It was late—long past visiting hours, long past the noise of day-shift chaos. Grey Sloan had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that made fluorescent lights buzz louder than they should.

You found Jackson alone in an empty OR, sitting on the edge of the surgical table, still in his scrubs. No gloves. No gown. Just him. Still. Unusually still.

You stepped inside slowly. “Jackson?”

He didn’t look up right away. When he finally did, his eyes looked… tired. Not physically. Something deeper.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice soft.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

“Rough day,” he muttered. But the tension in his shoulders said it wasn’t just today.

You came closer but kept a bit of space—giving him room to breathe.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Jackson stared at the floor for a moment, jaw tense. And then—shockingly—he nodded.

“I had a patient today,” he began. His voice was steady, but his hands weren’t. “Young. Scared. Reminded me of…”

He stopped.

You waited, patient. Not pushing.

Finally, he exhaled sharply. “My dad.”

Your chest tightened—not because you knew the story, but because Jackson saying anything about his father was rare.

“I know he left,” you said carefully. “But I don’t know what happened.”

Jackson shook his head. “I don’t talk about it.” Then, after a beat: “I never talk about it.”

He stood, pacing once, then faced you like the words were dragging themselves out.

“He came back when I was grown. Acting like he suddenly cared. Like he suddenly wanted to know me.”

You stayed quiet, letting him choose the pace.

His voice cracked, just barely.

“And I wanted him to.”

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes for a moment, frustrated.

“I hate that. I hate that someone can disappear on you your whole life and you still… want them to show up.”

You felt something deep inside you twist—not pity, but understanding.

“That doesn’t make you weak,” you said gently. “It makes you human.”

Jackson swallowed hard, like he wasn’t used to someone saying that.

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed—but not defensively. More like he was holding himself together.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” he admitted. “Not like this.”

You nodded. “Thanks for trusting me.”

Something in his expression loosened—like your words reached a place he didn’t expect.

“People think I’m confident all the time,” he said quietly. “Smart. Talented. Put-together.”

He looked up at you, and for the first time, you saw raw honesty in his eyes.

“But I’m still that kid who wanted his dad to stay. And I hate that I never stopped being him.”

You stepped closer—slowly—just enough so he knew he wasn’t alone.

“That kid deserved better,” you said. “And you’re allowed to feel that.”

He let out a shaky breath, almost like relief.