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It was supposed to be a quick consult.
You’d called Jack down to the ER because your patient had a possible spinal injury and needed neuro’s eyes on the imaging. But the second Jack walked into the room—white coat, sharp jaw, and that annoyingly calm, confident demeanor—everything shifted.
Because of course, the patient was hot, single, and apparently had no interest in boundaries.
“Oh, doctor,” she purred, flipping her hair despite the cervical collar. “You’ve got hands like a pianist. Do you play anything… other than medicine?”
You bit your tongue so hard you nearly tasted blood. Jack gave her the polite smile he reserved for patients who got too friendly, completely ignoring the invitation. You knew he hated this kind of attention—he always redirected, always stayed professional—but she wasn’t taking the hint.
Not even when he said, “I’m actually here for a consult. Dr. Ln will be handling your primary care.”
“Oh, but you’re the one I’d trust to handle me,” she said, eyes locked on him, completely ignoring you.
And that’s when it happened. Tired, irritated, possessive—and maybe just a little unhinged from your 14-hour shift—you smiled sweetly and said:
“My husband will just need a few more minutes to finish reviewing the scans.”
The words left your mouth before your brain caught up.
Jack’s head snapped toward you so fast it was a miracle he didn’t strain something. The patient blinked. “Husband?”
You didn’t correct yourself. Didn’t blink. Just kept your smile plastered in place like you meant it.
“Yes,” you said. “My husband.”
That finally shut her up.
When Jack finally followed you out of the room, he waited until you turned the corner before pinning you with a look that was half-surprised, half-smirking.
“Husband?”
You winced. “I panicked.”
“I mean… you say it like you’ve been thinking about it.”
You rolled your eyes. “I said it so she’d stop hitting on you.”
He stepped in close, voice low, teasing. “Didn’t hate it, you know.”
You looked up at him, a little breathless now. “Really?”
He shrugged, grin softening. “If that’s how you’re staking your claim, I’ll take it.”
You gave him a look. “You’re impossible.”
“And apparently married,” he said with a wink, walking off toward his next case.
You stood there, heart pounding, cheeks warm—and you knew, deep down, that you definitely didn’t just say it to get the patient to back off.
Jack didn’t get far.
You grabbed his sleeve, tugging just enough to stop him, and he turned back to you with one brow raised like he knew he’d just unraveled something you weren’t ready to admit.
“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” you muttered, scanning the hallway to make sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop.
He stepped back into your space, voice quieter now, more serious. “Why would I? You called me your husband. That wasn’t nothing.”
You crossed your arms, trying to play it cool, even though your heart was doing somersaults. “I was trying to get her to stop undressing you with her eyes.”
He smiled softly, no teasing this time. “I know. But still. You said it like it was natural. Like it’s something you’ve thought about.”
You looked at him then—really looked at him. His dark eyes, tired from rounds and consults, but still focused on you like you were the only thing that mattered in the room. His hand had unconsciously found your elbow, thumb stroking absent circles against your scrubs.
“Okay,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe I’ve thought about it.”
Jack’s expression shifted—gentle, warm, like your words had knocked the wind out of him in the best way. “Yeah?”
You nodded. “It wasn’t just to shut her up. It felt… right.”
He stepped in closer, so close you could smell the clean scent of hospital soap and his cologne lingering beneath. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined calling you my wife.”
You swallowed. “I thought we’d talk about that when we weren’t, you know, five feet from Trauma 2.”
He chuckled, his forehead touching yours. “Yeah, probably better timing when we’re not on shift.”
“But just so you know,” you added, fingers curling into his coat, “if one more patient flirts with you, I will call you my husband again. Loudly. Repeatedly.”
Jack grinned. “Deal. But next time? I’m calling you my wife back.”
And when he pulled away, you were still smiling, cheeks warm, stomach fluttering.
Because now the thought wasn’t just a slip-up.
It was a promise.