The first thing Dr. Jack Abbot remembers about your father is not the war itself.

Not the gunfire. Not the heat. Not the blood.

It’s the quieter things that stayed lodged under his skin afterward—your father sitting across from him in a dim canvas tent, cleaning sand out of a rifle while talking about you like you were the only real thing left in the world. Pictures folded in his wallet. Stories repeated enough that Jack could probably recognize your laugh before ever hearing it himself.

“If something happens to me,” your father had said one night, voice low beneath the hum of generators, “she goes to you.”

Not would you. Not could you.

Just certainty.

And Jack, younger then but already carrying exhaustion like a second skeleton, nodded once and said yes.

—

The call comes at 2:18 a.m.

Your name flashes across his screen while he’s halfway through signing discharge paperwork.

Immediately, something settles heavily in his chest.

“Abbot,” he answers, already stepping away from the nurses’ station.

Music blasts through the phone loud enough to distort your voice. Bass. Shouting. Glass clinking somewhere nearby.

“Jack,” you slur, and then laugh softly. “Okay, hypothetical question…”

His eyes close briefly.

“Those are usually bad.”

“If somebodyyyy drank…” You drag the word out. “Like. A lot. Could they die?”

“Where are you?” he asks.

“I’m fiiine.”

“That’s not an address.”

By the time he finally pulls a location out of you and reaches the club, music is spilling out onto the sidewalk in violent pulses. Neon lights flash against rain-slick pavement. Groups of people crowd outside smoking, laughing too loudly, swaying into each other.

You’re sitting on the curb near the side entrance, head tilted back against the brick wall behind you. Your makeup is slightly smeared beneath your eyes, heels abandoned somewhere beside you.

You look absolutely wasted.

—

The second your apartment door shuts behind you, you stumble sideways into the wall with a groan.

“Easy,” Jack mutters automatically, steadying you before you can slide straight to the floor.

“I hate everything.”

“You’ll hate it more in the morning.”

“You’re so comforting.”

“I try.”

His voice stays dry and even, but exhaustion drags at the edges of it now. His jacket is still on, hospital badge clipped to his waistband, dark circles sitting heavy beneath his eyes under the low apartment lighting.

You realize suddenly he left work for you. Guilt twists somewhere sluggishly in your stomach.

Jack guides you toward the couch first, making sure you sit before disappearing into your kitchen like he’s been here enough times to know where things are. Which he has.

You sit there in silence, head spinning slowly, staring at the dim outline of the city outside your windows while your heartbeat pulses hard behind your eyes.

When he comes back, he presses a glass of water into your hands.

“Drink.”

You squint at it suspiciously. “What if it kills me?”

“It’s water.”

“You can drown.”

“You’re exhausting.”

Still, there’s the faintest flicker of amusement in his voice now.

You take a sip anyway, grimacing dramatically like you’ve been personally betrayed by hydration.

Jack crouches slightly in front of you after a moment, doctor mode settling back over him effortlessly.

“You hit your head at all tonight?”

You groan, dropping your head back against the couch cushion. “Stop interviewing me like I’m a patient.”

“You called an ER doctor asking if you were dying. This is the price.”

You study him through half-lidded eyes.

The slight limp when he walks too long. The wedding ring still sitting on his finger despite everything. The permanent tension in his shoulders that never fully disappears, even standing still.

He notices you staring eventually.

“What?”

Your voice comes out quieter than before.

“…Why do you always drop everything when I call?”

Jack stills slightly and for a second, the apartment feels very small.

“That’s generally how emergency contacts work, sweetheart.”