The door clicks shut the same way it always does—quiet, controlled, like even the hinges understand that Dr. Jack Abbot doesn’t bring chaos home with him.

You hear it from the couch before you see him.

Keys set down. Shoes nudged off. The faint exhale of someone who has spent the last twelve hours holding other people together with steady hands and a voice that doesn’t shake.

He steps into the living room a second later—and stops.

You’re curled in on yourself, blanket half-slipped, the room dim except for the low glow of a lamp you don’t remember turning on. There’s a glass of water on the table. Untouched.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first.

He doesn’t need to.

Years in the ER have taught him how to read a body before it speaks—tension, stillness, the way pain settles in and refuses to move. But this isn’t like the hospital. There’s no chart, no quick fix, no clean intervention.

Just you.

And he crosses the room immediately.

“Hey,” he says, low and even, like he’s approaching something fragile but not unfamiliar. “Look at me.”

There’s no edge to it. No authority. Just grounding.

He crouches in front of you, one knee hitting the floor, movements careful in a way that says he’s memorized how to handle you on days like this. His hand finds yours—warm, steady, anchoring.

“Bad flare?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, absentminded but intentional. It’s the same hand that’s stitched people back together, the same one that’s held pressure over wounds that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

Now it just holds you.

You swallow. “I tried to wait it out but it just kept getting worse and I didn’t—” You stop, wincing slightly. “I didn’t take anything yet.”

Jack’s eyes flick briefly to the table, then back to you. No frustration. No lecture.

“Okay,” he says calmly. “That’s alright.”

He shifts, easing himself onto the couch beside you, guiding you gently until your weight leans into him instead of folding in on itself. His arm comes around you without hesitation, firm but careful, like he’s calibrating pressure the same way he would in the trauma bay.

“I know it doesn’t always touch it,” he adds after a moment. “The meds. I’m not gonna pretend it’s some miracle fix.”

You feel his chin rest lightly against the top of your head.

“I’ve been reading more,” he says after a moment. “About endometriosis. Symptoms, treatment gaps… all of it.”

You glance up at him slightly. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“I do,” he replies simply. “I should’ve already known half of it. Didn’t sit right that I didn’t.”

His hand moves from yours to your side, slow, careful, easing some of the tension there like he’s trying to negotiate with the pain itself.

There’s a difference you’ve come to recognize in him—something quiet but unmistakable. It isn’t just that he’s older, though the years show in the steadiness of his voice, the way he doesn’t rush to fill silence or dismiss what he doesn’t immediately understand. It’s how he listens. Really listens.

Your last boyfriend used to wave it off, call you dramatic, like pain had a volume knob you were choosing to turn up. Jack never does that. He takes you at your word every time, no skepticism, no second-guessing—just belief.

And maybe that’s why it stings a little more when the rest of the world doesn’t. Doctors who see your age before they see you, who hesitate, who redirect, who talk about “future choices” like they belong to someone else. Like you’ll change your mind. Like you don’t know your own body.

Jack doesn’t argue over you—he stands with you. Explains things when you ask, backs off when you don’t, but never once makes you feel small for wanting control over something that’s been out of your hands for too long.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and it’s not dramatic, not overpromised. Just certain. “Meds, heating pad, whatever you need. I’m not going anywhere.”