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The Pitt had a way of folding time in on itself.
Years blurred together in the emergency department – trauma bays washed down and reset, monitors replaced, new interns cycling through with wide eyes and shaking hands. But some things stuck. Some people did.
Jack Abbot still stood the same way at the foot of a bed – arms crossed, weight tilted slightly to his left. To someone on the outside it looked like he was bracing himself against the chaos rather than standing inside it. To those who knew him, it was a subtle tell that his prosthetic was not sitting quite right, his residual limb aching or rubbing. Regardless, Jack still watched everything. Still missed nothing.
And, annoyingly, still smirked like he knew exactly how every story was going to end.
Yolanda Garcia had once hated that.
Now, years later, she found it… grounding.
—
The thing about effective mentorship in the ED was that it rarely looked like teaching.
It looked like pressure. Correction. Sometimes short and urgent with a scalpel about to connect with flesh, sometimes as a quiet word in the hallway away from the bedside. Silence at the wrong moments and sharp words at the right ones.
And, sometimes – if you were paying attention – it looked like someone choosing to stay when everyone else stepped back.
It had been one of those shifts. The kind that started bad and only got worse.
Three ambulances back-to-back. A multi-vehicle accident. Blood on the floor before the first patient had even been transferred to a bed. The air thick with copper and betadine, voices calling out for their mother, husband, child - someone.
“Garcia, you’re with me,” Abbot had said, already moving.
She didn’t hesitate – she never did.
The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Motorcycle accident. No helmet. Hypotensive on arrival, pupils sluggish, abdomen rigid under Garcia’s hands.
“BP dropping – 80 systolic.”
“eFAST positive,” Garcia said immediately. “Likely an intra-abdominal bleed.”
Abbot nodded once. “Call it.”
Garcia didn’t falter. “He needs the OR. Now.”
Everything after that blurred into motion – orders fired off, gurney wheels rattling, hands moving with practiced precision, a granted request to follow her patient to theatre – to scrub in.
This was where she excelled.
Clear objectives. Decisive hands. Muscle memory.
It wasn’t until later that it broke.
The patient arrested on the table. They briefly got him back but the damage was too extensive. Too much blood lost, too long without perfusion.
Time of death was called forty-seven minutes after arrival.
Garcia stood at the edge of the OR, gloves still on, staring at nothing.
She didn’t speak during the debrief.
Didn’t speak while they stripped off gowns and disposed of instruments.
Didn’t speak as the team filtered out, one by one, the noise of the case dissolving into the usual background hum of the hospital.
Didn’t speak as she trudged back down the staircase to the emergency department. Chills coursing through her body and her brain ignited in flames.
Abbot noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He found her in an empty trauma bay. Garcia was still in blood flecked scrubs. Still in motion, technically – wiping down a counter that was already clean, movements precise to the point of rigidity.
“You missed a spot,” he said.
Garcia didn’t look up. “No, I didn’t.”
“Left side. Near the rail.”
She paused.
Then deliberately wiped the exact spot he’d pointed out.
Abbot leaned against the doorway, watching her.
“You did everything right,” he said.
“I know.”
Flat. Immediate.
It wasn’t arrogance.
It was fact.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Abbot tilted his head slightly. “Then why are you still here?”
Garcia set the cloth down, aligning it neatly with the edge of the counter.
“Because there’s more work to do.”
“There always is.”
She finally turned to face him.
Her expression was composed. Controlled. The same one she wore in every high-pressure situation.
But her eyes –
Her eyes were sharper, Abbot could swear he could see pixels at the curve of her irises. Brighter and yet equally holding something back.
“He was twenty-three,” she said.
Abbot didn’t interrupt.
“He had no medical history. No comorbidities. Statistically–” she stopped herself, jaw tightening. “He shouldn’t have died.”
“Statistically,” Abbot said carefully, “doesn’t mean inevitably.”
Garcia’s laugh was quiet, lacking life or humour. “That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
Silence settled between them, heavier this time.
Garcia pulled her arms against her waist, palms curling around her elbows like she was holding herself in place.
“I made the right calls,” she said. “I know I did. So why does it feel like I missed something?”
Because that was the part she couldn’t quantify – the part she couldn’t control. The gap between correct and enough. The seed of doubt being planted was more than enough to kick off questioning herself about her own clinical competence.
Abbot pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the room. Gait steady but slightly uneven.
“Because you’re not a machine,” he said.
Garcia’s gaze flicked to him. “That would make this easier.”
“No,” he said. “It would make you worse.”
She didn’t respond to that. That piqued Jack’s attention slightly. In the short time he’s known Dr. Yolanda Garcia, he’s learned that she always has a response. Whether it’s an agreeance, an argument, or simply an acknowledgement – no response was abnormal.
Garcia just stood there, absorbing it – or refusing to.
Abbot watched her for a moment, then softened his tone.
“Did you talk to the family?”
Garcia shook her head. “Social work is handling it.”
“Why?”
A beat.
Then – quietly –
“Because I wouldn’t know what to say.”
There it was. There was Dr. Garcia’s achilles heel. Not a failure of skill, and not a failure of knowledge. Her weakness was something else – emotional vulnerability.
Abbot nodded once, like that made sense.
“Come on,” he said.
Garcia frowned. “Where are we going?”
“To fix the part you’re avoiding.”
“I’m not avoiding–”
“You are,” he said simply. “And it’s going to matter if you don’t learn how to handle it.”
She hesitated.
This – this was different from procedural training, from diagnostics and decision-making. This was the part she kept at arm’s length. The part she delegated to others and the part she never volunteered for. She had made it this far into her career without having to deliver this news to a family, knowing it was something she would fumble.
“I’ll observe,” she said finally.
Abbot shook his head. “No. You’ll talk.”
Garcia’s jaw tightened. “I’m not equipped for–”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not–”
“Garcia.”
His voice wasn’t raised.
But it was firm.
Steady.
The kind of tone that didn’t leave room for retreat.
“You don’t get to be exceptional at everything except the parts that make you uncomfortable,” he said. “That’s not how this works.”
She held his gaze, something defensive flickering there.
Then – slowly – she exhaled.
“Fine.”
—
The family room was quieter than the rest of the ED. The kind of silence that pressed in on you, waiting to be filled with something irreversible. Silent in the way that it was almost too loud. Garcia stood just behind Abbot at first, letting him take the lead. Letting him introduce them. Let him choose where to sit, before she took her spot next to him.
He didn’t use jargon. Didn’t hide behind technical language.
Garcia watched. She listened – not to the words, but to the way he said them. How he told the truth; gently, clearly, human. She took note of the pauses and the eye contact. The way he let the family react without trying to control it.
And when the mother started crying – really crying, the kind that came from somewhere deep and uncontrollable – Garcia felt something in her chest tighten. Something unsteady and unfamiliar. The exact feeling she tries to avoid in situations like these.
Abbot glanced at her, just briefly.
A silent cue.
Your turn.
Garcia leaned forward before she could think better of it.
“I was part of the team that treated him,” she said, voice steady despite the pressure building behind her ribs. “We did everything we could.”
The words felt insufficient as soon as they had fallen from her lips.
Too clinical.
She saw it in the mother’s face.
She adjusted.
“He didn’t suffer,” Garcia added, softer now. “And he wasn’t alone.”
That–
That landed.
The mother nodded, tears still falling, but something in her expression shifted. Just slightly.
Garcia stayed there a moment longer than she normally would. Didn’t retreat immediately, internally or externally – letting her mind sit with the feelings heavy in her chest and her body sit in the thick air of someone else’s grief. She didn’t shut down.
She just… stayed.
—
Later, back in the hallway, the noise of the ED rushed back in like nothing had happened. Garcia leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly.
“That was inefficient,” she said.
Abbot huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. It usually is.”
She glanced at him. “You didn’t correct me.”
“You didn’t need correcting.”
A pause.
Then–
“That part,” Garcia said carefully, “feels… harder than the medicine.”
Abbot nodded. “It is.”
She absorbed that, gaze drifting back toward the family room.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be good at it.”
“You don’t have to be good,” he said. “You just have to show up.”
Garcia was quiet for a long moment.
Then, almost reluctantly–
“I stayed.”
Abbot’s expression softened, something like pride flickering there.
“Yeah,” he said. “You did.”
—
There had been another moment, later that year – quieter, but no less significant. Garcia had noticed it because she noticed everything, even when she pretended not to. The faint absence of a ring on Abbot’s left hand where there had always been one before. A band of skin paler than the rest of his hand. The way he turned it like it was still there; absently, habitually. He’d taken it off weeks earlier, he told her when she asked, voice even but not untouched. Not because he stopped loving his wife, but because he didn’t know who he was supposed to be now. When she asked – clinical, direct as ever – if he would date again, he’d let out a quiet breath and said, “I don’t know if it’s allowed to feel like moving on when it still feels like carrying.” Garcia had considered that, then replied, “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” It was the closest either of them got to naming grief out loud – and the first time Abbot had looked at her not just like a resident, but like someone who understood something deeper than medicine.
—
“Your sutures are cleaner now.”
Garcia didn’t look up from the chart she was updating. “High praise.”
A 32-year-old male with a scalp lac had presented to triage after falling off his ladder and catching his forehead on a tree branch – a branch he was about to chop down if he hadn’t lost his balance a second earlier. Not quite deep enough for clips, not quite shallow enough for glue.
“I’m serious,” Abbot said, leaning against the counter beside her. “Back then you tied knots like you were trying to punish the thread.”
“I was trying to punish the thread. It kept breaking.”
“That’s because you were pulling like you were angry at it.”
Garcia finally glanced at him, one brow lifting. “I was angry at it.”
Abbot huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “God, you haven’t changed.”
“That’s not true,” she said mildly. “I’m significantly better.”
“At surgery, sure.” He tilted his head. “At talking to patients? Jury’s still out.”
Garcia closed the chart with a soft click and turned fully toward him. Her purple scrubs were crisp, her posture effortless, her expression controlled in that familiar way – calm, composed, unreadable unless you knew where to look.
Abbot knew where to look – her eyes gave her away. They always had. Dark espresso mostly, solid and predictable. But sometimes, if the light from the ambulance bay hit just right at sunset, they’d ignite like honey. Other days, when they were hit with trauma after trauma, death after death, Abbot could swear they turned black. Hiding her emotions in tiny boxes in the abyss of her irises.
“You’re confusing efficiency with coldness,” she said.
“No, I’m distinguishing them. You just keep choosing the wrong one.”
“I get the job done.”
“And people leave not knowing whether you care.”
Garcia’s lips twitched – just barely. “I care. I just don’t perform it for an audience.”
Abbot studied her for a beat longer than necessary, something quieter settling behind his expression.
“You were like that as a resident too,” he said, softer now. “Brilliant. Fast. Scary good instincts. But you built walls like you thought caring would slow you down.”
Garcia shrugged. “Did it?”
“No,” he admitted. “But it might’ve made things… easier.”
“For who?”
He didn’t answer that.
Instead, he straightened, the moment slipping away as easily as it had come.
“So,” he said, tone shifting back to something lighter, “Vascular Fellow now. Big deal. You cutting open arteries and breaking hearts?”
“Just arteries,” Garcia replied. Then, after a beat: “Hearts are inefficient.”
Abbot snorted. “Tell that to Santos.”
That got a reaction.
Subtle. Quick. But there.
Garcia’s pen paused mid-spin between her fingers.
“Dr. Santos,” she corrected, voice neutral.
“Right,” Abbot said, entirely unconvinced. “Dr. Santos.”
He watched her for a second, then grinned.
“Oh, this is fun.”
“There’s nothing to observe.”
“Yeah? Because from where I’m standing–”
“Which is too close, by the way.”
“–you’re doing that thing you used to do when you didn’t want to admit you were interested in something.”
Garcia met his gaze evenly. “And what thing is that?”
“Acting like it’s beneath you.”
Silence stretched between them for a moment.
Then Garcia exhaled softly through her nose, almost amused.
“You’re projecting,” she said. “When are you going to ask her out?”
Abbot blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Dr. Samira Mohan,” Garcia said, as if clarifying a diagnosis. “You hover. You linger. You make excuses to consult on cases that don’t require you. It’s inefficient.”
Abbot stared at her.
Then – slowly – he smiled.
“Oh, we’re doing this now?”
“You started it.”
“I did not – ”
“You absolutely did.”
He folded his arms again, settling into the argument like it was an old, familiar chair.
“Okay,” he said. “Fine. Let’s talk about inefficiency. You’ve been back here, what – six months? And you still haven’t asked her out. This has been going on for what? A year and a half now?”
Garcia didn’t take the bait immediately. Her face shifted ever so slightly, jaw tightening at the exposure but eyes softening at the thought of her. That, in itself, was telling.
Abbot’s grin sharpened.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what I thought.”
Garcia tilted her head, considering him.
“I don’t recall you being this invested in my personal life when I was your resident. You definitely didn’t let me get involved in yours.”
“That’s because back then you didn’t have one and I was your boss.”
“I had priorities.”
“You had tunnel vision.”
“It worked.”
“It worked for medicine,” he said. “Not for you.”
That landed. He saw it land.
Garcia looked away first this time, gaze drifting toward the trauma bay where voices overlapped and monitors beeped in uneven rhythm.
“Some things,” she said slowly, “are easier to manage in theory than in practice.”
Abbot softened, just slightly. “Yeah. I know.”
A beat.
Then, because neither of them could sit in that kind of honesty for long–
“So what’s the holdup?” he asked. “You scared?”
Garcia shot him a look. “No.”
“Then what?”
She hesitated.
And that – more than anything – was new.
“When I was a resident,” she said, voice quieter now, “you told me that the hardest part of this job wasn’t the medicine. It was letting yourself care without letting it break you.”
Abbot nodded slowly. “Still true.”
Garcia’s fingers stilled around her pen.
“I learned how to not let it break me,” she said. “I’m not sure I ever learned how to let it in.”
The noise of the department carried on around them, indifferent to the weight of the moment.
Abbot watched her for a long second.
Then, gently–
“Yolanda,” he said, “you don’t have to be perfect at it. You just have to try.”
She let out a small breath, something almost like a laugh.
“You’re one to talk.”
“Hey,” he said, raising a hand, “I fully intend to take my own advice.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Garcia’s lips curved, faint and knowing. “That’s what you said three months ago.”
“Okay, well – time is a social construct.”
“Cowardice is not.”
He pointed at her. “You don’t get to call me a coward when you’re doing the exact same thing.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then prove it.”
Garcia met his gaze, something sharp and electric sparking there now.
“Fine,” she said.
Abbot blinked. “Fine?”
“Fine,” she repeated, already turning away, already moving. “You ask Dr. Mohan out before the end of the week, and I’ll ask–”
She stopped herself.
Abbot leaned forward, delighted. “You’ll ask who, Garcia?”
She glanced back at him over her shoulder, expression composed but eyes betraying just a flicker of something warmer, riskier.
“You know who.”
Oh, he did.
And judging by the way she said it–
So did she.
Abbot grinned, pushing off the counter.
“Deal,” he said.
Garcia gave a single, decisive nod and headed toward the stairwell that would lead her up to theatre, slipping seamlessly back into the rhythm of controlled urgency, sharp commands, steady hands. But there was something different now. Something slightly more open, just a fraction more than before. Abbot watched her go, a quiet sort of pride settling in his chest.
She’d always been exceptional.
Now, finally, she might let herself be human too.
Somewhere across the department, whether either of them was ready or not, things were about to get a lot more complicated.
—
The thing about the ED was that nothing ever stayed still long enough for you to ignore it.
Not a bleeding artery.
Not a crashing patient.
Not the quiet, persistent pull of something you kept insisting didn’t matter.
Jack Abbot learned that the hard way.
Yolanda Garcia learned it anyway.
—
Several days later, Garcia found herself at an impasse with one Dr. Jack Abbot, who had decided to use any excuse possible to avoid asking out Dr. Mohan.
“I can’t date a senior resident.”
Abbot didn’t look up as he spoke, his voice calm, clinical – like he was presenting a case rather than dismantling her argument.
Beside him, Garcia scoffed. “Says who?”
“Says every unspoken rule in this department,” he replied. “Power imbalance. Optics. Favouritism.”
“You wouldn’t—”
“I wouldn’t intend to,” Abbot cut in, finally glancing at her. “That’s not the point.”
He opened his mouth as if to continue, then closed it again, jaw tightening.
Across the department, Dr. Samira Mohan laughed at something one of the nurses said, her head tipping back slightly, sunlight from the ambulance bay catching in her eyes.
Abbot’s gaze flicked there before he could stop it, his jaw jutting out ever so slightly.
Garcia noticed.
Of course she noticed.
“You hover,” she said mildly.
“I do not hover.”
“You hover.”
“I supervise.”
“You linger.”
Abbot dragged a hand down his face. “Okay, even if I did – which I’m not admitting – there’s a difference between me being cautious and you being–”
He gestured vaguely at her.
“Emotionally constipated?” Garcia offered.
“I was going to say avoidant, but sure.”
Garcia’s lips twitched.
“That’s different,” she said. “What Trinity and I have is casual.”
Abbot turned to her slowly. “You keep saying that like if you repeat it enough times it’ll become true.”
“It is true.”
Across the hall, Dr. Trinity Santos leaned over a chart, sleeves pushed up, dark hair escaping her hair tie in loose strands from a long shift. There was something sharp about her. She was quick, instinctive, but her eyes softened when she listened – when she really listened.
Garcia didn’t look.
That was the problem.
Abbot followed her line of sight anyway, then glanced back at Garcia.
“Right,” he said. “Casual. That’s why you haven’t looked at her once since we started this conversation.”
Garcia kept her expression neutral. “I don’t need to look.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s not concerning at all.”
—
Month One
It started with small shifts.
Abbot stopped making excuses to not act.
It wasn’t dramatic. No sweeping confession, no grand gesture. Just–
“Hey,” he said one evening, catching Samira between patients. “You free after shift?”
Samira blinked, caught off guard for half a second before something warm spread across her face.
“Are you asking me as my attending,” she said carefully, “or—”
“Not your attending,” Abbot said quickly. Then, softer: “Just… Jack.”
That did it.
Her smile shifted. The polite, professional smile was replaced with something warmer, something more aligned with true happiness.
“I’m free,” she said.
And just like that, the line he’d been too afraid to cross… disappeared.
—
Garcia, meanwhile, did nothing.
Or at least, that’s what she told herself.
What actually happened was quieter and harder to define. Over the past few weeks she had started noticing things.
The way Trinity leaned her weight into one hip when she was tired – usually her right one, citing a gymnastics injury to her left knee one night as Garcia ran her lips over the vertical scar that blemished her patella. The way her voice softened when she spoke to anxious patients, the rough edge fading to something more comforting. The way she looked at Garcia when she thought Garcia wasn’t paying attention.
Garcia noticed.
Garcia catalogued.
Garcia did absolutely nothing about it.
Because it was casual.
Because it was easier.
Because if she didn’t name it, she didn’t have to risk losing it.
Month Two
“You went on a second date.”
Garcia’s tone carried mild surprise, which for her was practically astonishment.
Abbot leaned against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I did.”
“And a third.”
“I did that too.”
Garcia studied him for a moment. “You seem… different.”
“Better, you mean.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
She didn’t deny it.
Samira brushed past Abbot, her hand grazing his arm – brief, instinctive, but familiar – picking up a new patient chart without even a glance their way, and continuing deeper into The Pitt.
He didn’t even react like it was new.
Garcia filed that away.
“How’s your casual situation going?” Abbot asked, far too innocently.
Garcia didn’t miss a beat. “Unchanged.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning unchanged.”
Abbot hummed. “So you’re still pretending you don’t care.”
“I don’t pretend.”
“Garcia.”
“Abbot.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “She’s not casual about you.”
That–
That made her look, only for a second. Across the department, Trinity was watching her.
Not in passing. Not absentmindedly.
Feet planted, body facing forwards, watching. Cheeks slightly flushed, lips parted, hair starting to slip from her hair tie as the shift progressed. When their eyes met, Trinity didn’t look away immediately. They held each other’s gaze for a few seconds – seconds that felt like hours. Green locked on brown. Garcia could swear they were having a conversation through eye contact alone.
Garcia broke first.
Of course she did.
She turned back to her chart like nothing had happened.
“Observation isn’t evidence,” she said.
Abbot shook his head. “God, you’re impossible.”
Month Three
It happened on a night shift, because of course it did. Everything important in this godforsaken emergency department always did.
The department was quieter than usual. There were no active traumas, they were fully staffed for once, just the steady hum of patients and paperwork. It was the kind of lull that made space for things you’d been avoiding.
Garcia found Trinity in one of the empty bays, rewrapping a bandage with careful hands.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Garcia said automatically.
Trinity didn’t look up. “Then fix it.”
Garcia stepped closer, fingers brushing Trinity’s as she adjusted the wrap with efficiency and precision. The pair worked in silence for a moment, breath sounds mingling. If you’d asked Garcia she would’ve said you could hear their heartbeats in the silence.
Then Trinity spoke.
“You’re pulling away.”
Garcia stilled.
“That’s inaccurate,” she said.
Trinity finally looked at her.
Up close, she looked tired. Softened. Honest in a way Garcia wasn’t used to.
“It’s not,” Trinity said. “You’re here, but you’re not here.”
Garcia forced her hands to keep moving. “We agreed this was casual.”
“I didn’t agree to being kept at arm’s length.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s not.”
The bandage was done.
Garcia didn’t step back.
Neither did Trinity.
“What do you want, then?” Garcia asked, quieter now.
Trinity held her gaze, steady and unflinching.
“You,” she said simply. “Not half of you. Not the version that keeps everything contained. Just – you.”
Garcia’s chest tightened, something unfamiliar and unwelcome pressing against her ribs.
“That’s not–”
“Efficient?” Trinity cut in gently.
Garcia almost laughed.
“Safe,” she corrected.
Trinity’s expression softened.
“Yeah,” she said. “I figured.”
A beat.
Then, softer–
“I’m not asking you to be fearless. I’m asking you to be honest.”
The ED noise filtered faintly through the curtain – pagers beeping, phones ringing.
Garcia looked at her.
Really looked, this time.
At the tired eyes. The open expression. The quiet patience that hadn’t quite turned into resentment. Something heavier than just the pressures of being a resident.
And something shifted. Something small, not all at once, but enough.
“This isn’t casual for me,” Garcia said.
The words felt foreign. Heavy in her lungs yet real in her chest.
Trinity didn’t move, she didn’t push, she just waited. Scared to breathe lest it be enough of a breeze to send Garcia away.
Garcia exhaled slowly.
“I didn’t want it to matter this much,” she admitted.
Trinity’s lips curved, small and warm. “Yeah. I got that.”
Garcia huffed a quiet breath – almost a laugh.
“Are you going to say ‘I told you so’?”
“Desperately want to,” Trinity said. “Not going to.”
“Good.”
A pause before an arm is raised, palm up and fingers slightly splayed. Garcia reached for her with intention, and when Trinity met her halfway, their skin colliding, it sent micro-fireworks through every cell of her body.
—
Across the department, Abbot watched them from the nurses’ station, arms crossed, a slow smile spreading across his face.
Beside him, Samira followed his gaze, then looked back at him knowingly.
“Took her long enough,” she said.
Abbot huffed. “You have no idea.”
Samira bumped her shoulder lightly against his. “And you?”
He glanced at her, something softer settling in his expression now – something he wasn’t trying to hide anymore.
“I got there,” he said.
She smiled.
Yeah.
He had.
—
The Pitt kept moving.
Patients came and went. Shifts blurred together. Nothing slowed down – in fact, most days seemed more chaotic and intense than the last.
But in the middle of it there were two people who had spent years holding the line. Two people who had finally stepped over it and didn’t look back.
—
Years later, in the same departments – Yolanda a surgical attending; himself, Samira, and Trinity as trauma and emergency attendings, with the same hum of chaos surrounding them, that was the moment Abbot still thought about.
Not the Garcia’s perfect call to go to surgery. Not the speed at which they worked. Not the precision with which she cut. It was the moment she chose to stay.
And the moment she saw him, too.
Because somewhere between loss and learning how to keep going, they had both, in different ways, figured out how to carry something and not let it stop them from reaching for more.