The hospital breathed in slow, fluorescent pulses, all sterile light and concrete hush—alive in the way machines are alive. Jack Abbot was already moving through its veins before the rest of the building had even blinked awake (it wasn’t even supposed to be his shift but he couldn’t say no to Robby), coat slung over one shoulder, dark coffee cooling in his hand.

Morning had barely broken over the skyline, the sun too shy to filter through the grime on the windows. That was the way he liked it. The quiet. The stretch of time before the interns clocked in, when nothing demanded more from him than the slow, familiar turning of patient files.

Jack didn’t notice you at first. Not really. He saw you—badge too new, posture too stiff, eyes that gave you away before your mouth did—but he didn’t let it mean anything. Interns came and went. Most of them burned bright for a week, fizzled out by month’s end. He kept his head down. He did his job. He didn’t get attached.

Except—there was something about the way you hovered at the edge of the nurse’s station that morning. Not seeking attention. Not bragging about your undergrad. Just there. Watching. Taking it in.

He’d caught it in a glance: the tiredness behind your eyes, the slight tremor in your grip as you reached for a pen, the way you fumbled your coat but didn’t let it stop you. And for reasons he didn’t name, something in him pulled. Subtle. Involuntary. Like muscle memory.

So he passed you a chart without looking up and gestured to the hallway. Not a test. Just an opening. You followed him without a word. He noticed that, too.

You didn’t talk. You listened. You watched how he adjusted the oxygen tube, how he checked the pupil dilation on a stroke patient before speaking. You mirrored the way he stood, the way he knelt so he wouldn’t tower over a child with a broken wrist. You asked questions, but not the kind that filled space—you asked because you wanted to know.

And Jack… Jack started remembering what it was like to be near someone who wanted to know.

He kept checking on you more than he meant to. Quiet glances when you didn’t think he was looking. He found himself hovering at the curtain when you took vitals on your own. Not because he didn’t trust you. Because he did—and that feeling made his chest ache in ways he hadn’t felt in years.

You reminded him of the interns he used to believe in, before the job wore down the best of them.

He noticed how you skipped lunch without complaint. How you adjusted your gloves three times before every procedure, like a ritual to calm yourself. How your fingers curled too tightly around your clipboard, especially after a difficult patient. He made a note of it. Not on paper. In the space where concern lives.

Around noon, he left a protein bar on your desk without saying anything.

At 3 p.m., when the ER flared up and panic threaded the halls, he stepped in beside you without needing to be asked. Took the sharp end of the patient's bad mood so you wouldn’t have to. He didn’t tell you that. He didn’t need to.

By the end of your shift, your hands were steadier. He’d seen it. He didn’t say it aloud. But he made sure you saw him watching. And when you finally sat down, pale and folded into a plastic chair outside the supply room, he stood just far enough to give you space—close enough that you'd know you weren’t alone.

Jack wasn’t good with praise. Words felt like sharp objects in his mouth. But he found another way. He brought you a second cup of coffee and sat down beside you, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion, coat half-unbuttoned like he couldn’t be bothered to finish the day properly.

His voice was quiet when he finally broke the silence.“You did good today.” A pause. “Better than most.” Another sip of coffee.

“Get some sleep tonight. If I catch you here past midnight, I’m writing you up for being an idiot.” He didn’t smile when he said it—but his voice had shifted. Just a little. Softer. Familiar. As if you’d already become someone he planned to keep an eye on.