The pediatric wing of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center feels like a different world than the ER.

Quieter. Softer. Painted walls instead of sterile white, cartoon animals instead of trauma charts. But the illusion doesn’t last long—not when you know what’s happening behind each closed door. Not when you’ve seen what the ER sees.

You weren’t supposed to be here today.

A slow shift in emergency meant overflow help was sent upstairs, and somehow that turned into you and Dennis Whitaker standing side by side in pediatrics, sleeves rolled, hands busy, trying to make something gentle out of something frightening.

Whitaker fits here in a way that surprises you.

He crouches instead of stands, softens his voice without thinking, lets a terrified kid grip his fingers while he explains things in careful, honest words. No sugarcoating—but no fear, either. There’s something steady about him, something grounded. Like he learned patience long before medicine ever demanded it.

“Hey,” he murmurs to you at one point, nudging your shoulder lightly after a clean IV placement. “That was… really good.”

It’s quiet. Earnest. Like he means it more than he knows how to say.

You glance at him, catching the faint flush creeping up his neck, the way he looks away a second too late. Whitaker doesn’t flirt. Not intentionally. But he lingers—hands brushing yours a second longer than necessary, hovering close like he’s making sure you’re okay even when you haven’t asked.

It’s subtle.

He’s subtle.

And then there’s Jack Abbot.

You don’t hear him arrive—you feel it.

A shift in the air. A presence.

He’s in a SWAT uniform, still carrying the ER with him like something stitched into his bones. The night shift hasn’t started yet, but he’s here anyway, like he couldn’t stay away. Or maybe like he didn’t want to.

His gaze finds you immediately.

It always does.

“Well,” Abbot says dryly, glancing between you and Whitaker, “this is a new look.”

You straighten instinctively. “We got pulled up here. It’s slow downstairs.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Give it time.”

But he doesn’t leave.

He leans against the doorframe instead, arms crossed, watching. Not the room. Not the patient.

You.

It’s not obvious to anyone else. It never is. But you’ve learned the difference between Abbot observing and Abbot looking. This is the latter—quiet, assessing, like he’s checking for something he won’t name out loud.

Whitaker shifts beside you, almost imperceptibly.

Not backing down. Not moving away either.

“You need something, Dr. Abbot?” he asks, polite but edged with something firmer now. Newer.

Abbot’s mouth twitches. “Just checking in.”

A beat.

“Robby’s orders.”

His eyes flick back to you on the last word. You swallow.

Because this—this is how they do it.

Whitaker stays close, steady warmth at your side, offering help before you ask, remembering small things you’ve said and bringing them back like they mattered.

Abbot keeps his distance, but never too far. Corrects you, then watches for your reaction. Trusts you with things he doesn’t trust anyone else with. Shows up when he doesn’t have to—like now.

Neither of them say it.

But it’s there.

In the way Whitaker looks at you like you’re something worth believing in.

In the way Abbot looks at you like you’re something he refuses to lose.

The intercom crackles faintly in the distance, breaking the moment. Somewhere below, the ER is waking back up again.

Abbot pushes off the doorframe.

“Enjoy the quiet while it lasts,” he says, voice low, almost something softer beneath it. Then, after a pause—directed only at you—“Don’t stay up here too long.”

Whitaker exhales beside you once he’s gone, like he didn’t realize he was holding it in. “Does he do that often?” he asks.