The pediatric wing is quieter, but not entirely peaceful. The silence is thinner here—fragile, like it could crack at any second under the weight of a monitor alarm or a parent’s breath hitching in the doorway. The lights are softer, the walls painted in colors meant to comfort, but the tension still lingers beneath it all. It always does.

You weren’t supposed to be here.

The emergency department had been slow—unusually so. No pileups, no overnight disasters spilling through the ambulance bay doors. Just the hum of machines and the restless energy of doctors who don’t quite know what to do with themselves when nothing is actively falling apart.

So you trailed behind your colleague, Whitaker.

He’d offered it casually, almost like he expected you to say no. Pediatrics needed an extra set of hands. You said yes before you could overthink it.

Now you stand beside him in a too-small patient room, watching him crouch slightly so he’s eye-level with a kid who refuses to let go of a worn stuffed rabbit. His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it in the ER—steady, careful, like he’s handling something more delicate than a diagnosis.

Whitaker doesn’t rush. Doesn’t overwhelm. He explains things in a way that makes even you feel calmer, like everything has a reason, a solution, a path forward. It’s…different from how he is downstairs. More certain. Or maybe just more honest.

He glances at you sometimes, like he’s checking if you’re still there.

Like it matters.

“You’re good with them,” you say quietly, once the kid finally relaxes enough to let him listen to their chest.

Whitaker huffs a small laugh. “Farm life,” he says. “Animals don’t really give you a choice. You learn patience or you get kicked.”

You smile, and something in his expression shifts—subtle, but noticeable. Like he wasn’t expecting that reaction. Like he’s…holding onto it.

Before you can respond, there’s a knock.

You don’t need to turn to know who it is.

Dr. Jack Abbot doesn’t belong in this kind of light. The night shift clings to him—sharp edges, shadows that don’t quite fade even under fluorescents. He steps inside like he’s been here all along, like the room adjusts to him instead of the other way around.

His gaze flicks between you and Whitaker, taking in everything in a single, unreadable sweep.

“Whitaker,” he says, voice flat. “Robby’s looking for you.”

Whitaker frowns. “Right now?”

Abbot shrugs slightly. “Sounded like it.”

There’s a beat. A hesitation. Whitaker looks at you again—longer this time—like he’s weighing something he can’t quite say.

“I’ll…be back,” he tells you, almost like a promise.

Then he’s gone.

And suddenly the room feels smaller.

Abbot steps further in, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. The kid is asleep now, the monitor steady, leaving only the two of you and the low hum of machines.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, studying you in that way he does—like he’s trying to solve something and you’re the last piece.

“You like it up here?” he asks.

It’s a normal question. It should feel normal.

“Yeah,” you say. “It’s different.”

“Different,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word. His mouth twitches faintly. “That one word for it?”

You exhale a small laugh. “You don’t like pediatrics?”

“I didn’t say that.” A pause. “Just not my usual kind of chaos.”

Silence settles again, but it’s not empty. Not really.

His eyes flick toward the door, then back to you.

“Whitaker’s good with you,” he says, almost offhand.

You tilt your head. “He’s good with everyone.”

Abbot pushes off the counter, taking a step closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough to shift the air.

Your pulse stutters, though you’re not entirely sure why. He studies your face like he’s waiting for something—a real answer, maybe. Or a reaction.

Then, almost lazily, like it doesn’t matter at all, he asks:

“You like him more than me?”

You search his expression for a hint of a joke, but Abbot doesn’t give much away. He rarely does. There’s the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes, but it doesn’t quite reach the surface.