The hospital is quieter than usual.

Not quiet like peace. Quiet like pressure building behind soundproof glass—like a storm on the edge of breaking.

Jack’s been pacing in and out of Trauma 2 for the past ten minutes. Chart in hand, jaw tight, a pen snapped in half in his pocket. It’s his fourth code tonight and the caffeine isn't cutting through the exhaustion anymore.

But that’s not what’s bothering him. What’s bothering him is you.

You, standing ten feet away at the nurses' station, organizing IV supplies with that same too-careful precision you always use when you don’t want to be looked at. You, in scrubs and soft sneakers, careful and precise—but no small talk tonight. No eye contact. No stupid inside jokes about whose turn it is to refill the glucose trays.

Not since the argument.

No one knows you came in the same car, sat in silence the whole ride, tension vibrating between you like it had its own pulse. No one knows Jack said something—too sharp, too cruel, something that hung in the air all day and still hasn’t left your shoulders.

He doesn’t even remember the words exactly, but he remembers the way your face went still. He remembers you stopped smiling after that.

Now you're halfway through your shift, and you haven’t said more than five words to him. You pass each other by the crash cart, at the vending machine, outside the pediatric bay—and every time, he looks like he might say something.

He never does. Until now.

You’re at the supply cabinet, restocking the same box of gloves for the third time just to stay busy. He rounds the corner, leans against the counter, crosses his arms. His voice is low—meant for just you.

“Are we gonna keep pretending nothing’s wrong, or are you gonna look at me?” A second of silence. The overhead PA calls a code in another unit, footsteps echo past behind him, but Jack doesn’t move.

“You’re mad. I get it. But you don’t get to just vanish on me mid-shift like we’re strangers.” Another pause. His voice is quieter now, just short of regret. “I didn’t mean what I said. You know that.” Of course you know. But it still hurt.

He’s still standing there when the call board lights up again. A nurse sticks her head in, looking for someone to help with a bed transfer. Jack doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step away. Just keeps his eyes on you like he’s waiting—for forgiveness, for a fight, for anything.

The rest of the hospital keeps moving.

But here, for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that dimly lit corner, surrounded by the buzz of machines and the hum of too much history.