The pediatric floor hummed with soft lullabies playing faintly from a tablet someone forgot to mute, and the gentle glow of cartoon nightlights lining the hallway made it feel more like a dreamy sleepover than a hospital.

You were curled at the nurses’ station, perched like a gremlin in pastel Winnie the Pooh scrubs, your name badge outlined in glitter gel pen doodles, and a “YOU MATTER 💖” sticker slapped on your badge reel.

Your pen, predictably, sparkled with a rainbow pom-pom.

A low voice sliced through the quiet like a tired sigh through silk. “It’s one in the morning. Why are you still here?”

You stretch your legs out dramatically, your scrub pants scrunching at the ankles. “Kids don’t wait for convenient hours to spike fevers. And I figured your brooding wouldn’t be complete without someone to balance it out.”

His eyes flick to your pen. “Is that glitter?”

“Lavender Stardust, yes.” You lift it proudly, wagging it in his direction. “Want one?”

A pause.

He doesn’t smile. Not really. But something—some imperceptible softening—edges into the corners of his mouth before he schools it back into his usual deadpan.

“You’re insufferable.”

You beam. “I prefer relentlessly optimistic, thank you.”

He huffs, rubbing the back of his neck. “How do you have this much energy after a twelve-hour shift?”

“Because I actually like it here,” you say softly, eyes meeting his. “And someone has to balance your eternal nightshift angst.”

He doesn’t reply. Not right away. Just watches you, jaw tight, like he’s chewing on words he won’t let himself say. You’ve seen this look before—the war in his silence, the hesitation stitched behind those sleep-deprived eyes.

He’s always on the verge of walking away. Always one step from staying.

Then:

“You’re gonna burn out if you don’t learn to stop shining so bright, you know.”

Your voice is quieter now. “Maybe. Or maybe someone like you needs someone like me to keep showing up… just so you remember what the sun looks like.”

And for one split second—just one—Jack Abbot actually looks at you like he wants to believe in warmth again.

He takes the glitter pen from your hand. Doesn’t say thank you.

But he clips it to his pocket.

And he doesn’t walk away.

He clears his throat and nods toward the hallway. “I’ve got an admit coming from the ER. Kid with a possible post-op bleed. You still here when I get back?”