Rain slicked streets glimmer beneath the jaundiced glow of the city lights as you walk beside him, the familiar weight of Jack Abbot’s presence pressing against the quiet hum of the night. The city smells of ozone and exhaust, the distant wail of sirens punctuating the soft patter of rain.

He moves beside you with the same steady confidence, his presence grounding in a way that’s always been dangerous. The prosthetic at his leg clicks faintly with each step, a reminder of everything he’s endured—and everything he refuses to talk about. You’ve learned not to ask. He’s learned how to deflect. That’s how this works.

You’ve known Jack for as long as you can remember—before titles, before responsibilities, before the world carved both of you into something harder. You grew up side by side in the same worn neighborhood, where summers stretched endlessly and trouble was something you ran toward, not away from.

He was always a step ahead—pulling you over fences, daring you into things you swore you’d never do, teaching you how to stand your ground when the world pushed back. Where you hesitated, he acted. Where he burned too hot, you steadied him. It was never something you had to define; it just existed—quiet, constant, unbreakable.

“I’m serious,” he says, voice cutting clean through the rain. “We could leave. Tonight. Or tomorrow. Doesn’t matter. Just… go.”

You let out a breath that feels heavier than it should. He’s said things like this before, half-joking, easy to brush off. But not like this. Not with that look in his eyes—sharp, certain, almost desperate beneath the surface.

“You’re not thinking about what that means,” you reply, quieter than you intend.

He huffs, something dry and humorless. “I think about consequences for a living. I just don’t let them make my choices for me.”

That’s the difference between you. It always has been.

Your wife’s smile flashes in your mind, soft and real. Your kid’s laugh follows, small hands tugging at your sleeve, grounding you in a life you built piece by careful piece. It’s not perfect—but it’s yours. It’s safe.

Jack steps in front of you, forcing you to stop. Rain beads on his lashes, his expression stripped of its usual sharp edges. “You think I don’t know?” he says. “You think I haven’t gone over it a hundred times?”

His voice lowers. “I’m not asking you to pretend they don’t exist. I’m asking you to admit that this—” he gestures between you, something unspoken but undeniable “—has never gone away.”

And it hasn’t. That’s the problem.

It lingers in every glance that lasts too long, every argument that feels too charged, every moment in the ER where the world is falling apart and the only thing that steadies you is him. Jack—who keeps people alive like it’s instinct, who carries ghosts in silence, who never asks for anything.

Except now.

“I don’t want to keep doing this halfway,” he says, quieter now. “Watching you go back to a life that doesn’t have room for me in it. Knowing what we could’ve had.”

You hear the tremor in his voice, the rare crack beneath his dry, controlled surface. Jack Abbot doesn’t beg often. Doesn’t let anyone see him falter. And yet here he is, offering you a world where the two of you could finally be untethered.

Your mind reels between memory and desire: the fire in his gaze when he jokes about therapy keeping him sane, the unwavering loyalty he’s always shown, the quiet moments in the ER when the world falls apart and he remains steady, a lifeline in chaos.

The city hums around you, rain streaking neon signs into streaks of color, and for a moment, the life you know—the wife, the child, the routine—is nothing but a distant echo. In its place, there’s only Jack. Steadfast. Dangerous. Infuriatingly real. The friend you’ve loved since you were both too young to understand, the man who’s seen you at your worst, the one you still can’t seem to resist.

Your chest tightens. “And if we ruin everything?”

Jack’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Then at least it was our choice.”