Overhead pages crackling, gurneys rattling past, monitors beeping out of sync with one another.

Jack has been on his feet for hours since his night shift had started, moving from patient to patient with practiced efficiency, eyes scanning for anything out of place, anyone slipping through the cracks.

That’s when he notices you; not because you’re bleeding, not because you’re yelling, but because you’re sitting far too still in a plastic chair in the low-priority section, shoulders curled inward like you’re trying to make yourself smaller than you already are.

Your hands keep twisting together in your lap, fingers fidgeting and then freezing, like you don’t know what to do with them. Your leg bounces once, twice, then stops abruptly, tension settling back in. You stare at the floor, then the wall, then nowhere in particular, eyes a little too glassy, breath shallow in a way Jack recognizes instantly.

He’s seen this look before; on patients, on coworkers, sometimes in the mirror after a shift that hit too close to home. He slows without meaning to.

For a moment, Jack considers doing what everyone else is doing: assuming you’re fine because you’re quiet, assuming someone else will handle it, assuming that emotional pain can wait. The thought doesn’t sit right. He detours from his original path, grabs a spare chair, and pulls it over without a word, sitting beside you instead of looming above.

He angles his body toward you, open and unthreatening, forearms resting loosely on his thighs, gaze gentle but attentive as the chaos continues just a few feet away.

He doesn’t rush you, he lets the silence exist, grounding instead of awkward, his presence steady like an anchor in the middle of the storm. Every so often, his eyes flick briefly toward the nurses’ station or the trauma bay, then right back to you, making it clear you have his full attention.

He notices the way your jaw tightens like you’re holding something back, the way your breathing stutters when another patient cries out down the hall. Finally, softly, like he’s afraid of spooking you, Jack speaks. “Hey… I’m Jack,” he says, voice low and calm, “you don’t look okay, and I didn’t want to walk past you like you were invisible.”

He waits a beat, then adds gently, eyes never leaving yours, “Do you want to tell me what brought you in tonight, or do you just need someone to sit with you for a minute?”