Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

. . .

“The hell are you still doing here?”

Robby’s voice cuts through Jack’s brain, forcing him to blink quickly and draw his attention from the computer screen to his best friend. 

He shakes his head. “Just finishing up some charts before I head out. Can’t leave a mess for you, yeah?”

It’s not a total lie. He really does have a few more notes to type up before he calls it a day—er, night. 

But there’s something deep in Jack’s gut holding him in place, telling him to stay just a little bit longer. 

His shift was fine — at least, no one died this time. How he and his overnight team managed that, he’ll never know. Just take the win, he reminds himself. 

Robby smiles and points at the board. “Brother, you always leave me a mess.”

A smirk tugs at Jack’s lips as he looks up at the long list of patients. “It’s reciprocal. Cyclical.”

“It’s the Pitt,” Robby adds matter-of-factly. 

Jack directs his eyes back to his computer. “Well, I’ll be out of your hair here shortly.”

“Take your time,” Robby assures, patting his shoulder as he walks away.

Jack types up a few more notes, then logs out of the system. But he just sits there, studying the login screen like it might tell him why he’s hesitating. 

He finally lets his shoulders drop, exhaling slowly as he hears Robby debrief the day-shift team. It’s the same regurgitation of both useless administrative requests from the higher-ups and gentle reminders that this work is essential, that they’re all making a difference. The same speech that Jack gives his crew, only his is a little less sugar-coated, as he doesn’t have the eyes and ears of Gloria lurking around after hours. Well, usually.

The chaos of night morphs into the rush of day as the doctors disperse. A handful of them hang back by the ambulance bay, awaiting an incoming MVC patient per Dana’s alert. Serious, but not critical. 

Jack leans back in his chair and rubs his hands over his face, trying to ignore the slew of info from EMS as they bring in the victim. “38-year-old female, restrained driver, T-boned on driver’s side by a red-light runner. No LOC, but complaining of headache and left wrist pain. No vomiting. Vitals stable en route. GCS 15…” Robby directs Collins and Mel to the case as they move into Trauma 1.

Another slow exhale pushes from his chest, and Jack finally reaches for his backpack, which he had already grabbed earlier. That same Army-issued backpack that’s been to hell and back for close to two decades. Filled with battlefield-ready supplies just in case…and the memory of that one terrible night a few months ago when he had to use them. 

He stands up, favoring his right leg a little as the prosthetic rubs just right. That distant ache, tugging through his knee and up into his hip, tells him: Go home, dumbass.

But as he walks by Trauma 1, he can’t help glancing through the windows, a strange magnetic curiosity drawing his tired eyes to see what’s happening. And he stops when he sees her. 

His grip on his backpack loosens, the strap slipping just far enough to feel like gravity’s failing him. Something in his brain rewires itself haphazardly as he processes what’s right in front of him after all this time.

Chelsea Cooper. 

The one and only real friend he had when he finished undergrad at Ohio State and started med school. Someone who kept him tethered to reality when nothing else made sense. Someone he had always hoped he’d find in another life. 

He sets his bag down by Dana’s desk, oblivious to the charge nurse’s questioning gaze. All he can do is slowly, hesitantly step into Trauma 1. 

He hangs back, though, hovering by the door and checks the monitor to ground himself…make sure he’s not dreaming. 

Chelsea’s sitting upright as Perlah helps adjust her on the gurney, while Collins and King continue with routine questions. 

Strands of her mocha brown hair had pulled loose from her ponytail, framing her face. A line of dried blood trails down from the cut above her left brow. Her left wrist is cradled against her ribs, and bruises are already blooming along her collarbone where the seatbelt had done its job. 

“BP 124/78. Pulse 90. Ox sat 99%. Resps 16…” Perlah informs the team.

Collins shines a flashlight over Chelsea’s eyes. “Pupils equal and reactive. Any dizziness or confusion?” 

Chelsea blinks, and her eyes land on Jack. 

His stomach drops from those eyes—wide, hazel-green, rimmed with lashes too long to forget. 

Her laugh is shaky, unconvinced she didn’t hit her head harder in the crash. “Maybe…no, not really.”

Collins glances over at Jack with a small smile, already picking up on the strange cosmic connection between her patient and the veteran physician. She moves back to her exam and injury assessment, studying the cut above Chelsea’s eyebrow. 

“Any chest pain? Trouble breathing?” 

“No,” she shakes her head carefully and gestures to her collarbone. “Just sore from the seatbelt.”

Mel checks Chelsea’s left wrist, softly apologizing when she grimaces from the pain. “Scale of 0 to 10, how would you rate the pain here?” 

“Probably 6? My pain tolerance is pretty high, though,” Chelsea admits, though her smile wavers. 

Jack knows that look. He’d seen it before…behind that teetering tower of books carried in her arms when her right ankle rolled on the back stairwell of the campus medical library. 

She didn’t drop a single book. He held his hand out without thinking twice. “I’m fine,” she breathed, her knuckles white around the stack she still held somehow. Pride, stubbornness, that familiar spark flared as she lifted her chin. “These need to go to the holds desk.”

“Then let me help.” Jack slid the top two-thirds of the stack out of her arms before she could object. “And then we should ice that ankle.”

“Jack,” she said, his name sounded like a warning and a thank-you tangled together.

He set the journals on the counter as Chelsea keyed them in, her good foot planted and the other barely grazing the floor. And despite only being pre-med, Jack’s doctor instincts kept kicking in. “Pain scale 0 to 10?” he asked as he leaned his elbows on the counter.

She refused to look at him. “2.”

“Mm,” he pressed his lips together, unconvinced. “And you’re standing like a flamingo because…?”

“I’m fine,” she argued again, quickly tapping the keyboard. “Just…let me finish checking these in.”

Jack couldn’t help the grin that broke across his face as he shook his head. Only then did she look at him, annoyed and hiding her pain. “What?”

“Sports medicine major, and you’re too stubborn to take care of your own injury.” He ignored the huff in her voice as he stepped around the counter like it was no big deal.

“Jack—”

But he was already behind the desk and tapped the low stool for her to sit. She hesitated, then eased down while Jack knelt on his good knee. He pulled an ace bandage from his bag, that same Army-issued camo backpack he just can’t let go. 

A chuckle fell from Chelsea’s mouth. “You always this prepared?”

“What can I say? Being a combat medic ruined me.” The phrase weighed a little heavier in the air between them, especially when Jack’s prosthetic shifted awkwardly as he angled her foot to rest on his thigh. He shrugged, forced his focus to unlace her sneaker carefully. 

She watched his hands, the steadiness of the small, precise movements as he wrapped the elastic fabric around bone and skin. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” He glanced up then, and found that stubborn light still in her eyes, but edged with gratitude…and something he didn’t want to name. 

They stayed quiet as he secured the wrap with metal clips. “Wiggle your toes,” he offered gently. 

She did. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot,” she teased kindly. 

Jack’s cheeks flushed pink. “Not a doctor yet.”

“Don’t argue with your patient.”

“You’re not my patient,” he argued before he could stop himself.

Her smile tilted in that way that lodged its way into his heart. “What am I, then?”

He didn’t have an answer that wasn’t complicated.  And then a student mercifully set some books on the desk to check out, folding the moment in on itself and tucked away deep in Jack’s chest. 

Chelsea answers more questions from the residents, but she keeps glancing back at Jack. Still, he can’t say anything, can’t intervene, can’t get his voice to work…can’t believe she’s here.

Collins takes a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do CT head, chest, and wrist X-ray. Basic labs, CBC, CMP, coags…”

Mel looks up, already splinting Chelsea’s wrist to keep it immobilized. “Vitals stable. Overnight obs for concussion symptoms?”

“Yes. We’ll reassess neuro status later,” Collins adds as she types everything up on the computer. “Chelsea, I don’t think that cut above your eye will need stitches, but we’ll definitely close it up with glue or steri-strips.”

Chelsea nods, understanding, and then narrows her eyes back to Jack as he works his jaw. “You sure this isn’t a dream?”

“Not a dream, Chels,” he murmurs, though it sure as hell feels like one.

Collins raises her eyebrows, gesturing between them. “You two know each other?”

The air shifts when Jack and Chelsea lock their eyes on each other again…like they’re both seeing ghosts.

“You’ll admit her?” Jack asks, seemingly oblivious to the confirmation earlier. 

“Overnight observation…yeah,” Collins sighs, disappointed, though not surprised by his avoidance. 

Jack nods again, slower, his gaze lingering a beat longer before he steps back. “Page me if anything changes.”

Collins looks at Robby, silently prompting him to intervene. Robby immediately moves to follow him, quietly clocking the weight in the air. “You okay?” 

But Jack holds his hand out, slowly stepping backward with one arm still crossed over his chest. “Just…let me know if anything changes.”

The blood rushes into his brain as he grabs his backpack, Dana’s voice muffled as she tries to stop him. And he just keeps walking.

He keeps walking until he realizes he’s in the middle of the park across the street, everything coming back into focus just enough for him to inhale the morning sun. He closes his eyes and breathes her name. 

Why her? Why now?

Maybe the daylight knows something he doesn’t yet…

Chapter Text

The silence at home was too loud. No matter what he did, Jack barely slept, unable to escape the storm in his brain. 

And that magnetic pull summons him back to the Pitt. 

Robby, of course, gives him a look—that look—as Jack steps in with his brows drawn. “You forget how clocks work, brother? Shift doesn’t start for another thirty minutes.”

Jack waves him off without slowing down. “Don’t start.”

His eyes quickly look up at the board as he keeps walking, when Robby’s voice cuts in like no big deal. “Central 12.” 

He stops, backtracking to Robby, typing up notes on the computer. “She’s still down here?” 

“You know how this place works, man. No room upstairs,” Robby reminds him with a shrug. “Plus, I figured she’d be better off down here with…friendly faces.”

Jack knows Robby well enough to distinguish between teasing and genuine concern. Sure enough, this time, it’s the latter. Even if Jack won’t admit it out loud.

He still doesn’t say anything, just nods and starts walking again. 

“So, you’re not going to tell me how you know her?” Robby asks without looking up.

Jack stops again, barely looking over his shoulder. “Does it matter?”

Robby pushes his glasses up to rest on top of his head, a small knowing smile curling his lips under his beard. “You tell me.” 

Jack swallows the lump in his throat, realizing he can’t even explain it to himself. With a deep breath, he keeps moving toward Central 12 with his backpack still on his shoulder. 

He knocks gently on the door, pausing until he hears her soft, distracted “Come in.” Inside, the lights are dimmed, and Chelsea’s awake, flipping through TV channels with vacant eyes. Her hospital gown hangs loose on her shoulders, and as she sees Jack, she stiffens slightly and tugs the blanket higher over her chest, suddenly aware of how exposed she is.

“I did hit my head harder than I thought,” she says with a light laugh, her cheeks blushing instantly. 

Jack stands there for a moment, just looking at her. Then his mouth curves up in amusement. “Been a while, Chels.” He sets his backpack down in the chair and moves closer to the bed. 

“Yeah, no kidding,” she breathes out, pulling the blanket up more with her good hand to cover herself. “Last time I saw you…”

“…you were headed out west for grad school,” Jack finishes. 

She nods once. “Thought the Pacific Northwest would make me cooler.” Her mouth twists up on one side, unsure. “Didn’t really work out.”

Jack slides his hands into the pockets of his scrubs, tilting his head slightly. “You were already cool.” 

Chelsea’s eyes soften, and she swallows hard, nervously looking down at her wrist now cradled in a brace. “I always thought if I ran into you again, it would be…different. Like a grocery store aisle, or a bookstore, not…”

“Not an emergency room in Pittsburgh.”

She glances up at him, and for a moment, she looks like she wants to ask him everything, all at once. But she retreats behind that careful half-smile he knows all too well. “Small world, huh?” she says, her voice trembling just enough to betray how overwhelming it feels.

“Smaller than I thought,” Jack admits softly. 

The silence settles between them, and Jack finds himself studying her, noting how she’s changed and somehow remained the same after all these years. 

Her eyes meet his fully, her voice low but sure. “Makes sense, though. You were always there when people needed you. Even when you shouldn’t be.”

Jack’s breath stalls in his throat. He doesn’t know how to answer that, how she can still know him better than he knows himself. He shrugs, small and helpless, because he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack if he tries to explain how much he still wants to protect her.

Chelsea looks down at her hand, fiddling with the blanket. “Guess what I mean is…I’m glad you were here.”

She’d always been expressive, wearing every emotion on her face like sunlight on glass. Jack always knew secrets were hiding behind her hazel eyes, things she couldn’t even tell him. Now he wonders how many more secrets she’s holding behind that mix of green, gold, and brown. 

“Me too,” he smiles sweetly. “But I hate the circumstances that brought you here, you know?”

“I know.”

He wants to remind her how lucky she is, that it could’ve been much worse. He wants to tell her he can’t lose anyone like that ever again…but he can’t. Not yet. Not here.

Jack rubs his thumb over his ring absently, noticing Chelsea trying not to notice. 

Her lips curve up a little, breaking the silence. “Remember those anatomy flashcards I helped you make? And then you wouldn’t even let me shuffle them because you said they had to stay in order for ‘muscle memory.’’

His voice is dry, but his eyes threaten to smile. “They did have to stay in order. You messed up my rotator cuff pathways for a week.”

“And I’m still sorry.” Chelsea grins, a genuine grin. “Mostly.”

She studies him again, taking in the stethoscope looped around his neck, the scrubs, the hospital ID badge, the medical confidence that straightens his spine. “It’s…weird. Seeing you like this. Doctor Abbot. All serious and official.”

“I’ve always been serious.”

“Not with me.”

It feels like Jack had forgotten how to smile…until now. A real, genuine, warm smile that he can’t stop creeping across his face. 

Everything felt harsher under those fluorescent lights in the campus library, sharpening edges of paper and edges of worry. His laptop screen glared with half-filled forms; the VA portal had timed out, and financial aid emails, stacked with tuition due dates, filled his inbox. 

His phone vibrated with a text from Erin: “We’ll figure it out.” And the guilt crept over his skin as he replayed her voice in his head from earlier, the soft steadiness as his wife offered to get a second job.

How it came down to this, he couldn’t figure out. He served his country, gave America his right leg, and promised to become a doctor so he could continue to serve in a sense…and this was how she repaid him—miles of red tape and bureaucratic bullshit.

He bent over his notes, jaw locked as he carved more lines into the page with his pen. The one thing he could control was the stack of index cards to his right, squared with military precision and organized by anatomical pathways. 

Chelsea slid into the chair across from him, setting a fresh cup of coffee on the table like an offering to a temperamental god. Jack’s eyes glanced over at the cup that had long gone cold. His throat filled with everything he couldn’t bring himself to say out loud, and, of course, she noticed.

But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t press him. She could see the VA logo on the unfolded letter that he had pushed aside to try and focus on his anatomy notes. No, Chelsea just took a sip of her own coffee and knew that whatever was going on was so much bigger than that stack of note cards. 

Jack inhaled, unsure if he could unload everything bubbling up in his chest. But then the words just fell out in a mutter. “They want dates I don’t remember and numbers I didn’t know I needed.”

Her lips pressed into a thin, sympathetic line. 

Then, without a word, she reached for the stack of index cards.

“Don’t,” Jack said, sharper than he meant to.

She held up a hand, revealing one blank card in the other. “Calm down. I’m not messing with your sacred order,” she teased as she uncapped a Sharpie and started drawing. Her tongue slid out the side of her mouth in concentration, and Jack felt the need to ignore her, to try and shove his attention back into his notes. But the slight squeak of the marker gliding across the note card kept forcing him to blink back up. 

Chelsea looked quite pleased with herself and held out the card toward Jack. 

The doodled version of him grinned under a mortarboard, with a tassel flying away from his brown curls and a stethoscope swinging around his neck. His pants covered his prosthetic, though the right foot still looked stiffer than the left, a subtle detail that seemed to be noticeable only to her. And above him a banner with blocky letters: DR. JACK ABBOT, M.D. (MOST DETERMINED)

He tried to swallow the laugh that rattled his ribs, but failed, saying her name and shaking his head. “You always do this,” he muttered.

“Do what?”

“Make me laugh when I least want to.”

Chelsea leaned back, her lips curling in a declarative smirk. “That’s friendship, Abbot. Non-consensual joy.”

Jack stared at the dumb little drawing of himself, the cartoon version smiling like someone who believed in his future, and something unclenched in his chest. His entire body loosened, and he slid the card to the top of the stack, right where it didn’t belong.

He exhaled long and slow, finally saying the thing out loud…”Dr. Abbot.”

Chelsea tapped the card once with the capped marker. “That guy? He’s a menace. In the best way.” And Jack swore he watched her blush a little when she added, “And I can’t wait to meet him.”

She shifts in the bed, grimacing as she tries to find a comfortable angle for her braced wrist. A slight hiss of pain slips out, and she presses her lips together like she’s embarrassed to have made a sound. 

Jack’s eyes narrow instinctively, the doctor in him resurfacing as he rechecks her vitals and injuries. “Pain getting worse?” he murmurs.

Chelsea rolls her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer,” he counters gently.

She huffs out a soft laugh, though it catches painfully in her chest. “God, you’re still the same.”

Jack presses his lips together. “Not entirely.” He scans the steri-strips at her brow, gently brushing one edge back into place. 

The faint beeps on the monitor accelerate just a little as Chelsea’s breath hitches. She looks away, her face flushed pink even under some of the bruising. 

“Okay, maybe I feel like someone whacked me in the head with a textbook,” she concedes.

Jack chuckles as he pulls his hand back. “As long as it wasn’t the physiology book. That thing was a brick.”

Chelsea smiles, covering her face with her good hand as the memory floods her already clouded brain. “Oh my god, and you actually used it for bicep curls more than once.” She slides her hand to her cheek as her eyes drift down to look at his arms. “And it worked.”

That makes Jack blush. Bad. 

A soft knock interrupts the easy silence between them, and Jack turns to see Collins walking in. No iPad, no notebook, just bringing that soft smile that’s famous for comforting her patients. “How are you doing, Chelsea?”

“Better,” she smiles back. “Still hurting, but it’s manageable.”

Collins nods. “That’s good. We’ll keep you on the pain meds to manage throughout the night. Dr. Ellis is one of our night-shift residents, so she’ll oversee your care tonight.” She can’t help glancing over at Jack, who stiffens under her knowing gaze. “And Dr. Abbot here is the overnight attending, so…whatever you need, I think you’re all set. Do you have any questions for me before I go?”

Chelsea shakes her head gently. “No. Don’t think so. Thank you.”

“Of course. Plan is discharge in the morning if your neuro checks stay stable.” Collins carefully places her hand on Chelsea’s shoulder. “You’re a lucky girl. In more ways than you probably realize.”

Chelsea swallows, blinking back the tears she doesn’t want to fall down her face. “I know. Thanks again.”

Collins smiles, glancing back at the still-blushing Jack as she leaves. 

He inhales slowly, looking at his watch as he stands up and grabs his bag. “I should probably go, too. Shift’s about to start.”

Chelsea bites her lip. “So…you’ll be around?”

“Ellis is primary; I’ll keep an eye on things,” he explains, quietly recusing himself from being her treating doc. His breath catches, though, offering as a friend instead. “I can check on you later if you…”

“I’d like that.” The way she looks at him, eyes soft and uncertain, makes it feel like the floor is shifting under him. “Seeing you…I don’t know.” She hesitates, voice trembling. “Reminded me how much I missed…having someone who knows me.”

That cracks something in Jack…because he knows exactly what she means. “Me too.” 

Her breath visibly catches. For a moment, he saw the girl who used to bring him coffee in the middle of the night, who sat beside him in silence because that was enough.

He almost reaches out to touch her cheek, but stops himself. His fingers hover for a second before curling back into his palm. Instead, he brushes his knuckles lightly across the back of her good hand. “Try to get some rest, Chels. I’m here all night.”

She blinks fast, grabbing his hand and lacing her fingers between his. “Thanks for being…you.”

Jack squeezes her hand once before letting go. “Always.”

Chapter Text

He watches the clock tick closer to midnight, leaning on the counter beside his night charge nurse, Lena.

“Willing your pulse to slow down there, cowboy?” she teases, though there’s a hint of concern under her words.

Tonight has definitely been busier than last night. A drunk with a head lac, swinging fists at the nurses. Another teen overdose, Narcan’d in the hallway. A middle-of-the-night MI. Not the worst he’s seen, but still enough to scrape him raw.

Jack rubs the back of his neck, trying to knead the tension loose, when his eyes drift to the board again, focusing on one line in particular. 

[C_12]   [COOP]   [38]   [Concussion]   [Observe overnight]

Even through the chaos, that line kept circling him like a helicopter over a crash scene. He hates how the board shrinks her to a few sterile words. Chelsea Cooper isn’t just a concussion on observation. She’s…everything else.

He peels himself off the counter, finally drawing his attention to Lena. “I need a break. But call me if you need me,” he says as he starts walking back toward the lockers. 

Lena just smiles. “I know where to find you.”

Jack presses his lips together and shakes his head, ignoring the slight giggle in her tone. 

He pulls a worn paperback novel from his backpack, shuts his locker, and avoids eye contact with Lena and the other nurses at the hub as he heads for Central 12. 

The lights remain as dim as possible in her room, but Chelsea’s face brightens as Jack steps in, letting the door fall shut behind him. 

“Hey, Doc.” She smiles faintly, her voice scratchy but trying to sound casual. “You look like hell.”

That makes him smile, actually. “Yeah. Been a rough night so far.” A slow breath leaves him as he tilts his head, sinking into the chair like he’s just a visitor. “Couldn’t sleep?”

She winces slightly as she adjusts herself in bed, nodding toward the TV. “I just can’t find the right infomercial to fall asleep to.” 

Jack huffs out a laugh, smiling for the first time in nearly five hours. 

Chelsea twists her fingers in the blanket. “Really, I think I’m afraid to sleep. Like, I keep hearing glass shattering when I close my eyes. Stupid, right?”

“Not stupid. That’s your brain trying to make sense of it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Great. Still overthinking even with a concussion.”

Jack’s mouth curls slightly as he hesitates, rubbing his thumb over the spine of the book in his hands. Turning it over, he hands it to her. “Maybe this will help instead.” 

Her fingers brush his as she takes the book, a spark shooting through him as he tries to pretend it’s nothing.

Chelsea blinks, her tired eyes widening as she flips through some of the pages. “Is this…?”

“The book you gave me,” he confirms softly. “Before you left.”

She notices some highlighted lines, tiny notations in his blocky handwriting decorating some of the margins, and dog-eared pages. “I can’t believe you still have this,” she whispers.

Jack clears his throat, eyes fixed on his restless fingers. “Felt like I got to keep a part of you with me.” 

He looks up when he feels her eyes fall on him, something fragile blooming behind that hazel shade. She stares at him for a long moment, then drops her gaze back to the book, turning a few pages more carefully. “You marked all of my favorite parts.”

“Makes sense. You always said we were the same soul, right?” The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. He winces inwardly, wishing he could pull them back. But it’s the truth. Maybe it’s always been the truth.

She sucks in a shaky breath, like maybe she forgot she’d said that. But she stares at the book with both disbelief and relief.

“Thank you.” Her voice sounds so small. Vulnerable in that same way he remembered from nights in the library when she’d admit her fear of failing an upcoming exam, or leaving Ohio behind. 

He shifts closer, resting his arms on the bedrail. “Ten minutes, then lights out. If your head spikes, I’m confiscating my own book.”

She blinks away the moisture in her eyes and laughs. “Wait, are you prescribing something and then taking it away?”

Jack grins despite himself. “You know what I mean.”

Chelsea continues flipping pages in the book, a smile curling her lips just the way Jack remembers. “You even highlighted the super cheesy parts. ‘Some people find each other in the dark.’ Real subtle there, Abbot.”

He blushes, dropping his eyes. “Shut up.”

As Chelsea keeps smiling and scanning his annotations, Jack notices how the sterile glow of the fluorescent lights edges the contours of her face. She’s older now, sure, but all he sees is the girl who found him in the library, cursing at a printer jam like it was the end of the world.

It was late—almost midnight, much like tonight. But instead of suturing open wounds and updating charts, Jack was staring at the behemoth of a printer/copier. 

His knee ached against the prosthetic, and his eyes felt like sandpaper from staring at his laptop screen for five hours straight. He had just hit PRINT on the final draft of his mid-term paper—fifteen pages, double-spaced, APA formatting, and citations—when the library’s printer let out a mechanical clunk followed by the electronic equivalent of a death rattle.

“No, no, no…come on, you son-of-a-bitch! Don’t do this to me now,” he muttered, carefully crouching down to pull open one of the paper trays. 

“That printer’s been an asshole all semester.”

The voice startled Jack enough that he bumped his head on the top paper feed drawer, which didn’t click shut all the way and had slid out as if to taunt him.

“Shit, sorry!” the girl said quickly as she stepped closer. 

Jack turned and blinked a couple of times to bring her into focus. Navy blue hoodie half-zipped, faded bootcut jeans low on her hips, and loose pieces of hair that fell around her face from a messy bun. She looked equal parts exhausted and entertained. 

He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his brown, shaggy curls. “I have seven minutes until the building locks up, and I need this printed, or I’m screwed.”

“Mmm.” She raised an eyebrow. “What’s the class?”

“Medical ethics.”

She winced. “Ah. With Dr. Brandt?”

He nodded.

“Yeah, you’re screwed.”

“Ha, thanks.”

Her mouth split into a grin as she eyed the printer. It kept blinking warning lights and messages on the screen that might as well have been in a foreign language. “You’re not digging deep enough.” She set her coffee down on the table and motioned for him to step back. 

Jack watched as she reached around to a hidden latch and popped open a panel with completely inappropriate confidence. She pulled out a crumpled wad of paper and clicked the panel shut. 

“There,” she said with a slight smile as the printer whirred and hummed back to life. “Try it again.”

He blinked at her, stunned. “How the hell…?”

“Work study, two nights a week. Then studying here the other nights.” She glanced back at the printer as it coughed out Jack’s paper again, like it didn’t almost ruin his life and his GPA. “So, if you need to know which computers freeze when you open two tabs, or which vending machine snacks won’t try to kill you, I got you.” 

“Well, you saved my ass,” Jack chuckled as he started gathering the printed pages. “You pre-med?”

The girl shook her head. “Sports medicine, but I have to take a lot of the same courses. I just won’t have a fancy MD after my name. But it sounds like you will…?”

“Jack. Jack Abbot.” He extended his hand, a little too formal and polite to pass off as a normal college student.

“Chelsea Cooper.” She accepted the handshake no problem, but she narrowed her eyes ever so slightly as if sensing something was…different about him.

Funny, he already sensed something different about her. 

They stood there for a beat longer than intended, both of them looking over at the clock on the other wall as both hands inched closer to midnight. 

He packed his laptop and paper into his backpack, gesturing towards the doors. “I should probably…”

Chelsea held up a hand as if trying to stave off the awkwardness. “Oh, yeah. So I’ll see you around?”

Jack nodded slowly as he slid his backpack onto his shoulder, the weight of it strangely balancing him out on his right side. “Yeah. Thanks again. I owe you a coffee or something. Good coffee.”

She grinned again and gave a mock salute before backing away toward wherever she came from. But then she stopped and bounced on her toes, her expression thoughtful. “Come find me tomorrow after you turn that in.”

He blushed. Because it was like he already knew her. “Deal.” 

Jack blinks, looking down at Chelsea’s hands and half-expecting to see toner smudged over her knuckles. Not bruises and minor bloody cuts. Part of him hates that he’s almost…grateful. That she’s here. In this hospital. That he has an excuse to see her again.

And the other part of him feels weighed down with guilt. Guilt over the feelings he had for her all those years ago, but never admitted to himself. Guilt for wanting to feel hope again so soon after his wife…

It feels wrong, something uncoiling in him just from being near her. Like he’s betraying the ghosts he still carries, even the weight of his ring pressing into his skin.

“I’m sorry I disappeared,” Chelsea mutters, her voice unsteady. Jack narrows his eyes softly, afraid she might be reading his thoughts the way she always could. “I told myself it was better to…just move on. Every time I thought about calling or sending a text, I stopped myself because I didn’t want to intrude. I didn’t want to disrupt the life you deserved with your wife.”

Jack swallows hard, blinking quickly to hold back the emotions he’s been so good at hiding lately. 

Her mouth twists, so exposed and honest it hurts to look at her. “But I thought about you. More than I probably should have.”

Something raw opens up under his ribs. Because he thought about her too. Because had life gone a little differently, had he not been married when he met Chelsea…

But he loved his wife. He was happy. He was faithful. And he couldn’t let himself keep wondering what if…

And now…now maybe he just doesn’t want to be alone anymore. Maybe he just needs someone who knows him. Someone who cares.

Maybe Chelsea needs that too.

Her eyes fall to his hands again, her voice breaking slightly as she watches him fidget with the warm grey titanium ring. “Oh, Jack, I…”

He waves her off gently, the frown lines in his face deepening as he swallows hard. “Don’t. It’s okay.”

“I wish…I should’ve called you sooner,” Chelsea admits softly. 

Jack breathes out a laugh that sounds more like a sigh. “Yeah. Me too.” He hesitates, caught between wanting to touch her and staying professional. “I just…” he exhales slowly. “I wanted to know you were okay.”

Silence settles over them again, heavy but somehow less lonely. And Chelsea suddenly reaches out, placing her hand lightly over his, careful of his ring. 

Jack freezes, wanting to pull away and lean closer all at once. In the end, he gently squeezes her fingers, unable to let go. 

She presses her lips together tightly, as if holding in the sob that’s threatening to slip out. “Will you come back later?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back.” He clears his throat, and his voice comes out softer than he intended. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

Jack blinks hard, rubbing his eyes as he finishes typing a discharge note. The overhead lights glare too bright for this time of night… or morning, technically. 

The trauma bays are quiet, a few beds have opened up, but the air still clings with the metallic tang of antiseptic, sweat, and leftover adrenaline. 

He ignores whatever gossip Lena and Bridget are swapping on the other side of the hub—probably about which resident has the worst dating profile or who’s most likely to cry in an elevator. 

As long as he doesn’t hear his name, or the various other nicknames the night shift crew has given him. Cowboy. Chief. Nosferatu. Doc. And his favorite—Atlas. “Because you carry the weight of the world,” Ellis had explained, as if it were obvious. If that was true, Jack sure as hell didn’t remember volunteering for it.

Aside from the nurses’ conversation, the Pitt has finally settled for the first time in hours. No one is bleeding out, crashing, or screaming. 

Hopefully, that means Chelsea is asleep.

Jack’s legs carry him toward Central 12 without him really admitting it, and he slips in without a sound, unnoticed.

Sure enough, she’s asleep, curled onto her side as much as the bed rails and IV lines will allow. Her hair spills in dark waves over the pillow, a stark contrast against the white hospital sheets. The volume on the TV is low enough to make white noise while the heart monitor beeps softly in the quiet room. 

For a moment, Jack just watches her breathe. The steady hush of each exhale calms something restless in his bones. And he realizes how badly he wants to stay here.

Her features have softened, the tight lines around her bruised brow easing at last. And her braced wrist rests on the blanket, her fingers finally relaxed against the rigid plastic and velcro. 

He’s already reviewed her chart three times tonight, memorizing the scans and lab results so that he could feel…useful. 

CT head: no acute intracranial hemorrhage or midline shift; small contusion without mass effect. Neuro checks q2h overnight. TFCC strain; Ortho f/u outpatient + removable volar splint/brace.

His shoulders drop a fraction as he recalls the report. She was going to be okay.

His eyes trace over her, and he notices the book on the bed next to her, nestled in the folds of the blanket that had bunched up under her good arm. He quietly walks over and picks it up to set it on the bedside table, next to her scuffed yellow bag, which he had always teased her about back in school. It was only fair since she teased him about his worn-out Army backpack. And clearly, neither of them had ever found the courage to let go of their old baggage.

Jack chuckles to himself, recalling when Chelsea argued that she never had to worry about losing her bag because of its unusual color. “Yours, on the other hand, is meant to blend in so…don’t come crying to me when you can’t find it, Abbot.”

He sets the book next to the bag when he sees something threatening to slide out of the side pocket—a Polaroid from 2008, of Jack and Chelsea, smiling like the young idiots they were.  

Jack pulls the photo out, surprised by how crisp the colors remain. He rubs his thumb over its edge, staring at those two bright-eyed Ohio State Buckeyes. Strangers now, in a way. And yet, he knows them better than anyone.

Those two people who knew they were enough in the silence between them. And he can suddenly smell the stale coffee and dusty paper unique to university buildings. He can almost feel the chipped varnish of that study table under his forearms, the phantom ache crawling down his leg that never fully left.

He sat hunched over a massive anatomy atlas, circles of sweat under his T-shirt, even at midnight on a Tuesday. His right leg ached, but he didn’t dare take off the prosthetic, afraid he wouldn’t get it back on—and he had to get home somehow.

Jack kept mouthing the names of nerves and arteries under his breath when Chelsea appeared beside him silently. He looked up, his head heavy like it was stuffed with cotton, and she stood there holding two steaming paper cups of coffee. 

“Figured you’d still be here,” she said, handing him one of the cups. 

“I was just about to leave,” he lied.

She arched a brow, but didn’t say anything. Instead, she sat down, opened her textbook, and began flipping through the pages. 

They said nothing for over an hour. Just the scratch of pens on paper, the click of her highlighter cap, the hush of their shared silence in the dimly lit library.  And he didn’t feel like he was drowning anymore. 

Late nights like that had put a bit of a strain on his marriage for a while. After getting married at such a young age, when you’re both still trying to figure out who you are, it was honestly expected. But it was never enough to break them fully. Because Jack went home every night, kissed his wife on her forehead, and promised her it would get better. That they’d find their way. For better or for worse.

They had already been through worse. All the deployments, Erin finishing college while constantly moving around, and then the roadside blast that changed everything. 

And Jack kept his promise. Things were better, especially once they moved to Pittsburgh. Even during COVID, their love refused to break. 

But then a drunk driver ran a red light one night when Erin left work late. And Jack’s promise broke on impact. 

He swallows hard, her smile flashing through his mind. What would she think of him sitting here, letting the weight on his chest finally ease…for someone else?

She’d probably tilt her head and study him with that calm patience she always had. Erin used to tease him about “the girl with the yellow bag,” back when he still couldn’t explain why studying with Chelsea steadied him. “She’s just a friend,” he’d insisted. And it was true. Until maybe it wasn’t.

He wants to believe she’d understand, like she always had, even when she seemed upset. Still, it feels like betrayal, letting Chelsea’s quiet warmth soften the edges of his grief. Like every breath with Chelsea steals oxygen from Erin’s memory.

But he sees her smiling again, telling him, like she always did, that life doesn’t stop. He rubs his right knee, brushing against the edge of the socket through his scrubs, and Erin’s words echo in the corners of his mind. “You deserve to breathe without drowning.”

Jack glances from the Polaroid to Chelsea’s sleeping face. Her brows twitch faintly, as though wrestling with dreams she doesn’t believe she deserves. She murmurs something unintelligible, her lashes fluttering. Jack freezes, half afraid she’ll wake up, half hoping she will.

His pulse drums in his throat as he watches her settle back into sleep. Carefully, he slips the Polaroid back into the pocket of that yellow Fjällräven, tucking it away safely. 

A slight, pained noise escapes her mouth, and she curls her injured arm closer to her chest. Jack’s instincts take over, and he brushes his fingers lightly over her forearm, checking for heat, swelling, any sign she’s in more pain than before.

Her eyes flicker open, hazel and unfocused as she fights through the fog of sleep. 

“Hey,” Jack murmurs, his fingers still brushing along her forearm. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Chelsea blinks a few times, her lashes still heavy as she focuses on Jack. 

“Jack…I thought…” she mutters. “Thought I was dreaming again.”

He manages a small smile even though his throat feels tight. “Sorry to disappoint.” 

She tries to laugh, though the seatbelt bruises remind her why she’s here. Jack’s touch relaxes her, and her lips quirk into a wobbly smile. “Find any old secrets in there?” she asks meekly, nodding to her yellow bag on the table. 

Jack looks back at it, opens his mouth as he debates admitting he found the Polaroid. Instead, he shrugs, changing the subject. “You should try to sleep some more. Your brain needs the rest.”

Her lips twist nervously. “I’m scared to close my eyes again.”

He doesn’t pry if it’s nightmares of the crash…or something else. Because it doesn’t matter one way or the other. Pain is pain…and he knows that better than anyone. 

Jack swallows, fighting the urge to pull her into his arms. 

“I feel so stupid,” Chelsea whispers, her voice breaking. “People go through so much worse.”

“Hey,” Jack says, voice low but firm. His jaw works as he leans in close enough that she can see the hard edges around his eyes, the small lines carved by years of battlefields, both foreign and domestic. “Don’t say that. Your pain matters. Always.”

A tear slips down Chelsea’s cheek, and Jack’s hand moves before he can stop himself, brushing it away with his thumb. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he assures, trying to keep his voice steady. “I promise.”

Chelsea lets out a shaky breath, lightly touching his hand. “And what about you?”

Jack stiffens, his chest clenching tight around the secrets he’s still not ready to tell her. 

“I’ll be fine.”

She gives a small, incredulous huff, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Liar.”

A sad smile ghosts across his lips. “Yeah,” he admits softly. “Maybe.”

He starts to move, knowing he needs to get back to work. But Chelsea drags in another breath, softer. “Don’t go yet.”

Jack hesitates and sits back down in the chair beside her bed.

“I’m here.”

Chelsea’s eyes drift shut again, her hand still wrapped in his as he lowers the bedrail. He leans his forearms onto the mattress, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles while her breathing evens out, slow and steady as the heart monitor beside them.

Her lashes settle against her cheeks and Jack finally lets his shoulders drop, just a fraction, as if the weight of the world has shifted off his back, if only for a moment.

He wishes he could stay right here. Just a little longer. But he can’t afford to get lost in this room, not when the rest of the hospital still needs him.

Carefully, he untangles his hand from hers, prying his fingers free one at a time. Chelsea stirs faintly, murmuring his name under her breath, but she doesn’t wake. He eases the rail back up with a quiet click, and he takes one last look back at her as he slips out of Central 12. 

His eyes struggle to adjust in the harsher light of the hallway as he makes his way back to the hub. 

Ellis spots him immediately, quirking a brow. “Atlas returns,” she teases warmly. “Everything okay?”

Jack clears his throat, scrubbing a hand over his face and letting his shoulders drop again. “Yeah. Everything’s…fine.”

The resident doctor eyes him knowingly. “Liar.”

He chuckles, cheeks blushing a little. “Yeah. Maybe.”

She pats his shoulder. “You’re still breathing. That counts for something, right?”

Jack glances back toward Central 12, his hand still warm from holding Chelsea’s. And Erin’s voice vibrates in his head again…You deserve to breathe, Jack.

He manages a faint smile. “Yeah. It does.”

Chapter Text

Day shift rolls in like a tide, waves of noise crashing over the Pitt as the sunrise spills gold across the city skyline. As Robby’s voice rises above the noise, giving his usual half-motivational, half-sarcastic rundown, Jack glances up at the board one more time.

[C_12]   [COOP]   [38]   [Concussion]   [Discharge pending]

He smirks, feeling the fatigue in his bones and the sliver of hope in his heart. 

Lena gives him a wink as she catches up with Dana, and Jack accidentally makes eye contact with Robby, who simply smiles and keeps talking. 

He slings his backpack over his shoulder and walks toward Central 12, holding his breath before he steps inside. 

Chelsea sits perched on the side of the hospital bed, dangling her feet and tugging at the frayed sleeves of a faded red Ohio State sweatshirt she’d dug out of that yellow bag of hers. Her hair is pulled back in a loose, messy bun, mocha brown strands still falling around her face. And though the bruise above her eyebrow has darkened into an ugly purple, her eyes look clearer than yesterday. 

“You sure you don’t live here?” she teases Jack, giving him a wry grin as he shuts the door. 

He tilts his head playfully. “Honestly? I’m not sure anymore.”

Chelsea’s eyes follow him as he sets his backpack in the chair and folds his arms over his chest. “How’s your head?”

“Eh. Manageable,” she admits. “I’ll live, right?”

Jack’s mouth twitches upward. “That’s the plan, yeah.” He nods toward her wrist. “Collins will discharge you soon. You’ll just need to keep it immobilized, follow up with ortho later.”

She huffs a laugh, rubbing the splint. “This is gonna be real fun to explain at work.”

“Where’s that?”

“The sports clinic at Children’s. Just started last month.” 

“I’m sure they’ll understand. If not, I can talk—”

“Jack, no,” Chelsea interrupts with a smile. “Don’t tell me you have some connection over at UPMC.”

He shrugs. “I might…know some people. That’s all.”

She laughs, bright and breathless and just a little wicked. God, he’d missed that sound. 

“It’ll be fine. Promise. They’ve been really great so far. Huge difference from what I had in Portland.”

“Well, that’s good.” Jack shifts his weight, carefully choosing his next question. “So what’s your plan once you break free from here?”

Chelsea holds up her phone. “Just about to call an Uber since my car’s totaled.”

Jack clears his throat. “You hungry?”

“What?”

“You know, real food. Not hospital trays. And better coffee.”

She blinks, studying him like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “I don’t want to keep you. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“Eh. Manageable.” Jack’s grin is contagious enough for Chelsea’s lips to curve upward, too. 

“Okay. Coffee sounds good.”

“And I can drive you home. Save your Uber money for another emergency.” 

Chelsea laughs again, her eyes wet for a million reasons that keep adding up. “Okay.”

Jack sees Collins approach the room, iPad in hand, and he gestures out toward the hub. “I’ll wait for you by the nurse’s station.” Figures he’d give Chelsea some sense of privacy, even though he already knows everything Collins will go over with her. But he’s also trying to provide Collins with the professional courtesy. And maybe, maybe, at some point, he’ll fill her and Robby in on his history with Chelsea Cooper. 

Doesn’t take long for Collins to finish discharging Chelsea as they both walk out of Central 12 and towards the hub. “Take care, Chelsea,” Collins says warmly.

“Thank you. You, too, Doctor Collins.” 

Jack nods and escorts Chelsea through the waiting room and out of the ED, close enough that their shoulders almost brush. 

The wind is cool, battling the warmth of the rising sun in the morning sky. Jack and Chelsea walk comfortably until their noses are met with the rich scent of roasted beans and warm pastries wafting from the narrow café tucked between the florist and the copy place. 

He holds the door open for her, the bell jingling lightly as they step inside. It feels almost obscene, how normal this is. Like they’re any two people getting coffee, not two ghosts trying to remember how to be alive.

Chelsea breathes in deeply as Jack orders two large coffees—black and bitter for him, something sweet and vanilla-laced for her. She nudges his shoulder, touched that he remembered her coffee order. Jack’s lips curl in a half smile, shrugging. “How could I forget?” 

They quietly occupy the corner table near the window, with Chelsea tucking her splinted wrist close to her body as she eases into the chair. She chuckles lightly as Jack settles across from her. “Better be careful, Doctor Abbot. People might think this is a date.”

His grin wavers for a split second, his heart giving a traitorous thump at how easy it is to imagine. But then his eyes soften. “Let ‘em.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, right?” Chelsea adds, taking a slow sip of her coffee. 

He nods in agreement. “Right. That older waitress at the diner next to campus kept asking if you were my wife. And I didn’t have the heart—or the energy—to correct her.”

Chelsea snorts softly. “God, I’d almost forgotten about her. She always gave you free pie because she said you ‘looked like you needed fattening up.’”

Jack rolls his eyes. “She also called me sweetheart and pinched my cheek.”

Chelsea leans forward. “I was a little jealous, to be honest.”

Jack raises a brow. “Of the pie or my cheek?”

Her eyes lock on his, steady, serious. “Both.”

He knew—knows Chelsea well enough that there’s usually more to what she’s not saying out loud. Jack traces his finger over the woodgrain of the table, gently confessing, “She liked you, you know.”

“The waitress?”

“Erin.”

Chelsea pauses, unsure how to take that information, and a little weary of why Jack’s telling her. “I was so afraid she’d hate me. That she knew I was crushing on her husband.” The words leave her mouth before she can stop them, and her cheeks blush bright red as proof.

The ghost of a grin hovers at the corner of Jack’s lips. “You had a crush on me?” His voice is low and a little playful, the grin breaking across his face. But a faint pang twists under his ribs. Because a part of him, back then and maybe even now, wanted to hear her say it. And he doesn’t know what to do with that feeling. 

Chelsea covers her eyes. “Oh God, can we not talk about it?”

His mouth twists as he tries to swallow his anxiety. “It’s not a big deal. I kind of always knew.” He can’t help but chuckle at how this grown woman, closer to 40 than her college years, is still embarrassed. 

Jack exhales, his mouth still slightly curved upwards. “She used to tease me about you, actually. Called you ‘the girl with the yellow bag.’” He hesitates, glancing out the window as sunlight spills across the table. “She…she understood.”

Chelsea peeks through her fingers. “That I was some pathetic 20-year-old hanging around an older, married man? Awesome.”

“No, not like that,” Jack smiles, shaking his head and holding his hand out to wave off her worry. “Just that, she understood I needed a friend.” Chelsea finally lowers her hand, her face still flushed, as Jack continues. “Someone who wasn’t in the Army. Someone who wasn’t from back home, from before…everything.”

“It felt so natural. No expectations of who we should be.”

His eyes crinkle. “We could just…be.”

Chelsea’s mouth twists with some insecurity. “Wasn’t always easy, though.” 

Jack swallows hard. She’s right. And he knows exactly what moment she’s thinking of.

It was some time past midnight. The sharp chill of an Ohio spring rain from earlier in the day bit his skin as he stood at the edge of the library roof. 

He didn’t want to jump. Not exactly. He just wanted the noise in his head to stop. Sand and mortar shells. A leg that wasn’t there anymore. The fear of failing med school, of not being enough of a man for his wife, for anyone. Everything stirred in his mind to create the perfect storm of exhaustion and hopelessness.

And then Chelsea’s voice cut through the darkness. “Jack. Please. Don’t.”

He couldn’t turn around. He couldn’t let her see the hollowness in his eyes. 

His shoulders tensed under the worn charcoal grey hoodie. “Go home, Chels.” His voice was low and tight, sharp enough to cut skin and draw blood. 

But Chelsea stayed. 

Her sneakers scraped on the concrete as she edged closer, careful not to get too close to him. “Jack…come on,” she whispered with glistening eyes in the faint glow of the rooftop floodlights. 

“You don’t get it, okay? You don’t get how heavy it is. How it never stops. How I’m not…” He squeezed his eyes shut, his throat burning. His chest heaved, a breath catching on the pain in his soul. “I…I can’t.”

A single sob escaped from Chelsea’s lungs as Jack leaned forward slightly, looking over the edge at the quiet campus below. She said his name again, like it was the only word left. 

Jack clenched his jaw at the sound, leaned back, and lifted his head toward the horizon. He still couldn’t look at her, the sting of tears still hot on his lashes. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“What?” Her voice sounded so small.

“Like you pity me.”

“God damn it, Jack. I don’t pity you.” Her voice cracked then, crying. “I love—” She stopped herself, choking on the word as the deafening silence fell thick between them. 

He tried to breathe, tried to speak. But he didn’t know how to come back, how to move his legs. 

Not until Erin showed up. 

“Jack?” His wife’s voice rang clear and calm.

He froze. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Not again.

Still, she crossed the roof quietly, her eyes shimmering as she placed a hand on his cheek. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Chelsea had stepped back, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve as she gave them the space they needed…the space they deserved. 

Erin knew what to do…because it wasn’t the first time. And Jack’s heart sank when he realized it might not be the last time either. A realization that metastasized into desperate, displaced anger…the first and only time he ever yelled at Chelsea.

He’d never seen her flinch like that. Erin stepped in between them, blocking Chelsea and placing her hands firmly on Jack’s chest. “Enough,” she murmured, her thumb brushing the tears off Jack’s cheek. “Just come home, Jack.”

He hated himself in that moment…for hurting two people who deserved better. 

Even as that pain dissipated over time, Jack could still see the fear in Chelsea’s eyes…and the quiet devastation in Erin’s. And he’s never been sure which memory hurt more.

He can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt anymore, not when the past bleeds into the morning sunlight, flickering across Chelsea’s face. She’s real. She’s here—flesh and blood and trembling hope.

Jack inhales slowly, shifting in his seat. “I’m sorry, Chelsea.” The confusion in her eyes catches his breath, and he clears his throat. “That night…wasn’t fair to you. Or Erin.”

Chelsea hesitates, blinking away the glossiness in her eyes. “Jack, you don’t have to—”

“You saved me. You know that, right? You and Erin.” Jack’s chest suddenly feels lighter, like all the tension had finally loosened from years of guilt and shame. 

She doesn’t say anything, not immediately. Her eyes dart back to her hands as she fiddles with her coffee. And then her voice breaks, low, apologetic. “You saved me, and you didn’t even know it.”

He leans in, his chest tightening again. 

Her eyes dart down as she traces the edge of her cup. For a moment, she’s silent, biting her lip. “In Portland. A while ago. I…I found myself on a rooftop, too.”

“Chelsea…”

She waves a hand, trying to stave off his concern, but her eyes still glisten anyway. “I just…I needed some air. I couldn’t breathe. Everything was…heavy. Swallowing who I thought I was, who I should be.”

Jack clenches his jaw.

“And then…I thought about you. And that night on the library roof. How close you were to the edge. How lost you looked. And how…you stayed.” Her voice breaks more. “And I realized…if you could survive everything that the world and your own mind would put you through…maybe I could too.” 

She tentatively reaches across the table, wrapping her hand over his like she needs to remind herself she’s here, he’s real, that they’re both alive. “So I left. Packed my bags, filed for divorce, and took the first job offer I could find.” She huffs out a small laugh, “In Pittsburgh, of all places.” 

His thumb brushes the delicate skin near her wrist brace, a part of him starting to believe in fate rather than coincidence.

“You know what Erin always told me?” he says quietly. “That we deserve to breathe without drowning.”

Chelsea’s lower lip wobbles. She tries to smile through it. “She was a smart woman.”

“She was,” Jack whispers, voice thick. “But so are you.”

Her gaze finally lifts to his, glimmering with unshed tears. “I’m trying.”

“I know you are.” He squeezes her hand gently. “And you’re not alone.”

Chelsea stares at him, her expression caught between relief and fear. 

He lets the silence sit comfortably between them, reminding him what this used to feel like…what it still feels like. And his wife’s words echo in his head, vibrating on his tongue as he rubs his thumb over Chelsea’s fingers. “You deserve to breathe too, Chels.”

She glances out the window, her voice soft. “I hope she knows…I’m grateful for her, too.”

Jack’s eyes sting, but he nods. “She’d want you to be happy. She’d want me to be happy, too.” He hesitates, guilt and longing warring in his chest. “I’m…working on it.”

Chelsea gives a soft, wet laugh, quickly wiping at her eyes. “People are gonna think you’re dumping me.”

His chuckle sounds tired but genuine. “Hey. At least I’d buy you coffee first.”

She smiles, the sunlight warming her cheeks and softening the edges of the bruise on her forehead. “Think I’d rather have pie.”

He blushes, looking at Chelsea and the way her hair falls loose around her tired face. And for the first time in a long time, Jack doesn’t feel like he’s drowning.

He’s breathing.

“Come on,” he murmurs with the last sip of his coffee. And the hope in Chelsea’s eyes shines bright as he offers her his hand. “Let’s get you home.”

Chapter Text

“Still driving the Subaru, huh?”

Chelsea’s voice is light, warm like the sunlight dancing across the dashboard of the old SUV. She props her good elbow up on the door, resting her palm against the side of her head like they’re back in Columbus.

Jack smirks, slowing down to a red light. “She’s got another two hundred thousand miles in her easy. Hasn’t let me down yet.”

“Kinda like you, huh?” Chelsea says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

Jack chuckles. “Exactly. A little battered, but still going.”

He doesn’t mean for the words to sound so melancholy, to sound like this old wagon is all he has left. Sure, it’s filled with so many memories, but the truth is, Jack just doesn’t see the point in getting rid of something that’s still working. 

Soft hues paint the city as they drive. And while the world stirs awake, the air inside the Subaru is easy, quiet, like it’s always been between Jack and Chelsea. 

“How’s your leg been lately?” she speaks up, tracing the edge of her wrist brace and glancing down at Jack’s hand resting on his thigh. 

His other hand tightens around the wheel, not defensively, just… aware. “I’m not getting any younger, that’s for sure. Overdue for a new socket fitting, so long shifts are wearing me down more than I’d like to admit.” 

Chelsea nods slowly. “I figured. You have the look.”

“What look?”

“The one you used to get when your leg was bugging you, but you didn’t want to say anything.”

“Pretty sure I have the look even when my leg isn’t bothering me,” he counters, lips curving faintly. 

“Okay, fine. But I knew the difference.”

Jack had always thought he was being discreet, adjusting his leg under the table in tiny increments and biting down on the occasional grimace. Most people never noticed. Some stared too long. Others looked away, uncomfortable and unsure of what to say.

But Chelsea? Of course, she knew.

It had only been a couple of years. Jack was still getting used to the prosthetic, still grappling with the reality that his body didn’t work the way it used to. Transtibial amputation—the clinical label for his trauma, like that made it easier to swallow. And some days it did. Because he could focus on the medical part of it all, something he could control.

That’s why he buried himself in school, in his textbooks, in the endless climb toward becoming a doctor and feeling…useful again.

As long as he kept his head down, he could pretend nothing had changed. Forget it happened. That he wasn’t the guy with the missing leg. He was just Jack Abbot. The guy who knew anatomy cold, who crushed his pharmacology exam, who—

“You okay?” 

Chelsea’s voice was gentle yet direct as she looked up from her notes, her face framed with loose strands of hair that fell from her braid. 

Jack didn’t look up. He stayed hunched over his textbook, underlining a sentence he hadn’t read, his jaw tight. “I’m fine.”

She flipped to a fresh page in her notebook and jotted a few notes. “Liar.”

A breath scraped Jack’s lungs as he gripped his pen a little too hard. “I’m just tired.”

Chelsea didn’t push. She just sat there, watching him with those soft hazel eyes that seemed to see everything before dropping them back to her notebook. 

It shouldn’t have gotten under his skin the way it did. But everything—classes, nightmares, the pressure of being “fine”—it all radiated through him, down his leg, and into the foot that was no longer there. 

Five more minutes passed. Then ten. Jack dropped his pen and scrubbed both hands over his face. “You know, you can just ask,” he muttered, sharper than he meant to.

Chelsea didn’t flinch. She just set her highlighter aside and folded her arms on the table, her eyes calm. “I won’t. Because you don’t have to tell me anything.”

Jack tried to swallow his frustration before it spilled out of his mouth. The pressure built in his throat, behind his eyes, in his lungs. But it had nowhere to go.

He shoved his chair back abruptly. Without looking at her, he extended his right leg next to the table and yanked the cuff of his jeans up to his knee. The black carbon-fiber frame gleamed faintly in the fluorescent light. And his sneaker, scuffed in different places than the left, sat stiff at a too-perfect angle.

“There. Happy?” he said bitterly.

Chelsea didn’t say anything.

Jack swallowed hard, instantly regretting his tone. “Shit. I’m sorry. It’s just…”

“Jack, it’s okay,” she answered gently. “You don’t have to explain.”

But he wanted to. He wanted her to know. 

“IED.” His voice was low, like if he said it too loudly, the memory would come crashing through the walls. “Afghanistan. 2004.”

Chelsea’s face didn’t twist with pity. She didn’t look away in horror. And she didn’t offer any empty condolences. He’d heard them all. You’re so brave. You’re so strong. Thank you for your service. 

But Chelsea? 

She looked down at the prosthetic and back at him, eyes open and honest and maddeningly steady. 

“Does it hurt?”

Jack blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Sometimes. Not always.”

“Can I ask how it works?”

He stared at her, surprised and working around the lump in his throat. No one had ever asked that, at least not in a way that made it seem so normal. 

“I mean, you don’t have to show me. I just…figure if I’m gonna be…”

Jack huffed a laugh that sounded more like a sigh. “No, I mean…yeah. Here, I’ll show you…”

Chelsea leaned over and watched Jack point out the different parts of his prosthetic leg. “The socket’s lined with silicone. Gets sweaty fast. Especially if I’m walking too much or sitting too long—it rubs here.” He tapped just beneath his knee, the skin tender even years later. Chelsea just listened, paid attention, and mentally catalogued everything he showed her. “No true ankle joint, so the carbon foot doesn’t really bend. That’s why I walk like a stiff bastard.”

She grinned. “I thought that was just your personality.”

Jack snorted. “Careful.”

“So what do you need when it hurts?” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Not really,” Jack shook his head, but his cheeks blushed at the offer. 

“I’m serious,” she argued lightly, a soft smile cracking across her face. “Whatever you need…I don’t know, adjusting it or cleaning it or just taking a damn break…you can ask.”

His brows lifted, and his blunt, gallows humor seeped out. “You offering to massage my stump?”

Chelsea tilted her head with a smirk. “Don’t think I’m qualified for that. At least…not yet.”

And for the first time in weeks, Jack broke into a genuine smile that eased the knot twisting around his heart.

“You know,” Chelsea starts, her voice humming with the engine of Jack’s Subaru. “I am qualified now…”

Jack barks a laugh, rubbing his cheek to hide the flush of embarrassment. “Jesus…”

“I’m just saying,” she adds, all mock innocence. “We both know you have a fucking hard time letting someone else take care of you.”

He glances sideways at her as he pulls up in front of her building. “You’re relentless.” Chelsea shrugs, the corner of her mouth twitching up without a comeback. 

Neither of them rushes to leave the comfort of the idling vehicle, the engine ticking faintly as it cools. Jack’s eyes follow Chelsea’s toward the small row house, picking out which one is hers from the stack of moving boxes in the front window. 

She swallows, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion and hesitation. “Would you…would you want to come in for a little bit?”

Jack hears what she’s not saying, what she’s really asking. His face softens as he lets his hand fall from the steering wheel. She doesn’t want to be alone. Not yet. “Okay,” he answers gently, nodding and killing the ignition. 

Chelsea exhales, a slight laugh mixed with relief. 

She fumbles with her keys as he follows her to her door, holding her yellow bag on one shoulder and his backpack on the other. Inside, sunlight spills across the stack of boxes by the window, trickling over the area rug and up the dark grey sofa against the wall. 

“Sorry about the mess,” Chelsea mutters, toeing off her shoes. 

“You just moved,” Jack replies simply, setting his backpack by the door and handing her bag back to her. “You want me to help unpack?”

Chelsea sets her yellow bag on the kitchen counter, hovering near it like she’s not sure what to do with herself. She blushes. “Another time.” 

Jack lingers a few feet away, watching her carefully. Not out of concern, just…noticing her. Like he always has. “You should rest,” he says quietly. “You’ve been through a lot.”

She exhales through her nose, her eyes scanning the room as if she’s trying to delay going to bed. “Yeah. I know.”

“I can stay out here on the couch,” Jack offers, voice steady but low. “If you don’t want to be alone.” What he means is she really shouldn’t be alone, even after a full 24 hours in the hospital.

Chelsea turns to face him fully, her expression hesitant but open. “Can you…?” She fidgets with the edge of her wrist brace while her eyes ask the question her voice can’t get out. “Just for a while.”

Jack studies her for a beat, then nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

Her bedroom is simple, mostly untouched aside from the clean sheets, the teal-green quilt pulled across the bed, and a small bedside lamp casting amber light across the walls. Jack hesitates by the doorway, backpack still on his shoulder.

“You can take off your leg if you want,” Chelsea says softly as she crawls into bed, careful of her wrist.

Jack blinks, caught off guard by how casually she says it. But that’s how she is, who she is. No pity. No weirdness. Just honesty.

“Thanks,” he says, slipping off his left shoe before sitting at the edge of the bed and rolling up his pant leg. The prosthetic socket hisses faintly as it releases, and he lifts it off with a practiced movement, setting it carefully beside the nightstand. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he shifts back, stretching out beside her on top of the quilt. 

Silence holds steady in the space between, where they’re not touching. Jack stares at the ceiling, quietly trying to name the color of daylight that paints Chelsea’s bedroom. 

“You okay?” Her voice is barely a whisper, tucked deep in her chest as she curls into herself more under the covers. 

He turns his head slightly to look at her. “Yeah. You?”

She swallows. “Getting there.”

The hush between them stretches again. Not uncomfortable—stabilizing. Just two people worn to the bone, laying down the armor they’ve carried too long. 

“I’m really glad you’re here,” she admits softly, her eyes drifting shut as sleep creeps into her bloodstream.

Jack closes his eyes, letting himself relax into the mattress, his right hand resting over his chest, and his left hand curled loosely between them in case they need to reach for each other. “Me too.”

Chelsea exhales slowly, deeply, breathing out the worry and fear she’d been carrying, and Jack’s throat tightens at the sound. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into the air.

Even as the day breaks, brightening outside with the promise of sunshine, inside, Jack feels a different kind of promise…the hope of finally feeling okay.