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It’s been busy in the Pitt, another busy day in a long string of busy days (although really, when is it not?), and Dennis feels like he hasn’t had a second to breathe. It’s been all go all day, so busy that he’s barely even seen Robby since they arrived at work this morning. Let alone gotten to actually spend any time with him.
He’s still at Jack and Robby’s place, and as much as he’s halfheartedly been protesting their insistence he stay, they always seem to win and convince him to just sleep there another night, just so they can keep an eye on him.
He doesn’t protest very hard, because god he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t so good there.
Their house is so nice, they’re so nice, and there’s always food and working heating and he’s got a double bed and being there just makes Dennis’ life so much easier. It’s silly, but Jack and Robby are so keen to feed him and look after him, and they bring him snacks and cups of coffee and tea, and they refill his water bottle and do his washing and they check his blood sugars and weigh out his carbs so he knows how much insulin to give himself and they’re so good to him that it sort of doesn’t feel real. In some bizarre way, Dennis feels like his life is more manageable now he’s been diagnosed.
Because… before, life kind of sucked. Obviously living with Trinity was better than living in an abandoned hospital room, but with her broken heating and the price of food and transport and every other stupid little aspect of adult life, it had been weighing on Dennis.
A lot.
It’s why he didn’t even realise he was so unwell when he actually went into DKA, he’d been so used to running on fumes that he just… hadn’t noticed.
For so long, he’s just pushed through everything, without a second thought as to what might happen if he didn’t come out the other side. For the first time in his life, he’d been forced to confront the fact that his life was not sustainable and it… it was weird.
That being said, living with Robby and Jack has refreshed him, recharged his battery just a little, even though it’s only been a few days.
Today has really been busy though, and he’s been rushed off of his feet. He did eat, but he didn’t have time to finish his lunch, and he’s been so busy that he hasn’t had the chance to go back.
He’s halfway through updating a patient’s chart when the words on the screen blur, not fully disappearing but smearing together in a way that makes no sense. He blinks, hard, frowns, leans closer, but letters swim stubbornly out of focus.
That’s… weird.
He straightens, rolling his shoulders, assuming it’s just fatigue. He’s been back at work for a few days now since his diagnosis, and he’s still getting his footing, beyond hyperaware of every strange sensation his body throws at him. He doesn’t recognise this one though.
He tells himself he’s just overtired though. He tells himself not to panic.
But then his hands start to shake.
It’s not a tremor from caffeine or nerves, he’s very familiar with those, his fingers just won’t quite hold still, trembling against the keys of the keyboard where he’s been forced to abandon what he was writing. He doesn’t remember anyway.
For a long moment, Dennis stares at them, confused, willing them to stop.
They don’t.
A sudden warmth blooms under his skin, prickly and uncomfortable. Sweat beads at his temples, dampens the collar of his scrubs. The ward feels too bright all at once, lights glaring, sounds sharpening to an almost painful clarity. Someone laughs down the hall and it grates against his nerves.
His heart is racing.
Dennis presses a hand to his chest, brows furrowing. That doesn’t make sense. He’s not running. He’s not anxious. He was fine ten minutes ago.
He swallows, throat tight, and pushes away from the desk. The floor shifts under his feet, not enough to make him fall, but enough to make him pause in confusion. It feels inexplicably like stepping onto a boat, that brief initial disorienting lurch. He takes another step, and staggers.
Okay. Something’s wrong.
He’s sweaty, ridiculously so, he realises as he swipes clumsily at his forehead, feeling the wetness that has beaded on his skin.
He feels damp all over, too hot and too cold all at once and he’s vaguely aware of the fact he’s sweating through his scrubs. His stomach flips unpleasantly, nausea rising fast, and suddenly he’s overwhelmingly aware of how wrong everything feels. His thoughts are disjointed, skipping like a scratched CD.
I should check my sugar, he thinks.
The idea lands… he ought to action it, he knows he should do it. He knows it is important, and very likely the cause of all of this. But the connection between thought and action feels like it’s been severed, like his brain is yelling instructions that his body can hear, but can’t respond to.
He pats at his pocket clumsily, meaning to grab his phone — why his phone? he’s not sure, he feels like he should know why — but he misses. He tries again, the fabric of his scrubs feels wrong under his touch, like he’s wearing someone else’s clothes.
His thoughts don’t really line up properly. They arrive half-formed, slipping away before he can grab hold of them. He keeps losing the thread of what he’s thinking, which makes frustration spark hot and sudden in his chest.
Focus, he tells himself. Just focus.
His mouth is dry. No — worse than dry. Cottony. He licks his lips and tastes nothing. He feels a little sick.
The dizziness swells, cresting in a wave that makes him grab the counter of the desk he’s at to steady himself. His knuckles go white. For a terrifying second, his vision tunnels, edges darkening.
Dennis’ breathing speeds up, shallow and uneven. He’s suddenly acutely aware of his own body in a way that’s deeply unsettling — the wet pulsating of his heartbeat in his ears, too quick, too loud, his breath coming a little bit too quick, too shallow as he fights to keep himself from hyperventilating. His skin staticky, wet with sweat.
“I’m fine,” he mutters under his breath, reflexive, automatic.
He isn’t sure who he’s saying it for, because it doesn’t reassure him.
Someone passes behind him, brushes his shoulder, and the brief contact sends a jolt through him. He flinches, pulse spiking again. His stomach churns again, nausea curling low and insistent.
He’ll be okay. He’ll be fine.
He tries to walk it off.
That’s what he always does, just keeps moving, keeps working, keeps himself useful. He pushes away from the counter and takes a few steps down the hall.
His legs feel wrong.
Heavy and light at the same time, like they might give out or float away, he can’t tell which.
This isn’t normal, a small, panicked part of his brain insists.
But the rest of him is foggy, dulled, struggling to catch up. It’s like trying to think through syrup. Simple ideas take too long to form. He knows he should do something, sit down, tell someone, something, but again the urgency doesn’t translate into action.
He leans against the wall, forehead briefly resting against the cool surface. The chill seeps into his skin, grounding for half a second before the dizziness surges again.
His hands are shaking harder now. His jaw trembles. He presses his lips together to stop his teeth from chattering, but it only half works.
A nurse calls his name from down the hall. The sound feels distant, distorted.
“Dennis?”
He lifts his head, tries to answer, but his tongue feels thick, uncooperative. His mouth opens and closes uselessly.
“I—” he starts, then stops, confused by the fact that the word won’t come out right.
Fear finally breaks through the haze.
Real fear. Cold and sharp, cutting through the strange, floaty unreality. His chest tightens, breath catching as his thoughts scatter even more wildly.
Why can’t I think?
Why do I feel like this?
The questions loop, unanswered.
He knows something is wrong, knows it deep in his bones, but he doesn’t understand what it is, and that lack of understanding is the worst part. He’s losing control of his own body, piece by piece, and he doesn’t know why.
Dennis slides down the wall into a crouch, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, trying to make himself smaller, steadier. The floor feels solid beneath him, reassuring in a distant way.
His vision blurs again. His head feels light, empty.
Somewhere in the fog, an instinct whispers that he shouldn’t be alone right now.
And his mind turns straight to Robby and Jack.
He should hate it, how instinctively he craves their warm, reassuring presences, the steady calm they both bring with them even in times of crisis. He hates how desperately he wants to hear Robby’s voice, low and rumbly like it gets when Dennis is just a little too close to him. He hates how much he wants the warmth of Jack’s big hands on him, the perfect pair to Robby’s, so touchy, so grabby. The firm grasp of Robby’s hand on the nape of his neck, the soft brush of Jack’s over his lower back, his hips, his shoulders, it calms him like nothing else.
He wants them.
He needs them here with him.
He needs them because he’s scared and he doesn’t know what’s happening to him, but they look after him. They’ve proved that now.
Dimly, he thinks he says something out loud.
He doesn’t know what.
Robby’s been busy. Ridiculously so, actually. They’re down two doctors due to sickness, and while he’s glad they’re off actually taking time to get better, it means he’s not only covering his own work, but both of theirs too.
It’s not like he’s unfamiliar with working too hard, he’s been Chief of this ER for a while, but it doesn’t make it any fucking easier when half of his mind is on Dennis at the moment.
He hasn’t seen him all day, beyond the briefest glimpses across the Pitt floor. He’s seemed okay, which is a relief, and any moment Robby’s gotten he’s been checking in on Dennis’ sugars. It’s helpful, having his CGM linked to both his and Jack’s phones, a reassurance whenever he can’t actually get eyes on the guy that he’s not dying somewhere unknown, but Robby might also be being… a little obsessive.
Just a little.
Dennis going into DKA freaked him out, a lot, and it’s something he’s not really allowed himself to face yet, as much as Jack has tried.
Robby has learnt over the years — perhaps from decades of watching people die, of seeing how easily people’s lives can be stripped away from one illness, one accident — that he deals very badly when someone he loves gets hurt.
He and Jack found that one out the hard way.
After Robby found out about Jack’s leg, well… that was a difficult time. For both of them, obviously, but after Jack had healed physically (and was under way somewhat recovering mentally, thanks to the help of his military appointed therapist and the private one that Robby had found and was paying for out of pocket), Robby just sort of… fell apart. It’d taken a lot of work, a lot of work, but eventually he’d stopped blaming himself.
Mostly.
Jack likes to joke now that Robby had taken the loss of his leg worse than he had, and honestly it’s true, looking back now Jack had been surprisingly okay with it. It’d been the PTSD of active service that had fucked him up worse, the first thing he’d done when Robby had been allowed to see him (not until he’d been fully medically discharged from service which had been a very long and very unpleasant few weeks for Robby) had been joke about how good the military had been for weight loss.
He’d been so strong, so much stronger than Robby had been throughout the endless physiotherapy and trip to the prosthetists and relearning how to walk and how to look after his leg. He’d had bad days, but one of the reasons Robby had fallen for Jack in the first place had been how… good he was, in crisis, when things were shit, when things just sucked he was always so… stable, in a way.
It wasn’t that he was positive, quite the opposite. Jack Abbot had always been able to recognise when things were shit, and just accept it and move on. When people failed exams, when they lost relatives, Jack was always there to say yeah, it’s happened, but you just gotta keep going.
And he did.
He kept going, and he kept Robby going.
He’s Robby’s sanctuary, and he knows he’s Jack’s.
And Jack cares about Dennis just as much Robby does, he’s made that very clear. Even before Dennis’ diagnosis, they’d had a couple of discussions about him, mostly Jack teasing Robby for how obvious his feelings were, and Robby insistently denying it until he realised Jack was right.
Obviously neither of them had expected things going like this, but now suddenly Dennis was under their care, staying in their spare room, letting them look after him, and god was it good to have Jack there to help and understand. The only reason Robby hadn’t lost himself entirely blaming himself for not noticing sooner and helping Dennis earlier, was Jack’s bluntness, his firm reassurance that this was nothing to do with Robby and all he could do was support Dennis now, not try and change the past.
Still, Robby worries. A lot. He trusts Jack to take care of him when the two have night shifts, and he trusts Dennis to be safe in their place, but work is different. Work is worse. There are too many bits of the hospital that have poor service and not that many people passing by, too many places for Dennis to collapse just like he had on Robby’s shift before where Robby wouldn’t be there to help him.
So it makes sense that he was obsessive about it.
Total sense.
Or at least that’s what he tells himself.
He’s just finished debriding a nasty burn, explaining to one of the first year students he hasn’t been able to dedicate enough time to today about burn thickness and wound care, when one of the nurses sticks her head around the curtain.
“Dr Robby?”
He looks up. There’s an unusual nervousness to her voice, and she looks… worried.
“Is everything okay?” He’s pulling his gloves off immediately, stepping towards the curtain.
“It’s Whitaker uh—“
Shit.
Shit.
“Okay — walk and talk.” He says, pushing his glasses up his nose. He turns back to the student quickly, he doesn’t know her name, oops. “You stay with Princess, she’ll show you how we dress burns like this.”
Okay, solved that problem.
Now Dennis.
“He just seems really out of it,” the nurse says worriedly. “I tried to talk to him and he just said he needs you, or — that’s what it sounded like, he was kind of slurring his words a lot.”
Dennis has only been back at work a few days. It’s been a good few days, but Robby’s been waiting for something to go wrong because he knew it would. A new diagnosis, a new medication, a new routine and awareness of his body, something was bound to go wrong.
And insulin is dangerous, the risk is too high for Robby to trust that Dennis will be able to cope immediately.
Dennis’ CGM hasn’t alerted him that he’s low or dropping, or that he’s too high, so it could be something else but Robby doubts it.
They round the corner, and Robby spots him immediately.
Dennis is slumped against the wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around himself like he’s trying to hold his body together. His head is tipped forward, curls sticking to his forehead where they’re damp with sweat, eyes unfocused. He looks so small like this.
“Mouse,” Robby says gently, dropping onto his knees in front of him. He keeps his voice light on purpose, gentle. “Hey. Talk to me.”
Dennis blinks slowly. “Dr Robby,” he says, his name breathed out soft and oddly reverent, like he’s surprised to find him here. “You’re… you’re… really close.”
“That’s because we’re sitting on the floor,” Robby says, ignoring the spike of adrenaline that’s run through him at how confused Dennis seems. “How’re you feeling?”
Dennis frowns, clearly trying to process the question. “Weird,” he says finally. “Like… floaty. And shaky. And—” He laughs, quiet and breathless. “You look really good right now.”
Okay, he thinks grimly. That answers that.
“Mm,” Robby hums noncommittally, reaching for his phone with one hand as he takes Dennis’ wrist with the other. “That’s very flattering, kid, but I’m more concerned about you.”
Dennis’ skin is clammy under his fingers, and Robby can feel the way his pulse is racing. Too fast.
Fuck.
“Did your alarm go off?” Robby asks, glancing down.
Dennis shakes his head, or tries to. He just sort of wobbles, his head slumping forwards. “Didn’t… hear it.”
Robby pulls up the app, looking at the graph of Dennis’ sugars. There’s an arrow pointing down as the trend dips, but according to his monitor he’s not even close to critically low.
Robby doesn’t trust it.
“Alright,” Robby says calmly. “We’re gonna double-check, okay?”
Dennis nods, compliant, gaze drifting back to Robby’s face. “You’re being really nice to me,” he murmurs. “You always are. Jack’s nice too. You’re both… unfairly attractive. And nice. Which is odd cause you two both have like — a reputation of being super good at your jobs and… good doctors are always so mean and not so handsome.”
Robby exhales through his nose. Who’d have thought?
“Mouse, that’s the low blood sugar talking. You don’t mean any of that.” He says gently.
Dennis looks faintly offended. “I do,” he insists, earnest and also completely unfocused. “You’re kind. And smart. And you take care of people. That’s… ” He squints. “‘S hot.”
“Okay,” Robby says firmly, wiping down Dennis’ finger with an alcohol swab. “We’re gonna pause the compliments for now, Mouse.”
When he pricks Dennis’ finger, he barely reacts, too far gone to flinch. He just stares hazily at their hands, clearly struggling to keep himself together.
“You looked so stressed,” Dennis mumbles, frowning as Robby watches the monitor count down.
“Yeah, well, I am a bit.”
The screen flashes. 48 mg/dL.
“Shit,” Robby breathes.
That explains it.
“Okay, you’re low Mouse. Let’s get some carbs in you.”
Dennis blinks at him. “Really low?”
“Uh — well, yeah, but it’s okay.”
“ ‘s that bad?”
“It would be," Robby says plainly. “If we didn’t catch it.”
He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the packet of dextrose tablets he’s started keeping in there, and holds four out in his palm.
Then, after a moment, he adds a fifth.
“Chew these. Now please.”
Dennis stares at them. “They taste like chalk.”
“I know,” Robby says. “I’m sorry. Still need you to eat them.”
Dennis opens his mouth to argue, hopefully about the taste, but given everything he’s said in the past few minutes it could equally be about something else entirely, but Robby takes advantage of the moment and nudges the tablets gently but insistently between his lips.
“Chew,” Robby repeats, firmer this time. “Don’t make me get you a gel.”
They’ve established that Dennis doesn't like the gels. At least — not the ones they stock in the hospital. Out of curiosity, Robby and Jack both tried them and found they weren’t too bad, but there’s something about the texture that Dennis finds extremely unappealing. They’ve been meaning to order some different ones for him to try, but with how busy they’ve been, it’s sort of slipped down on their list of things to do.
With the tablets in his mouth though Dennis finally does as he’s told, grimacing as he chews. “You’re bossy,” he says around the tablets. “That’s also—”
“Nope,” Robby cuts in immediately. “We’re not finishing that sentence.”
He stays close, ignoring everyone else around them as he kneels before Dennis, one hand braced on Dennis’ shoulder, the other on his knee, ready to prop him up in case he slumps further.
Dennis swallows, and sags against him, but the sugar works quick.
It doesn’t take long before his colour starts to improve, and when Robby shifts Dennis is quick to look for him, expression panicked and still glassy, but a little more aware.
“You’re safe, kid, don’t worry,” Robby says quietly, more for himself than anything. “You’re okay. I got you.”
Dennis swallows, then nods.
For a moment, it seems like he’s not going to respond, before he breathes out a soft little “oh,”. He sounds a bit like he’s just woken up. “I… I feel dumb.”
Robby shakes his head.
“Don’t say that Mouse. You’re not dumb,” he says immediately. “You’re new at this. It happens.”
Dennis frowns, thinking hard. “Did I… say anything weird? I feel… like I said something.”
Robby hesitates for half a second.
“You said I look stressed,” he lies smoothly. “Which is rude, but accurate.”
Dennis snorts weakly, then sags back against the wall as another wave of exhaustion rolls through him.
He shouldn’t need any more fast-acting carbs just yet, unless he’s accidentally overdosed on his insulin, but given how quick he’s seemed to respond Robby doubts it. Still, the dextrose is there in his pocket, ready if Dennis needs.
Dennis’ hands stop shaking first.
Then, when he blinks, he’s no longer vacant, focusing on Robby as they sit there.
His cheeks go back to pink, breathing slows down, and when he smiles awkwardly at Robby he seems like he’s fully with it. Or at least, something closer to normal.
“Alright,” Robby says, after another finger prick confirms Dennis’ sugars are climbing back up into safer territory. His CGM doesn’t seem to have even really noticed the low yet, which annoys him, but he puts it out of his mind for now. “We’re gonna get you off the floor, Mouse. Nice and slow.”
Dennis nods, compliant now, the weird petulant fight of low blood sugar now gone. When Robby shifts closer and slips an arm around his back, Dennis leans into the contact immediately, steadying himself against Robby as he clings onto him.
He’s still kind of wet with sweat, and it’s kind of ironic that he’s going to need a change of scrubs and it’s not even anyone else’s fault, but he’s no longer actually sweating which is a reassurance.
They stand together carefully, Robby taking a significant amount of Dennis' weight as he supports him. It goes against all of their moving and handling training, to be this close, to be this responsible, but Robby doesn’t care. For a brief, dangerous second, Dennis’ head tips back and their faces end up far too close, Dennis’ breath warm on Robby’s jaw, his lashes fluttering as he blinks up at him.
But Robby looks away instantly, and Dennis throws his head forwards so quick that he almost falls.
“Okay, easy Mouse. Easy.” Robby soothes, and once Dennis is stable on his feet, he slips his arm around Dennis’ waist.
“Let’s go. One step at a time.”
They make it to the staff room without any incidents. Robby deposits Dennis onto the couch, then immediately turns to the fridge, already scanning it for something substantial.
Any surplus patient food goes into this fridge, including any of the sandwiches and snacks that are close to their use-by date, so it’s not hard to find something that’ll suffice.
“You’ll eat this with no arguing this time, Mouse,” Robby says over his shoulder as he pulls out a wrapped cheese sandwich, “You need protein and carbs to sustain your sugars now. I’m not having you go low again.”
Dennis squints at the sandwich, then shakes his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care.”
Dennis opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again, clearly too tired to put up much of a fight. “You’re very bossy today,” he mumbles, and it makes Robby smile, the shared complaints of Dennis now versus when he was low earlier. Only this time, without the HR violation.
“Consider it an occupational hazard. Eat.”
Robby sits beside him, deliberately leaving a few inches of space between them, and hands over the sandwich. Dennis takes it in both hands, which shouldn’t make something in Robby’s chest stir the way it does… and then promptly shifts over until their shoulders touch.
Robby stills.
Dennis sighs softly, contendedly, like a cat finding a warm spot, and then, without asking, tips sideways, curling into Robby’s space. His head tucks into the hollow of Robby’s shoulder, cheek resting against his arm, and he draws one knee up onto the couch.
He takes a bite, then another, chewing slowly with his eyes half-closed. He’s obviously exhausted, both physically and mentally, his body still desperate for carbs, given the way after a few seconds he sighs again, “mmmh… okay, that’s better.”
Jesus Christ.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Somehow every instinct Robby has flares up at once: the the deep, paternal urge to look after Dennis he gets often, the wanting, hungry desire that he keeps locked away, the romantic affectionate need to pet his hair and hold him, every fucked up and ridiculous thing he could want with Dennis springs to the forefront of his mind.
Dennis is warm and soft and devastatingly close, fitting far too naturally against Robby’s side. Robby can feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the movement of his jaw as he eats.
He wants to take Dennis and keep him for himself, to protect him from everything in the world.
So he keeps his hands resolutely to himself, fingers laced together in his lap, muscles tight with restraint. He stares straight ahead at the staff room wall, focusing on anything except the way Dennis smells faintly of his soap and his laundry detergent, the way his soft curls brush Robby’s arm every time he shifts.
“You need to keep eating,” Robby says evenly, voice carefully neutral. “Don’t stop.”
Dennis hums, and takes another bite. “You’re really good at this,” he says quietly. “Taking care of people.”
“That’s my job,” he replies, a little more gruff than he intends.
Dennis shifts again, nestling closer, utterly unselfconsciously. “You stayed with me though, you've let me stay with you, like — for free, just you and Jack taking care of me. You slept next to me when I went into DKA” he says. “You didn’t have to.”
Robby shrugs, “you deserve it.”
Dennis goes quiet after that. The sandwich disappears bit by bit, until it’s gone and Dennis sags against him.
It doesn’t take long before his blood sugar is solidly back in range though, and he fully comes back to himself. He’s quick to pull away from Robby, apologetic in that earnest, self-conscious way of his, insisting he’s fine now, insisting he won’t let it happen again, insisting Robby doesn’t need to worry.
Robby pretends to believe him, until he’s satisfied Dennis really is himself again.
Still, when they eventually return to work, Robby checks in more often than strictly necessary. Dennis doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he looks reassured by it, every time Robby finds him just to make sure he’s feeling okay. It’s clear his low has freaked him out a bit too, although from the way Robby sees him checking his phone every few minutes, probably more than just a bit.
They can talk about it later, they’ve probably overcorrected so Dennis’ll be running high for a couple of hours, but they’ll sort it.
Or — he’ll help Dennis sort it, he should say.
When Jack arrives for the Night Shift, jacket slung over one shoulder, thermos full of coffee in hand, he makes a beeline for Dennis where he’s standing at the nurses station. Robby’s been texting him since he woke up, keeping him informed of exactly what’s happened, so he knows Jack's no doubt just as worried as he was.
“Hey, Mouse,” Jack says gently, as he stops in front of Dennis. “How’re you feeling now?”
Dennis straightens instinctively. “I’m okay. Really. Dr Robby took good care of me.”
Jack’s mouth twitches, fond and knowing. “I don’t doubt that.” He studies Dennis for a moment longer, not invasive, just… thorough.
“You eat something proper?” Jack asks.
“Yes.”
“You check your sugars again?”
“Yes.”
“You definitely feeling okay?"
Dennis hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”
Jack hums, unconvinced but not pushing. He glances over at Robby then, and the look they exchange is incomprehensible to anyone but them.
Jack turns back to Dennis. “Robby’ll take you back. There’s chilli keeping warm in the oven.”
Dennis blinks. “I—I don’t want to impose. I’m fine now, really. I can go back to Santos’.”
Jack shakes his head. “You’re not imposing. And I’d feel better if you weren’t on your own after a day like today.”
Dennis glances at Robby, uncertain.
“At least for tonight Whitaker,” he says. “You can head back tomorrow if you really want. No pressure. But I’d rather you be somewhere safe if you do go low again.”
Dennis hesitates, chewing on his lower lip. “…Okay,” he says finally. “If you’re really sure.”
Jack looks satisfied at that, and he reaches over to clasp Dennis’ shoulder, giving him a gentle shake. “Good. Now go home and get some sleep.”
Dennis looks over at Robby and Robby shakes the car keys at him, and Dennis smiles, a shy sort of thing that makes Jack’s heart melt.
“Go on. Both of you. Scram.”