breath beside her, ragged and real.

Jack’s shoulders rose and fell with a long breath, his hands braced on the railing like he needed it to stay upright.

“You were the best thing I ever touched, Beth,” he said quietly, and the words hit her like a heartbeat. “Once I had you, I never wanted to let go. You were… you are… everything good I ever got. You gave me a reason to be more than what I came from. You gave me a family, a roof over my head that felt like home for the first time in my life. And I swear to God, I still don’t know why you ever said yes to me in the first place.”

Beth’s eyes stung, and she hugged his jacket tighter, like that could hold her together.

“You were going to be something,” Jack went on, his voice low, uneven. “This beautiful, brilliant girl who had no business even noticing a guy like me. You were Elizabeth Baker, Beth. Cheer captain. Volleyball captain. Debate team champion. Straight A’s. Valedictorian. Prom queen. You were… hell, you were a whole damn John Hughes movie, and I couldn’t believe I got cast at all. I kept waiting for the credits to roll. Waiting for the moment you’d turn and realize I didn’t fit in any of the places you were heading.”

His jaw flexed, and the night wind caught in the pause.

“I wasn’t Ivy League material. Wasn’t gonna be a doctor or a lawyer or anything you deserved. But you kept saying we like I belonged there with you.” His voice cracked, softer now, and he shook his head. “And then I watched all those dreams you talked about start to shrink. Bit by bit. Penn went from four years to two, then one… and then I was the one asking you not to give it up completely just to sit in some apartment in Georgia for a year. And I hated myself for it. Hated knowing that every time you pulled back, it was because of me. I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. I left because I couldn’t stand the thought of watching you trade pieces of yourself away just to stay. I couldn’t let you give that up, Beth. Not for me. I loved you too much to let you do that.”

Beth let out a shaky breath, head tipping as she chewed hard at her bottom lip, trying to ground herself.

“You really think that’s what any of that was about to me?” Her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and hurt, rough around the edges.

Jack’s jaw flexed, but he stayed silent, his gaze still pinned to the dark stretch of sky.

“I had acceptance letters from everywhere; UW, Pacific Lutheran, Kansas State, A&M, Columbus. If you could throw a rock from a base and hit it, I probably applied.” She shook her head, a bitter laugh slipping out. “Because that’s all it was, Jack. A fucking school. That’s all.”

Her arms folded tighter over his jacket, eyes stinging. “You think I cared about that more than you? You were never just… some thing I had to fit in between the plans.” Her voice softened, thick with emotion. “You were the plan. You were my best friend, Jack. You were my whole damn world. And then…” her voice dropped to a whisper, “then you were just gone.”

Beth’s laugh came out brittle, carried off by the wind. She shook her head, biting at her lip as her arms cinched tighter around herself.

“If there wasn’t a reason,” she said, each word clipped, trembling, “then don’t stand up here and spin me some noble little fairytale about how you were doing me some kind of favor.”

“Beth, I—”

“No.” Her eyes snapped to his, bright with unshed tears and fury. “Don’t you dare act like you were protecting me.”

Jack’s jaw worked. He started to say something, then stopped, a breath shuddering out instead.

“I know,” he finally said, rough and halting. “I know I shouldn’t have. I told myself that’s what I was doing; keeping you from something worse, but I wasn’t. I wasn’t protecting you, Beth.”

He raked a hand through his hair, eyes closing for a beat. When he opened them, the honesty in his voice was raw enough to sting.

“I was protecting myself,” Jack said, voice low and rough. “Protecting myself from how much I loved you… from how much that scared me. I told myself that if I left first, it wouldn’t rip me apart when you finally saw me for what I was and realized I wasn’t enough. I was a kid, Beth. A stupid, selfish kid. And I’ve been paying for it ever since. Every damn day I’ve lived with that choice, with the wreckage I left behind, because I was so damn sure all that darkness I’d convinced myself was just lingering under my skin—the stuff I swore I’d never drag into your life—would find its way out and you’d see it. And you’d know you deserved better. But that wasn’t my call to make.” He stopped, jaw tightening, breath shaking out into the cold. “I know that now. I know. But I—”

“You what?” Her voice was thin, almost disbelieving, like the words hadn’t landed right. Her chest felt too tight, her pulse roaring in her ears. “Do you have any idea what you did to me, Jack?”

He opened his mouth—she saw it, the shape of her name ready to fall—but she didn’t give him the chance. If she stopped now, if she let him speak, she wasn’t sure she’d ever get the words out.

“I was a mess after you left,” she said, the words shaking loose from some old wound that had never stopped aching. “I didn’t get out of bed for three days. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. I cried so much I was dehydrated. My mom—” Her breath faltered, and she shut her eyes tight, biting back the swell of tears. Don’t cry now. Not in front of him. “My mom was afraid to leave me alone. She took the whole damn week off work because she didn’t trust what I’d do if I was by myself.”

Jack’s jaw flexed, breath catching like he was about to say something—something soft, maybe even an apology.

“Beth—”

“No.” The word came sharp, before he could soften anything. “No. You don’t get to smooth this over. I cried myself sick over you for weeks, Jack. Weeks. Lying awake wondering what the hell was so fucking wrong with me that you couldn’t even give me the goddamn dignity of looking me in the eye and telling me you didn’t love me anymore.”

Her voice dropped off into the night, but the words still burned hot in her chest. She turned her face away from him, toward the shadowed city sprawled below, the lights blurring as her eyes stung. You swore you wouldn’t go back to this place. You rebuilt. You moved on. But standing here, wrapped in the jacket that still smelled like him, the years folded in on themselves until it felt like she was eighteen again, hollow and wrecked and still waiting for him to come back. The wind slid under the collar, cutting cold against her skin, and she gripped the railing.

Jack’s answer came quiet, almost like he didn’t trust himself to say it aloud.

“I loved you.”

Beth’s eyes pinched shut, her breath shuddering out as she shook her head. Her fingers tightened on the railing until the cold bit deep into her palms. God, don’t say that. Don’t put that weight back in my chest like it still belongs there.

“You broke something foundational in me, Jack. Structural.” She pressed her lips together, tasting the salt of her own tears before she even realized they’d fallen. Her shoulders curled inward as though she could shield herself from the words, from him, from the memory of it all. She shook her head, blinking hard. “You changed the very shape of me. And I let you. I still don’t know which is worse.”

She drew in a shaky breath, eyes still shut. The night pressed close around them, the city hum far below, and in that moment she could feel all the years between then and now like taut wire pulling her apart.

“For so long I thought…” Her voice faltered, caught on the old wound. She sniffed hard. “I thought I was… broken. That there was something ugly in me. I couldn’t understand how someone could tell me they loved me, make me feel it in every bone, and then leave like that. Like I’d imagined the whole damn thing. Like it all meant nothing.”

Beth opened her eyes, but she didn’t look at him. She kept her gaze on the dark horizon, where the haze swallowed the stars. Her arms wrapped tighter around herself, his jacket bunched up under her chin like armor.

“I was so angry, Jack. For so long. And then… I didn’t even know what to be anymore.” Her throat caught, but the words kept coming, steady now, relentless. “Because no matter how angry I was, no matter how much I told myself I hated you for it, I couldn’t. I couldn’t hate you.” Her lip trembled as she bit down hard, as though the pressure might steady her voice. “I always loved you a little more. Just enough to tip the scales. But don’t you dare think that means I forgave you. I didn’t. I never have.”

She turned slightly, enough that the moonlight caught the wet shine in her eyes.

“I rebuilt myself, Jack. Piece by piece. I became a woman I’m proud of. I raised a daughter I’m proud of. I made a life worth something.” Her jaw trembled, but her voice stayed steady. “And none of that… none of it changed the fact that I wanted you there. Every step. Every damn second.”

Beth’s fingers tightened on the collar of his jacket, pulling it closer around herself like the weight alone might hold her steady. A sharp gust cut across the roof, stinging her cheeks, lifting strands of hair against her damp lashes. Her chest felt too small for what pressed inside it.

“But even then,” she began, and her voice was low, hoarse, “even after all of it… I never stopped wanting you to come back.” Her throat closed on the words for a second, and she had to look away, out over the city’s smeared lights. “I kept hoping. It was pathetic, Jack. This… delusion I carried around that one day I’d see you again, and you’d still want me.”

Her jaw trembled as she drew in a breath that shook all the way down. “I went back to Coldwater for your dad’s funeral.” Her eyes pinched shut, and she felt her mouth curve in a humorless laugh. “Like an idiot, I thought maybe I’d see you there. Maybe you’d show up and you’d see me, this sad little new mom, and—” She broke off, shaking her head. “God, I don’t even know what I thought.”

A gust swept across the roof and she hugged herself tighter inside his jacket. You should stop talking, she told herself, just stop before you fall apart in front of him. But the words kept coming, rising like they’d been waiting years for air.

No, That Girl whispered. Tell him. Say it. 

“Maybe that’s why,” she said softly, eyes falling to the concrete at her feet, “on the worst—and best—night of my life, when I was holding her, when everything in me felt shattered… that name just came out of my mouth.” She looked up at him then, eyes bright with tears she couldn’t blink away. “Because I wanted her named after the version of her mom who was happy. The Girl Before everything broke. I liked That Girl.”

Beth’s voice caught, a tremor in her chest she couldn’t quiet. “That version of me went with you, Jack.” She swiped at her cheek with her sleeve, drawing in a shaky breath, searching his face in the dim light. “And I didn’t realize how much I missed her until you came back and I felt her again.”

She let out a shuddering exhale, the confession trembling out of her. “Maybe that’s my fault,” she whispered. “Maybe I loved you more than you ever loved me.”

Beth’s breath snagged mid‑sentence, a sharp sound that startled even her. She turned her head, gaze darting to the black stretch of sky, letting the blur of tears smear the faint stars until they dissolved. Her shoulders hitched as she dragged in a breath that didn’t steady her at all.

“Beth…” His voice was quiet, careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal. She heard him shift, felt the air move as he reached for her.

“No.” The word ripped out of her, raw and final. He hesitated, but his hand hovered closer, and that broke something. She shoved his hand away, pushing with more force than she knew she had.

“No—stop.” Her voice cracked on it. She shook her head hard, tears spilling over as she swiped at them with trembling fingers and stepped away from him. “Stop, Jack. Just… stop.”

He froze where she’d left him, arms falling useless at his sides, and she hugged his jacket tighter around herself, wishing it didn’t still smell like him, like something she couldn’t name without her chest caving in.

“I didn’t need to be saved from myself, Jack.” Her voice broke but she didn’t stop, didn’t give herself time to. “I didn’t need to be rescued from something I wanted.” She looked at him then, eyes blurred with tears, moonlight catching at the silver in his hair, the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes softened when they met hers. It made her angrier somehow, the way he looked at her like that now.

“I wanted you.” Her throat tightened around it, but she didn’t stop. “Every jagged piece of you. I saw them. I saw all of them, and I loved you because of it.” She pressed her hand hard against her chest as though she could hold the pieces together. “I had already chosen. Don’t you get that? I made that choice, eyes wide open, and you—” Her voice cracked, and she clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. “You took it from me. All because you were scared and you thought if you ran far enough it would all just… disappear.”

Her breath came sharp and shallow, and she turned her face back to the sky, blinking hard, as if the stars could anchor her. 

“I didn’t need you to rewrite the ending, Jack,” she whispered, voice catching again. Then she looked back at him, eyes wet and fierce and full of all the years she’d carried it. “I was already holding the fucking pen.”

She let the silence stretch after that, chest rising and falling with the weight of everything she’d just laid bare, his jacket still hanging heavy on her shoulders as the cold pressed in from every side.

“Just… God, Jack!”

Beth’s laugh burst out, jagged and bright with hurt, her shoulders shaking as the sound echoed off the concrete and into the night. Her hands lifted halfway, fingers curling in on themselves like she couldn’t quite find what to do with them.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Jack Abbot!” Her voice pitched up, sharp enough to sting her own ears. “You don’t get to vanish and… and leave me ripping myself apart, wondering what the hell I did wrong—and then walk back in here with your tragic little confession like that somehow makes it better!”

“I know it doesn’t!”

Jack’s voice rose to meet hers, rough and unsteady, his eyes burning as he stepped forward into the spill of moonlight. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to reach for her and didn’t dare. 

“I know it doesn’t, Beth. I’m not asking you to forgive me. I’m not asking you to even look at me.” His jaw tightened, breath fogging between them. “But I need you to hear me—I have loved you every day since I left you standing on that porch. Every goddamn day. And if all I get is standing here tonight, telling you that, then fine. If I have to love you in silence for another thirty years, then fine. I deserve that. If that’s all I can get with you, than that’s better than having none of you at all.”

Beth stood there, the wind pulling at the ends of her hair, her chest rising fast like she couldn’t catch her breath.

Something inside her shifted, a splinter deep in her ribs giving way, and she hated it; hated the warmth that sparked in her chest in spite of herself, hated that even now her heart still knew the sound of him. Her fingers tightened on the edge of his jacket, nails digging into the fabric as she looked away, blinking hard against the blur in her eyes. She hated that he still had that power, hated that after everything she had built, after everything she had survived, one truth from his mouth could still undo her.

“You don’t get to say that to me now,” Beth whispered, shaking her head hard enough that loose strands of hair clung to the tears already hot on her cheeks. Her arms tightened around herself, nails biting into her sleeves. Her voice broke on the next words, but she forced them out anyway.

 “So let’s not stand here and pretend you did that for me. You did that for you, Jack. Not me.” Her breath shuddered, throat raw. “You never loved me, Jack.”

“Don’t.” His voice snapped, sharp as splintered glass, cracking in the cold night air. He stepped toward her, shoulders squared, eyes burning. “Don’t you dare say that, Beth—”

“If you had,” she choked, cutting him off, “you would’ve turned around before you ever hit the end of the goddamn driveway.”

The words tore something open inside her. Her chin trembled, her breath quickening until it felt like she was breathing through a straw. She dropped her gaze to the rooftop, to the concrete at her feet, but her vision blurred with tears until even that slipped away. 

“Maybe it’s my fault, Jack. Maybe I made something more of us than we ever were… Maybe I built my whole life around…” Her shoulders shook, arms cinching tighter around herself as if she could keep everything inside, but the tears kept coming, spilling hot and relentless. 

Her breath hitched again, then broke, and the sound that came out of her chest was so raw it startled her. A sob followed, ripping through her like something being pried loose, and then another, and then she was shaking so hard her knees felt hollow.

“Beth…”

She heard him move, the uneven rhythm of his shoes on the rooftop, the faint swish of fabric as he stepped in. He hesitated; she felt it, the weight of his presence hovering just before her, and then his hands were on her arms, gentle but insistent.

“Breathe,” Jack murmured, low and rough, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath in the cold. His hands slid from her arms to her shoulders, thumbs brushing against the tense line of her neck. “C’mon, Sparky. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

She pushed at his chest weakly, not ready to give in, her fists bunching against the fabric of his scrubs. 

“No,” she rasped, a broken protest, trying to shove him back though her arms had no strength behind them. But Jack didn’t move. His arms closed around her instead, wrapping her in like he could hold all the jagged pieces together by sheer will.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered, voice dropping to something she hadn’t heard in decades; soft, earnest, unguarded. His hand cupped the back of her head, tucking her against him, and she felt the steady rise and fall of his chest against hers. “You gotta breathe, baby. I got you. I’ve always got you.”

Beth’s fingers tightened in his scrubs, her forehead pressing into the curve of his collarbone as the last of her resistance gave out. She folded into him, the sobs breaking free, shaking through her as his arms locked around her like they’d never let go.

He held her through it, through the uneven breaths and the raw little sounds she hadn’t meant to make, his hands rubbing slow circles at her back, anchoring her. He didn’t speak at first, didn’t try to fix it, just held her with a quiet desperation that bled into her bones. He bent his head, pressing his lips to her hair. His voice broke against her crown, rough and trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, into the cold night air. “God, Beth, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry for all of it. I’ve been sorry every day. Every damn day since I left. I’d take it back in a heartbeat if I could. I’d do it all differently if it meant I got to have the both of you, I swear to you.”

Beth shut her eyes against the tears still slipping, her cheek pressed to the warm plane of his chest as she stood there wrapped in the arms she had wanted for thirty years., her heart aching with every word he whispered into her hair. And for the first time since that last night on the porch, she let herself lean into him completely; just stand there in the ruin and the warmth and be held.

“Beth… listen to me.” She shook her head hard and turned her face away. She couldn’t. She couldn’t. “No. Hey. Look at me.”

His hands slid up, cupping her face, thumbs brushing at damp cheeks as if he could wipe away what he’d caused. 

“It wasn’t that. Do you hear me?” His eyes locked on hers, dark and unwavering. “It was never about that. Do you understand me?”

Her chest hitched. She wanted to spit something back, something sharp, but her lips only trembled.

“I loved you,” Jack said, his voice low, raw, each word like it hurt to get out. “I loved you so much more than that. You were—” He exhaled hard, jaw tight, shaking his head like there weren’t words good enough. “You were everything, Beth. God, you were everything.”

Her knees felt unsteady, the weight of his words pressing through every wall she’d built.

“It was never not about loving you,” Jack went on, his forehead dropping lightly against hers, his breath warm in the cold night air. “Because I did. I did, and I still do. I never stopped. Not for a damn second.”

Beth squeezed her eyes shut, a sob catching in her throat as her hands fisted tighter in the jacket draped around her shoulders. The sound of the city dulled until all she could hear was the rasp of his voice and her own broken breathing. Jack stayed there, close enough that she could feel the tremor in him, the truth in him. His voice dropped to a whisper, soft enough she almost didn’t hear it.

“Even right now,” he said, brushing his thumbs over her cheeks like he could memorize her. “Beth, I love you. Even right now.”

Her lips parted but no words came, just a shuddered breath. She wanted to tell him to stop, to go, to take it back, to tell him that she did too, but her body betrayed her, leaning into the cradle of his hands, aching and alive all at once.

“Damn you,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Damn you, Jack.”

His eyes closed, his forehead still resting against hers, and he whispered back, rough and certain, “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

Jack didn’t flinch when she glared through her tears. He didn’t even try to wipe them away this time. His hands stayed on her face, steady even as her own trembled against his wrists. His eyes searched hers, dark and hollow with thirty years of regret.

“You can hate me,” he said finally, voice low but steady. “Hell, Beth…hate me all you want. I’ve earned every bit of it.” His throat worked around the next words. “Because I’ve hated myself every day since I left.”

She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut against the sting, but his voice kept coming, rough and unrelenting.

“I missed you,” Jack went on, his voice breaking on the words. “Every second. I saw you everywhere. In every face that wasn’t yours, in every song on the radio, every bit of rain on the windshield.” His thumbs brushed her cheeks again, trembling now. “You’ve been a part of me, Beth. Even in the parts of me I’ve tried like hell to erase… I couldn’t. I could never scrub you out of me. I tried to cut out every piece of you I carried, every place you lived in me. But I couldn’t. Because there isn’t a piece of me, Elizabeth Baker, not one damn piece, that wasn’t forged in you.”

Her breath left her in a sharp, broken exhale. She turned her face away, blinking hard against the flood of memory; those years that felt so bright, the girl she used to be before everything fell apart. Her fingers curled tighter in his scrubs, knuckles whitening, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.

Jack stepped in, slow and careful, like she was something he might scare off. His voice softened, breaking as it carried over the night air.

“You’ve always been in me,” he whispered. “Even now. Even when I didn’t deserve to say your name.”

Beth’s sobs hitched in her chest, sharp and uneven, her face buried against him, her fingers fisted tight in his shirt like she might fall without the hold. His heartbeat thudded steady under her ear, achingly familiar after all these years.

“Why didn’t you just come home?” The words came out ragged, torn from some deep place she’d kept sealed. “Would that have been so bad?”

Jack’s arms locked tighter around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other gripping her waist like he couldn’t bear to let go. His own breath shook against her hair.

“No,” he said, voice cracking low, every syllable heavy with years of regret. “Not for a fucking second, Beth. I wanted to. I wanted it every damn day. I’d sit there and think, just get on the bus. Just go back. And I…” His words trailed, a tremor in his chest.

She tipped her head back, eyes swollen and shining, looking up at him through tears that blurred the rooftop lights. 

“Then why didn’t you, Jack?” Her voice rose in the night air, desperate and breaking.

Jack’s jaw flexed. He dragged in a breath, thumb brushing away a tear he hadn’t caused tonight but had left there years ago. His eyes closed for a heartbeat before he forced the words out.

“I didn’t think you’d open the door if I did.”

Beth’s lip quivered, a shaky laugh escaping like a gasp, because it felt so painfully simple, so devastatingly small after all those years. She shook her head, pressing her hands flat to his chest, pushing just enough to look at him fully, to make sure he heard every word when her voice dropped to a whisper that shook.

“I never closed it, Jack.”

Something deep in him seemed to break then; his shoulders bowed, his hand cupped her cheek, his forehead resting on her own, and for a moment neither of them spoke. The silence filled with the sound of her unsteady breaths, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw as if trying to memorize it all over again. The night felt suspended around them, and Beth realized, with a sting behind her eyes and a weight in her chest, that part of her had been standing in that open doorway for thirty years, waiting.

Beth stayed there a long moment, feeling the rasp of his breath against her hair, the trembling way he held her like she might vanish. Her chest still heaved with soft, broken sobs, but somewhere inside that ache something shifted, some dam inside her gave way.

She pulled back just enough to really look at him, her hands flattening against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart through the thin fabric. Her fingers slid upward in a slow, deliberate path, over the tense lines of his shoulders, up the column of his neck, until her palms cradled his face. Her thumbs brushed the stubble along his jaw, rough and familiar, and the simple contact sent a rush of heat through her chest.

Jack froze as her palms framed his face, his own breath hitching as if he didn’t dare move, didn’t dare hope. He exhaled shakily, eyes falling shut for a moment as he leaned into her touch; just barely, but enough that she felt the scrape of his stubble against her palms. Her own breath shuddered, her pulse pounding in her ears as she traced the curve of his cheekbone with the pad of her thumb.

He opened his eyes again, the moonlight caught in them as they met her; eyes she had memorized once, eyes she had dreamed of, hated, missed, loved—and her heart lurched hard against her ribs. They searched hers with a hunger that made her knees weaken, wide and wet and trembling with something so raw it carved straight through her.

Beth’s fingers curled against his skin. Her throat burned with everything she couldn’t fit into words; years of loss, years of wanting, years of anger turned inside out. Her lip trembled as she drew in a breath that shuddered all the way through her. She was so tired of being angry. So tired of wanting. So tired of being alone. 

Please, she whispered. Please.

Beth’s throat tightened, words jamming up behind her teeth, too small for the years of longing, anger, and love that stormed through her. Her thumb brushed his mouth, retracing the same curve it had once followed beneath a different sky, feeling the subtle tremor beneath her touch; the heat of him, the catch of his breath as his lips parted on something close to a groan.

“Beth…” he rasped, his voice frayed and low, but she shook her head, silencing him.

Her lips trembled. Her own heartbeat felt like it might tear out of her chest. And when she tipped her face up, when her hands slipped back into his hair, tugging him down to her, Jack’s restraint broke. His breath caught; a sharp, guttural sound as his hands found her waist; gripping tight, pulling her flush against him.

Then she rose up on her toes, closed the last inch between them, and kissed him.

Chapter Text

He had forgotten how short she was until she tilted her face up and forced him to bend, his spine curving instinctively to reach her like it was tugged by an invisible string. 

Barely five‑four on a good day. It used to drive him out of his mind how easily he could scoop her up—just hook an arm under her ass and sweep her onto whatever was near: the hood of his old rusted‑out truck, the edge of her desk after they’d closed and the office was empty, the kitchen counter at her parents’ place while no one was home. Just to hear that little laugh break out of her, bright and breathless, before it melted into that soft, needy sound she made when he stepped between her legs, tugged her closer, and kissed her like he meant to live off her.

But it wasn’t always like that. Sometimes, she didn’t tease him, didn’t drag him by the collar somewhere half‑hidden. Sometimes she just stepped into his arms already smiling, already reaching for him, and tilted her face up in a quiet request that he met every time. He could still feel it; her weight settling against him, the curve of her waist fitting into his palm, the rise of her chest brushing his shirt with every breath. He used to close his eyes and breathe her in, lazy and content, his hand sliding up under the hem of her T‑shirt to feel the warm skin at her spine. Those were the moments that undid him the most, when she didn’t ask for anything but to be held—warm, soft, and undeniably his—and he’d stand there thinking, God, don’t ever move.

And now—Christ—now she felt the same. Warm and soft and curved against him, her lips tasting like salt and memory, her fingers buried in his hair as if she couldn’t get him close enough. His hands roamed on instinct, spanning her waist, feeling the give of her body under his palms, sliding up her back as he pulled her against him. He could feel every hitch of her breath, every shift of her weight against his chest, and it pulled a low, rough sound out of him that vibrated between them.

He bent lower, and for a heartbeat the years folded in on themselves until they were back in that truck with the windows fogging, or under a ceiling fan turning lazily overhead in a bedroom he could still picture down to the faded quilt, instead of standing on the roof with midnight wind biting at his skin.

Jack’s chest ached so hard it almost buckled him. Because this wasn’t then. This was now. This was thirty years he’d spent imagining if he’d ever be close enough to feel her like this again. If he’d ever get the chance to. If he’d ever deserve to. And now she felt impossibly small in his arms, her lips soft against his, fragile in a way she hadn’t been before. It hit him like a gut punch that all he wanted, more than forgiveness, more than absolution, more than anything, was to keep feeling her weight on him and never let go again. Just her, stepping into him like no time had passed, letting him hold her again, her body a familiar weight he wanted to memorize all over again; pressing closer, just enough that he felt every soft line of her against every hard line of him.

He felt her arch into him, every shift of her body, the way her breath hitched in her throat. His thumb skimmed the edge of her jaw as his other hand slipped up her spine, memorizing every line, every shiver, every part of her like it was the first time and the last.

Her lips were warm against his; soft, almost tentative. Like she was trying to remember how this went after thirty years, or maybe testing whether he still felt the same. The moonlight caught her face just enough to turn the damp in her lashes to a faint glint, her skin pale and smooth beneath the silver glow. Her mouth brushed his once, then again, slower this time, and something in his chest pulled tight enough to steal his breath. God, she was warm. Had she always been this warm? This soft? This fucking beautiful?

Then she pulled back—just barely—and the air between them felt razor‑thin. Her eyes lifted under damp lashes, shining, searching his face like she was asking permission. Her fingers stayed tangled in his hair, trembling like if she let go he’d vanish all over again.

He froze, breath stuttering, every muscle tight as a wire. The city dropped away. The only thing that existed were her eyes, her breath, the faint tick of her pulse where his thumb still rested under her jaw.

There you are. I remember you, pretty girl. You used to be mine. I was yours. 

And, fuck, if he didn’t want to be again.

He caught her jaw in his hand, sliding into the curve of her neck, and yanked her back into him with a rough sound that scraped out of him unbidden before her lips crashed against his own. The kiss slammed through him, desperate and unrestrained, and she pressed into him with a soft, broken moan that damn near brought him to his knees.

Her body molded to his, soft curves pressing into him like it remembered where it had carved itself into the shape of him, and he couldn’t stop touching her. His hands moved over her in hungry sweeps, gripping her waist and hauling her flush, sliding up the curve of her back until his fingers tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to pull her head back and bare her mouth to him again. When her tongue swept into his mouth in a slow, deliberate stroke, heat shot through him so hard it made him dizzy.

And when she moaned again—soft and beautiful and breathless and so fucking needy—he felt it in his bones, in every place she’d lived in him, and it undid him all over again.

He pressed her flush to him, felt the drag of her hips against his, the soft gasp into his mouth, and the years collapsed under the weight of it. Every memory of her laugh, her skin, her taste came flooding back in a rush so strong his chest ached with it.

The sound of her breathing ragged into his mouth made his pulse pound hard enough to hurt. He slid his palm up her spine again, thumb brushing the nape of her neck, tilting her head so he could kiss her deeper, longer, until he felt her sigh into him. He felt the quick jerk of her hips when his palms splayed low on her back, the heat of her seeping through his hands, the shiver that ran through her when his teeth dragged against her lip. 

It felt like trying to drink after a lifetime in the desert; greedy and desperate in a way he hadn’t allowed himself to be in a long ass time. His hands kept moving, memorizing every inch: the dip of her waist, teeth grazing lips, her neck, mouths parting and meeting again until his head spun and his chest burned, the tremble in her spine under his fingers, the way her hair slid silk-soft between them as he fisted it to keep her close.

And when she arched harder into him, when her tongue brushed his again with another perfect little sound, Jack thought wildly, feverishly, don’t ever stop. Don’t ever move. Don’t you dare let go. 

His fingers stayed tangled in her hair even when she tore her mouth from his, her forehead pressing against his like she couldn’t quite let him go. Her breath shuddered between them, warm and uneven against his lips.

“Stop,” she whispered, so soft it barely reached him.

But their lips kept finding each other anyway in helpless little brushes—half‑kisses, clumsy and urgent, their noses bumping, breaths tangling. Her lips brushed his again, just barely, and he felt the quiet sound she didn’t mean to let out before she pulled back an inch, then came back again, her lips finding his with a soft whine. 

Her hands flattened on his chest, not pushing, just there, gripping at the thin fabric like she needed something to hang on to. He felt the twitch of her fingers, the curl of them like she wanted to drag him closer even as she shook her head.

“Jack…” she breathed, and God, the way his name broke on her tongue… it wasn’t a plea. It wasn't a warning, it was a wound. He closed his eyes, preparing for the ache. 

He swallowed hard, still holding her, still feeling the heat of her skin against his chest. “Don’t, Beth.” The words tore out of him, his voice shaking as he bent his head, nose brushing hers again. I just got you. Don’t make me let go. “Don’t. Please.”

Her hands stayed on him, splayed wide like she was trying to keep him at arm’s length, but her body didn’t move. Her scent filled his lungs, her closeness seared into his hands, and even as she turned her face away he bent closer, brushing the tip of his nose against her temple, her cheek, desperate for another taste, for another breath of her.

She shook her head again, whispering something too soft to catch, and he felt it like a punch—the push and pull of her wanting him, hating him, breaking all over again in his arms.

He let his forehead rest against hers, eyes closing, his own breath shaking. “Please,” he whispered again, the word barely more than a breath, like saying it any louder might shatter what was left of them.

He stared down at her, trying to catch his breath, his hands still cupping her face like if he let go she might vanish all over again.

Her cheeks were flushed, heat blooming high, lips kiss‑swollen and parted like she might let another sound slip out. Her lashes clung together, eyes glassy and shining as they searched his.

Then her fingers slid up, shaking as they curled around his wrists. Not to shove him away, there was no force in it at all, but to ease his touch from her skin.

No. 

The loss of that contact felt like he was splitting down the middle. He let her guide his hands down, felt the soft shake in her fingers, the way she still didn’t quite let go. She shook her head, the motion small, breath catching like it hurt.

“I can’t,” she whispered, and her voice broke on it, soft as it was. Not angry. Not certain. Just splintered.

His pulse thundered in his ears. He reached for her face again, his hands moving before he could stop himself, thumbs brushing the wet from her cheeks. He saw her glance at his mouth, saw the way she bit her lip as though she hated the words she was about to say.

“I just… I can’t.” Her throat moved on a swallow, her voice dropping tighter, more ragged. “I want—”

She stopped herself, eyes squeezing shut for half a heartbeat before she forced them open again, forcing the words out like they tasted bitter in her mouth.

“This was a mistake.”

But she didn’t step back. She didn’t drop his wrists. Her hands stayed there, holding him like she couldn’t quite make herself let go; like every word she said was fighting something else just beneath her skin. 

She stepped back first.

Slow, like it hurt, like she had to peel herself out of him piece by piece. His hands stayed on her face until she took them again, gently this time, guiding them down between them. He let her. He would’ve let her do anything.

But when she turned, when she moved to step past him, he caught her hand. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t stand to feel her gone all at once. Their fingers threaded for a second and she paused, her warmth still there, still soft in his palm, until she eased free.

And then she was walking away.

He didn’t stop her. Couldn’t. His chest was too tight, his throat too raw, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thought; if I open my mouth right now, I’ll beg.

The door clicked shut behind her. The same sound as before. The same hollow echo. Thirty years ago, he’d stood in almost the exact same way, watching her vanish through another door, thinking he’d done the right thing while something caved in behind his ribs. Only now it burned worse. Now he knew better. Now he knew what it cost her, what it cost them. What he so desperately wanted again.

He stood there for a long moment, hands hanging useless at his sides, heart hammering against a chest that still felt like hers. He didn’t move until the night air cooled the sweat on the back of his neck and the throb in his pants became impossible to ignore.

God, this wasn’t then.

This was now.

Now, he was thirty years older and standing on a hospital roof with his pulse still racing, his lips still tasting like her, and—Jesus Christ—half fucking hard when he was supposed to be doing his goddamn job.

Jack dragged both hands down his face, pressing hard enough that his skin stung, trying to ground himself in the burn of his palms instead of the ghost of her mouth.

“Fuck me,” he muttered into his hands, voice low and hoarse.

He let them fall away, staring out over the city lights until his vision blurred. Then he dropped his head back, closed his eyes, and let out a long, shuddering breath that still tasted like her.

She was literally dying.

Like, no exaggeration. This was it. Her tragic teenage demise. Somebody start drafting her eulogy.

There wasn’t another explanation. Her body ached like she’d been hit by a truck, her head throbbed with every heartbeat, and even her teeth hurt when she moved her jaw. She was either dying, or already dead.

And Mom was acting weird.

But Abby didn’t care. She was literally dying.

A groan slipped out of her as she pushed herself upright on the couch, blanket tangling around her legs. Her head felt like it weighed twice as much as normal, throbbing dully as she braced her elbows on her knees. Her sinuses were packed solid, like someone had poured cement straight into her face, and yet her stupid nose still dripped like a faucet, tickling her upper lip until she swiped at it with the back of her sleeve. Her whole body felt heavy, sore in that deep, achy way that made her want to crawl out of her own skin.

She hated it. God, she hated it. Make it stop. 

Maybe Mom and Jack actually made the right call when they told her no about going to Charlee’s.

Mom and Jack. That sounded actually insane. But it also didn’t?

Whatever, she was too sick to Parent Trap right now.

Abby flopped back against the couch cushions, staring up at the ceiling like God would hear her thoughts and spare her. She’d started to feel like hot ass last night, and this morning? Oh, she’d leveled up. She felt like even hotter ass.

And honestly? She deserved it.

She knew better than to show up to last week’s football game in a cropped hoodie when the forecast literally said “100% chance of rain.” But nooo, the jacket didn’t match the vibe. So she froze her ass off, got drenched, and now this was her life. 

Now here she was, body aching, throat scratchy, and she could practically hear her mom’s voice in her head: You’re going to catch your death like that, Abigail.

Well. Congratulations, Mom. Nailed it.

Abby blinked, her eyes sore and gummy, taking in the dim gray light filtering through the living room blinds. She was still on the couch, exactly where she’d passed out last night halfway through The Office. She hadn’t even made it to the medicine cabinet like Mom told her to; she’d sat there, upright because she couldn’t breathe lying down, waiting for her head to clear. It never did.

Her phone was still on her chest, the last text to Mom half‑buried in the notifications. She’d sent it late, fingers sluggish on the screen, not because she needed anything, but because she wanted Mom to call. Sometimes hearing Mom talk to her like she was still eight—soft, sing‑songy, sweet—made everything suck a little less. And it had helped, a little, except… Mom’s voice had been weird. Tight. Not in the I‑am‑the‑adult‑here tone from their earlier argument before Jack took the phone, but something quieter, like she was trying not to let something slip.

“Are you really okay?” Abby had asked, voice rough.

“I’m fine, baby,” Mom said, but it didn’t sound like it. Then she admitted, almost a whisper, “I’m not feeling great either. Just take some flu meds and try to rest, okay? I love you big. Get some sleep.”

Abby hadn’t made it that far. She remembered tugging Grandma’s scratchy Christmas blanket up to her chin, blinking at the TV, and then nothing. But now—she blinked again—now there was another blanket tucked around her. Mom’s blanket. The ridiculously soft, stupidly expensive Tatooine one she never let anyone else touch, wrapped snug around Abby’s shoulders like a hug and tucked around her. She burrowed deeper into the soft folds, head throbbing, nose stuffed, body aching everywhere. 

Abby killed the TV, the sudden quiet almost too loud after all that noise. She gave Atlas a quick pat where he was curled up next to her, then pushed herself up slow.

But as soon as she stood, the room started spinning like a cheap carnival ride, and she had to close her eyes and steady herself against the couch until it stopped.

When she finally opened them again, she noticed Mom’s denim jacket hanging by the door, her tote bag slung over the hook like usual. Then her eyes caught the sneakers sitting neatly next to Mom’s zippered scrub bag.

That was weird. 

Mom never left that stuff out. It went straight to the wash the second she got home. She had, like, a whole routine. Scrubs, shower, dinner. Since forever. 

She shrugged. She hadn’t even heard Mom come in last night. Maybe she just didn’t want to wake her up.

She yanked the Tatooine blanket tighter around her shoulder, bracing herself for the trek through Snotty Tissue Mountain sprawled across the floor. Sneezing twice before she even got there, she grabbed Mom’s scrub bag by the door and dragged it toward the laundry room.

Just bending over to unzip the bag left her breathless, chest tightening like she’d sprinted a mile. She cursed under her breath, trying not to sound like a dying whale as she pulled out Mom’s vest and unclipped the badge with shaky fingers.

God, she really needed to get cleared to workout soon. This was pathetic. 

The washer kicked on loud enough to make her wince, echoing in her pounding head. She leaned against the counter, exhaling a long, miserable groan.

“Literally kill me,” she muttered, sniffling again. This was officially the worst.

The house was ridiculously quiet. Too quiet. Abby’s head throbbed with every small sound — the faint creak of settling wood, the hum of the fridge — but nothing else moved.

That was weird, too. Mom never just crashed right after her night shifts. She’d stay up a while, run to clear her head, make some herbal tea, and fuss over making sure Abby was set for the day. Then, she’d head upstairs and take the longest shower known to mankind, pull the blackout curtains, and Abby wouldn’t see her again until close to four.

She glanced toward the entryway. But the house was quiet and dark. Mom’s running shoes were still by the door. The dumb Star Wars Starbucks mug she’d been so hyped about ordering was still sitting on the Keurig, untouched.

Abby’s nose burned and her sinuses felt like a cement mixer, each breath shallow and rough. She shifted, the Tatooine blanket rubbing against her clammy skin, the chill in the air sneaking through the threadbare fabric of her pajamas. Maybe she’d turn the heat on, even though Mom had her weird ‘furnace stays off until November 1st’ rule. Whatever. She’d pay the few extra bucks on the electric bill personally if she had to. This was bullshit. Ice cold bullshit. 

Abby dragged the blanket tighter around her shoulders and started towards the stairs, legs wobbling like she’d been asleep for a week. Her head throbbed with every step, sinuses pounding so hard she could feel it in her teeth, and her throat scraped dry when she swallowed.

Fine. Whatever. Mom probably just didn’t want to wake her up. That had to be it.

The stairs looked about five miles long, but she started climbing anyway, hand gripping the railing. Halfway up her breath started to hitch, each step making her chest feel heavier, sweat prickling at the back of her neck even though she was freezing. By the time she reached the landing she was hunched over, forehead resting against the wall for a second while she tried to catch her breath.

Okay. Flu meds, where art thou? Knock my shit out.

She shoved off the wall, legs trembling as she turned toward Mom’s room, determined to dig through the cabinet and find anything that might take the edge off before she melted into a puddle of fever sweat and snot on the carpet.

Mom’s bedroom door was cracked, just enough for Abby to catch the strip of dim light and the sound coming from inside—deep, rattling, full‑on chainsaw snoring.

Jesus, woman, Abby thought, leaning against the doorframe, sinuses throbbing. Get a Breathe Right strip or something. No wonder you’re single.

She pushed the door open carefully, slow enough that it didn’t creak, careful not to wake her up. Which was so, so hard when she caught sight of her.

Mom was absolutely cooked, dude.

Sprawled diagonally across the bed like she’d been dropped from the ceiling, mouth open, hair a disaster, wearing one of her old college sweatshirts and the ratty sweats she always said she was going to throw out but never did. And on her feet—Abby squinted—yep. Those were definitely her fuzzy socks. Her nose was bright red, her face pale, dark circles smudged under her eyes like someone had beat her ass. She looked every bit as awful as Abby felt. She looked wrecked. Miserable. She, too, probably felt like hot ass. 

Abby clamped a hand over her mouth to hold in the laugh threatening to bust out of her, then backed away from the door on quiet feet, shaking her head. Abby lingered in the doorway, the grin slipping as a little knot twisted in her chest.

Yeah… okay. She felt a little bad now. Actually bad. This was probably on her.

Mom was probably like this because of her. Because she’d been walking around feeling like garbage for days, stubborn about going out in the rain at the game, and then hanging around the house sniffling and coughing all over everything like a human germ factory. And now, of course, Mom had caught it.

Which meant Mom was gonna have to call out. Which meant she’d probably pick up extra shifts next week to make up for it. Which meant, knowing her, she’d end up working doubles just so she could still be home for Homecoming on Saturday, and by then she’d be even sicker.

And Abby wouldn’t even be here. She’d be back at school, while Mom was stuck home alone, sick as hell, pretending she was fine because that’s what she always did.

And the worst part? She could already picture it: Mom smiling through it, saying she felt “way better,” still fussing over Abby this weekend the way only a mom who’s also a doctor knows how; hovering, checking her temp, making her tea, listening to her lungs, shoving meds at her, all while getting no actual rest herself.

Just another reason why Operation: Parent Trap had to work. Doctors let other doctors take care of them, right?

Abby shuffled into the bathroom, eyes half‑lidded and throbbing. The harsh vanity light stabbed at her already aching head, but she squinted through it, rooting through the medicine cabinet until her fingers closed around salvation: the NyQuil bottle.

She popped the cap, poured the syrup into that little plastic cup, and stared at it with all the bitterness of a betrayed lover.

You better fix my whole life, you disgusting bitch.

She gave the cup a little tap on the counter like she was psyching herself up, then threw it back in one go.

The taste hit instantly, that cloying medicinal sludge coating her tongue and crawling down her throat. Abby gagged, shuddering as she slapped the empty cup back onto the counter.

“Absolutely foul,” she muttered, gripping the sink with one hand, eyes watering. She let out a groan that sounded suspiciously like a dying animal and leaned her forehead against the cool mirror, waiting for the NyQuil gods to come through on their end of the deal.

Abby capped the NyQuil, shoved it back into the cabinet, and shuffled toward the door—blanket still slung over one shoulder like some kind of sick-day cape. Her head was pounding, nose running, throat on fire…she was seconds from face-planting back onto the couch when a low buzz caught her ear.

She paused in the doorway, squinting back toward Mom’s nightstand.

Mom’s phone lit up against the wood, vibrating insistently. Abby padded closer and leaned in, wiping at her nose with the edge of the blanket.

Jack.

His name flashed across the screen. Abby blinked, watched it keep buzzing until it finally stopped. A second later, the screen went dark…and then she noticed the rest. The little icons in the corner.

Jack Abbot: Missed call. Voicemail. Another missed call. Two texts.

And underneath those, four unread messages from Aunt Becca.

Abby raised both brows, letting out a hoarse little laugh before muttering under her breath, “Oh my god…desperate much?”

She glanced over at Mom—still starfished on the bed, snoring like a chainsaw in those ancient sweats and stolen fuzzy socks—before looking back at the phone.

Jack Abbot. Twice. Plus a voicemail. Plus texts. Plus Aunt Becca?

Abby stared at the phone like it was a ticking bomb labeled “Do Not Touch”. 

She shouldn’t be doing this. 

Totally off-limits. 

Like, next-level invasion-of-privacy territory.

She reached out and picked up the phone, then held the phone up to Mom’s peaceful, snoring face and waited for Face ID to do its thing.

And just like that, it unlocked.

Whatever. She was asleep. How would she know? She’s not gonna know. 

Abby blinked as she read Jack’s texts, each one landing like a punch she wasn’t ready for:

I know you said you need to think, but I don’t.  I’ve been thinking for thirty years, Beth. It's been you every single day. I know what I want. And I think you know too, Sparky.

I’m here when you’re ready. I'm not going anywhere this time.

Her mouth fell open. 

Oh my god. Hello?

Wait—what?

 Did something actually happen and no one thought to clue her in? Like, zero heads-up?

Abby stared at the screen, completely shocked. Seriously? This is huge. Why is she the last to know? What the hell? Literally so rude. 

Oh my god, he’s so into her. It’s so gross.

Abby’s jaw dropped, and then she did it; an actual, muffled, ridiculous happy dance right there by Mom’s bed. Arms flailing, knees bouncing, a silent squeal caught behind her teeth because oh my god oh my god oh my god.

Then she froze mid‑wiggle, clapped her hands over her mouth, and sucked in a breath like she could pull herself back together through sheer force. Okay. Chill. Chill, Abigail. Don’t wake her up.

She scrolled back up, reading Jack’s texts again with a soft little hum that bubbled up in her chest, a grin spreading across her face despite the ache in her sinuses. Her thumb hovered over the screen as she glanced at the corner. Battery percentage: 2%.

Her smile flattened into a scolding glare at the phone. “Oh my god, Elizabeth. What is wrong with you?” she muttered under her breath, carefully angling the phone back onto the charger exactly how Mom had left it like it was some sacred artifact that couldn’t be disturbed.

She turned to tiptoe out… and then the screen lit up again.

Jack’s voicemail.

Abby froze, halfway to the door, eyes wide as the little notification pulsed on the screen. Her breath caught. Oh my god. Do I—?

No.

Nope.

Absolutely not. That was full‑blown, Lifetime‑movie‑level deranged.

Abby stood there a moment longer anyway, chewing the inside of her cheek, staring down at Mom’s phone like it might just answer the voicemail out loud and save her the moral crisis. Her head tilted, eyes narrowing.

…She could just put it back on the charger and walk away. Be normal. Be a good daughter.

Instead, she sighed through her nose, picked it up again, and after one last guilty glance at Mom snoring in the bed—

She made the active decision.

With a little flick of her wrist, she lobbed the phone onto the floor so it skidded across the rug with a muted thunk.

“Aw, Atty. How could you?” She whispered into the dogless room.

Abby took one last proud look at the crime scene she’d staged; the phone perfectly pitched onto the carpet, cord dangling innocently like Atlas had just wagged by and knocked it down with his tail. Flawless. If Mom ever asked, she’d swear up and down the dog did it.

God damn, she was good at this.

Grinning to herself, she tiptoed around the bed, easing the duvet back with all the stealth of a jewel thief. The mattress dipped as she slid under, the cool sheets brushing her overheated skin, and she let out a shaky little sigh as the warmth wrapped around her.

Mom shifted with a soft noise, instinctively reaching out. An arm curled around Abby’s shoulders, tugging her in without even opening her eyes. A kiss brushed Abby’s hairline—sleepy, automatic, like she’d done a thousand times before—and then Mom drifted right back into that thunderous snore.

Abby closed her eyes, pressing closer, a smile spreading despite the ache in her head and the lump in her throat.

And now, she thought, snuggled up under Mom’s chin, we wait.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Moose was still on her bed when she woke up. Which, yay. Because Moose. Obviously. But also, less yay, because Moose had apparently spent the night climbing higher and higher until his massive, hairy self was stretched out like a corpse beside her with his head on her pillow. And his breath? Straight-up hot garbage truck juice. Like, someone-get-this-dog-a-mint level bad. She was fairly certain something inside of him was literally rotting.

She turned her face into the blanket with a groan. “Jesus, dude. Do you eat garbage for fun?”

He snorted in response, tail thumping once against the wall like yes, bitch, and what about it?

But—still Moose. So. She’d allow it.

It also meant Jack was still here.