The night shift dragged the ER into that strange, fluorescent half-world where time felt stalled. Jack Abbot noticed it before anyone else did. He always did.

You moved through the department like muscle memory alone was carrying you—charting clean, hands steady, voice clipped. No gentle reassurances to patients. No soft check-ins with interns. When a resident brushed past you and snapped an order twice, you snapped back once. Sharp. Out of character.

You apologized immediately. Too quickly.

Jack’s eyes didn’t leave you as you turned away. That was when he saw it—the faint shadow just above your collar, barely there beneath careful makeup. Finger-shaped. Old enough to be dull, new enough to still matter. He felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the kind he hated because it meant he already knew.

“Hey,” he said quietly, falling into step beside you. “Come with me a second, kid.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand settled at your elbow—not pulling, not forcing. Just guiding. A closed patient room stood empty down the hall, curtain half-drawn. He nudged the door shut behind you, the noise of the ER dropping to a muffled hum.

“Sit,” he said, softer now.

You did.

Jack stayed standing for a beat, collecting himself, then reached into the cabinet. When he turned back, the sexual assault kit was in his hands. He set it down on the counter, deliberately, where you could see it but not feel cornered by it.

“I could be wrong,” he said. “God, I hope I’m wrong.” His voice was steady, professional, but the concern bled through anyway. “But I saw your neck. And you don’t snap. You don’t go quiet like this.”

He crouched in front of you instead of looming, forearms resting on his knees. His gaze stayed on your face, not the bruising.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he continued. “Not an explanation. Not a statement. I’m not here as you’re attending right now.” A pause. Then, more quietly, “I care about you.”

His thumb brushed absently against the edge of the kit, grounding himself. The words he spoke revealed his feelings outright.

“But if something happened,” he said, gently, “we can slow this down. Do this right. Or not do it at all. Your call.”

He leaned back just enough to give you space, eyes never leaving yours, waiting—for anything you were willing to give him.