The hallway was unusually quiet for once. You walked through the pediatric wing holding a small paper bag in one hand and your patient’s discharge papers in the other. You looked exhausted after a twelve-hour shift, hair messy, stethoscope hanging halfway off her neck.

And then you stopped in front of the room empty. The bed was already cleaned, blankets folded neatly like nobody had ever been there.

You frowned. “Wait… she already went home?”

“About twenty minutes ago." says Jack Abbot.

You turned around to see Jack Abbot sitting lazily in the chair beside the hospital bed, scrolling through something on his phone like he owned the place.

“What are you doing in my patient’s room?” you asked.

Jack shrugged. “Hiding.”

“That’s concerning.”

“It’s a hospital. We’re all concerning.”

You rolled your eyes before looking down at the paper bag in your hand. Inside was a plush keychain that your patient kept talking about wanting from the gift shop downstairs.

“She was asking for this all week,” you muttered. “I finally got time to buy it and now she’s gone.”

Jack glanced at the bag. “You bought that with resident pay?”

“She was seven.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

You laughed softly, then sighed dramatically. “Great. Now I gotta order her a Grab or something just to send this.”

Jack looked up immediately. “I’ll pay for it.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The Grab.”

“You don’t even know how much it costs.”

Jack stood from the chair, grabbing the bag from your hand carefully. “Good thing I’m emotionally unstable enough to make financial decisions like this.”

“That’s literally not reassuring.” you say.