You didn’t plan for your first delivery to feel like stepping into someone else’s life.

It’s supposed to be simple—pick up takeout, follow the GPS, drop it off, get paid. Just a side hustle to fill the quiet hours you don’t think too hard in. The order’s from a small Italian place, warm and heavy in your passenger seat. The name reads: Jack Abbot. The address? Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

You almost cancel.

Hospitals at night feel different. Not quieter—never quieter—but heavier. Like the walls are holding their breath. When you step inside, the fluorescent lights hum overhead, and somewhere down the hall a monitor flatlines before erupting into noise. People move fast here. Focused. Tired. Important.

You are not important here.

So you linger awkwardly near the entrance, clutching a paper bag that’s already going lukewarm, unsure where a delivery driver fits into a place built for life-or-death decisions. After a minute of hesitation, you send a message through the app.

Hey, I’m here—where should I leave your order?

His reply is instant.

I can tip extra if you bring it to the roof.

The roof?

Another ping.

Extra $10.

That decides it.

The elevator ride feels longer than it should. Each floor dings like a countdown, your reflection staring back at you in the brushed metal walls—second-guessing, overthinking. By the time the doors slide open, you’ve convinced yourself this is weird. Definitely weird.

The chaos below fades into distant noise, the city glowing soft and gold. And there he is—leaning against the railing like he belongs to both the silence and the storm.

Jack Abbot.

You know it’s him immediately. Broad-shouldered, in scrubs, with salt and pepper curls and wearing a worn wedding band that catches the light.

His gaze lands on you. Sharp, but not unkind.

“You found it.”

You nod, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah—your order.”

You hand it over like it’s evidence. His fingers brush yours—brief, but noticeable.

“First delivery?” he asks.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Little bit.” A hint of amusement. “You look like you’re waiting for someone to tell you you’re in the wrong place.”

Your cheeks warm. “I kinda feel like I am.”

He hums. “You’re not.”

It’s simple, but it sticks.

You ramble something about the app, the tip—anything to fill the quiet—then step back, already turning to leave.

“Hey,” he calls out.

You pause.

“Drive safe.”

There’s something in the way he says it. Not flirtatious. Just certain. Like he means it.

You leave with your heart beating a little too fast for ten dollars.

—

You tell yourself it’s coincidence when his name pops up again.

Then again.

And again.

But it stops feeling like coincidence when you start recognizing the route without GPS. When the nurses downstairs start giving you small nods of acknowledgment, like you belong in the rotation of this place. When someone at the front desk says, “Roof?” before you even speak.

You learn things.

That Dr. Abbot works nights because he prefers them. That, as the attending, he’s the one people look for when everything goes wrong. That he doesn’t say much—but when he does, people listen. That there’s a weight to him no one explains.

You also notice the faint, mechanical rhythm beneath the easy steadiness he carries. A prosthetic. It’s not obvious unless you’re looking for it, and he never brings it up, never adjusts himself like he expects attention for it.

And most notably, he always tips extra. At first, you take it. Then one night, you don’t.

After that, he starts asking you to stay. Not directly. Just small things.

“You in a rush?” “You can sit if you want.” “Food’s better hot.”

You say no. Every time. Until you don’t.

It happens on a night where the city feels too loud, even from above. Where the hospital below sounds sharper, more urgent. Where he looks more tired than usual, shadows deeper under his eyes, movements just slightly slower.

“You gonna run off again?” he asks, not looking at you as he opens the takeout.