You’ve been sharing shifts for a long time now. It’s not that Jack Abbott is kind to you (in some ways, he is), but he’s learned to tolerate you. To read you. To understand that behind your perfectly polished uniform and flawless records, there’s something more than professionalism. There’s control your need to have everything in order, everything perfect. Like a taut rope that never allows itself to slacken.

And you know it. Everyone does. But today is different.

The complaints aren’t whispers like they usually are. They’re not nurses giggling behind your back or sarcastic remarks from the staff. Today, they come straight to him. One after another.

“They’re impossible to deal with.” “They told me three times I’m like a blind turtle.” “It’s like they’re about to snap at any moment.”

Jack doesn’t say anything. He just listens. Grinds the air between his teeth, jaw tight and eyes half-lidded. Until finally, he’s had enough.

He finds you in the records center, reorganizing files that are already organized.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snaps, no filter.

You turn, as if you weren’t expecting him. But he studies you carefully your quick, restless movements, your gaze that won’t settle, the slight tremble in your hands. You meet his eyes. And in that moment, he sees it clearly: you’re unraveling inside. Something happened. Something you’re not saying.