Chapter Text
The group chat was unbearable.
Mia:Reminder!!! RSVP deadline tonight! Plus one names needed by midnight <3
You stared at your phone from the nurses’ station while the emergency department around you dissolved into its usual controlled chaos.
A trauma was rolling in.
Someone in psych was screaming.
One of the interns looked seconds away from vomiting.
And somehow your cousin’s wedding still felt more stressful.
“You look homicidal.”
You glanced up to find Cassie McKay leaning against the counter with a coffee in hand, already in navy scrubs despite being two hours early for shift.
“I need a date,” you muttered.
Cassie blinked. “For sex or appearances?”
“Wedding.”
“Oh.” She sipped her coffee. “That’s easier.”
You snorted.
“No, seriously.” She unlocked her phone and shoved it toward you. “There’s an app.”
You stared at the screen.
Date4U.
“What is this?”
“You can hire people to be your fake partner for events. Weddings, reunions, funerals, work galas. Rich lonely people use it constantly.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m literally not.”
“You’re telling me I can rent a husband?”
Cassie grinned. “Temporary emotional support man.”
You laughed despite yourself.
Then your cousin texted again.
Mia:And no random Tinder weirdos please.
Your eye twitched.
“…Fine.”
—
You downloaded the app during your break.
Most of the profiles were horrifying.
One guy posed shirtless holding a fish.
Another described himself as an “alpha male entrepreneur.”
Immediate no.
Then you stopped scrolling.
The profile photo was familiar.
Too familiar.
Your stomach dropped.
Jack A.
Age: 48
Occupation: Physician
Specialties: “Good in high-stress environments. Excellent conversationalist. Will convincingly survive difficult family dinners.”
You stared at the screen.
No.
No way.
You clicked the profile.
Additional Information:
• Widower
• Former military medic
• Trauma specialist
• Available for weddings, memorials, corporate events
• “Can dance badly but enthusiastically.”
Your jaw slowly fell open.
“Holy shit.”
“Find someone?” Cassie asked casually.
You turned the screen toward her.
The second she saw the profile photo, she choked on her coffee.
“Oh my God.”
There he was.
Jack Abbott.
Senior attending.
Head nightshift physician.
The most intimidating man in PTMC.
The man who once reduced a resident to tears with a single disappointed look.
The same man currently stitching a chest wound three bays down.
Cassie looked delighted.
“You have to hire him.”
“I absolutely cannot hire my boss as a fake husband.”
“Coward.”
“He’ll know it’s me!”
“Not if you use the anonymous request feature.”
You looked back at the profile.
Jack’s bio continued:
Recently told I need less adrenaline-based hobbies.
Your eyebrows rose.
That sounded exactly like him.
A terrifyingly competent ER physician who somehow also did SWAT medic work, mountain climbing, motorcycle racing, and God knew what else.
“You know what,” Cassie said thoughtfully, “this actually tracks.”
“How?”
“He’s emotionally unavailable but weirdly protective. That app is basically exposure therapy.”
You barked out a laugh.
Then, against every better judgment you possessed—
—you hit request.
—
Jack Abbott accepted thirty minutes later.
You nearly flatlined.
Jack A.: Looking forward to the event. Send details.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.
You typed:
This is slightly mortifying but I think we work together.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
Ah.
You buried your face in your hands.
A new message arrived.
Well. This should be interesting.
—
The wedding was in a vineyard two hours outside Pittsburgh.
Jack arrived exactly on time in a charcoal suit that should’ve been illegal.
You nearly forgot your own name when he stepped out of the car.
He looked unfairly good clean-shaven.
Older.
Broad-shouldered.
Calm in that dangerous way he always was at work.
His eyes flicked over you once before softening almost imperceptibly.
“You clean up nicely, nurse.”
Your stomach betrayed you completely.
“You’re one to talk, doctor.”
A corner of his mouth twitched.
Then he offered his arm.
Professional.
Polite.
Safe.
“Ready?”
You took it anyway.
The warmth of his hand through your sleeve felt catastrophic.
—
By the middle of the reception, your family adored him.
Your grandmother literally kissed his cheek.
Your cousin called him “husband material.”
And Jack—
God.
Jack played the role too well.
He kept a hand at your back while navigating crowds.
Remembered details from stories you’d told at work months ago.
Pulled out your chair.
Danced with you badly but enthusiastically exactly like his profile promised.
“You did this before?” you asked while swaying under fairy lights.
“Couple times.”
“You rent yourself out for emotional labor regularly?”
His laugh was low and rough.
“Apparently.”
“You know this is insane, right?”
“Says the woman who hired her attending physician.”
You groaned into his shoulder.
He laughed again.
The sound vibrated against your skin.
And for one dangerous moment—
it didn’t feel fake at all.
—
When he drove you home later that night, neither of you moved to get out immediately.
Rain tapped softly against the windshield.
“You were good with them,” you said quietly.
Jack looked ahead at the dark street.
“I used to do this stuff a lot.”
“Weddings?”
“Family.”
Something in his voice shifted.
Not cold.
Just… tired.
You remembered the widower label on his profile.
You swallowed carefully.
“I’m sorry.”
His jaw tightened briefly.
Then he looked at you.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me like I’m breakable.”
You held his gaze.
“You aren’t?”
A long silence.
Then, unexpectedly gentle:
“Not as much as people think.”
Your heartbeat stumbled.
Jack looked away first.
“Goodnight, nurse.”
But neither of you noticed he didn’t correct you when you called him Jack for the first time.