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Jack isn’t dramatic.
He doesn’t jump to worst-case scenarios.
He knows the difference between silence and danger.
But this feels wrong.
It starts small.
You don’t answer his text.
That’s fine. You sleep weird hours sometimes.
He sends another one later.
Still nothing.
He calls that night. Lets it ring all the way through. No voicemail.
He tells himself your phone probably died.
He sleeps badly anyway.
The next morning, he checks his phone before he even opens his eyes.
Nothing.
He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, jaw tight.
You’ve been quieter lately.
Shorter replies.
I’m just tired.
I’m okay.
He’d clocked it. Filed it away. Watched.
But you’d still shown up. Still laughed a little. Still let him sit next to you.
This silence is different.
He calls again.
Straight to voicemail.
His stomach drops.
He waits ten minutes. Calls again.
Nothing.
He sends one more text.
Just tell me you’re alive.
He hates that he wrote it.
He hates it more that it doesn’t get answered.
By midafternoon, he’s trying to work.
He signs off on labs. Reviews charts. Nods through conversations.
But his mind keeps circling back.
You don’t disappear.
Even on bad days, you respond with something.
A thumbs up.
A sleeping.
A don’t feel like adulting today.
Not this.
Not nothing.
He steps into an empty hallway and calls again.
Voicemail.
His chest tightens.
He thinks about the last time he saw you.
You’d seem… thinner somehow. Quieter. Like something had already started slipping.
He should’ve pushed harder.
He doesn’t let himself spiral.
He grabs his keys.
The drive to your place feels longer than usual.
Every red light feels personal.
You could be asleep.
You could be ignoring your phone.
You could be—
He tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
By the time he parks, he looks steady.
Inside, his pulse is faster than he likes.
He walks up to your door and knocks.
Once.
Twice.
“Hey,” he calls.
Silence.
He presses his ear lightly to the wood.
Nothing.
That’s when he uses the spare key.
The one you’d given him with a shrug.
Just in case.
His hand pauses on the handle.
He’s seen too many doors opened too late.
He exhales.
Turns the key.
Steps inside.
The air feels stale.
Curtains drawn.
No sound.
“Hey,” he calls softly.
Still nothing.
He moves down the hallway slowly.
He sees the empty water glass first.
The tipped pill bottles.
And then you.
Curled on the bed.
Not moving.
Not looking up.
Something in him drops hard and fast.
But he doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t shout.
Doesn’t let panic take over.
He steps closer.
Kneels beside the bed.
“Hey,” he says gently.
You blink at him like he’s far away.
“…Hi.”
Your voice sounds unused.
He swallows.
“I’m here.”
That’s it. Not what happened? Not why didn’t you call?
Just, I’m here.
He sits on the edge of the bed without asking you to move.
He doesn’t touch you yet.
“I was getting worried,” he says quietly.
You stare at the wall.
“I’m fine.”
Automatic. Thin.
He nods once.
“Okay.”
Not arguing. Not confronting. Just acknowledging.
A long pause.
He reaches slowly, giving you time to pull away and brushes his knuckles against your sleeve.
“You look tired.”
Your breathing stutters.
You press your face into the pillow.
“I didn’t mean to,” you whisper.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“Didn’t mean to what?”
“…Stop.”
The word is barely audible.
His chest tightens so sharply it almost steals his breath.
But his voice stays even.
“Stop moving?”
A tiny nod.
“Stop trying?”
Another nod.
He nods back like that makes sense.
“Okay,” he says softly. “That happens.”
You glance at him like you expected a lecture.
He doesn’t give you one.
He picks up one of the empty bottles.
“When did you take these?”
You hesitate.
“Over a few days.”
“All at once?”
“No.” Quick. Honest.
He exhales carefully.
“Were you trying to hurt yourself?”
You shake your head.
“I just didn’t want to feel anything.”
His jaw flexes.
He sets the bottles down quietly.
“Thank you for telling me.”
Your eyes finally meet his.
You expected anger.
He just looks steady. Concerned. Gentle.
“You don’t have to shut everything off to survive it,” he says.
You laugh weakly.
“I kind of do.”
He shakes his head.
“No. You just need help carrying it.”
He moves closer.
“Can I touch you?”
You nod.
He slides his hand over yours. Your skin is cool.
“You haven’t eaten,” he murmurs.
You shrug.
“Didn’t feel hungry.”
“That’s not how that works,” he says gently.
He studies your face. Tear salt on your cheek. Grease at your roots.
He’s seen gunshot wounds with less visible damage.
And somehow this feels worse.
But he adjusts.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “We’re not fixing everything today.”
You stare at him.
“We’re just going to stand up.”
The idea alone looks overwhelming.
“Not fast,” he adds. “Just sit up.”
You don’t move.
He shifts closer and slides an arm behind your shoulders.
“Let me help.”
You sag into him.
He holds you like you weigh nothing.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
And he means more than physically.
When you’re sitting, you look disoriented. Embarrassed.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
He immediately shakes his head.
“No.”
“You don’t apologize for being sick.”
Your eyes water.
“I’m not sick.”
He tilts his head.
“You haven’t eaten. You haven’t showered. You haven’t left this bed. You took medication until the bottles were empty. If a patient told me that, what would I call it?”
You look away.
“…Depression.”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushes gently over your wrist. “That’s not a moral failure.”
“Okay,” he says softly. “Step one.”
You tense.
“Water.”
He brings you a glass and waits while you sip. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hover.
“Good.”
You swallow again.
The smallest flicker passes through your eyes.
He notices it like a win.
Later, when he helps you toward the bathroom, you wobble.
He steadies you immediately.
“Easy.”
“I’m gross,” you whisper.
He pauses.
“No,” he says calmly. “You’re overwhelmed.”
He sits on the closed toilet lid while you shower.
Doesn’t comment on the time it takes.
Doesn’t rush you.
Just talks. Neutral things. A stubborn dog outside the hospital. A difficult shift.
His voice stays low and steady.
When you step out wrapped in a towel, hair clean and damp, he looks at you like you just did something brave.
“There you are,” he says softly.
And something in you cracks open.
Back in the bedroom, he changes the sheets.
You watch from the doorway like you don’t deserve it.
He just tucks the corners tight.
“You don’t have to stay,” you say quietly.
He looks at you like that idea makes no sense.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’ve never seen me like this.”
He walks back to you slowly.
“You think I only want the good days?”
Tears spill.
He cups your face carefully.
“I want all of you,” he says. “Even the parts that scare you.”
His forehead rests against yours.
“I just need you breathing. The rest we can rebuild.”
You break then. Quietly.
And he holds you through it.
Not fixing.
Not pushing.
Just steady.
That night, you’re in clean pajamas. Curtains cracked open just enough.
You still feel heavy.
But you don’t feel alone.
Jack lies beside you fully clothed, one hand resting lightly over your ribs.
Feeling your breathing.
He presses a kiss into your hair.
“One hour at a time.”
Your fingers curl weakly into his shirt.
“Don’t leave.”
He tightens his hold.
“I’m not.”
And he stays.
Through the night.
Through the hard morning.
Through the slow, fragile beginning of rebuilding.
Not as a doctor.
Not as a savior.
Just as someone who loves you enough to sit in the dark without flinching.