#Medical Coding Compliance

[allzonems]

External Coding Audits: A Vital Tool for Healthcare Providers

In today’s complex healthcare landscape, with constantly evolving medical codes and payer regulations, external coding audits have become a crucial tool for healthcare providers. These independent reviews, conducted by third-party experts, offer a comprehensive assessment of coding practices, identifying errors, inefficiencies, and potential compliance risks.

Why are External Coding Audits Important?

Ensuring Compliance: Healthcare is a heavily regulated industry. External audits help providers adhere to strict coding standards, reducing the risk of penalties and legal issues.

Improving Coding Accuracy: By identifying and correcting coding errors, audits help prevent claim denials and underpayments, safeguarding revenue integrity.

Enhancing Operational Efficiency: Regular audits can streamline coding processes, leading to increased efficiency and reduced administrative costs.

Key Benefits of External Coding Audits:

Reduced Compliance Risk: By staying up-to-date with regulatory changes, audits minimize the risk of non-compliance.

Objective Assessment: External auditors provide an unbiased perspective, identifying issues that internal reviews might miss.

Improved Documentation: Audits often lead to better documentation practices, supporting accurate coding and clinical decision-making.

Increased Revenue: By identifying missed billing opportunities and reducing denials, audits can boost revenue and cash flow.

Continuous Learning: Audit feedback provides valuable insights for training and educating coding staff.

Types of External Coding Audits:

Pre-Bill Audits: Review coding before claims are submitted to prevent errors.

Retrospective Audits: Analyze past claims to identify and correct errors.

Focused Audits: Target specific services or departments for in-depth review.

Common Coding Errors Identified by Audits:

Upcoding or Downcoding: Billing for services at an incorrect level.

Unbundling: Separately billing for procedures that should be grouped together.

Incomplete or Inaccurate Documentation: Lack of sufficient documentation to support coding.

How to Choose the Right External Coding Audit Partner:

When selecting an external audit partner, consider the following:

Certification and Expertise: Choose a partner with certified coding professionals.

Proven Track Record: Look for a partner with a history of successful audits.

Customization Capabilities: Select a partner that can tailor audits to your specific needs.

By investing in regular external coding audits, healthcare providers can significantly improve their coding accuracy, compliance, and overall financial performance. A reliable medical coding company and medical billing services provider like Allzone MS can help navigate the complexities of medical coding, ensuring that your organization is well-positioned to thrive in the dynamic healthcare landscape.

Read more: https://www.allzonems.com/medical-coding-audit/

[trilogyqualityassurance]

https://trilogyqualityassurance.com/blog/the-ultimate-guide-to-home-health-coding-icd10-services-in-2025/

[acornhim]

Mastering Domain II of the RHIT Exam: Access, Disclosure, Privacy, and Security

Mastering Domain II of the RHIT Exam: Access, Disclosure, Privacy, and Security

Earning your Registered Health Information Technician (RHIT) credential is a big achievement. It shows you have the knowledge and skills to handle health information with care; making sure it’s accurate, secure, and confidential. One of the most important parts of the RHIT exam is Domain II: Access, Disclosure, Privacy, and Security. In today’s healthcare world, where so much information is stored digitally and privacy rules are more complex than ever, this domain tests not just what you know but how well you can apply it to real situations.

What Is Domain II?

Domain II is all about understanding how health information is accessed, shared, and protected. It covers the laws, policies, and procedures designed to keep patient information safe while making sure the right people can access it when needed. This includes important topics like HIPAA regulations, how to properly release information, ways to protect data, how to respond if there’s a breach, and how to ethically handle sensitive patient information (Sayles, 2020).

In today’s world of electronic health records (EHRs), telehealth services, and health data sharing across systems, keeping information secure and private is more important than ever. Mistakes or breaches can put patient trust at risk and even lead to legal trouble. That’s why Domain II is designed to make sure you’re ready to protect patient information in both paper and electronic formats, no matter where you work (Sayles, 2020).

Key Focus Areas

1. Legal and Regulatory Requirements

Understanding the laws around health information is the foundation of this domain. You’ll need to know the ins and outs of HIPAA, especially the Privacy and Security Rules, which govern how protected health information (PHI) can be used and shared. The HITECH Act also plays a big role, expanding HIPAA’s reach and adding breach notification rules. Since state laws sometimes have stricter privacy requirements than federal ones, you’ll also need to know how to handle those differences. And don’t forget patient rights patients have the right to see, amend, or limit access to their health records. Finally, you should understand how to deal with legal requests like subpoenas or court orders properly (Sayles, 2020).

2. Access and Disclosure Policies

This section covers how you control who gets to see health information and under what conditions. You’ll learn when patient authorization is necessary and how to document it correctly. You’ll also need to understand the Release of Information (ROI) process, knowing who can receive information and how to track those requests carefully. The Minimum Necessary Standard is key here; it means only sharing the smallest amount of information needed for a specific purpose, reducing unnecessary exposure. Special care is needed when dealing with sensitive records like mental health, substance abuse, reproductive health, or HIV/AIDS data, as these often require extra protection  (Sayles, 2020).

3. Health Information Security

Protecting health data isn’t just about rules it’s also about putting the right safeguards in place. This part dives into administrative safeguards like policies and procedures that show how an organization follows HIPAA’s security requirements. You’ll also study technical safeguards such as passwords, role-based access controls, audit logs, and encryption, tools that keep electronic health records secure. Physical safeguards are just as important; these include things like controlling who can enter facilities, securing workstations, and properly disposing of paper records. Regular security training helps staff stay aware of risks and best practices, reducing mistakes that could lead to breaches. Finally, you’ll learn how to handle incidents like data breaches, including how to report and respond to them quickly and effectively (Sayles, 2020).

4. Data Integrity and Confidentiality

Keeping records accurate and trustworthy throughout their lifecycle is essential. You’ll explore how to handle amendments and changes in a way that maintains data integrity. Regular data audits help spot unauthorized access and keep things transparent. Strong confidentiality policies ensure only authorized personnel can access PHI, and conducting risk assessments helps identify weak points and plan for better protection (Sayles, 2020).

5. Professional Ethics and Responsibilities

Being an HIM professional means more than just following rules, it means living up to high ethical standards guided by the AHIMA Code of Ethics. This code highlights the importance of advocating for patients, protecting their rights and dignity every step of the way. It also stresses honesty and integrity you should never do anything that might compromise the confidentiality or accuracy of patient information. Good professional judgment is crucial, especially when facing tough or unclear situations. And finally, managing conflicts of interest means making sure your personal or financial interests never get in the way of your professional responsibilities (Sayles, 2020).

Tips for Studying Domain II

Mastering Domain II isn’t just about memorizing facts it’s about thinking like a compliance officer, a privacy advocate, and a leader in health information management. Here are some tips to help you prepare:

Use case-based learning: Work through real-life scenarios, like handling information requests from family members or law enforcement, to see how the rules apply in practice.

Create flowcharts: Visualize complex processes such as release of information, breach response steps, or who can access different levels of PHI.

Take practice exams regularly: This will sharpen your recall and help you develop the reasoning skills needed for tricky questions.

Stay current: HIPAA and healthcare privacy laws evolve, especially with the rise of telehealth and new security threats. Keep up with changes so your knowledge stays fresh and relevant

Final Thoughts

Mastering Domain II of the RHIT exam is about more than passing a test it’s about becoming a trusted guardian of patient privacy and health data security. When you’re well-trained, aware, and ethical, you help build a safer, more effective healthcare system for everyone.

Remember, every policy you learn and every scenario you practice impacts real people. Patients count on professionals like you to handle their information with care, competence, and respect. Take that responsibility seriously, and you’ll be well on your way to success not just on the exam, but in your career as a Health Information Technician.

References

American Health Information Management Association. (2023). RHIT certification exam content outline. AHIMA. https://www.ahima.org/media/x3opwug4/rhit_contentoutline_09_2023_final-1.pdf

Sayles, W. L. (2020). Health information management technology: An applied approach (5th ed.). Elsevier.

[ragnar7283]

Discover the essentials of CPT Code 99214, its usage, and tips for accurate medical billing and reimbursement. Improve your coding practices and ensure compliance.

[billingguides]

"Key ICD-10-CM Medical Coding Changes by CMS for FY 2025" "Discover the significant updates in ICD-10-CM medical coding rolled out by CMS for the fiscal year 2025. These updates are essential for healthcare providers and coders to stay compliant and ensure accurate billing. To learn more about how these changes will impact medical practices, read our comprehensive blog post: https://imedclaims.com/cms-icd-10-cm-changes-for-fy-2025/. Stay ahead with the latest coding updates and compliance guidelines."

[medical-billing-service-0]

Optimizing Financial Management with Chiropractic Billing Services

In the healthcare sector, chiropractic care plays a vital role in managing musculoskeletal conditions, improving mobility, and enhancing patients' overall quality of life. However, managing the financial aspects of a chiropractic practice can be challenging due to the unique nature of treatments, frequent patient visits, and varying insurance policies. This is where medical billing services come into play, ensuring that chiropractic practices can focus on providing care while their financial operations run smoothly. These services streamline the billing process, minimize errors, and enhance reimbursement rates, which ultimately leads to better revenue management for chiropractic practices.

What Are Chiropractic Billing Services?

Chiropractic billing services are specialized financial solutions designed to meet the unique needs of chiropractic practices. These services are a critical component of Revenue Cycle Management (RCM) services, which oversee the entire process of patient billing, from claim submission to final payment. Chiropractic billing services handle everything from insurance verification and coding of chiropractic adjustments to following up on claims and managing denials. Since chiropractic care often involves ongoing treatments and multiple patient visits, these billing services ensure that claims are submitted accurately and promptly, reducing delays and maximizing revenue.

The Importance of Medical Billing and Coding in Chiropractic Care

Accurate medical billing and coding is essential for chiropractic practices to ensure that they are compensated for the services they provide. Chiropractic care involves various treatments, such as spinal adjustments, physical therapy, and other therapeutic services, each of which requires precise coding to avoid errors. Incorrect or incomplete coding can lead to claim denials or underpayments, which can negatively affect a practice’s cash flow. By partnering with experienced billing professionals who specialize in medical billing and coding, chiropractic practices can ensure that their claims are submitted correctly and in compliance with industry standards, leading to improved financial outcomes.

Benefits of Healthcare IT in Chiropractic Billing

In the digital age, Healthcare IT has transformed the way billing services are managed, offering numerous benefits for chiropractic practices. Advanced billing software and electronic health record (EHR) systems streamline the billing process by automating tasks such as claim submission, coding, and patient record management. Healthcare IT reduces human error, speeds up payment cycles, and allows for better communication between chiropractic providers and insurance companies. Additionally, real-time tracking and reporting features enable chiropractic practices to monitor the status of claims and payments, ensuring that revenue is managed efficiently. Healthcare IT enhances both the accuracy and efficiency of chiropractic billing, leading to improved practice operations.

Chiropractic Billing Services at Mediclaim Management

Mediclaim Management offers specialized Chiropractic Billing Services designed to meet the needs of chiropractic practices. With a deep understanding of the unique challenges that chiropractors face, their team of billing experts ensures that all aspects of the billing process are handled with precision and care. Mediclaim Management’s Chiropractic Billing Services help providers reduce billing errors, increase claim approval rates, and expedite reimbursements. By partnering with Mediclaim Management, chiropractic practices can focus on delivering high-quality care to their patients while ensuring that their financial operations run smoothly in the background.

With Mediclaim Management’s Chiropractic Billing Services, chiropractic providers can optimize their revenue cycle, reduce financial stress, and ensure that their practice remains financially healthy. This allows chiropractors to focus on what truly matters—improving the health and well-being of their patients.

[velanhcs]

Transform Your Revenue Cycle with Velan HCS | Leading Healthcare Billing and Coding Services

Unlock the potential of your healthcare facility with expert solutions from <a href="https://www.velanhcs.com">Velan HCS</a>. We specialize in healthcare billing and coding and provide comprehensive services that enhance your revenue cycle management. Our experienced team ensures accuracy, compliance, and optimized reimbursements, empowering healthcare providers to focus on patient care. Choose Velan HCS for reliable and efficient healthcare billing and coding solutions.

Call: +1 727 756 1632

Email: sales@velanhcs.com

Website: www.velanhcs.com

[medicalcompliancesolutions]

The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA) was passed in 1996 to create national standards for the safety and security of sensitive patient information. The act purpose is to save Protected Health Information (PHI) while ensuring that individuals have access to their health information and that healthcare data flows smoothly to offer high-quality care.

[allzonems]

CPT Code 80053 Billing Guide: Accurate CMP Panel Reimbursement with CPT Coding Services

One of the most frequently used codes in laboratory testing is CPT Code 80053, which represents the Comprehensive Metabolic Panel (CMP). This panel provides essential information about a patient’s metabolic state and organ function, helping physicians diagnose and manage chronic diseases effectively. For healthcare providers and billing professionals, understanding how to accurately bill for this panel is vital to avoid claim denials and ensure proper revenue cycle management.

In this guide, we’ll break down CPT Code 80053, its components, billing requirements, and how a trusted medical coding company offering CPT coding services can help streamline the process for healthcare providers. This ultimately serves as a complete CPT coding solution for your practice.

What is CPT Code 80053?

CPT 80053 refers to the Comprehensive Metabolic Panel, a routine blood test that measures 14 different substances in the blood. These measurements help assess a patient’s kidney and liver function, electrolyte and acid/base balance, and blood glucose levels.

Components of the 80053 CMP Panel Include:

Glucose

Calcium

Sodium

Potassium

Chloride

Carbon Dioxide (Bicarbonate)

Blood Urea Nitrogen (BUN)

Creatinine

Albumin

Total Protein

ALP (Alkaline Phosphatase)

ALT (Alanine Aminotransferase)

AST (Aspartate Aminotransferase)

Bilirubin, Total

Each of these individual tests can be billed separately, but when ordered together and medically necessary, they are billed under a single panel using 80053, simplifying the billing process and reflecting appropriate bundling as per CPT guidelines.

Billing Guidelines for CPT 80053

Correct billing of CPT 80053 requires that all 14 component tests be performed on the same date and ordered together. Failing to meet this requirement can result in a denied claim or reduced reimbursement.

Key Billing Considerations:

Medical Necessity: Documentation must support the medical necessity of all the panel components.

Bundled Services: The test is reimbursed as a single unit. Individual billing of panel components without justification may lead to duplicate billing flags.

Frequency Limitations: Many insurance carriers have frequency guidelines for how often a CMP panel can be reimbursed. Check payer policies to avoid denials.

Modifiers: If not all components of the panel are performed, modifiers may be needed to unbundle and bill separately (if permitted by the payer).

Diagnosis Coding: Ensure correct ICD-10-CM diagnosis codes that justify the medical necessity for the test.

A reputable medical billing services provider will be well-versed in these rules and help ensure accurate claim submission.

Common Denial Reasons for CPT Code 80053

Despite being a routine panel, CPT 80053 can be subject to billing errors, resulting in denied claims. Understanding these pitfalls is crucial for compliance and timely reimbursement.

Top Reasons for Denials:

Incomplete Panel Components: If all 14 components are not performed, billing 80053 is not appropriate.

Lack of Medical Necessity: Missing or inadequate documentation can result in denial due to insufficient justification.

Frequency Issues: Billing for CMP more frequently than allowed by the payer.

Incorrect Diagnosis Code Linkage: Diagnosis codes that don’t support medical necessity for each test.

Bundling Errors: Attempting to bill panel components separately without appropriate justification or modifiers.

Partnering with an experienced medical coding company can help mitigate these issues by ensuring every claim is coded accurately and compliantly. This forms a critical part of a robust CPT coding solution.

The Role of a Medical Coding Company in CMP Billing

Medical coding is more than just assigning codes; it’s about accuracy, compliance, and maximizing reimbursement. A professional medical coding company plays a pivotal role in improving coding accuracy for CPT 80053 and other panels by offering comprehensive CPT coding services:

Ensuring Proper Code Selection: Coders are trained to follow CPT and payer guidelines to code tests appropriately.

ICD-10 Mapping: Coders match appropriate diagnosis codes to lab tests to support medical necessity.

Documentation Review: Coders review physician orders and lab results to ensure all components are performed and documented.

Compliance Audits: Regular internal audits help reduce the risk of overcoding, undercoding, and payer scrutiny.

Whether you’re a small clinic or a large hospital system, CPT coding outsourcing to a medical coding company helps reduce administrative burdens and enhance revenue integrity.

Benefits of Outsourcing CMP Panel Billing

Accurate billing of panels like 80053 requires attention to detail, ongoing training, and familiarity with payer-specific guidelines. Many providers choose to outsource their medical billing services for increased accuracy and efficiency. Opting for CPT coding outsourcing provides numerous advantages:

Advantages Include:

Faster Reimbursements

Reduced Denials and Rework

Regulatory Compliance

Better Resource Allocation

Revenue Cycle Optimization

CPT coding outsourcing also gives providers access to technology-driven platforms, coding automation, and skilled professionals who stay current with CMS updates and CPT changes.

Stay Updated on CPT Changes

Every year, CPT codes and payer guidelines are subject to revisions. Inaccurate billing due to outdated knowledge can severely impact reimbursements.

To stay compliant:

Review annual CPT and HCPCS code updates

Subscribe to CMS and payer newsletters

Conduct quarterly coding audits

Partner with a reliable medical billing services company that monitors these changes for you. This is an essential aspect of a complete CPT coding solution.

Conclusion

The 80053 CPT Code for the Comprehensive Metabolic Panel (CMP) is a crucial part of routine lab testing, but it comes with specific coding and billing requirements. Missteps in documentation, code selection, or frequency guidelines can result in revenue loss and compliance risks.

One of the most frequently used codes in laboratory testing is CPT Code 80053, which represents the Comprehensive Metabolic Panel (CMP). This panel provides essential information about a patient’s metabolic state and organ function, helping physicians diagnose and manage chronic diseases effectively. For healthcare providers and billing professionals, understanding how to accurately bill for this panel is vital to avoid claim denials and ensure proper revenue cycle management.

In this guide, we’ll break down CPT Code 80053, its components, billing requirements, and how a trusted medical coding company offering CPT coding services can help streamline the process for healthcare providers. This ultimately serves as a complete CPT coding solution for your practice.

What is CPT Code 80053?

CPT 80053 refers to the Comprehensive Metabolic Panel, a routine blood test that measures 14 different substances in the blood. These measurements help assess a patient’s kidney and liver function, electrolyte and acid/base balance, and blood glucose levels.

Components of the 80053 CMP Panel Include:

Glucose

Calcium

Sodium

Potassium

Chloride

Carbon Dioxide (Bicarbonate)

Blood Urea Nitrogen (BUN)

Creatinine

Albumin

Total Protein

ALP (Alkaline Phosphatase)

ALT (Alanine Aminotransferase)

AST (Aspartate Aminotransferase)

Bilirubin, Total

Each of these individual tests can be billed separately, but when ordered together and medically necessary, they are billed under a single panel using 80053, simplifying the billing process and reflecting appropriate bundling as per CPT guidelines.

Billing Guidelines for CPT 80053

Correct billing of CPT 80053 requires that all 14 component tests be performed on the same date and ordered together. Failing to meet this requirement can result in a denied claim or reduced reimbursement.

Key Billing Considerations:

Medical Necessity: Documentation must support the medical necessity of all the panel components.

Bundled Services: The test is reimbursed as a single unit. Individual billing of panel components without justification may lead to duplicate billing flags.

Frequency Limitations: Many insurance carriers have frequency guidelines for how often a CMP panel can be reimbursed. Check payer policies to avoid denials.

Modifiers: If not all components of the panel are performed, modifiers may be needed to unbundle and bill separately (if permitted by the payer).

Diagnosis Coding: Ensure correct ICD-10-CM diagnosis codes that justify the medical necessity for the test.

A reputable medical billing services provider will be well-versed in these rules and help ensure accurate claim submission.

Common Denial Reasons for CPT Code 80053

Despite being a routine panel, CPT 80053 can be subject to billing errors, resulting in denied claims. Understanding these pitfalls is crucial for compliance and timely reimbursement.

Top Reasons for Denials:

Incomplete Panel Components: If all 14 components are not performed, billing 80053 is not appropriate.

Lack of Medical Necessity: Missing or inadequate documentation can result in denial due to insufficient justification.

Frequency Issues: Billing for CMP more frequently than allowed by the payer.

Incorrect Diagnosis Code Linkage: Diagnosis codes that don’t support medical necessity for each test.

Bundling Errors: Attempting to bill panel components separately without appropriate justification or modifiers.

Partnering with an experienced medical coding company can help mitigate these issues by ensuring every claim is coded accurately and compliantly. This forms a critical part of a robust CPT coding solution.

The Role of a Medical Coding Company in CMP Billing

Medical coding is more than just assigning codes; it’s about accuracy, compliance, and maximizing reimbursement. A professional medical coding company plays a pivotal role in improving coding accuracy for CPT 80053 and other panels by offering comprehensive CPT coding services:

Ensuring Proper Code Selection: Coders are trained to follow CPT and payer guidelines to code tests appropriately.

ICD-10 Mapping: Coders match appropriate diagnosis codes to lab tests to support medical necessity.

Documentation Review: Coders review physician orders and lab results to ensure all components are performed and documented.

Compliance Audits: Regular internal audits help reduce the risk of overcoding, undercoding, and payer scrutiny.

Whether you’re a small clinic or a large hospital system, CPT coding outsourcing to a medical coding company helps reduce administrative burdens and enhance revenue integrity.

Benefits of Outsourcing CMP Panel Billing

Accurate billing of panels like 80053 requires attention to detail, ongoing training, and familiarity with payer-specific guidelines. Many providers choose to outsource their medical billing services for increased accuracy and efficiency. Opting for CPT coding outsourcing provides numerous advantages:

Advantages Include:

Faster Reimbursements

Reduced Denials and Rework

Regulatory Compliance

Better Resource Allocation

Revenue Cycle Optimization

CPT coding outsourcing also gives providers access to technology-driven platforms, coding automation, and skilled professionals who stay current with CMS updates and CPT changes.

Stay Updated on CPT Changes

Every year, CPT codes and payer guidelines are subject to revisions. Inaccurate billing due to outdated knowledge can severely impact reimbursements.

To stay compliant:

Review annual CPT and HCPCS code updates

Subscribe to CMS and payer newsletters

Conduct quarterly coding audits

Partner with a reliable medical billing services company that monitors these changes for you. This is an essential aspect of a complete CPT coding solution.

Conclusion

The 80053 CPT Code for the Comprehensive Metabolic Panel (CMP) is a crucial part of routine lab testing, but it comes with specific coding and billing requirements. Missteps in documentation, code selection, or frequency guidelines can result in revenue loss and compliance risks.

Collaborating with a professional medical coding company ensures that your CMP billing is accurate, compliant, and optimized for maximum reimbursement. By leveraging the expertise of specialized CPT coding services through CPT coding outsourcing, healthcare providers can focus on delivering quality care while safeguarding their financial health.

Read more: https://www.allzonems.com/80053-cpt-code-cmp-panel-billing-guide/

Need Expert Help with CMP Billing?

Allzone Management Services is a trusted medical coding company offering end-to-end medical billing services tailored to your specialty. From lab coding to revenue cycle optimization, we ensure clean claims, fewer denials, and faster payments. We offer a comprehensive CPT coding solution to meet your needs.

📞 Call us today: 8668542714 📧 Email: sales@allzonems.com 🌐 Visit: www.allzonems.com

Let us take care of your coding and billing, so you can focus on patient care.

[trilogyqualityassurance]

New to home health coding? Learn the basics of coding services, HCPCS, compliance, and best practices to streamline billing and improve accuracy.

[mososimos]

Role of HIPAA compliance in insurance eligibility checks

Complying with HIPAA regulations for insurance verification in medical practices is necessary to uphold the privacy and security of patient information. If your medical practice outsources patient eligibility verification, make sure you partner with a HIPAA-compliant service provider. https://www.outsourcestrategies.com/blog/hipaa-compliance-insurance-verification/

[abbotjack]

Irregularities

LIFE WE GREW SERIES MASTERLIST <3

summary : A federal audit brings a sharp, brilliant compliance officer face-to-face with Jack Abbot, a rule-breaking trauma doctor running a shadow supply system to keep his ER alive. What starts as a confrontation becomes an alliance and the two of them fall in love in the messiest, most human way possible.

word count : 13,529

warnings/content : 18+ MDNI !!! explicit language, medical trauma, workplace stress, injury description, mention of child patient death, grief processing, alcohol use, explicit sex, hospital politics, emotionally repressed older man, emotionally competent younger woman, mutual pining, slow-burn romance, power imbalance (non-hierarchical), injury while drunk, trauma bay realism, swearing, one (1) marriage proposal during sex

Tuesday – 8:00 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Lower Admin Wing

Hospitals don’t go quiet.

Not really.

Even here—three floors above the trauma bay and two glass doors removed from the chaos—there’s still the buzz of fluorescent lights, the hiss of a printer warming up, the rhythm of a city-sized machine trying to look composed. But this floor is different. It's where the noise is paperwork, and the blood is financial.

You walk like you belong here, because that’s half the job.

Navy slacks, pressed. Ivory blouse, tucked. The black wool coat draped over your arm has been folded just so, its lapel still holding the shape of your shoulder from the bus ride over. Your shoes are silent, soft-soled—conservative enough to say I’m not here to threaten you, but pointed enough to remind them that you could. Lanyard clipped at your sternum. A pen looped into the coil of your ledger notebook. A steel travel mug in one hand.

The other grips the strap of a leather bag, weighed down with printed ledgers and a half-dozen highlighters—color-coded in a way no one but you understands.

The badge clipped to your shirt flashes with every turn:

Kane & Turner LLP : Federal Compliance Division

Your name, printed clean in black sans serif.

That’s the only thing you say as you approach the front desk—your name. You don’t need to say why you’re here. They already know.

You’re the audit. The walk, the clothes, the quiet. It’s all part of the package. You’ve learned that you don’t need to act intimidating—people project the fear themselves.

“Finance conference room’s down the left hallway,” says the woman behind the desk, not bothering to smile. She’s polite, but brisk—like she’s been told to expect you and is already counting the minutes until you’re gone. “Security badge should be active ‘til five. If you need extra time, check with admin operations.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

They always act like audits come unannounced. But they don’t. You gave them notice. Ten days. Standard protocol. The federal grant in question flagged during the quarterly compliance sweep—a mismatch between trauma unit expenditures and the itemized supply orders. Enough of a discrepancy that your firm sent someone in person.

That someone is you.

You push the door open to the designated conference room and are hit with the familiar scent of institutional lemon cleaner and cold laminate tables. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the opposite hospital wing; the rest is sterile whiteboard and cheap drop ceiling. Someone left two water bottles and a packet of hospital-branded pens on the table. The air is too cold.

Good. You work better like that.

You slide into the seat furthest from the door and start unpacking: first the laptop, then the binder of flagged ledgers, then a manila folder marked ER SUPPLY – FY20 in your handwriting. You open it flat and smooth the corners, spreading it across the table like a map. You don’t need directions. You’re here to track footprints.

Most audits feel bloated. Fraud is rarely elegant. It’s padded hours, made-up patients, vendors that don’t exist. But this one is… off. Not obviously criminal. Just messy.

You sip the lukewarm coffee you poured in the break room—burnt, stale, and still the best part of your morning—and begin.

Line by line.

February 12th: Gauze and blood bags double-logged under pediatrics.

March 3rd: 16 units of epinephrine marked as “routine use” with no corresponding case.

April 8th: High-volume saline usage with no corresponding trauma log.

None of it makes sense until you hit the May file.

May 17th.

Your finger stills over the page. A flagged case code—4413A—a GSW patient brought in at 02:11AM, code blue on arrival. The trauma bay requisition log is blank. Completely empty. No gauze. No sutures. No chest tube. Not even surgical gloves.

Instead, the corresponding supply usage appears—wrong date, wrong bay, under the general medicine supply closet three doors down. The only signature?

J. Abbot.

You sit back in your chair, eyes narrowing.

It’s not the first time his name has come up. You flip through past logs, then again through the April folder. There he is again. Trauma-level supplies signed under incorrect departments. Equipment routed through pediatrics. Trauma kit requests stamped urgent but logged under outpatient codes.

Never outrageous. Never duplicated. But always… altered. Shifted.

And always the same name in the bottom corner.

Jack Abbot Trauma Attending.

No initials after the name. No pomp. Just that hard, slanted signature—like someone in too much of a hurry to care if the pen worked properly.

You lean forward again, grabbing a sticky note.

Who the hell are you, Jack Abbot?

Your phone buzzes. A reminder that your firm expects an initial report by EOD. You check your watch—8:58 AM. Still early. You’ve got time to dig before anyone notices you’re not just sitting quietly in the background.

You open your laptop and search the internal directory.

ABBOT, JACK. Emergency Medicine, Trauma Center – Full Time Contact : j.abbot@aghosp.org Page: 3371

You hover over the extension.

Then you close the tab.

There are two ways to handle something like this. You can go the formal route—submit a flagged incident for admin review, request clarification via email, cc your firm. Or...

You can go see what the hell kind of doctor signs off on trauma supplies like they’re water and lies to the system to get away with it.

You stand.

Your shoes are soundless against the tile.

Time to meet the man behind the margins.

Tuesday — 9:07 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Emergency Wing, Sublevel One

You don’t belong here, and the walls know it.

The ER hums like a living organism—loud in the places you expect to be quiet, and disturbingly quiet in the places that should scream. No signage tells you where to go, just a worn plastic placard labeled “TRAUMA — RESTRICTED ACCESS” and an old red arrow. You follow it anyway.

Your heels click once. Then again.

A tech throws you a sideways glance. A nurse barrels past with a tray of tubing and a strip of ECG printouts clutched in her fist. You flatten yourself against the wall. Keep moving.

This isn't the world of emails and boardrooms and fluorescent-lit compliance briefings. Here, time is blood. Everything moves too fast, too loud, too hot. It smells like antiseptic and old sweat. Somewhere nearby, a man is moaning—low, ragged. In another room, someone shouts for a Glidescope.

You don’t flinch. You’ve sat across from CEOs getting indicted. But still—this is not your battlefield.

You square your shoulders anyway and head for the nurse’s station, guided by the pulsing anxiety of your purpose. The folder tucked against your ribs is thick with numbers. Itemized trauma inventory. Improper codes. Unexplained cross-departmental requisitions. And one name—over and over again.

J. Abbot.

You stop at the cluttered, overrun desk where five nurses and two interns are trying to share a single charting terminal. Dana Evans, Charge Nurse, gives you a look like she’s been warned someone like you might show up.

“You lost?” she asks, not unkind, but sharp around the edges.

“I’m here for Dr. Abbot. I’m conducting an internal audit—grant oversight tied to the ER trauma budget.”

Dana lets out a soft, near-silent laugh through her nose. “Oh. You.”

“Excuse me?”

“No offense, but we’ve been placing bets on how long you’d last down here. My money was on ten minutes. The med student said eight.”

“I’ve been here twelve.”

She cocks a brow. “Well. You just made someone ten bucks. He’s at the back bay, not supposed to be here this morning—double-covered someone’s shift. Lucky you.”

That last part catches your attention.

“Why is he covering?”

Dana shrugs, but her expression flickers—tight, guarded. “He’s not supposed to be. Got a call about a kid he used to mentor—resident from one of his old programs. Car wreck on Sunday. Jack’s been pacing ever since. Showed up before sunrise. Said he couldn’t sleep.”

You blink.

“You’re telling me he—”

“Hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten, definitely hasn’t had a civil conversation since Saturday? Yeah. That’s about right.”

You process it. Nod once. “Thank you.”

She grins. “You’re brave. Not smart. But brave.”

You leave her laughing behind you.

The trauma wing proper is a maze of curtained bays and rushed movement. You keep scanning every ID badge, every profile, looking for something—until you see him.

Back turned. Clipboard under his elbow, talking to someone too quietly for you to hear. He’s taller than you’d imagined—broad in the shoulders, but tired in the way his weight shifts unevenly from one leg to the other. One knee flexes, absorbs. The other does not.

You recognize it now.

You walk up and stop a respectful foot behind.

“Dr. Abbot?”

He doesn’t turn at first. Just adjusts the pen behind his ear, flicks a switch on the vitals monitor. Then:

“Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder, sees you, and stills.

His face is older than his file photo. Harder. Faint stubble across his jaw, a constellation of stress lines under his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. His black scrub top is creased at the collar, short sleeves revealing tan forearms mapped with faded scars and the pale ghost of a long-healed burn.

You catch your breath—not because he’s handsome, though he is. But because he’s real. Grounded. And already deciding what box to put you in.

You lift your badge. “I’m with Kane & Turner. I’m conducting a trauma budget audit for the grant you’re listed under. I’d like to go over some of your logs.”

He stares at you.

Long enough to make it feel intentional.

“Now?”

“I was told you were available.”

He huffs out a laugh, if you can call it that—dry and crooked, more breath than sound. “Jesus Christ. Yeah. I’m sure that’s what Dana said.”

“She said you came in before sunrise.”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just scratches once at his jaw, where the stubble’s gone patchy, then drops his hand again like the gesture annoyed him. “Didn’t plan to be here. Wasn’t on the board.”

A beat. Then: “Got a call Sunday night. One of my old residents—kid from back in Boston. Wrapped his car around a guardrail. I don’t know if he fell asleep or if he meant to do it. Doesn’t matter, I guess. He died on impact.”

His voice doesn’t shift. Not even a flicker. Just calm, like he’s reading it off a report. But his fingers twitch once at his side, and he’s standing too still, like if he moves the wrong way, he might break something in himself.

“I’ve been up since,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Figured I’d do something useful.”

You hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

He finally looks at you, and the hollow behind his eyes is like a door left open too long in winter. “Don’t be. He’s the one who didn’t walk away.”

A beat of silence.

“I won’t take much of your time,” you say. “But there are significant inconsistencies in your logs. Some dating back six months. Most from May. Including—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts. “May 17th. GSW. Bay One unavailable. Used the peds closet. Logged under the wrong department. Didn’t have time to clear it before I scrubbed in. End of story.”

You blink. “That’s not exactly—”

“You want a confession? Fine. I logged shit wrong. I do it all the time. I make it fit the bill codes that get supplies restocked fastest, not the ones that make sense to people sitting upstairs.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Jack turns to face you fully now, arms crossed. “You ever had a mother screaming in your face because her kid’s pressure dropped and you’re still waiting for a sterile suction kit to come up from Central?”

You shake your head.

“Didn’t think so.”

“I understand it’s difficult, but that doesn’t make it right—”

“I’m not here to be right,” he says flatly. “I’m here to make sure people don’t die waiting for tape and tubing.”

He steps closer, voice quieter now.

“You think the system’s built for this place? It’s not. It’s built for billing departments and insurance adjusters. I’m just bending it so the next teenager doesn’t bleed out on a gurney because the ER spent two hours requesting sterile gauze through the proper channel.”

You’re trying to hold your ground, but something in you wavers. Just slightly.

“This isn’t about money,” you say, though your voice softens. “It’s about transparency. The federal grant is under review. If they pull it, it’s not just your supplies—it’s salaries. Nurses. Fellowships. You could cost this hospital everything.”

Jack exhales hard through his nose. Looks at you like he wants to say a hundred things and doesn’t have the energy for one.

“You ever been in a position,” he murmurs, “where the right thing and the possible thing weren’t the same thing?”

You say nothing.

Because you’ve built a life doing the former.

And he’s built one surviving the latter.

“I’ll be in the charting room in twenty,” he says, already turning away. “If you want to see what this looks like up close, you’re welcome to follow.”

Before you can answer, someone shouts his name—loud, urgent.

He bolts toward the trauma bay before the syllables finish echoing.

And you’re left standing there, folder pressed to your chest, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with ethics and everything to do with him.

Jack Abbot.

A man who rewrites the rules not because he doesn’t care—

But because he cares too much to follow them.

Tuesday — 9:24 AM Allegheny General – Trauma Bay 2

You were not trained for this.

No part of your CPA license, your MBA electives, or your federal compliance onboarding prepared you for what it means to step inside a trauma bay mid-resuscitation.

But you do it anyway.

He told you to follow, and you did. Not because you’re scared of him—but because something in his voice made you want to understand him. Dissect the logic beneath the defiance. And because you're not the kind of woman who lets someone walk away thinking they’ve won a conversation just because they can bark louder.

So now here you are, standing just past the curtain, audit folder pressed against your chest like armor, trying not to breathe too shallow in case it looks like you’re afraid.

It’s loud. Then silent. Then louder.

A man lies on the table, unconscious. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. Jeans cut open, a ragged wound in his left thigh leaking bright arterial blood. A nurse swears under her breath. The EKG monitor screams. A resident drops a tray of gauze on the floor.

You don’t step back.

Jack Abbot is already at the man’s side.

His hands move like they’re ahead of his thoughts. No hesitation. No consulting a textbook. He pulls a sterile clamp from a drawer, presses it to the wound, and shouts for suction before the blood can pool down the table leg. The team forms around him like satellites to a planet. He doesn't yell. He commands. Low-voiced. Urgent. Controlled.

“Clamp there,” Jack says, to a stunned-looking intern. “No, firmer. This isn’t a prom date.”

You stifle a snort—barely. No one else even reacts.

The nurse closest to him says, “BP’s crashing.”

“Pressure bag’s up?”

“In use.”

“Give me a second one, now. And call blood bank—we’re skipping crossmatch. Type O, two units.”

You shift your weight quietly, moving two inches left so you’re out of the path of the incoming trauma cart. It bumps your hip. You don’t flinch.

He glances up. Sees you still standing there.

“You sure you want to be here?” he asks, not pausing. “It’s not exactly OSHA compliant.”

You meet his eyes evenly.

“You invited me, remember?”

He blinks once, but says nothing.

The monitor screams again. Jack lowers his head, muttering something you don’t catch. Then, to the nurse: “We’re not getting return. I need to open.”

“You want to crack here?” she asks. “We’re two minutes from OR three—”

“We don’t have two minutes.”

The tray arrives. Jack snaps on a new pair of gloves. You glance down and catch the gleam of something inside him—a steel that wasn’t there in the hallway.

This man is exhausted. Unshaven. Probably hasn't eaten in twelve hours. And yet every move he makes now is poetry. Violent, beautiful poetry. He’s not a man anymore—he’s a scalpel. A weapon for something bigger than him.

And still, you stay.

You even speak.

“If you’re going to override a standard OR protocol in front of a compliance officer,” you say calmly, “you might want to narrate it for the notes.”

The entire room freezes for half a second.

Jack looks up at you—truly looks—and his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something older. A flicker of amusement under pressure.

“You’re a piece of work,” he mutters, turning back to the table. “Sternotomy tray. Now.”

You watch.

He cuts.

The man survives.

And you’re left trying to hold onto the version of him you built in your head when you walked through those double doors—the reckless trauma doctor who flouts policy and falsifies entries like he’s above the rules.

But he’s not above them.

He’s beneath them. Holding them up from below.

Twenty-three minutes later, he’s stripping off his gloves and washing his hands at a sink just past the trauma bays. The blood spirals down the drain in rust-colored ribbons. His jaw is clenched. His shoulders sag.

You step closer. No fear. No folder to hide behind now—just your voice.

“I don’t know what you think I’m doing here,” you say quietly, “but I’m not your enemy.”

Jack doesn’t look up.

“You’re wearing a suit,” he says. “You carry a clipboard. You track numbers like they tell the whole story.”

“I track truth,” you correct. “Which is a lot harder to pin down when you hide things in pediatric line items.”

He turns. That gets his attention.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Hiding things?”

“I think you’re manipulating a fragile system to serve your own triage priorities. I think you’re smart enough to know how to avoid audit flags. And I think you’re exhausted enough not to care if it lands you in disciplinary review.”

His laugh is dry and joyless.

“You know what lands me in disciplinary review? Not spending thirty bucks of saline because a man didn’t bleed on the right fucking floor.”

“I know,” you say. “I watched you save someone who wasn’t supposed to make it past intake.”

Jack pauses.

And for the first time, you see it: a beat of surprise. Not in your observation, but in your acknowledgment.

“Then why are you still pushing?”

“Because I can’t fix what I don’t understand. And right now? You’re not giving me a goddamn thing to work with.”

A long silence stretches.

The sink drips.

You fold your arms. “If you want me to report accurately, show me what’s behind the curtain. The real system. Your system.”

Jack watches you carefully. His brow furrows. You wonder if anyone’s ever said that to him before—Let me see the whole thing. I won’t flinch.

“Follow me,” he says at last.

And then he walks. Not fast. Not trying to shake you. Just steady steps down the hallway. Past curtain 6. Past the empty crash cart. To a supply room you didn’t even know existed.

You follow.

Because that’s the deal now. He shows you what he’s built in the margins, and you decide whether to burn it down.

Or defend it.

Tuesday — 10:02 AM Allegheny General – Sublevel 1, Unmapped Storage Room

The hallway leading there isn’t on the public map. It’s narrower than it should be, dimmer too, the kind of corridor that exists between structural beams and budget approvals. You follow him past the trauma bay, past the marked charting alcove, past a metal door you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stopped.

Jack pulls a key from the lanyard tucked in his back pocket. Not a swipe badge—a key. Real, metal, old. He unlocks the door with a twist and a grunt.

Inside, fluorescent light hums awake overhead. The bulb stutters once, then holds.

And you freeze.

It’s a supply closet—but only in name. It’s his war room.

The room is narrow but deep, lined wall-to-wall with shelves of restocked trauma kits, expired saline bags labeled “STILL USABLE” in black Sharpie, drawers of unlabeled syringes, taped-up binders, folders with handwritten tabs. No digital interface. No hospital barcodes. No asset tags.

There’s a folding chair in the corner. A coffee mug half-full of pens. A cracked whiteboard with a grid system that only he could understand. The air smells like latex, ink, and whatever disinfectant they stopped ordering five fiscal quarters ago.

You take a breath. Step in. Close the door behind you.

He watches you like he expects you to flinch.

You don’t.

Jack leans a shoulder against the far wall, arms crossed, one leg bent to rest his boot against the floorboard behind him. The right leg. The prosthesis. You clock the adjustment without reacting. He notices that you notice—and doesn’t look away.

“This is off-grid,” he says finally. “No admin approval. No inventory code. No audit trail.”

You walk deeper into the room. Run your fingers along the edge of a file labeled: ALT REORDER ROUTES – Q2 / MANUAL ONLY / DO NOT SCAN

“You’ve built a shadow system,” you say.

“I built a system that works,” he corrects.

You turn. “This is fraud.”

He snorts. “It’s survival.”

“I’m serious, Abbot. This is full-blown liability. You’re rerouting federal grant stock using pediatric codes. You’re bypassing restock thresholds. You’re personally signing off on requisitions under miscategorized departments—”

“And you’re here with a folder and a badge acting like your spreadsheet saves more lives than a clamp and a peds line that actually shows up.”

Silence.

But it’s not silence. Not really.

There’s a hum between you now. Not quite anger. Not admiration either. Something in between. Something volatile.

You raise your chin. “I’m not here to be impressed.”

“Good. I’m not trying to impress you.”

“Then why show me this?”

“Because you kept your eyes open in the trauma bay,” he says. “You didn’t faint. You didn’t cry. You watched me crack a man’s chest open in real time, and instead of hiding behind a chart, you asked me to narrate the procedure.”

You blink. Once. “So that was a test?”

“That was a Tuesday.”

You glance around the room again.

There are labels that don’t match any official inventory records you’ve seen. Bin codes that don’t belong to any department. You pull a clipboard from the wall and flip through it—one page, then another. All hand-tracked inventory numbers. Dated. Annotated. Jack’s handwriting is messy but consistent. He’s been doing this for years.

Years.

And no one’s stopped him.

Or helped.

“Do they know?” you ask. “Admin. Robinavitch. Evans. Anyone?”

Jack leans his head back against the wall. “They know something’s off. But as long as the board meetings stay quiet and the trauma bay doesn’t run dry, no one goes looking. And if someone does, well…” He gestures to the room. “They find nothing.”

“You hide it this well?”

“I’m not stupid.”

You pause. “Then why let me see it?”

Jack looks at you.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like he’s finally weighing you honestly.

“Because you’re not like the others they’ve sent before. The last one tried to threaten me with a suspension. You walked into a trauma bay in heels and told me to log my chaos in real-time.”

You smirk. “It is hard to argue with a woman holding a clipboard and a minor God complex.”

He chuckles. “You should see me with a chest tube and a caffeine withdrawal.”

You flip another page.

“You’ve been routing orders through departments that don’t even realize they’re losing inventory.”

“Because I return what I borrow before they notice. I run double restocks through the night shift when the scanner’s offline. I update storage rooms myself. No one’s ever missed a needle they weren’t expecting.”

You shake your head. “This is a house of cards.”

Jack shrugs. “And yet it holds.”

“But for how long?”

Now you’re the one who steps forward. You plant yourself in front of the table and open your binder. Click your pen.

“I can’t pretend this doesn’t exist. If I report this exactly as it is, the grant’s pulled. You’re fired. This hospital goes under federal review for misappropriation of trauma funds.”

He doesn’t blink. “Then do it.”

You stare at him. “What?”

He steps off the wall now, closes the space between you like it’s nothing.

“I’ve survived worse,” he says. “You think this job is about safety? It’s not. It’s about how long you can keep other people alive before the system kills you too.”

You inhale, hard. “God, you’re dramatic.”

He smirks. “And you’re stubborn.”

“Because I don’t want to bury you in a report. I want to fix the goddamn machine before someone else gets chewed up in it.”

Jack stares at you.

The flicker of something new in his expression.

Respect.

“Then help me,” you say. “Let me draft a compliance framework that mirrors what you’ve built. A real one. If we can prove this routing saved lives, reduced downtime, and didn’t drain pediatric inventory, we can pitch it as an emergency operations protocol, not fraud.”

His brows lift, skeptical. “You think they’ll buy that?”

“No,” you say. “But I’m not giving them the choice. I’m giving them math.”

That gets him.

He grins. Barely. But it’s real.

“God,” he mutters. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re welcome.”

He turns away to hide the grin, but not before you catch the edge of it.

And then—quietly—he reaches for a file at the back of the shelf. It’s older. Faded. Taped up the side. He places it in your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“The first reroute I ever filed. Back in 2017. Kid named Miguel. We were out of blood bags. I had a connection with the OR nurse who owed me a favor. Rerouted it through post-op. Saved the kid’s life. Never logged it.”

You glance down at the file. “You kept it?”

“I keep all of them.”

He meets your eyes again.

“You’re not here to bury me. Fine. But if you’re going to save me, do it right.”

You nod.

“I always do.”

Tuesday — 12:23 PM Allegheny General – Third Floor Charting Alcove

There’s no door to the alcove. Just a half-wall and a partition, like someone once tried to offer privacy and gave up halfway through. There’s a long desk, a broken rolling chair, two non-matching stools, and a stack of patient folders leaning so far left you half expect them to fall. The overhead light buzzes faintly, casting everything in pale hospital yellow.

You sit at the desk anyway.

Jacket folded over the back of the stool, sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers already flying across the keyboard of your laptop. You’re building fast but clean. Sharp lines. Conditional formatting. A crisis-routing framework that looks like it was written by a task force, not two people who met five hours ago in a trauma hallway soaked in blood.

Jack stands across from you.

Leaning, not lounging. One arm crossed, the other flexed slightly as he rubs a knot in his shoulder. His scrub top is wrinkled and dark at the collar. There's a faint stain down his side you’re trying not to identify. He hasn't touched his phone in forty minutes. Hasn’t once asked when this ends.

He’s watching you.

Not like you’re entertainment. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll slip.

You don’t.

“You ever sleep?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

You don’t look up. “I’ve heard of it.”

He makes a sound—half laugh, half breath. “What’s your background, anyway? You don’t have the eyes of someone who studied finance for fun.”

“Applied mathematical economics,” you say, still typing. “Minor in gender studies. First job was forensic audits for nonprofits. Moved to healthcare compliance after a board member got indicted.”

That gets his attention. “Jesus.”

You glance at him. “I’m not here because I care about sterile supply chains, Dr. Abbot. I’m here because I know what happens when people stop paying attention to the margins.”

He leans in. “And what happens?”

You meet his eyes.

“They bleed.”

Something in his face tightens. Not defensiveness. Recognition.

You go back to typing.

On your screen, the Crisis Routing Framework takes shape line by line. A column for shelf code. A subcolumn for department reroute. A notes field for justification. A time-stamp formula.

You highlight the headers and format them in hospital blue.

Jack watches your hands. “You make it look real.”

“It is real. I’m just reverse-engineering the lie.”

“You ever consider med school?”

You snort. “No offense, but I prefer a job where the people I save don’t flatline halfway through.”

He grins. It's tired. But it's real.

You type another line, then say, “I’m flagging pediatric code 412 as overused. If they run a query, we need to show it tapered off this month. Start routing through P-580. Float department. Similar stock, slower pull rate.”

He nods slowly. “You’re scary.”

“Good. You’ll need someone scary.”

He rubs his thumb along his jaw. “You always this relentless?”

You pause. Then look at him.

“I grew up in a house where if you didn’t solve the problem, no one else was coming. So yeah. I’m relentless.”

Jack doesn’t smile this time. He just nods. Like he gets it.

You shift gears. “Talk me through supply flow. Where’s your weakest point?”

He thinks. “ICU hoards ventilator tubing. Pediatrics short-changes trauma bay stock twice a year during audit season. Central Supply won't prioritize ER if the orders come in after 5PM. And once a month, someone from anesthesia pulls from our cart without logging it.”

You blink. “That’s practically sabotage.”

You finish a formula. “Okay. I’m structuring this like a mirrored requisition chain. Any reroute needs a justification and a fallback, plus one sign-off from a second attending. If we’re going to pitch this as protocol, we can’t make you look like the sole cowboy.”

Jack quirks a brow. “Even though I am?”

“Especially because you are.”

He laughs again, and it’s deeper this time. Not performative. Just… easy.

He moves closer. Pulls a stool up beside you. Watches the screen over your shoulder.

“Alright. Let’s build it.”

You glance at him sideways. “Now you want in?”

“I don’t like systems I didn’t help design.”

You smirk. “Typical.”

“Also,” he adds, “I’m the one who’s gonna have to sell this to Robby. If it sounds too academic, he’ll assume I lost a bet and had to let someone from Harvard try to fix the ER.”

“I went to Ohio State.”

“Even worse.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re naming it CRF—Crisis Routing Framework.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s bureaucratically unassailable.”

“Still sounds like a printer manual.”

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckles again, and it hits you for the first time how rare that sound probably is from him. Jack Abbot doesn’t laugh in meetings. He doesn’t charm the board. He doesn’t play. He works. Bleeds. Fixes.

And here he is, giving you his time.

You scroll to the bottom of the spreadsheet and create a new tab. LIVE REROUTE LOG – PHASE ONE PILOT

You look at him. “You’re gonna log everything from here on out. Time, item, reroute, reason, outcome.”

Jack raises a brow. “Outcome?”

“I’m not defending chaos. I’m documenting impact. That’s how we scale this.”

He nods. “Alright.”

“You’re going to train one resident to do this after you.”

“I already know who.”

“And you’re going to let me present this to the admin team before you barge in and call someone a corporate parasite.”

Jack presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I never said that out loud.”

You glance at him.

He exhales. “Fine. Deal.”

You close the laptop.

The spreadsheet is done. The framework is real. The logs are ready to go live. All that’s left now is convincing the hospital that what you’ve built together isn’t just a workaround—it’s the blueprint for saving what’s left.

He’s quiet for a minute.

Then: “You know this doesn’t fix everything, right?”

You nod. “It’s not supposed to. It just keeps the people who do fix things from getting fired.”

Jack tilts his head. “You really believe that?”

You meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He studies you like he’s trying to find the catch.

Then he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You know, when they said someone from Kane & Turner was coming in, I pictured a thirty-year-old with a spreadsheet addiction and no clue what a trauma bay looked like.”

“I pictured a man who didn’t know what a compliance code was and thought ethics were optional.”

He grins. “Touché.”

You smile back, tired and full of adrenaline and something else you don’t have a name for yet.

Then you stand. Sling your laptop under your arm.

“I’ll send you the first draft of the protocol by morning,” you say. “Review it. Sign off. Try not to add any sarcastic margin notes unless they’re grammatically correct.”

Jack stands too. Nods.

And then—quietly, like it costs him something—he says, “Thank you.”

You pause.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t have to. You walk out of the alcove without looking back. You’ve already given him your trust. The rest is up to him.

Behind you, Jack pulls the chair closer. Opens the laptop.

And starts logging.

Saturday — 12:16 AM Three Weeks Later Downtown Pittsburgh — The Forge, Liberty Ave

The bar pulses.

Brick walls sweat condensation. Shot glasses clink. The DJ is on his third remix of the same Doja Cat song, and the bass is loud enough to rearrange your internal organs. Somewhere behind you, someone’s yelling about their ex. Your drink is pink and glowing and entirely too strong.

You’re wearing a bachelorette sash. It isn’t your party. You barely know half the girls here. One of them’s already crying in the bathroom. Another lost a nail trying to mount the mechanical bull.

And you?

You’re on top of a booth table with a stolen tiara jammed into your hair and exactly three working brain cells rattling around your skull.

Someone hands you another tequila shot.

You take it.

You’re drunk—not hospital gala drunk, not tipsy-at-a-networking-reception drunk.

You’re downtown-Pittsburgh, six-tequila-shots-deep, screaming-a-Fergie-remix drunk.

Because it’s been a month of high-functioning, hyper-competent, trauma-defending, budget-balancing brilliance. And tonight?

You want to be dumb. Messy. Loud. A girl in a too-short dress with glitter dusted across her clavicle and no memory of the phrase “compliance code.”

You tip your head back. The bar lights blur.

That’s when you try the spin.

A full, arms-above-your-head, dramatic-ass spin.

Your heel lands wrong.

And the table snaps.

You hear it before you feel it—an ugly wood crack, a rush of cold air, your body collapsing sideways. Something twists in your ankle. Your elbow hits the edge of a stool. You end up flat on your back on the floor, breath gone, ears ringing.

The bar goes silent.

Someone gasps.

Someone laughs.

And above you—through the haze of artificial light and bass static—you hear a voice.

Familiar.

Dry. Sharp. Unbelievably fucking real.

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack Abbot has been here twelve minutes.

Long enough for Robby to buy him a beer and mutter something about needing “noise therapy” after a shift that involved two DOAs, one psych hold, and an attempted overdose in the staff restroom.

Jack hadn’t wanted to come. He still smells like the trauma bay. His back hurts. There’s blood on his undershirt. But Robby insisted.

So here he is, in a bar full of neon and glitter, trying not to judge anyone for being loud and alive.

And then you fell through a table.

He doesn’t recognize you at first. Not in this light. Not in that dress. Not barefoot on the floor with your hair falling out of its updo and your mouth half-open in shock.

But then he sees the way you try to sit up.

And you groan: “Oh my God.”

Jack’s already moving.

Robby shouts behind him, “Is that—oh shit, that’s her—”

Jack ignores him. Shoves through the crowd. Kneels at your side. You’re clutching your ankle. There's glitter on your neck. You're laughing and crying and trying to brush off your friends.

And then you see him.

Your eyes go wide.

You blink. “...Jack?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. It’s me.”

You try to sit up straighter. Fail. “Am I dreaming?”

“Nope.”

“Are you real?”

“Unfortunately.”

You drop your head back against the floor. “Oh God. This is the most humiliating night of my life.”

“Worse than the procurement meeting?”

You peek up at him, hair in your eyes. “Worse. Way worse. I was trying to prove I could still do a backbend.”

Jack sighs. “Of course you were.”

You wince. “I think I broke my foot.”

He presses two fingers to your pulse, checks your ankle gently. “You might’ve. It’s swelling. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

“You are,” he says. “If you’d twisted further inward, you’d be looking at a spiral fracture.”

You stare at him. “Did you really just trauma-evaluate my foot in a bar?”

Jack looks up. “Would you prefer someone else?”

“No,” you admit.

“Then shut up and let me finish.”

Your friends hover, but none of them move closer. Jack’s presence is... commanding. Like the bar suddenly remembered he’s the person you call when someone stops breathing.

You watch him.

The sleeves of his black zip-up are rolled to the elbow. His hands are clean now, but his cuticles are stained. His ID badge is gone, but he still wears the same exhaustion. The same steady focus.

He touches your foot again. You flinch.

Jack winces, just slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

Jack slips one arm under your legs and the other behind your back and lifts.

“Holy shit,” you squeak. “What are you doing?!”

“Getting you off the floor before someone livestreams this.”

You bury your face in his collarbone. “I hate you.”

He chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m right.”

“You smell like trauma bay and cheap beer.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

He carries you past the bouncer, past the flash of phone cameras, past Robby cackling at the bar.

Outside, the air hits you like truth. Cold. Sharp. Clear.

Jack sets you down on the hood of his truck and kneels again.

“You’re taking me to the ER?” you ask, quieter now.

“No,” he says. “You’re coming to my apartment. We’ll ice it, wrap it, and if it still looks bad in the morning, I’ll take you in.”

You squint. “I thought you weren’t off until Monday.”

Jack stands. “I’m not, but you’re coming with me. Someone’s gotta keep you from dancing on furniture.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I always am.”

You look at him.

Three weeks ago, you rewrote a system together. Built a lifeline in the margins. Saved a hospital with data, caffeine, and stubborn brilliance.

And now he’s here, brushing glitter off your shoulder, holding your sprained foot like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I thought you hated me,” you murmur.

Jack looks at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I didn’t hate you,” he says.

He leans in.

“I just didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Saturday — 12:57 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You don’t remember the elevator ride.

Just the press of warm hands. The cold knot of pain winding tighter in your foot. The way Jack didn’t flinch when you leaned into him like gravity wasn’t working the way it should.

He’d carried you like he’d done it before.

Like your weight wasn’t an inconvenience.

Like there wasn’t something fragile in the way your hands gripped the edge of his jacket, or the way your voice slurred slightly when you whispered, “Please don’t drop me.”

“I’ve got you,” he’d said.

Not a performance. Not pity.

Just fact.

Now you’re here. In his apartment. And everything’s still.

The door clicks shut behind you. The locks slide into place. You blink in the quiet.

Jack’s apartment is...surprising.

Not messy. Not sterile. Lived in.

A row of mugs lined up by the sink—some hospital-branded, one chipped, one that says “World’s Okayest Doctor” in faded red font. A half-built bookshelf in the corner with a hammer sitting beside it, a box of unopened paperbacks on the floor. A stack of trauma logs on the kitchen counter, marked with highlighters. There’s a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair. A photo frame turned face-down.

He doesn’t explain the place. Just moves toward the couch.

“Feet up,” he says gently. “Cushions under your back. I’ll get the ice.”

You let him settle you—ankle elevated, pillow beneath your knees, spine curving against the soft give of the cushion. His hands are firm but careful. His touch steady. No wasted movement.

The moment he turns toward the kitchen, you finally exhale.

Your foot throbs, yes. But it’s not just the injury. It’s the shift. The collapse. The way your brain is catching up to your body, fast and unforgiving.

He returns with a towel-wrapped bag of crushed ice. Kneels beside the couch. Presses it gently to your swollen ankle.

You wince.

He watches you. “Still bad?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He cocks his head. “Let me guess—tax season?”

You smile, tired. “Try federal oversight for a trauma unit that runs on scraps.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

He adjusts the ice. Shifts slightly to sit on the floor beside you, back against the edge of the couch.

“Thanks for not taking me to the hospital,” you murmur after a beat.

He snorts. “You were drunk, barefoot, and covered in glitter. I figured they didn’t need that energy tonight.”

You laugh softly. “I’m usually very composed, you know.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“You’re also the only person I’ve ever seen terrify a board meeting into extending a $1.4 million grant with nothing but a color-coded spreadsheet and a raised eyebrow.”

You grin, despite the ache. “It worked.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It did.”

Silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.

The hum of his fridge clicks on. The distant wail of a siren threads through the cracked kitchen window. The ice burns through the towel, numbing your foot.

You turn your head toward him. “You don’t talk much when you’re off shift.”

He shrugs. “I talk all day. Sometimes it’s nice to let the quiet say something for me.”

You pause. Then: “You’ve changed.”

Jack’s eyes flick up. “Since what?”

“Since the first day. You were—” you search for the word, “—hostile.”

“I was exhausted.”

“You’re still exhausted.”

“Maybe.” He rubs a hand over his face. “But back then, I didn’t think anyone gave a shit about the mess we were drowning in. Then you showed up in heels and threatened to file an ethics report in real-time during a trauma code.”

You grin. “You never let me live that down.”

He chuckles. “It was hot.”

You blink. “What?”

His eyes widen slightly. He looks away. “Shit. Sorry. That was—”

“Say it again,” you say, heartbeat ticking up.

He hesitates.

Then, quieter: “It was hot.”

The room stills.

Your throat goes dry.

Jack clears his throat and stands. “I’ll get you some water.”

You catch his wrist.

He stops. Looks down.

You don’t let go. Not yet.

“I think I’m sobering up,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t speak. But his expression softens. Like he’s afraid you’ll take it back if he breathes too loud.

“And I still want you here,” you add.

That breaks something in his posture.

Not lust. Not intention.

Just clarity.

Jack lowers himself back down. Closer this time. He leans forward, arms on his knees, forearms bare, veins visible under dim kitchen-light glow. You’re aware of the space between you. The hush. The hum.

“I’ve been trying to stay out of your way,” he admits. “Let the protocol speak for itself. Let the work be enough.”

“It is.”

“But it’s not all.”

You nod. “I know.”

He meets your eyes. “I meant what I said. I didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Your chest tightens.

“You make it easier to breathe in that place,” he adds. “And I haven’t breathed easy in years.”

You lean back against the couch, exhale slowly.

“I think we’re more alike than I thought,” you murmur. “We both like being the one people rely on.”

Jack nods. “And we both fall apart quietly.”

Another silence. Another shift.

“I don’t want to fall apart tonight,” you whisper.

He looks at you.

“You won’t,” he says. “Not while I’m here.”

And then he reaches for your hand. Doesn’t take it. Just lets his fingers rest close enough that the warmth passes between you.

That’s all it is.

Not a kiss.

Not a confession.

Just one long moment of quiet, where neither of you has to hold the weight of anyone else’s world.

Just each other’s.

Sunday — 8:19 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You wake to soft light.

Filtered through half-closed blinds, the kind that turns gray into gold and casts long lines across the carpet. The apartment is quiet, still warm from the night before, but there’s no sound except the faint hum of the fridge and the scrape of the city waking up somewhere six floors down.

Your foot throbs—but less than last night.

The pain is dulled. Managed.

You shift slowly, eyes adjusting. You’re on the couch, still in your dress, a blanket draped over you. Your leg is elevated on a pillow, and your ankle is wrapped in clean white gauze—professionally, precisely. You didn’t do that.

Jack.

There’s a glass of water on the coffee table. Full. No condensation. A bottle of ibuprofen beside it, label turned outward. A banana and a paper napkin.

The care is unmistakable.

You blink once, twice, then sit up slowly.

The apartment smells like coffee.

You limp toward the kitchen on your good foot, using the back of a chair for balance. The ice pack is gone. So is Jack.

But on the counter—neatly arranged like he planned every inch—is a folded gray hoodie, your left heel (broken but cleaned), a fresh cup of black coffee in a white ceramic mug, and something that stops you cold:

The new CRF logbook.

Printed. Binded. Tabbed in color-coded dividers. The first page filled out in his slanted, all-caps writing.

At the top: CRF — ALLEGHENY GENERAL EMERGENCY PILOT — 3-WEEK AUDIT REVIEW. In the corner, under “Lead Coordinator,” your name is written in ink.

There’s a sticky note beside it. Yellow. Curling at the edge.

“It works because of you.— J”

You stare at it for a long time.

Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s not.

Because it’s simple. True.

You pick up the binder, flip to the first log. It’s already halfway filled—dates, codes, outcomes. Jack has been tracking everything. By hand. Every reroute. Every save. Every corner he’s bent back into shape.

And he’s signing your name on every one of them.

You run your fingers over the paper.

Then reach for the mug.

It’s warm. Not fresh—but not cold either. Like he poured it minutes before leaving.

You sip.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you don’t feel like you're catching up to your own life. You feel placed. Like someone made room for you before you asked.

You limp toward the window, slow and careful, and watch the street below wake up.

The city is still gray. Still loud. But it’s yours now. His, too. Not perfect. Not quiet. But it’s working.

You lean against the frame.

Your chest aches in that unfamiliar, not-quite-painful way that only comes when something shifts inside you—something big and slow and inevitable.

You don’t know what this is yet.

But you know where it started.

On a trauma shift.

In a supply closet.

With a man who saw your strength before you ever raised your voice.

And stayed.

One Month Later — Saturday, 6:41 PM Pittsburgh — Shadyside, near Ellsworth Ave

The sky’s already lilac by the time you get out of the Uber.

The street glows with soft storefront lighting—jewelers locking up, the florist’s shutters halfway drawn, the sidewalk sprinkled with pale pink petals from whatever tree is blooming overhead. The restaurant is tucked between a jazz bar and a wine shop, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.

But Jack is already there.

Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t want to go in without you. He’s in a navy button-down, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, top button undone. He’s not hiding in trauma armor tonight. He looks clean. Rested. Still a little unsure.

You see him before he sees you.

And when he does—when his head lifts and his eyes find you—he stills.

The kind of still that feels like reverence, even if he’d never call it that.

He says your name. Just once. And then:

“You came.”

You smile. “Of course I came.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He looks down, breathes out through his nose. “Because sometimes when things matter, I assume they won’t last.”

You step closer.

“They haven’t even started yet,” you murmur. “Let’s go in.”

The bistro is warm. Brick walls. Low ceilings. Candles on every table, their flames soft and steady in small hurricane glass cylinders. There’s a record player spinning something old in the corner—Chet Baker or maybe Nina Simone—and everything smells like rosemary, lemon, and the faintest hint of woodsmoke.

They seat you at a two-top near the back, under a copper wall sconce. Jack pulls out your chair.

You settle in, napkin across your lap, and when you look up—he’s still watching you.

You say, half-laughing, “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You arch a brow.

Jack clears his throat, quiet. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever sit across from you like this.”

You tilt your head. “What did you think?”

“That you’d disappear when the work was done. That I’d keep building alone.”

You soften. “You don’t have to anymore.”

He looks away like he’s holding back too much. “I know.”

The first half of the date is easier than expected.

You talk like people who already know the shape of each other’s silences. He tells you about a med student who called him “sir” and then fainted in a trauma room. You tell him about a client who tried to expense a yacht as “emergency morale restoration.” You laugh. You eat. He lets you try his meal before you ask.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and dessert, the air starts to shift.

Not tense. Just heavier. Like both of you know you’ve reached the part where you either step closer… or let it stay what it’s always been.

Jack leans back, arm resting on the back of the chair beside him.

He watches you carefully. “Can I ask something?”

You nod.

“Why’d you keep answering when I texted?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—you’re good. Smart. Whole. You didn’t need me.”

You smile. “You’re wrong.”

Jack doesn’t say anything. Just waits. You fold your hands in your lap. “I didn’t need a fixer,” you say slowly. “But I needed someone who saw the same broken thing I did. And didn’t flinch.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers tap the edge of the table. “I flinched,” he says. “At first.”

“But you stayed.”

Jack looks down. Then up again. “I’ve never been afraid of blood,” he says. “Or death. Or screaming. But I’ve always been afraid of this. Of getting used to something that could disappear.”

You exhale. “Then don’t disappear.” It’s not flirty. It’s not dramatic. It’s a promise.

His hand finds the table. Palm open.

Yours moves toward it.

You hesitate. For half a second.

Then place your hand in his.

He closes his fingers around yours like he’s done it a hundred times—but still can’t believe you’re letting him. His voice is low. “I like you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do this. I don’t—”

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He stops talking. “I like you too.”

No rush. No smirk. Just this slow-burning, backlit certainty that maybe—for once—you’re allowed to be wanted in a way that doesn’t burn through you.

Jack lifts your hand. Presses his lips to the back of it—once, then again. Slower the second time.

When he lets go, it’s with a softness that feels deliberate. Like he’s giving it back to you, not letting it go.

You reach for your phone, half on autopilot. “I should call an Uber—”

“Don’t,” Jack says, low.

You pause.

He’s already pulling out his keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

You smile, small and warm.

“I figured you might.”

Saturday — 9:42 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The hallway feels quieter than usual.

Maybe it’s the way the night sits heavy on your skin—thick with everything left unsaid in the car ride over. Maybe it’s the way Jack keeps glancing over at you, not nervous, not unsure, but like he’s memorizing each second for safekeeping.

You unlock the door and push it open with your shoulder.

Warm light spills out into the hallway—the glow from the lamp you left on, the one by the bookshelf. It’s yellow-gold, soft around the edges, the kind of light that doesn’t ask for anything.

Jack pauses at the threshold.

You watch him watch the room.

He notices the details: the stack of books by the bed. The houseplant you’re not sure is alive. The smell of bergamot and something citrus curling faintly from the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just steps inside slowly, like he doesn’t want to ruin anything.

You toe off your shoes by the door. He closes it behind you, quiet as ever. You catch him glancing at your coat hook, at the little ceramic tray full of loose change and paper clips and hair ties.

“You live like someone who doesn’t leave in a rush,” he says softly.

You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugs. “It means it’s warm in here.”

You don’t know what to do with that. So you smile. And then—like gravity resets—you’re both standing in your living room, closer than you meant to be, without shoes or coats or any buffer at all.

Jack shifts first. Hands in his pockets. He looks down, then up again. There’s something almost boyish in it. Almost shy. “I keep thinking,” he murmurs, “about the moment I almost asked you out and didn’t.”

You swallow. “When was that?”

He steps closer. His voice stays low. “After we wrote the first draft of the protocol. You were sitting in that awful rolling chair. Hair up. Eyes on the screen like the world depended on your next keystroke.”

You laugh, soft.

“I looked at you,” he says, “and I thought, ‘If I ask her out now, I’ll never stop wanting her.’”

Your breath catches.

“And that scared the hell out of me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Because you’re already reaching for him. And he meets you halfway. Not in a rush. Not in a pull. Just a quiet, inevitable lean.

The kiss is slow. Not hesitant—intentional. His hand finds your waist first, the other grazing your cheek. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself.

You part your lips first. He deepens it. And it’s the kind of kiss that says: I waited. I wanted. I’m here now.

His thumb traces the side of your face like he’s still getting used to the shape of you. His mouth moves like he’s learned your rhythm already, like he’s wanted to do this since the first time you told him he was wrong and made him like it.

He breaks the kiss only to breathe. But his forehead stays pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse.

“I’m trying not to fall too fast.”

You whisper, “Why?”

Jack exhales. “Because I think I already did.”

You press your lips to his again—softer this time. Then pull back enough to look at him. His expression is unguarded. More than tired. Relieved. Like the thing he’s been carrying for years just finally set itself down. You brush your thumb across the line of his jaw.

“Then stay,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. No hesitation.

“I will.”

He follows you to the couch without asking. You curl into the corner, legs tucked beneath you. He sits beside you, arm behind your shoulders, body warm and still faintly smelling of cologne.

You rest your head on his chest.

His hand moves slowly—fingertips tracing light shapes against your spine. You think maybe he’s drawing the floor plan of a life he didn’t think he’d ever get.

Neither of you speak. And for once, Jack doesn’t need words.

Because here, in your living room, under soft lighting and quiet, and the hum of a city that never quite sleeps—you’re both still.

And neither of you is leaving.

Sunday – 6:58 AM Your Apartment – East End, Pittsburgh

It’s still early when the light begins to stretch.

Not sharp. Not the kind that yells the day awake. Just a slow, honey-soft glow bleeding in through the blinds—brushed gold along the floorboards, the edge of the nightstand, the collar of the shirt tangled around your frame.

It smells like sleep in here. Like warmth and cotton and skin. You’re not alone. You feel it before your eyes open: the quiet sound of someone else breathing. The weight of a hand resting loosely over your hip. The warmth of a body curved behind yours, chest to spine, legs tucked close like he was worried you’d get cold sometime in the night.

Jack.

Your heart gives a small, guilty flutter—not from regret. From how unreal it still feels. His arm shifts slightly. He inhales. Not quite awake, but moving toward it. You keep your eyes closed and let yourself be held.

Not because you need protection. Because being known—this fully, this gently—is rarer than safety.

The bedsheets are half-kicked off. Your shared body heat turned the room muggy around 3 a.m., but now the chill has crept back in. His nose is tucked against the crook of your neck. His stubble has left faint irritation on your skin. You could point out the way his foot rests over yours, how he must’ve hooked it there subconsciously, anchoring you in place. You could point out the weight of his hand splayed across your ribcage, not possessive—just there.

But there’s nothing to say. There’s just this. The shape of it. The way your body fits his. You shift slightly beneath his arm and feel him breathe in deeper.

Then—“You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-rough and warm against your skin.

You nod, barely. “So are you.”

He lets out a quiet hum. The kind people make when they don’t want the moment to change. You turn in his arms slowly. He doesn’t fight it. His hand slips to your lower back as you roll, fingers still curved to hold. And then you’re facing him—cheek to pillow, inches apart.

Jack Abbot is never this soft.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, messy hair pushed back on one side, face creased faintly where it met the pillow. His mouth is slightly open. There’s a dent at the base of his throat where his pulse beats slow and steady, and you watch it without shame.

His eyes search yours. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here in the morning,” he says.

You reach up, touch a lock of hair near his temple. “I think I wanted you here more than I’ve wanted anything in weeks.”

That gets him. Not a smile. Something quieter. Something grateful. “I almost left at five,” he admits. “But then you turned over and said my name.”

You blink. “I don’t remember that.”

“You said it like you were still dreaming. Like you thought I might disappear if you stopped saying it.”

Your throat catches. Jack reaches up, runs a thumb under your cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

You rest your forehead against his. “I know.”

Neither of you move for a while.

Eventually, he shifts slightly and kisses your jaw. Your temple. Your nose. When his lips brush yours, it’s not a kiss. Not yet. It’s just a touch. A greeting. A promise that he’ll wait for you to move first.

You do.

He kisses you slowly—like he’s checking if he can keep doing this, if it’s still allowed. You kiss him back like he’s already yours. And when it ends, it’s not because you pulled away.

It’s because he smiled against your mouth.

You shift again, stretching your limbs gently. “What time is it?”

Jack rolls slightly to glance at the clock. “Almost seven.”

You hum. “Too early for decisions.”

“What decisions?”

“Like whether I should make breakfast. Or pretend we’re too comfortable to move.”

Jack tugs you a little closer. “I vote for the second one.”

You laugh against his chest. His hand strokes up and down your spine in lazy, slow passes. Nothing rushed. Just skin and warmth and quiet.

It’s a long time before either of you try to get up. When you do, it’s because Jack insists on coffee.

You sit on the bed, cross-legged, blanket pooled around your waist while he pads around the kitchen in boxers, hair a mess, your fridge open with a squint like he’s trying to understand your milk choices.

“I have creamer,” you call.

“I saw. Why is it in a mason jar?”

“Because I dropped the original bottle and couldn’t get the lid back on.”

Jack just laughs and pours two mugs—one full, one halfway. He brings yours first. “Two sugars?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“You stirred your coffee five times the other day. I watched the way your face changed after the second packet.”

You squint. “You remember that?”

Jack shrugs, eyes soft. “I remember you.”

You take the cup. Your fingers brush. He leans in and kisses the top of your head. The apartment smells like coffee and him. He stays all morning. You don’t notice the time pass.

But when he kisses you goodbye—long, lingering, forehead pressed to yours—you don’t ask when you’ll see him next.

Because you already know.

Friday – 12:13 AM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

You’re awake, but just barely.

Your laptop is dimmed to preserve battery, the spreadsheet on screen more muscle memory than thought. You’d told yourself you'd finish reconciling the quarterly vendor ledger before bed, but your formulas have started to blur into one long row of black-and-white static.

There’s half a glass of Pinot on your coffee table. You’re in an old sweatshirt and socks, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. The only light in the apartment comes from the kitchen—low, golden, humming.

It’s late, but the kind of late you’re used to. And then—three knocks at the door. Not buzzed. Not texted. Not expected.

Three solid, decisive knocks.

You sit up straight. Laptop closed. Glass down. Your feet find the floor with a soft thud as you cross the room. The locks click one by one. You look through the peephole and your heart stumbles.

Jack.

Black scrubs. Blood dried along his collar. One hand braced against your doorframe, as if he needed the structure to hold himself up.

You don’t hesitate. You open the door. He looks at you like he’s not sure he should’ve come. You step aside anyway.

“Come in.”

Jack crosses the threshold slowly, like someone walking into a church they haven’t set foot in since the funeral. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t offer a greeting. His movements are mechanical. His body’s tight.

He stands in the middle of your living room, beneath the soft spill of light from the kitchen, and doesn’t say a word.

You shut the door. Turn toward him.

“Jack.”

His eyes lift to yours. He looks wrecked. Not bleeding. Not broken. Just… done. And yet still trying to hold it all together. You take one step forward.

“I lost a kid,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Tonight.”

You go still.

“She came in from a hit-and-run. Eleven. Trauma-coded on arrival. We got her to the OR. Her BP was gone before the second unit of blood even cleared.”

You don’t interrupt.

“She had these barrettes in her hair. Bright pink. I don’t know why I keep thinking about them. Maybe because they were the only clean thing in the whole room. Or maybe because—” he breaks off, jaw clenched.

You reach for his wrist. He lets you.

“I didn’t want to stop. Even after I knew it was gone. Her mom—” his voice cracks—“she was screaming.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. He finally looks at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to bring this to you. The blood. The mess. You work in numbers and deadlines. Spreadsheets and order. This isn’t your world.”

“You are.”

That stops him. Jack looks down.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You step into him fully now, arms sliding around his back. His hands hover for a moment, unsure.

Then he folds. All at once. His chin drops to your shoulder. One arm tightens around your waist, the other wraps up your back like he’s afraid you might vanish too. You feel it in his body—the way he lets go slowly, like muscle by muscle, his grief loosens its grip on his spine.

You don't rush him. You don’t ask more questions.

You just hold.

It takes him a long time to speak again.

When he does, it’s from the couch, twenty minutes later. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, your throw blanket around his shoulders.

You made tea without asking. You’re curled at the other end, knees drawn up, watching him with quiet presence.

“I don’t know how to be this person,” he says. “The one who can’t hold it all.”

You sip from your mug. “You don’t have to hold it alone.”

Jack lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”

You set the mug down. Shift closer.

“You patch up people who never say thank you. You hold their trauma in your hands. You drive home alone with someone else’s blood on your shirt. And then you pretend none of it touches you.”

He looks over at you.

“It touches you, Jack. Of course it does.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach for his hand. Laced fingers. “I don’t need you to be okay right now.”

His shoulders drop slightly. You lean into him, resting your head on his arm.

“You can fall apart here,” you say, voice low. “I know how to hold weight.”

Jack breathes in like that sentence pulled something loose in his chest. “You were working,” he says after a beat. “I shouldn’t have come.”

You look up. “I audit grants for a living. I’ll survive a late ledger.”

He smiles, barely. You move your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there.

“I’m glad you came here.”

He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours. “Me too.”

He kisses you once—slow, still tasting like exhaustion—and when he pulls back, it feels like the world has shifted a half-inch left.

You don’t say anything else. You just get up, take his hand, and lead him down the hallway.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other.

Jack’s head pressed between your shoulder and collarbone. Your legs tangled. Your arm around his middle. And for the first time in hours, his breathing evens out. He doesn’t flinch when the siren howls down the block. He doesn’t wake from the sound of your radiator clanking.

He stays still.

Safe.

And when you wake hours later to the soft grey of morning just beginning to yawn over the windowsill—Jack is already looking at you. Eyes soft. Brow relaxed.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods. “I will be.”

Jack watches you like he’s learning something new. And for once—he doesn’t try to fix a single thing.

Two weeks after the hard night — Thursday, 9:26 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The second episode of the sitcom has just started when you realize Jack isn’t watching anymore. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, fleece blanket over your legs, half a container of pad thai balanced precariously on your thigh. Jack’s sitting at the other end, your feet in his lap, chopsticks abandoned, one hand absently rubbing slow circles over your ankle.

His gaze is fixed—not on the TV, not on his food. On you.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

Jack shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow. He smiles. “You’re just… really good at this.”

You blink. “At what? Being horizontal?”

He shrugs. “That. Letting me in. Making room for me in your life. Turning leftovers into dinner without apologizing. Letting me keep my toothbrush here.”

You snort. “Jack, you have a drawer.”

He grins, but it fades slowly. Not gone—just quieter. “I keep waiting to feel like I don’t belong in this. And I haven’t.”

You watch him for a long beat. Then: “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

He looks down. Then back up. “I think I was afraid you’d get bored of me. That you’d realize I’m too much and not enough at the same time.”

Your heart tightens. “Jack.”

But he lifts a hand—like he needs to say it now or he won’t. “And then I came here the other week—falling apart in your doorway—and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask me to explain it or shape it or make it easier to hold. You just… held me.”

You set the container down. Jack shifts closer. Takes your foot in both hands now. Thumb moving over your arch, slower than before.

“I’ve spent years patching things. Working nights. Giving the best parts of me to strangers who forget my name. And you—” he exhales—“you made space without asking me to perform.”

You don’t speak. You just listen. And then he says it. Not softly. Not theatrically. Just right.

“I love you.”

You blink. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how easy it lands. How certain it feels.

Jack waits. Your mouth opens—and for a moment, nothing comes out. Then: “You know what I was thinking before you said that?”

He quirks a brow.

“I was thinking I could do this every night. Sit on this couch, eat cold noodles, watch something dumb. As long as you were here.”

Jack’s eyes flicker. You move closer. Take his face in both hands. “I love you too.” You don’t say it like a question. You say it like it’s always been true.

Jack leans in, kisses you once—sweet, grounding, slow. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, but it’s not smug. It’s soft. Like relief. Like home.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Okay.”

Four Months Later — Sunday, 6:21 PM Regent Square — Their First House

There are twenty-seven unopened boxes between the two of you.

You counted.

Because you’re an accountant, and that’s how your brain makes sense of chaos: it gives it a ledger, a timeline, a to-do list. Even now—sitting on the floor of a house that still smells like primer and wood polish—your eyes keep drifting toward the boxes like they owe you something.

But then Jack walks in from the porch, and the air shifts. He’s barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a bottle of sparkling water dangling from one hand. His hair’s slightly damp from the post-move-in rinse you bullied him into. And there’s something different in his face now—lighter, maybe. Looser.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m mentally organizing.”

Jack drops beside you on the floor, leans his shoulder into yours. “You’re stress-auditing the spice rack.”

“It’s not an audit,” you murmur. “It’s a preliminary layout strategy.”

He grins. “Do I need to leave you alone with the cinnamon?”

You elbow him.

The room around you is full of light. Big windows. A scratched-up floor you kind of already love. The couch is still wrapped in plastic. You’re sitting on the rug you just unrolled—your knees pressed to his thigh, your coffee mug still warm in your hands. There’s a half-built bookcase in the corner. Your duffel bag’s still open in the hall.

None of it’s finished. But Jack is here. And that makes the rest feel possible. He glances around the room. “You know what we should do?”

You look at him, wary. “If you say ‘unpack the garage,’ I’m calling a truce and ordering Thai.”

“No.” He turns toward you, one arm braced across his knee. “I meant we should ruin a room.”

You blink. Then stare. Jack watches your expression shift. You set your mug down slowly. “Ruin?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, totally unaware. “Pick one. Go full chaos. Pretend we can set it up tonight. Pretend we didn’t already work full days and haul furniture and fail to assemble a bedframe because someone threw out the extra screws—”

“I did not—”

He holds up a hand, grinning. “Not important. Point is: let’s ruin one. Let it be a disaster. First night tradition.”

You pause.

Then—tentatively: “You want to… have sex in a room full of boxes?”

Jack freezes. You raise an eyebrow. “Oh my God,” he mutters.

You start laughing. Jack covers his face with both hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You said ruin a room.”

“I meant emotionally. Functionally.”

You’re still laughing—half from exhaustion, half from how red his ears just went.

“Jesus,” he mutters into his hands. “You’re the one with a mortgage spreadsheet color-coded by quarter and you thought I wanted to christen the house with a full-home porno?”

You bite your lip. “Well, now you’re just making it sound like a challenge.”

Jack groans and collapses backward onto the rug. You follow him. Lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The ceiling above is bare. No light fixture yet. Just exposed beams and white primer. You stare at it for a long beat, side by side. He turns his head. Looks at you.

“You really thought I meant sex in every room?”

You shrug. “You said ruin. I was tired. My brain filled in the blanks.”

Jack snorts. Then rolls toward you, props himself on one elbow. “Would it be that bad if I had meant that?”

You glance at him. He’s flushed. Amused. Slightly wild-haired. You reach up and thread your fingers through the edge of his hoodie.

“I think,” you say slowly, “that it would make for a very effective unpacking incentive.”

Jack grins. “We’re negotiating with sex now?”

You shrug. “Depends.”

He kisses you once—soft and full of quiet mischief. You blink up at him. The room is suddenly still. Warm. Dimming. Gentle. Jack’s smile fades a little. Not gone—just quieter. Real.

“I know it’s just walls,” he says softly, “but it already feels like you live here more than me.”

You frown. “It’s our house.”

He nods. “Yeah. But you make it feel like home.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans down and kisses you again—this time longer. Slower. His hand curls against your waist. Your body moves with his instinctively. The kiss lingers.

And when he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, “Okay. Let’s ruin the bedroom first.”

You smile. He stands, offers you a hand. And you follow. Not because you owe him. But because you’ve already decided:

This is the man you’ll build every room around.

One Year Later — Saturday, 11:46 PM The House — Bedroom. Dim Lamp. One Window Open. You and Him.

Jack Abbot is looking at you like he wants to burn through you.

You’re straddling his lap, bare thighs across his hips, tank top riding high, no underwear. His sweatpants are halfway down. Your bodies are flushed, panting, teeth-marks already ghosting along your collarbone. His hands are firm on your waist—not rough. Just present. Like he’s still making sure you’re real.

The window’s cracked. Night breeze slipping in against sweat-slicked skin.

The sheets are kicked to the floor.

You’d barely made it to the bedroom—half a bottle of wine, two soft laughs, one look across the kitchen, and he’d muttered something about being obsessed with you in this shirt, and that was it. His mouth was on your neck before you hit the hallway wall.

Now you're here.

Rocking slow on his cock, bodies tangled, your hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped around the back of his neck.

“Fuck,” Jack groans, barely audible. “You feel…”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”

You’d always known.

But tonight?

Tonight, it clicks in a way that guts you both.

He’s not thrusting. He’s holding you there—deep and still—like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter.

He kisses you like a vow.

You can feel how wrecked he is—his hands trembling a little now, his mouth hot and slow on your shoulder, his body not performing but unraveling.

And then he exhales—sharp, shaky—and says:

“I need you to marry me.”

You freeze.

Still seated on him, still connected, your breath caught mid-moan.

“Jack,” you say.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even blink.

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Hoarse. “I was gonna wait. Make it a thing. But I’m tired of pretending like this is just… day by day.”

You open your mouth.

He lifts one hand—fumbles behind the nightstand, like he already knew he was going to crack eventually.

And pulls out a ring box.

You blink, heart pounding. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He flips it open.

The ring is huge.

No frills. No side stones. Just a bold, clean-cut diamond—flawless, high clarity, set on a platinum band. Sleek. A little loud. But elegant as hell. The kind of thing that says, I know what I want. I’m not afraid of weight.

You blink down at it, still perched on top of him, still pulsing around him.

Jack’s voice drops—tired, exposed. “I know we won’t get married yet. I know we’re both fucking alcoholics. I know we argue over the thermostat and forget groceries and ruin bedsheets we don’t replace.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I know I leave shit everywhere and you color-code spreadsheets because it’s the only way to feel okay. I know you’re steadier than me. Smarter. Better. But I need you to be mine. Fully. Officially. Before I ruin it by waiting too long.”

You look at him—really look.

His eyes are glassy. His hair damp. His lips parted. He looks like he just survived a war and crawled out of it with the only thing that mattered.

You whisper, “You’re not ruining anything.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Say yes.”

“Jack.”

“I’ll wait. Years, if I have to. I don’t care when. But I need the word. I need the promise.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him slow.

Then lift the ring from the box.

Slide it on yourself, right there, while he’s still inside you. It fits perfectly.

His breath stutters.

You roll your hips—just once.

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

You drag your mouth across his jaw, bite down gently, then whisper: “It’s a fuck yes.”

Jack flips you—moves so fast you gasp, but his hands never leave your skin. He spreads you beneath him like a prayer.

“You gonna come with it on?” he asks, voice wrecked, forehead to yours.

“Obviously.”

“Fucking marry me.”

“I just said yes, idiot—”

“I need to hear it again.”

“I’m gonna marry you, Jack,” you whisper.

His hips drive in deeper, and you sob against his neck. Jack curses under his breath.

You come first. Soaking. Gasping. Shaking under him. He follows seconds later—moaning your name like it’s the only language he speaks.

When he collapses on top of you, still sheathed inside, he’s breathless. Raw.

He lifts your hand. Looks at the ring.

“It’s too big.”

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re gonna hit people with it accidentally.”

“I hope so.”

Jack presses a kiss to your palm, right at the base of the band.

Then, out of nowhere—

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

You smile, blinking hard.

“You’re the best thing I ever let happen to me.” You hold up your left hand, wiggling your fingers. The diamond flashes dramatically in the low light. “I can’t wait to do our shared taxes with this ring on. Really dominate the IRS.”

Jack groans into your shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”

You laugh softly, kiss the crown of his head.

And somewhere between his chest rising against yours and the breeze cooling the sweat on your skin, you realize:

You’re not scared anymore.

You’re home.

[imsojules]

After the tide turns – Part 4

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

tw: apocalypse, blood, military control, mentions of drugs, murder, swearing, inspired by the last of us, no proof read for this one, established relationship, english is not my first language!

a/n: 💩 is getting real!!  I really wanted post this sooner, but when I’m telling you I wanted to cry and bang my head into my laptop while working on this I really mean it. What is english language is even about.. anyway, please let me know what you think ♥

word count: 5.3k

taglist: @chuuuchuuutrain, @d3adfa1ry, @maddsgrace, @darkparablesfan, @yulianie

masterlist | previous | next |

The gates slam shut behind the new arrivals like a final verdict. Steel jaws snapping closed around the QZ, sealing the fate of everyone inside. The sound echoes off the concrete, a harsh punctuation that reverberates through your chest. No frantic warnings. Just the grinding machinery of control clicking deliberately into place.

Ward Cameron steps forward like a man born to command moments like this. His stride is calm, measured, hands clasped behind his back as if inspecting property already his. His gaze sweeps the camp with the quiet assurance of a monarch surveying a conquered province.

Behind him, his men fan out like clockwork, moving with choreographed precision. One climbs the watchtower, boots striking metal silently, a ghost moving through the early morning haze. His movements carry the ease of someone holding the codes even the guards don’t have. Another slips through the barracks door, rifle lowered but ready, fluid and practiced. The guards don’t resist; they part without hesitation.

Rafe brings up the rear, the familiar smirk barely masking the sharper edge beneath. His revolver gleams under the rising sun—not merely a weapon, but a symbol. Before the Cameron convoy rolls in, Rafe deals in black market shipments: ammunition, scarce medical supplies, contraband luxuries capable of shifting loyalties in the quiet desperation of the camp. Rumors whisper of this shadow economy like a secret currency, and Rafe is its undisputed merchant prince.

This takeover isn’t just military. It’s business.

Every smooth move, every silent nod, every guard stepping aside without question is part of a plan cut in dark rooms and sealed with whispered promises over greasy tables. Rafe is the muscle and the merchant, securing his foothold in the new order.

Ward’s voice crackles over the loudspeakers. The words promise order backed by federal decree, but they sound less like salvation and more like a contract being enforced.

“You will not be harmed, so long as you comply,” he intones, voice smooth and measured, wrapping the camp like chains. “Lay down all unregistered arms. Civilian patrols are suspended. Essential workers, report to requisition points. Everyone else—remain in your shelters.”

You know compliance means survival only for those willing to obey without question.

Rafe’s black-market connections ensure Ward’s men are stocked and untouchable, while the camp slips quietly beneath their control.

You don’t realize you’ve frozen until JJ’s rough grip snaps around your wrist— grounding you.

“Back to the tent,” he murmurs, voice low, tight, like something’s coiling deep inside his chest.

But your feet refuse to move.

Rafe swaggers through last, the lazy grin barely masking the hard edge of a man who hasn’t spent the night behind the guards’ barracks. Like a visitor sliding in under the guise of diplomacy the day before, now he moves like he owns the place.

His sidearm shimmers, a quiet declaration holstered in plain sight. He chews a toothpick, eyes scanning the camp with bored indifference, as if nothing here matters.

He isn’t hunting anyone specific.

He’s just watching. Waiting.

JJ tugs again. “We have to move.”

Around you, the camp shifts.  Something subtler—whispers rippling between tents, civilians pulling back like water retreating before a storm surge. A child vanishes into the folds of a mother’s jacket.

Kiara appears at your side, blade reversed and sliding fluidly along her arm as if it’s a natural extension of her body. Pope slides up quietly beside her near the depot wall, breath ragged, eyes wide and sharp with disbelief.

“What the hell is this?” he demands, voice low but strained.

Kiara doesn’t spare him a glance.

“They’re taking the zone,” she answers quietly. Her voice is flat and distant.

“They’ve already taken it,” JJ mutters.

Kiara’s shoulders are rigid, jaw set in stone. Her blade stays hidden against her forearm, reversed and ready, but she doesn’t draw it. Her eyes scan the soldiers like a wolf studying a trap.

Then a single gunshot cracks through the air. It echoes like dry thunder, sharp and deliberate—a warning bell struck with lethal intent. It isn’t a warning shot. It’s punctuation.

Ward’s voice returns.

"This settlement is now under interim authority of the Coastal Reclamation Committee," he says, each word falling with deadly precision. "Backed by Federal Reinstatement Order Seven. You are no longer under FEMA oversight."

A new regime has just announced itself.

"If you cooperate," he adds, voice low and warm, "you will eat. You will be safe."

JJ spits into the gravel. “Safe, my ass.”

Kiara stands beside you, blade sheathed again, fists clenched. Her eyes are dark with something else. She’s not trembling. Not panicked. But it’s there in the tightness of her gaze.

Her family isn’t here. They’re in the North Sector.

Safer, for now but only if the sectors stay open.

You step toward her.

“Go,” you say quietly.

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“You have to go. Now. Get to them before the sectors close. If they seal us in—”

“No,” she snaps.

“Kiara, your parents need you. If the gates lock—”

Behind her, a FEMA banner flaps lazily in the wind—already half torn, the emblem faded from sun and time. You realize then: this isn’t just about surviving. This is about refusing to be erased.

JJ steps in. “We need to move. If they’re sweeping zones, we’ll be next.”

“Where?” Pope demands, voice shaking.

But none of you know the answer. Ward’s voice continues to echo through the camp—polished, soothing, full of promises he never intends to keep.

JJ’s eyes flick toward you, the faintest tremor betraying his steel. He’s fighting the urge to break—anger, fear, exhaustion all mingling just beneath the surface.

— 

Each day bleeds into the next with mechanical efficiency— just quiet control, wound tight like wire around every throat. The streets between tents stay still. Not peaceful. Just subdued. People walk with their heads down and their voices lower, if they speak at all. The air itself feels heavier now, like even the wind is afraid to breathe too loud.

The guards patrol move in pairs, always the same slow rhythm, eyes sharp, rifles slung casual but ready. They don’t ask for compliance. They expect it. And somehow, that’s worse.

You work the depot now. They call it “essential,” like that word means something anymore. JJ calls it “playing dead.” Do what they say, keep your mouth shut, don’t look too long in anyone’s direction.

The depot is little more than a lean-to patched together with scrap wood and tarps, its interior cramped and dim, smelling of dust, damp earth, and the faint, sour tang of sweat. Crates pile high on uneven floors, creaking softly under the weight of scarce supplies—canned food, frayed rope, faded blankets.

You stand behind the battered counter, your fingers cold and stiff from the chill creeping in through the thin tent fabric. The quiet is a fragile thing, like glass teetering on the edge of breaking.

Then the tent flap shifts—a slow, deliberate movement that makes your heart hitch. Rafe Cameron steps in, the familiar swagger in his step impossible to miss. His boots hit the dirt floor with a lazy scrape, announcing him like a storm rolling in on the horizon. That crooked toothpick is jammed between his teeth, half-chewed and half-defiant, the same grin tugging at the corner of his mouth that’s gotten so many people into trouble even before.

He leans against a crate with the ease of a man who believes the whole world should bend around him—calm, collected, dangerous. His eyes scan you slowly, cool and assessing, like he’s weighing you for some unspoken gamble. The casual cock of his head makes it clear he’s not just passing through.

From the inside of his jacket, Rafe pulls out a small, crumpled bag. The faint shimmer of pills and powders catches the weak lantern light, a secret treasure in a place where hope is scarce and pain is constant.

“You look like you could use a break,” he says, voice low and smooth like dark whiskey poured over ice. “Something to take the edge off. Just for a little while.” His grin widens, daring you to react.

You rifle through the supply list without looking up. “Not interested.”

He chuckles, a slow, rough sound that scrapes the silence. “Come on, don’t play the saint with me. Everyone’s interested in something.” His gaze locks on your hands, then slides up to meet your eyes with a flicker of challenge. “Even you.”

Your jaw tightens, refusing to show any crack in your calm.

Rafe’s eyes narrow, sharp as broken glass. “You feel like you’re just not like them, huh? You think you’re better? Stronger? Smarter?” His voice drops to a low rumble as he steps closer, heat pressing in.

“Good.” He pushes off the crate with a casual shove, boots scraping as he moves. “Means you’ve still got fight left inside you. But if you ever want to forget this hellhole for a while... you know where to find me.”

His words hang in the air, heavy and intoxicating like smoke. The tent flap rustles behind him as he steps back into the gray light outside, leaving a faint trace of cigarette smoke and something darker.

When the depot work finally lets you go, the sun starts bleeding gold across the tops of the barricades. Your back aches from lifting crates, your fingers numb from the constant cold. You don’t say goodbye to the others—just nod, scrawl your initials on the inventory sheet, and step out into the stillness.

The walk back is muscle memory. Past the burned-out bus used for storage. Past the kids trading battery scraps for dried fruit. Past the watchtower, where the same guard leans on a rusted rifle and doesn’t bother to look twice.

Your tent squats behind a barricade of corrugated metal and old tires, patched with mismatched tarp and duck tape. It’s sagging and smells faintly of kerosene and damp socks, but it’s home. Sort of.

Inside, it’s dim and narrow, lit by a single battery lamp hanging from a bent coat hanger.

JJ’s the first to glance up from his cot. He’s lying back, arms crossed behind his head, eyes watching the ceiling like it owes him answers. His eyes flick to yours, and he starts to sit up slowly, as if he doesn’t want to spook the moment.

“Took your sweet time.”

You drop your pack with a sigh. “They’re saying a shipment’s coming tomorrow. Again.” you mutter, peeling off your jacket and draping it over a nail.

JJ snorts, dry and tired. “Yeah. Right after Santa and the Tooth Fairy.”

You bend over to grab your shower bag from under your cot—a well-worn mess of a thing, with a half-dry towel spilling out of the zipper. You sling it over your shoulder without thinking, already reaching for the tent flap.

But then JJ is there, quietly. He leans close, like he’s always belonged right here, between you and everything else. His hand finds yours with a steady, gentle grip, and before you even have time to think, he lifts your fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. Your fingers curl a bit tighter around his.

You glance at the others—John B crouched by the crate with the busted walkie, Pope nose-deep in a tattered book—but they’re quiet.

John B finally speaks. “You good?”

You pause. Not at the question but at the way he asks it. Like he already knows the answer.

You don’t turn around. “Rafe stopped by the depot today.”

“What the hell did he want?” JJ snaps.

“He didn’t do anything,” you say, voice flat. “He just showed up. Smiling like he runs the whole damn place.”

John B’s stare hardened. “Did he threaten you?”

“No,” you say, too quickly. Then quieter: “Not exactly.”

Pope looks up now, pen frozen in midair. “What does that mean?”

You exhale loud and finally face them. “He offered me something. Pills. Whatever mix he’s pushing now. Said I ‘looked like I needed it.’”

JJ swears under his breath, voice low and sharp. “Son of a—”

“I said no.” You say it firmly, meeting JJ’s eyes.

John B sits up, slow like he’s trying not to explode. “He’s testing us. Seeing who he can buy. Who’ll fold first.”

“He’s already bought half the guards,” Pope mutters.

You nod. “And the other half are scared of what happens if they don’t play along.”

You roll your shoulders, trying to shake the weight off. “I’m going to shower. Before curfew lockdown hits.”

You don’t wait for them to respond—just step toward the tent flap, your hand brushing back your hair as if you could scrape the day off your skin.

The showers aren’t far, just past the rows of tents and the flickering lampposts. A thin trail of steam curls up from the old pipes, promising a brief reprieve from the grime and tension that cling to your skin. You want nothing more than to let the water wash the day’s dirt and fear away.

Suddenly, a faint, unsettling harsh and uneven sound shatters the silence wrapping cold tendrils around your spine, making your skin crawl. Something is wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

Drawn forward by a mix of dread and helpless curiosity, you follow the voices until the path opens onto the clearing by the central plaza. Floodlights blaze down with a cruel, merciless glare, painting everything in harsh, stark whites and deep, choking shadows. The crowd presses in a suffocating wall of faces, eyes wide with horror, mouths set in frozen grimaces.

In the center, bound and kneeling on the cracked concrete, is a man you don’t know but whose terror screams across the cold night like a curse. His skin is pale, his hands raw where the chains bite into his wrists. His head lifts slowly, eyes wild, begging silently for salvation.

A soldier steps forward, his boots thudding deliberate on the cracked ground. He moves like a predator savoring the kill, raising his rifle with terrifying calm, every muscle taut and rehearsed.

The silence swells to a crushing weight, smothering your chest. Time stretches, each second a razor scraping the raw edges of your sanity. Then the man screams—a soul-wrenching, bloodcurdling cry that splits the night, a sound so full of pain it feels like the world itself shatters.

The rifle fires. The crack is a thunderclap in your ears, a violent explosion of sound and finality.

The body convulses, then collapses forward with a sickening thud, chains rattling against the concrete like the clatter of a death knell. The crowd erupts into a wave of gasps and stifled sobs, but the shadows swallow their cries instantly.

A woman’s sob breaks through—raw and ragged, trembling with a grief too deep to bear. A child clings to a man’s leg, face buried in torn fabric, whimpering as the nightmare swallows them whole.

Your stomach churns violently. Your legs threaten to give out, knees buckling under the weight of what you’ve witnessed. Your breath comes in shallow, jagged gasps. You feel your hands tremble, nails digging into your palms.

You stagger back a step, your heel catching on a crack in the concrete. The stumble jolts you, but it’s not enough to break the spell, the frozen horror rooting you to the spot. The stench of gunpowder and blood burns your nose. You can taste it, sharp and metallic at the back of your throat.

You barely make it out of the clearing, the brutal shot still ringing in your ears, the weight of what you saw pressing down like a stone in your chest. The loudspeakers crackle somewhere in the distance, announcing curfew with a cold, unyielding voice.

You’re almost halfway back to your tent when you hear hurried footsteps behind you, crunching sharply on gravel and broken concrete.

“Damn, there you are,” JJ calls out, voice tense but relieved.

You freeze for a moment, heart hammering so hard you think he might hear it from across the yard.

Then, ahead, you see him. JJ’s silhouette framed by the flickering light of a lone lamppost, his chest heaving like he’s been sprinting. His eyes catch yours instantly wide, frantic, full of questions.

John B and Pope aren’t far behind, the two of them moving with cautious urgency, scanning the dark spaces between tents. Pope’s gaze is sharp, calculating, watching shadows like they’re already enemies.

JJ reaches you first, closing the distance in just a few quick steps. He stops right in front of you, breath ragged, and for a second, he just stares, as if trying to analyze your face.

“Are you okay? We heard a shot-”

You swallow hard, struggling to steady your voice. “I saw… a soldier. He shot someone.”

JJ’s jaw knot with tension. “God... why didn’t anyone stop him?”

John B steps up beside JJ, glancing warily toward the plaza. “No one’s stopping anything around here,” he says bitterly, voice low. “Not anymore.”

Pope’s eyes flick between the three of you, unblinking. “Curfew’s on now. We shouldn’t be out here.”

JJ’s hand slides from your arm to gently grip your shoulder, grounding you both. His breath is hot and ragged against your skin.

You try to collect yourself. “There was a kid watching.”

You see it hit him. His face twists, something ugly and aching flickering across it before he covers it with his hand, scrubbing at his mouth like he’s trying to erase the thought. “Jesus.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything.

— 

You stir awake slowly to the distant sound of boots crunching gravel, someone yelling nearby. You blink up at the patched ceiling, barely lit by the low wash of cloud-filtered sunlight. JJ’s still next to you, head tipped back, eyes closed but not sleeping. His thumb absently runs along your shoulder, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

“Morning,” he mutters, voice raspy.

“Did you sleep?” you ask quietly.

He snorts. “Not really.”

A beat passes. He pulls his arm away gently and sits up, rubbing the back of his neck. “C’mon. The guys are probably already in the mess.”

The mess tent buzzes with low conversation and clinking metal, but the energy is wrong—too quiet in some places, too forced in others, like everyone’s pretending to be okay just loud enough to drown out what they really feel.

JJ slides into a spot at the back, and you follow him, settling next to him on the worn bench. John B and Pope are already there, mid-conversation, which dies the second they see you.

Pope gives a soft nod. John B offers a small, quiet smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you answer, but your voice is thin.

The silence that follows stretches a little too long.

JJ is the first one to break it. “Coffee’s cold,” he mutters, nodding toward the cup in front of him. “Surprise, surprise.”

You nod absently, but your hands stay folded in your lap. You haven’t touched the food they gave you—gray eggs, something trying to pass for fruit. None of it tastes like anything. Most of the real food’s long gone, and anything with yeast or fermentation is banned outright now—too risky since the infection’s roots. Bread, beer, even old canned stuff—it’s all suspect. One bite of the wrong thing, and it could be over.

“So,” Pope says finally, “didn’t hear anything on the radios this morning. Not even a curfew recap.”

John B doesn’t look up from his mug. “Yeah. Maybe they think silence is scarier now.”

JJ glances at you, then quickly away. “They’d be right.”

It hangs there.

You close your eyes for a second. The man’s face flashes behind your eyelids—wide-eyed, terrified, every part of him shaking. And then the scream. You press your thumb hard against your palm like you can dig the sound out of your memory.

“I didn’t know what to do,” you murmur, voice tight. “I just stood there.”

“No one blames you,” Pope says immediately. “You weren’t supposed to be there. You didn’t choose to see that.”

JJ’s jaw tightens. “But they wanted someone to see it. That’s the part I can’t shake. They wanted it to spread.”

“But what if it doesn’t change anything?” you ask, the words slipping out raw. “What if it’s just... fear now? Every morning, every second.”

John B gives you a half-smile. It’s tired, but genuine. “We’ve been through worse. Sort of.”

“Not exactly the same vibe as treasure hunting,” Pope snaps, tone heavy with irony.

JJ smiles, faint but sincere, and bumps your knee. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll get through this too.”

A ripple of murmurs rolls through the mess tent—trays shift, heads turn—just enough commotion to make you glance toward the entrance.

Sarah stands in the doorway, wind‑tangled hair framing a face pulled tight with fatigue. She clocks the room then spots your table and weaves through the maze of benches.

She drops onto the end of the bench beside Pope, hands wrapped around a dented metal mug she hasn’t even filled. For a heartbeat no one speaks; the hush around the five of you feels suddenly deeper, like the tent itself is eavesdropping.

John B breaks it first, voice low. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says, but her eyes flick to you—an unspoken you saw it too. “Listen, I don’t have long.”

Pope leans in. “What was the real reason they shot that guy?”

Sarah’s voice drops to a razor’s edge. “He was moving Rafe’s stash. Out of the zone. South QZ.”

John B’s brow furrows. “Why?”

She shrugs. “No clue. Might’ve been a trade. But it was the Coastal sector. Completely locked down. No shipments in weeks.”

You glance up. “Then why’s today’s drop coming from there?”

Sarah hesitates. “Exactly.”

Pope frowns. “Nobody said anything about that.”

“They won’t,” she says. “They don’t want panic.”

And then you hear it—

CLANG.

The checkpoint bell rings once, slow and loud. Metal on metal. That unmistakable sound:

Inbound shipment. Gate Three.

— 

You stand at the edge of the depot yard, clipboard clenched so tight your knuckles blanch, trying to ignore how your fingers twitch uncontrollably. Around you, the usual skeleton crew lingers—two guards, half-asleep and slumped against the cracked concrete, rifles dangling from loose grips.

You lift your eyes.

A shadow crosses the barricade wall—tall, boxy, slow-moving. One of the old FEMA trucks, paint worn down to raw metal in patches, pulling up like a ghost from the past. Two more trucks follow behind, tires grinding against cracked asphalt.

The convoy stops.

You take a small step forward. One guard lifts a hand, as if willing the moment to hold steady.

The passenger door creaks open.

A man in standard QZ gray steps down. His sleeves hang past his wrists, and his eyes look distant, unfocused. He moves slowly, as if his body doesn’t know where it is.

Behind him, another figure stumbles off the second truck. Then another. None say a word.

Your skin prickles.

“Manifest?” you ask, voice barely steady.

The first man turns to you—bloodshot eyes, pale skin marred by dirt and exhaustion. He shakes his head, then holds out a folded paper. His hand trembles.

You take it, unfolding the sheet carefully.

Names. Too many names. You flip the page.

And your breath catches.

Your mother’s name, printed clear as daylight.

Your world tilts.

You don’t remember moving, but suddenly you’re at the truck, boots crunching gravel.

“Back away,” a guard mutters, but his voice is thin, uncertain.

More passengers climb down—slow, unsteady, fragile.

Then you see her.

Her hair is longer, tangled. Her shoulders thinner, slumped as if the weight of everything she’s been through is pressing her down. Her jacket zipped up tight against the warm air, like a shield.

But it’s her.

Your chest tightens. Your heart clenches and shatters at once. You blink, once, twice, like your eyes are lying to you. But the shape doesn't change. It’s her. It’s really her.

“Mom?” The word escapes before you can stop it—soft, trembling, like a prayer finally answered.

She looks up.

Her eyes find yours.

In that instant, something inside her cracks. She takes two tentative steps forward.

Her mouth opens, voice rough and ragged. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The words scrape out of her throat, jagged and raw.

Your pulse hammers in your ears. You step closer, heart breaking open.

“I thought... I thought you were gone,” you say, your eyes filling with tears.

She flinches, like you might break. “I tried… I tried so hard to stay away.”

Tears glisten in her dirt-streaked face. “You need to leave.”

You reach out, but she pulls back, swaying.

One hand clutches her ribs, blood dark and spreading beneath her sleeve.

Your stomach twists, the sick taste of fear curling your tongue. No. No, this can’t be happening. Not now.

“Mom… what happened?” Your voice cracks, desperate.

She shakes her head, voice barely a whisper. “Don’t… don’t touch me.”

She sinks to her knees.

That’s when you see it.

A bite mark, half-hidden under her jacket.

Cold ice spreads through your stomach, freezing every thought, every hope.

Too late.

From the third truck—a scream.

Not fear.

Rage.

One evacuee leaps like a wild animal, tackling a guard, teeth flashing. Blood spatters the side of the truck.

The crowd scatters.

She looks up, tears cutting clean lines through dirt and sweat.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, voice breaking.

Your mind races, memories flooding in—her laughter, her warmth, the way she held you when you were afraid. And now this... this monster wearing her skin. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Not like this.

You take a step toward her, but a deafening gunshot cracks through the depot yard.

One of the guards drops the infected evacuee mid-lunge, but it doesn’t matter. Three more are already on top of him before his rifle even hits the ground. The second guard turns to run—too slow. A woman in tattered clothes barrels into him, jaw clamping down on his throat with a wet, animal crunch.

Your knees buckle. You stumble backward, catching yourself hard against a rusted supply crate. The clipboard slips from your hand and clatters to the dirt. As you steady yourself, your hand brushes cold metal��a crowbar, half-buried under a torn tarp.

Without thinking, you grab it. The weight anchors you, gives your shaking fingers something to hold.

All around you, the evacuees transform.

Some scream. Some convulse. Some simply go still for a heartbeat too long… then snap upright, jerking with unnatural speed. A man with blood down his chin slams himself headfirst against the depot fence, snarling through broken teeth.

A siren starts to wail somewhere inside the QZ. Distant, confused. Too late.

Your mother is still kneeling. Shaking. Her breathing is ragged now, wet.

You drop down in front of her. “Mom, we have to move. Please—”

She lifts her face. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. Sweat drips from her temple. “You have to go,” she rasps.

“I’m not—”

From the depot gate, a series of sharp pops—more gunfire. Screams rise, closer now. A flaming body stumbles from the second truck, crashes into a stack of fuel drums.

The explosion hits like a thunderclap.

You’re thrown off your feet, the blast wave ringing in your ears. Smoke swallows the world in an instant. Flames roar to life, leaping skyward and casting long, jerking shadows of the infected as they pour from the trucks.

The QZ alarm shifts to evacuation tone. Sharp, urgent. That sound—the one you were never supposed to hear.

You crawl back to your knees, coughing, blinking through the smoke. Your mother is still there. Still breathing.

You reach for her, and she reaches back—but then freezes. Her breath catches.

Another evacuee stumbles into view behind her, growling low, movements twitchy and sharp. You react without thinking—grabbing a loose piece of rebar from the ground, swinging hard.

It connects with a sickening crunch. The evacuee drops.

You stare at what’s left of their skull, chest heaving.

Your mother is crying now—quiet, defeated sobs that cut through the chaos like a blade. “You need to run.”

The depot is burning. People are running. The screams are growing fainter—not because they’re stopping, but because they’re being overrun.

You hear boots pounding gravel. A figure stumbles through the smoke—JJ, blood on his jacket. “We have to move—now!”

You hesitate, looking back.

Your mother’s hands are in her lap. She’s shaking, and that light—her light—is dimming fast. She meets your eyes one last time, and in it, you see everything she’s trying to say:

I love you. I’m sorry. Go.

JJ yells again. “Come on!”

You rise slowly, heart breaking in real time. She doesn’t move to follow.

As you turn and run into the smoke, past fire and rubble, past bodies and memories, a second explosion rocks the yard.

This one doesn’t knock you over. But it takes what’s left of her with it.

The shockwave chases you, heat licking at your back like the breath of some hellish beast. You don’t turn around. You can’t. The part of you that wants to is screaming, clawing at your insides, but you shove it down. Keep moving. Just keep moving.

JJ’s hand grabs your arm, steadying you as you trip over broken pavement. “This way,” he growls, his voice hoarse. “Evac route through the maintenance tunnel—go!”

You don’t answer. Your throat is raw, heart thundering. Smoke wraps around you like a shroud, turning the world into a blur of shadow and flame. Behind you, the depot is a furnace.

You and JJ duck under a collapsed security gate, stumbling into a narrow side alley flanked by rusted-out storage containers. Somewhere behind you, gunfire rattles—short bursts, then silence. Too much silence.

JJ yanks open a hatch embedded in the cracked asphalt. “Down!” he barks.

You hesitate at the edge. The ladder descends into pitch black.

The tunnel is damp, the air thick with mildew and old decay. JJ seals the hatch behind you, and darkness swallows the world until his flashlight flickers to life, casting your long shadows ahead like ghosts.

You don’t speak as you move. Each step echoes with the weight of everything lost.

After what feels like miles, the tunnel begins to slope up. Your legs burn. Your lungs ache. At last, a second hatch looms above. JJ pushes it open carefully, peering out before giving the all-clear.

You emerge into a narrow corridor on the outer edge of the quarantine zone—once a service route, now a forgotten gap between fences. You can still hear the sirens behind you, distant and broken. The sky above is dull orange with smoke, but the streets here are quiet. For now.

You collapse against a wall, hands trembling. JJ crouches beside you, watching the way your shoulders shake, the way you stare at nothing.

“She was alive,” you whisper.

JJ nods slowly. “And she saved your life.”

You close your eyes. Try to hold onto that. Try to believe it.

I should’ve gone back,” you choke out. “The others… what if they didn’t make it out?”

“They did.”

You look up sharply. “What?”

“I saw them,” JJ says, voice tight. “They were heading for the fuel yard. Right after the first truck lit up”

He swallows hard, eyes searching yours. “They made it out. They had to.”

Then a new sound cuts through the quiet.

A low, rattling breath. Wet. Gurgling.

JJ’s head snaps toward the end of the alley. His flashlight beam sweeps across peeling brick, broken pallets—and a figure slumped just beyond a dumpster. It twitches.

He raises his weapon, but you grab his arm. “No,” you breathe. “Let me.”

You step forward. The shape groans, dragging itself toward you. Its eyes are wrong—cloudy, animal. Its fingers scrape the concrete like claws.

You don’t hesitate this time.

You swing the crowbar, fast and hard. It collapses with a sickening thud.

And silence falls again.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Christopher Wiggins at The Advocate:

The Pentagon has issued final orders to begin forcing transgender service members from the U.S. military, giving those affected until June 6 to resign voluntarily or face discharge. The May 15 directive, obtained by The Advocate, instructs all branches to identify troops with a diagnosis, history, or even symptoms “consistent with” gender dysphoria. Under Trump administration policy, those who do not seek voluntary separation by the deadline will be processed for involuntary removal, now cleared for enforcement following a U.S. Supreme Court ruling on May 6. “Commanders who are aware of service members in their units with gender dysphoria, a history of gender dysphoria, or symptoms consistent with gender dysphoria will direct individualized medical record reviews,” the memo states. The order follows the Court’s decision to stay an injunction in Shilling v. United States, allowing Trump’s January executive order banning trans military service to take full effect. Discharges had been temporarily paused under a lower court ruling, but the stay has cleared the way for implementation. Troops removed under the policy will be assigned an RE-3 reentry code and barred from reenlisting or serving in any Reserve component unless a Senate-confirmed official grants a waiver that advocates say is inattainable. Military departments are also required to submit compliance reports to the Pentagon by June 15. The memo also confirms that the Department of Defense has reinstated its ban on gender-affirming medical care for active-duty transgender troops. A previous court order had forced the Pentagon to temporarily restore access to care such as hormone therapy and surgery, but that ruling was also stayed. According to Stars and Stripes, a senior defense official confirmed that commanders may also initiate screenings for troops who don’t self-identify but are suspected of being transgender. “This is also consistent with what we expect and require of commanders generally,” the official said, framing the surveillance as part of standard medical oversight.

[...] The order arrives alongside a parallel effort in Congress to make the ban permanent. A new bill drafted by Rep. Barry Moore of Alabama would codify the exclusion of transgender people from military service into federal law and expand it by revoking the security clearances of some trans veterans.

The Pentagon is beginning the process of removing trans troops from the military. Foxtrot Papa Hotel!

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

That's great, but how does this work when federal contractors and universities with massive federal grant dollars are still following a racialist and, in some cases, racist agenda? Trump's executive order, as it turns out, is much more than an attack on DEI in government; it is a declaration of war against DEI anywhere. Federal contractors must certify they do not adhere to DEI as a condition of holding contracts. (iv)   The head of each agency shall include in every contract or grant award: (A)  A term requiring the contractual counterparty or grant recipient to agree that its compliance in all respects with all applicable Federal anti-discrimination laws is material to the government’s payment decisions for purposes of section 3729(b)(4) of title 31, United States Code; and (B)  A term requiring such counterparty or recipient to certify that it does not operate any programs promoting DEI that violate any applicable Federal anti-discrimination laws. Further into the executive order, you find this assignment given to the federal bureaucracy. (b) To further inform and advise me so that my Administration may formulate appropriate and effective civil-rights policy, the Attorney General, within 120 days of this order, in consultation with the heads of relevant agencies and in coordination with the Director of OMB, shall submit a report to the Assistant to the President for Domestic Policy containing recommendations for enforcing Federal civil-rights laws and taking other appropriate measures to encourage the private sector to end illegal discrimination and preferences, including DEI. The report shall contain a proposed strategic enforcement plan identifying:

(i)    Key sectors of concern within each agency’s jurisdiction; (ii)   The most egregious and discriminatory DEI practitioners in each sector of concern; (iii)  A plan of specific steps or measures to deter DEI programs or principles (whether specifically denominated “DEI” or otherwise) that constitute illegal discrimination or preferences.  As a part of this plan, each agency shall identify up to nine potential civil compliance investigations of publicly traded corporations, large non-profit corporations or associations, foundations with assets of 500 million dollars or more, State and local bar and medical associations, and institutions of higher education with endowments over 1 billion dollars; (iv)   Other strategies to encourage the private sector to end illegal DEI discrimination and preferences and comply with all Federal civil-rights laws; (v)    Litigation that would be potentially appropriate for Federal lawsuits, intervention, or statements of interest; and (vi)   Potential regulatory action and sub-regulatory guidance.

Read that carefully. Trump anticipates targeting DEI for civil rights violations. He also requires "each agency shall identify up to nine potential civil compliance investigations of publicly traded corporations, large non-profit corporations or associations, foundations with assets of 500 million dollars or more, State and local bar and medical associations, and institutions of higher education with endowments over 1 billion dollars." When you consider the number of federal agencies, this is nothing less than an all-out effort to eradicate DEI. Couple this with a changed legal environment (Affirmative Action Has a Very Rough, No Good Day at the Supreme Court – RedState), and there is a real possibility that businesses, universities, and non-profits will have to choose between DEI and federal funds.

About damn time.