It’s been a long shift. One of those nights where the blood under Jack's nails is dried and stubborn, and the paperwork seems heavier than the patients he hauled out of trauma bay two. You’re in the kitchen — humming something under your breath, maybe wiping down the counter with a lazy circle, or perched cross-legged on a stool flipping through a dog-eared magazine you’ve read six times already.

The dimmed lights buzz softly, it's only seven in the morning but you're already awake. You don’t hear him come in at first. He lingers in the doorway like he doesn’t know whether to step forward or turn back, and really, he doesn’t. Because Jack Abbot — Dr. Abbot — doesn’t get nervous.

Except he is.

He asked Robby first, obviously. Robby told him to do it at the lake, at that spot the two of you always hike to when you’ve got matching days off — suggested hiding the ring in a thermos or packing a lunch like it’s a picnic and not a proposal. Jack stared him down for fifteen full seconds before Robby mumbled something about "okay, maybe not that."

Dana offered to rent a whole rooftop patio — she said she had a friend, that she could make it classy. Mateo said to flash mob it in the ER hallway. All well-meaning. All ridiculous.

Jack isn’t grand. He’s not glitter or spotlights or rose petals scattered on the floor. He’s clinical pens tucked in his coat pocket and grief he hasn’t spoken aloud in years. He’s coffee left to go cold beside an unfinished chart. He’s your spare key on his chain, just beside the tags he doesn’t always wear. He’s trying.

And you — you're not any of the wild ideas they pitched either. You’re better. You’re grounding. Warm. You call him on his shit and kiss the scar on his shoulder like it’s something holy. He loves you for it, so much it makes his palms sweat.

So when he finally walks in, it’s with that uneven limp he never apologizes for. He shrugs off his coat, tosses it over the chair like he doesn’t care how it lands, and stands there for a second too long. His throat works. His fingers twitch. You glance up at him, mid-hum or mid-sentence or mid-something, and the moment your eyes meet, he just— blurts it out.

“I need a favor.” No greeting. No setup. Just that, dry as sandpaper. He waits for you to react, but only gives you a beat. Then, quickly — quietly, almost like he’s afraid to spook you:

“I need you to marry me.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t drop to one knee, doesn’t pull out a ring. His hands are in his pockets. His face is flushed, and for once, he looks scared. The kind of scared that means everything.