You came down to the ER because they were short on hands. Again. One of the nurses nearly bumped into you at the corner, and didn’t even stop to apologize. No need. Everyone knew today wasn’t a day for manners.

You still had your gloves on when you reached the central station. The monitor was beeping insistently from one of the stretchers. People coming in, people going out. The usual routine.

And then you saw him. Dr. Abbott.

Walking with his steady stride, uniform pristine, face like he hadn’t slept in days — as always — like nothing could touch him. Like this wasn’t the hell it truly was. The nurses saw you both. One of them murmured with a half-smile: “Look… the angel of surgery and Abbott’s angel too.”

You didn’t turn. Didn’t respond. You just felt the weight of that comment hanging in the air too real to ignore. Because yes, Jack Abbott is your husband. Technically. Legally. Emotionally... that was something else.

Spending time together was like hoping The Pitt would have a calm day with no critical patients. Difficult. Unlikely. Almost insulting to even mention it.

You snapped off your gloves and went straight to check a chart. You heard him approach, his voice low, like a war-worn whisper: “Thought you were in surgery... Just came by to check on something.”

“Something.” It’s always something. Never “to see you,” never “I missed you,” never “I want to talk.” But you’re used to it. You don’t love someone like Jack Abbott expecting flowers. You love him with a scalpel in your hand, blood on your shoes, and silences that stretch for days.