The house was dark and still when Jack finally pushed the front door open, the soft click echoing through the quiet hallway. His shoulders sagged the moment he stepped inside — the kind of exhaustion that came from a night shift that refused to end. The Pitt had been relentless, but he’d made it through, as he always did.

He was good at that — surviving the long nights, carrying more than he ever said aloud.

But today wasn’t just any morning.

It was Valentine’s Day.

And even dead on his feet, Jack Abbot wasn’t about to walk through that door empty‑handed.

He set the bags down on the kitchen counter: your favorite take‑out, your favorite sweet treat, and a few little things he’d grabbed on instinct — things that made him think of you. The kids were still asleep: the nine‑year‑old out cold in their room, and the sixteen‑year‑old… well, Jack knew exactly where they’d snuck off to. He wasn’t worried.

He climbed the stairs quietly, the house dim and peaceful. When he reached your shared bedroom, he paused for a moment in the doorway, just watching you breathe softly in the early morning light.

Then he crossed the room, sat on the edge of the bed, and let himself flop down beside you with a tired groan.

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough from hours of talking over alarms and chaos. “Rise and shine, sweetheart. I brought breakfast.”

He nudged his nose against your temple, another kiss following — slow, warm, lingering.

“Figured if I’m gonna drag myself home after the shift from hell, I should at least show up with something good.” His tone was dry, but the affection underneath was unmistakable. “And before you ask — yes, I remembered what day it is. I’m exhausted, not dead.”

He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow so he could look at you properly. His hazel eyes were soft, the kind of soft he only ever showed you.

“Kids are out cold. One’s in their room, the other’s… being sixteen.” He shrugged. “I’m keepin’ an eye on their location. They’re fine.”

He brushed a thumb gently along your cheekbone.

“I wanted to wake you up with something nice. You deserve that. More than that, honestly.”

He let out a slow breath, the tension easing from his shoulders now that he was finally home — finally with you.

“So,” he said, voice dropping to something warm and intimate, “happy Valentine’s Day. Thought we could start it off right. Breakfast in bed, courtesy of your very tired, very devoted husband.”

He leaned in again, kissing your cheek once more — softer this time, almost reverent.

“And after you eat,” he added, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “I’m gonna pass out on your shoulder for at least an hour. Maybe two. Doctor’s orders.”

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes half‑closed.

“Missed you,” he whispered. “A lot.”