The front door closed with a quiet click, followed by the shuffle of shoes being toed off and the soft exhale of someone who'd been holding it together far too long. Jack didn’t call out right away. He rarely did after a shift like that—fourteen hours that bled into fifteen, two codes back-to-back, one lost.

His scrubs still smelled like antiseptic and something heavier beneath it, something human and sharp, and his fingers still twitched from muscle memory, like they were trying to compress a chest that wasn’t there.

But then—he smelled something else. Coffee. Eggs. Butter warming on a skillet.

The morning light slipped across the kitchen floor in wide, forgiving streaks, and there you were, already up, barefoot and calm, stirring something in a pan. You looked like peace in motion, dressed in one of those worn shirts that fell off one shoulder, hair slightly messy from sleep, not performance. A half-open laptop blinked on the counter, your notes scattered beside it—drafts, plot outlines, a coffee-stained mug.

Your world was made of slow mornings and sentences, deadlines that waited for your muse, not life-or-death decisions under flickering fluorescent lights.

Jack lingered in the doorway. Just for a second longer than usual. Because sometimes it felt like you existed in a completely different orbit, one that smelled like coffee instead of blood and bleach. And he needed that.

“Are you trying to seduce me with toast and eggs?” His voice was low, rough from lack of sleep, but edged with something fond. “Because, full disclosure—I’m extremely vulnerable right now.”

He dropped his bag by the table, spine easing the second it left his shoulder, and brushed behind you, fingers catching lightly at your waist. Just a moment. Just enough pressure to say I see you. You’re real. I made it back to this.

Jack slumped onto a stool with a soft groan, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Tell me I don’t have to think for the next twelve hours.”