kingmohan

[kingmohan]

pls the pitt s2 give me some mel and samira bestie-ism

[kingmohan]

that's MY senior resident samira mohan

[kingmohan]

NOAH WYLE

📷 Supriya Ganesh x

[kingmohan]

your recent reblogs have me thinking: mel who gets hurt and is brought to the pitt where frank proceeds to lose his ever loving mind and once she’s discharged he LITERALLY will not let her out of his grasp

anon i’m walking with you. she’s late to work — weird for her, definitely not normal — and dana has already told him to stop pacing like 4 times because he’s making her nauseous and it’s barely eight a.m. robby hasn’t heard from her and dana hasn’t heard from her and he’s going to make her start sharing her location when she gets in, actually, because it would be much safer if someone had her whereabouts, since becca is all she’s got and she needs someone to protect her, okay???

and they hear about the accident on the news, first. some dumbass in a stolen car was high-tailing it from the police, going 95 down a fucking random city street, blowing through the red light at full speed. he takes six cars out with him: four in the intersection he breezed through and two more as collateral.

it’s in their catchment zone and robby is already cursing and santos is practically vibrating with excitement and frank feels sick. the news crew has a helicopter shot — they’re playing it out in chairs and frank is peering over lupe’s shoulder because he thought maybe he could see mel coming in better this way — and it’s just fucking carnage on the ground, crumpled metal and pieces of vehicles strewn about, and there’s one car in particular that’s wedged against the corner of a brick building. flew straight over the sidewalk — lucky no pedestrians were lingering there — and the entire driver’s side is smashed in. it’s so bad that it sort of looks like those hokey halloween decorations, the car poking halfway out the brick, a funny haha look how crazy that is.

except it’s not crazy, because he recognizes that car. bright teal blue, ugly as sin, but it was the cheapest option she’s found for sale back when her dad’s old chevy finally kicked it.

“mel,” he manages to say, and he thinks he might be having a cardiac event. that’s inconvenient.

“she’ll be in soon, kid, don’t stress about it,” dana says back, phone cradled on her shoulder. “get gowned up, EMS will be here in three.”

“no, no — mel,” he tries again, and his hand shakes as he points to the monitor.

samira is the first one that notices, and she looks up and follows the line of his unsteady finger until she spots the car too. (mel had been so fucking proud. i negotiated and everything! she’d chirped at him, and it had been so cute he’d been grateful santos was in there so he didn’t do something stupid, like try to make out with her in the middle of the floor. he’d pointedly ignored the way santos then pretended to gag as he watched mel leave.)

“oh, shit,” donnie says, and then there’s a million voices, dana half-yelling to the EMS as she tells them one of our fuckin’ doctors is in there and if you don’t get her out now i swear to fucking christ, and samira is already running toward the bay but frank is frozen, staring at the screen even after the camera has moved back to the reporter who’s wearing a grim expression and sunglasses like the love of his life isn’t bleeding out in one of the cars behind her.

(it’s new. he and mel dating, not the love of his life thing. that’s been going on for a long, long time.)

santos is the one to pull him away from the bulletproof glass of the triage desk and glare him down, the concern a secondary emotion behind her steely mask. “you can’t work on her,” she says, and he scoffs, already pushing her away, already trying to find a gown. he can’t tie it. his hands won’t stop fucking shaking.

“langdon,” she tried again, and he fully shoves her off, bounding out to the ambulance bay. samira and robby are with the first patient — red hair, not mel, don’t care — but then he doubles back because there’s a bracelet on that patient’s wrist, and it’s a bunch of green and purple beads and his daughter made that and jesus fucking christ —

it looks like a crime scene. her braid is ruined, blood plastered to her skull with a wide laceration down her forehead. her arm is sitting at an unnatural angle and her glasses are gone and she’s not wearing shoes for some fucking reason. her doctor badge is still pinned to her pants, somehow.

he almost throws up. but his body moves before his brain, and he’s following the gurney into trauma 1, forcing his way to her bedside even after robby says, “langdon,” in that warning tone he’s become far too accustomed to.

the EMTs are saying things but none of them are processing. he helps with the transfer to the bed even though santos smacks his hands after — he’s not even wearing gloves — and practically shoves him out of the way. the monitors are beeping too much to be good and she really looks dead, skin paler than normal and cold, so fucking cold when he presses his fingers to her wrist. that’s a pulse, right? he thinks that’s a pulse. it’s thready and weak but it’s there —

“langdon, i will have security escort you out,” robby says firmly, and he doesn’t move.

“then fucking do it,” he bites back. “if she dies because you were too busy worried about me to secure a fucking airway, so help me god, robby — ”

“alright,” he shouts, but he’s focused on mel again, at least.

garcia is at his shoulder before he’s aware she’s entered the room. her face is grim and set, hands moving quickly to assess the facial laceration. bad, he thinks. it’s really, really bad.

“we need to get her to the OR,” garcia says, though she’s looking at frank.

he nods tersely and puts his hand on the railing. garcia inclines her head, warning in her expression, but he just grits his teeth. “let’s go,” he says.

“langdon — ”

“you’re gonna have to sedate me if you don’t want me up there,” he says bluntly. “and we all know you can’t give me fucking drugs in this hospital.”

they draw the line at letting him scrub in, so he just hovers menacingly outside the OR, pacing a hole in the floor. garcia lets him stay on the OR phone and he asks for updates every thirty seconds, and he’s pretty sure he hears the attending mutter something like he’s fucking banned from the sixth floor after this i swear.

she goes straight to the surgical ICU and she looks like absolute hell: bandages all over her face and neck, a cast on her arm, tubes sticking out everywhere. she doesn’t look like a real person. he doesn’t know how more of his patients don’t have a complete fucking breakdown in the ER, because he feels like someone has stomped on his lungs and broken all his ribs and chewed up his heart. his eyes are dry because he’s too scared to blink, because what if he blinks and she stops breathing? what if he blinks and they come and take her away? what if —

dana comes upstairs to tell him the driver wasn’t wearing his seatbelt and he’s dead on the scene. (thank god, frank thinks. he’s too exhausted to kill a man today.)

he stays in the hospital for three days before someone can pry him out of the chair. they shove him into the communal showers and give him new clothes and he’s practically clawing at them to let him back up there. he hasn’t eaten a real meal and they’re shoveling food in his mouth like he’s a fucking toddler, and it’s ridiculous. he doesn’t need food or sleep or new deodorant, he needs mel. he needs mel to wake up and smile at him and for him to see confirmation that her chest is rising and falling with equal movements. that’s it.

(she wakes up on day 7. when she’s done crying and he’s done kissing her face and telling her he loves her and he’s going to fucking invent a teleportation device so she’s never on the road again, she wrinkles her nose a little and whispers, you should’ve gone home. just for a little.

sorry, sweetheart, he mutters. he crawled into bed with her the second she was awake and now he’s holding her to his chest, fingers pressed against her carotid, listening to the steady thump of her heart. not without you.)

[kingmohan]

supriya ganesh audition tape….

[kingmohan]

[kingmohan]

begging for mckay and langdon interactions in season 2 like i'm so serious. do you know how good it'd be for that version of langdon who's at his worst to hear mckay's story and for HER, someone he knows personally who's like him, to say it gets better. for mckay to look at langdon and see her past self in him and look at him and say he'll come out the other side better and stronger and to more love than he can imagine in this moment? for langdon to look at mckay and gain hope for the future and for mckay to look at langdon and have some more grace for her past self? for both of them to acknowledge that even though it's hard it's worth it? imagine.

[kingmohan]

Whitaker is the nurse’s adopted white boy.

When he graduates and gets the Doctor moniker officially, the nurses will be quick to tell him that he’s the only male doctor they can stand.

[kingmohan]

Living in my brain rent free!!!

[kingmohan]

The Man in Me | Jack Abbot

II

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x senior resident!original female character {Dr. Jenna Robinavitch}

Summary: When Dr. Adamson switches Dr. Jenna Robinavitch to night shift during her last year of residency to get more hands-on trauma experience after noticing her older brother hovering over her on day shift. Nobody expects newly hired brooding ER cowboy Jack Abbot to fall in love with her.

Warnings: medical situations and descriptions, medical inaccuracies (my pre-med focus is cardiology, not trauma/emergency med chatGPT helped me with the rest), probably a few grammatical errors, slow burn (maybe?)

previous chapter | masterlist

🎧 Jack Abbot’s Spotify playlist

August 15, 2017 – 6:45 p.m.

The automatic doors sighed shut behind her as Jenna stepped into the ER, the blast of cool air hitting her sunwarmed skin. Her black scrubs were crisp but already clinging in the August humidity, her stethoscope swung gently around her neck, and her curls were pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail that was fighting to contain them.

In her right hand, she carried a massive iced coffee. And not the respectable kind. This was a barely-medical, borderline-dessert situation—filled with cream, extra pumps of vanilla and caramel, and enough sugar to make a dietitian flinch. But it was cold and strong, and Jenna needed both.

She spotted Jack standing near the central workstation, absorbed in something on his tablet. Same black scrubs. Same unreadable expression. Same quiet command of the room.

“Dr. Abbot,” she said simply, giving a polite nod as she passed.

“Dr. Robinavitch,” he returned, eyes flicking up just long enough to acknowledge her.

No smile. No chitchat. But something in his gaze lingered a beat longer than the night before.

Jenna made her way to her usual computer terminal—same one she’d used the night prior—set down her bag, took another long sip of her sweetened lifeline, and logged in with brisk efficiency. There was an ease in her shoulders now, a quiet settling. Still serious. Still alert. But grounded. Steadier.

Jack noticed.

He hadn’t missed how she’d handled herself last night—not just in the trauma bay, but after. The way she’d stayed late to chart. The way she’d quietly followed up on the elderly man with the basilar skull fracture without being asked. He noticed more than he let on.

Behind Jenna, a familiar voice broke through the low clinical hum.

“Ohhh, honey,” Lena said, approaching with mock horror. “Tell me that monstrosity is not what I think it is.”

Jenna didn’t even turn. “Large iced coffee. Extra caramel, extra vanilla, triple espresso. Lots of cream. Extra sugar.”

Lena dramatically clutched her chest. “Robby is gonna haunt you and he’s not even dead.”

“He’s not even on nights,” Jenna replied dryly.

Lena leaned in with a sly grin. “Doesn’t matter. Your brother’s got Jenna-telepathy. He can sense when you’re up to no good.”

“Then I better drink faster,” Jenna said, taking a long sip through her straw. “I need the caffeine and the sugar.”

“For what? Levitation?” Lena teased, poking at the straw. “This is basically a melted donut with ice.”

“Exactly,” Jenna deadpanned, eyes still on her screen.

Lena just laughed, ruffling the back of Jenna’s curls before walking off. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Jack didn’t look up from his tablet—but a small muscle in his jaw twitched. Not with annoyance.

With approval. Maybe even the barest hint of amusement.

She was learning. Settling.

And whether she knew it or not—he was watching.

Lena didn’t walk far before doubling back, arms folded, amusement all over her face. “You know he’s still trying to break you of that habit, right? Like it’s some sort of mission from God.”

Jenna let out a sharp exhale through her nose—not quite a laugh, but close. “He’s been on that crusade since undergrad. You’d think I was freebasing Pixy Stix in the library.”

“Well,” Lena drawled, tapping a finger against the side of the cup, “this ain’t exactly a kale smoothie, sweetheart.”

Jenna finally looked up from the computer, lifting her chin a little as she took another sip. “I am allowed to spoil myself with a disgusting, over-processed, teeth-rotting sugar beverage if I so please,” she said primly, “disapproving big brother and all.”

Lena grinned wide. “Now that’s the sass I like to hear.”

From behind them, without looking up from his tablet, Jack spoke. “You could always try oat milk and monk fruit sweetener. Might get him off your back.”

Jenna turned slowly, squinting. “Not you too.”

Jack kept scrolling, a quiet shrug of his shoulders. “Just a suggestion.”

“Mmhm,” Jenna muttered, turning back to her monitor. “Next thing I know you’re gonna tell me to do yoga and carry around one of those emotional support water bottles.”

Jack didn’t answer. But Lena, biting her lip to hide her smirk, leaned over and whispered, “He totally has one. Big metal one. Has his name on it.”

Jack said nothing, but the corner of his mouth tugged slightly—enough to make Lena grin and Jenna narrow her eyes.

“You’re all traitors.”

Lena snorted. “You love us.”

Jenna took another triumphant sip of her syrup-laden brew. “I love this coffee more.”

Jack didn’t comment. But out of the corner of his eye, he watched her. Just for a moment.

That was the second time tonight he’d caught her holding her ground.

And he was starting to like it.

Jenna’s fingers hovered above the keyboard as she scanned the incoming board—triage summaries populating in real-time.

And then she stilled.

Her eyes locked on a name in the system, half-buried in the scrolling list of status updates and bed assignments.

MacClellan, Thomas E.

Male. 57. Brought in via EMS from street corner near Station Square. Confused, possible UTI vs. intoxication. History of substance use disorder. Multiple prior visits. Amputee—right transtibial. Complaining of phantom pain.

Her breath hitched.

She clicked into the chart and her heart sank.

Tommy.

Not “Mr. MacClellan.” Not just a chart.

Tommy, who used to joke that the nurses at PTMC gave better haircuts than the barbershop in the Strip.

Tommy, who taught her how to play poker and gin rummy on index cards while she restocked Band-Aids in the supply closet during her first summer volunteering before they upgraded to an actual desk of cards her second summer.

Tommy, who called her “Sunshine” and gave her a Gulf War unit patch for her denim jacket the day he found out she’d gotten into John Hopkins for med school.

She hadn’t seen him in eleven years.

It was the week before she graduated high school, she had completely stopped volunteering at the hospital to focus on packing for her move down to her dorm room in Baltimore, the one she would only live in on weekdays as Robby always paid for her to come home on the weekends.

She didn’t even realize she’d whispered his name until Lena leaned back toward her.

“You okay?”

Jenna nodded, blinking. “Yeah. Just… haven’t seen someone in a while.”

Lena gave her a gentle once-over. “Old patient?”

Jenna swallowed. “Yeah. He’s been in and out of the system since I was in high school. Gulf War vet. Lost his leg below the knee years ago. He used to come in all the time when I volunteered in the summer.” Her voice softened. “He’d go missing for a week or two and then pop back up. He always remembered my name.”

Jack had quietly looked up from his tablet, eyes now on her.

“Does he know you’re a doctor now?” he asked, his voice low but direct.

Jenna shook her head. “Last time he saw me, I was wearing pink scrubs and doing sock inventory.”

Jack closed his tablet. “You want to take him?”

Jenna looked at him, surprised.

He met her gaze evenly. “You know his baseline. That’s more than anyone else in this place does.”

For a moment, she didn’t say anything. Just nodded slowly and reached for her iPad. “Yeah. I’ll take him.”

And as she stood, iced coffee forgotten on the desk behind her, Jack watched her go.

He’d seen residents take cases out of pity, or guilt, or morbid curiosity. But this—this was different.

This was someone who gave a damn.

Someone who remembered.

Someone who showed up.

He didn’t say a word as she walked toward Room 3.

But deep down, Jack Abbot was starting to realize:

Dr. Jenna Robinavitch wasn’t just holding her ground.

She was becoming a force.

Room 3 - 7:05 p.m.

The curtain was half-drawn, and Jenna could hear the rattle of the bed rails before she even stepped inside. She took a breath, steeling herself—not for anything dramatic, but for the kind of quiet ache that came with seeing someone you used to care about unravel by degrees.

She stepped in gently, tablet clutched in one hand, soft footsteps announced by the creak of her Brooks sneakers.

The man in the bed had aged. Deep lines carved into his cheeks and forehead, skin darkened from years outdoors without sunscreen, beard more salt than pepper now. He was thinner than she remembered, but his eyes—sharp and blue—lifted to meet hers the moment she entered.

He blinked. Squinted. Then broke into a wide, crooked grin.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he rasped, voice gravelly and worn. “That you, Sunshine?”

Jenna smiled, heart clenching. “Hey, Tommy.”

He laughed once, wheezing with the motion. “What happened, they start lettin’ candy-stripers do rounds now?”

She stepped closer, laying the chart down gently. “I’m a doctor now.”

His eyebrows went up so fast his whole forehead crinkled. “Get outta town.”

“Nope.” She slipped a stethoscope from around her neck, tugging a glove on. “Dr. Jenna Robinavitch. Emergency medicine.”

He let out a low whistle. “You mean to tell me I’ve been downgraded from Sunshine to Doctor Robinavitch?”

Jenna chuckled. “No way. You’re the only one who gets to call me Sunshine.”

“Well alright then.” He settled back slightly against the pillow with a small wince. “But if you’re a doctor now, I’m gonna upgrade you myself. Dr. Sunshine. Got a nice ring to it.”

She laughed under her breath, gently lifting the blanket from his lower half. “What happened, Tommy?”

He waved a hand. “Same old song. Got the shakes, fell into a curb, maybe hit my head. Woke up with some nice boys from Station 17 pokin’ me with a blood pressure cuff.”

She gently unwrapped the bundled mass where his right prosthetic used to be. Her breath hitched again—barely noticeable unless someone was watching her close.

A pressure ulcer, angry and red, at the base of the residual limb. Crusted edges, raw in the center. The makeshift wrapping was all there—scraps of old T-shirts, elastic bandage strips, a strip of duct tape sticky with dirt and sweat. It looked like he’d been using the same technique for weeks. Months, maybe.

“You haven’t been using your prosthetic,” she said quietly.

“Traded it for a cot in an alley and a few dry sandwiches,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling. “Wasn’t worth much anyhow. Didn’t fit right since I lost the weight.”

“And this?” she asked, nodding to the wound. “It’s too tight?”

He nodded. “Keeps it steady when I walk. Just can’t let it rub. Guess I screwed that part up.”

Jenna was already mentally cycling through what she needed—irrigation, gauze, lidocaine gel, non-stick dressings, antibiotic ointment. Her jaw tightened.

“I don’t want wound care,” Tommy said suddenly, eyes darting to hers. “Don’t call ‘em.”

Jenna met his gaze. “Okay.”

“I mean it. Don’t want strangers pokin’ at me. Don’t want them talkin’ over me. Don’t want their forms or their pity.”

“I hear you.” Her voice was calm, sure. “I’m just gonna go grab some supplies. I’ll come back and clean it myself. No wound care. Just me.”

Tommy stared at her for a long beat, like he was trying to find a catch in her face and couldn’t.

Then he nodded, almost relieved.

“Alright then, Dr. Sunshine. I’ll let you patch me up.”

Jenna gave him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “Be right back.”

7:15 p.m.

Jenna stepped out from behind the curtain, her jaw tight, eyes already scanning for Jack.

He was still at his workstation, now leaning against the counter and making notes in a chart, but she could tell from the way he glanced up as she approached that he’d seen everything—her body language, her face when she came out.

“I need to present a case,” Jenna said, low-voiced, professional, but fast. “Thomas MacClellan. Fifty-seven. Known history—substance use disorder, chronic homelessness, right transtibial amputation from Gulf War, known to this hospital for years. He’s altered—possible infection, mild dehydration, maybe some intox—but alert enough to give history. Complaining of phantom pain and stump tenderness.”

Jack nodded slowly, processing.

“Stump’s wrapped in rags, duct tape, T-shirt shreds. I unwrapped it. There’s a pressure ulcer. Red, raw, crusted edges, likely from friction and binding too tight. Not infected yet, but close.”

“Wound care?”

Jenna shook her head. “He refuses. Wants nothing to do with them. Says he doesn’t want strangers talking over him or poking at him like he’s a specimen. He only let me look because he recognized me.”

Jack’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Just nodded again.

Jenna took a breath. “I told him I’d clean it myself.”

Jack met her gaze. “Okay. I’ll help.”

She hesitated.

“Robinavitch?”

“I just—” Her fingers tightened around her tablet. “Tommy doesn’t like pity. He can smell it. If we go in there, you can’t look at him like he’s broken. He’ll shut down. He’ll throw you out.”

Jack’s expression didn’t shift. “I won’t.”

She looked at him hard for a second, trying to gauge what he wasn’t saying—but Jack Abbot’s face was carved from stone when he wanted it to be.

“All right,” she said finally.

Without another word, they turned in step and made their way toward the supply closet. Jenna swiped her badge and shouldered the door open.

“Irrigation,” she murmured, already in motion. “Non-stick dressings. Lidocaine gel. Bactroban. Gauze rolls. Gloves.”

Jack grabbed what she didn’t. “Sterile saline. Silicone bandage if we have one. I’ll get a barrier ointment too.”

Their movements were swift, practiced, coordinated, like they had been doing this together for years. No wasted energy. No second-guessing.

As they packed the supplies into a portable tray, Jenna didn’t notice the way Jack’s prosthetic boot shifted slightly under his scrub pants when he crouched to grab supplies from the bottom shelf.

And Jack didn’t offer it.

Because this wasn’t about him.

It was about Tommy.

And Jenna’s trust.

7:25 p.m.

The curtain swished aside again, and Tommy turned his head at the sound, expectant. His gaze landed on Jenna first—then shifted to the tall man beside her, dressed in black scrubs and carrying a small tray of wound care supplies with quiet precision.

Jenna offered a soft smile as she stepped back inside. “Hey, Tommy. Brought someone with me.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes slightly, instantly wary.

“This is Dr. Abbot,” Jenna said calmly, glancing between the two men. “He’s the attending tonight. He’s here to help me clean your stump like I promised. No one else. Just us.”

Tommy’s eyes scanned Jack—up, down, then back again. Measuring. Testing. The old soldier in him, still sharp under the exhaustion and pain, didn’t miss much. His fingers fidgeted at the blanket near his hip.

Jack nodded once. “Mr. MacClellan.”

Tommy snorted. “You don’t gotta call me that. Just Tommy’s fine. You military?”

Jack’s expression didn’t change. “Used to be.”

Tommy held his gaze for a beat longer, then nodded, settling. It was enough.

“You one of those clean-hands types who’s gonna tell me how unsanitary duct tape is?”

Jack answered plainly. “No. I’m just here to help Dr. Robinavitch clean the wound.”

Jenna glanced at Tommy again. “Still okay with me doing this?”

He gave a half-shrug. “Long as it’s still you, Sunshine. You always had steady hands.” He looked at Jack again. “And if you’re good to her, you’re good with me.”

Jack didn’t blink. “Doing my best to measure up.”

That made Tommy huff a sound that might’ve been a laugh—or a cough. “Alright then. Go ahead. Just don’t poke too deep.”

Jenna pulled on gloves and started prepping the tray beside the bed. Jack rolled up the sleeves of his black scrub top and stepped in beside her, unwrapping the gauze with methodical care.

And for the first time in eleven years, Tommy let someone tend to the wound that never fully healed.

Because she had come back.

And because he—whoever he was—didn’t look at Tommy like a man falling apart.

Just a man who still deserved to be seen.

Jenna peeled back the last of the makeshift dressing with slow, practiced care, using a sterile saline-soaked pad to lift the adhesive edge of the duct tape without pulling Tommy’s skin. He winced once, but didn’t flinch. Jack was steady beside her, placing instruments as she needed, moving without direction.

As the final layer came off, Jenna got a full view of the stump—and her stomach dropped half a beat.

The ulcer was deeper than she thought. It wasn’t just friction—it had tunneled slightly along the distal edge, with signs of early tissue breakdown. No active pus or odor yet, but the rim was angrier than she liked, bordering on purplish. If they didn’t catch it now, it was only a matter of days before it turned infected—or worse.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t make a sound.

She just glanced up, instinctively.

Jack was already looking at her.

No raised eyebrows. No panic. No surprise. Just quiet understanding.

He gave the tiniest nod.

We’ve got it.

She turned back to Tommy, masking the shift in her expression as she gently irrigated the wound with saline, careful to flood the edges without stinging the rawest areas.

Tommy shifted slightly, leaning back on the pillows. “You always wanted to be a doctor as long as I’ve known you.” he stated, his voice gravelled and low. “Even when you were fifteen and barely tall enough to see over the supply cart.”

Jenna smiled faintly as she dabbed along the rim of the wound. “Yeah. I think I was annoying about it.”

“You were determined,” he corrected. “Kept this little notebook with you. Wrote down what the everyone said around here. Doctors, nurses, anyone who had scrubs on. Asked me a hundred damn questions about the VA.”

Jenna glanced up at him, amused. “You told me the VA smelled like feet and bureaucracy.”

“Still does,” Tommy muttered.

Jack passed her a clean gauze pad without being asked.

“You got smart eyes, Sunshine,” Tommy went on, looking up at the ceiling now. “Didn’t know back then if it was smarts or just stubborn. Guess it was both.”

Jenna applied a thin layer of Bactroban, careful to avoid pressing on the tender granulation. “You were the first person who told me I didn’t have to go into pediatrics just because I was a girl.”

Tommy chuckled. “Yeah, that was bullshit then and it’s bullshit now. You always had the hands for trauma.”

Jack’s gaze flicked toward her again at that—just for a moment—but Jenna didn’t look up this time.

She was focused. Quiet. Gentle.

The kind of presence Tommy would remember the same way he always had.

He exhaled slowly, relaxing into the bed as she wrapped the stump in clean, breathable gauze. “This the part where you tell me to keep it clean and stay off it for a few days?”

Jenna smiled. “It is.”

“And this the part where I lie and say I will?”

Jack couldn’t help the corner of his mouth from twitching.

Jenna shot him a sharp look, but her tone was soft. “No lies today, Tommy.”

He sighed. “Alright. Then just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t stop being the kind of doctor who remembers people.”

She paused, hands still for a beat over the bandage. Then, “I won’t.”

She said it like a vow.

And Jack believed her.

Tommy rested back against the pillow now, more at ease than he’d looked when they walked in. The clean gauze wrapped neatly around his stump, the bite of pain dulled with lidocaine and gentle hands. His eyes followed Jenna as she cleaned up the tray, then shifted to Jack, still standing beside her, arms now loosely folded.

There was a glint in Tommy’s eye.

“Hey, Doc,” he said, directing his voice to Jack. “Word of advice.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“If she ever asks you to play poker,” Tommy said, lifting a finger like it was sacred knowledge, “don’t.”

Jack’s brow lifted slightly in amusement. “No?”

“She’ll sweep your smug, clipboard-holdin’ ass right under the table.”

Jenna let out a soft snort as she tossed a piece of gauze into the waste bin. “Tommy.”

“I’m serious, Sunshine. I taught her myself. Spent three summers hustling me outta red gummy bears, Oreos, and chocolate pudding. Had a face like stone by the time she was eighteen.��

Jack glanced sideways at her, amused. “That true?”

Jenna grinned over her shoulder, clearly trying—and failing—not to look too proud. “Only lost twice. And one of those times he distracted me by faking a cough so he could slip an ace up his sleeve.”

Tommy shrugged, unrepentant. “Tactical advantage. I learned that in ’91.”

Jack chuckled under his breath, giving Tommy a small nod. “Duly noted. No poker.”

“Unless you’re into public humiliation,” Tommy added with a smirk.

Jenna rolled her eyes fondly, but Jack’s gaze lingered on her for a beat.

There was something quietly electric about the exchange—not loud, not flirtatious, just true. This young resident, standing with bare confidence in the face of a wound most people would’ve panicked over. Someone who could cradle a man’s dignity and still make him laugh afterward.

She was holding her ground. Again.

And Jack was watching.

Again.

PTMC – April 2004

Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the half-open blinds, casting gold and shadow across the hospital floor. The light caught on the edge of a rolling tray table pulled between a worn vinyl chair and the hospital bed. On the table: a scattered deck of playing cards, a notebook filled with scribbles and half-finished anatomy diagrams, and a messy pile of gummy bears arranged into colored currency.

Jenna sat cross-legged in the visitor chair, or tried to. Every few minutes, she shifted awkwardly—uncrossing one leg, tucking the other beneath her, never fully comfortable. She leaned slightly to the side, then forward, and winced. Her right hand pressed gently against the center of her torso, just under her ribs, fingers cupping the place where her splenectomy scar pulled tight when she stayed still too long.

Tommy noticed. He always did.

“You need to stretch or somethin’, Sunshine?” he asked, watching her over the top of his cards.

“I’m fine,” Jenna murmured, trying to settle back in. “It just aches. That spot in the middle, where they went in. It feels like my body hasn’t figured out what to do without it yet.”

Tommy gave a soft grunt, shifting slightly on the bed, the blanket rustling over the stump of his right leg—his prosthesis leaned in the corner, untouched for most of the day. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Jenna glanced at him, then looked back down at her gummy bear pile. “Do you still feel it?”

“My leg?” He smiled faintly. “Most days. Especially when the weather’s ugly. Or when I’m thinkin’ too hard. Sometimes I dream I’m walking on it.”

“Is that weird?”

“Nah,” he said. “It’s just the body trying to hold on to what’s already gone. Brains are stubborn that way.”

She was quiet for a moment, turning a red gummy bear over in her hand like it held answers.

Tommy laid a few cards down lazily. “Alright. Big question time. What’s happening on April 28th?”

She looked up, startled. “What?”

“Your birthday,” he said with a grin. “Sweet sixteen. Robby mentioned it to Dana the other day while he was askin’ about cake. You got a plan?”

Jenna hesitated. Her hand drifted to her stomach again, more a reflex than anything.

“Not really.”

“No?”

She shrugged, eyes dropping. “It’s the first one without them. I think Robby’s trying to make it something, but… I don’t know. It just feels weird. Like if I enjoy it too much, I’m doing something wrong.”

Tommy nodded, slow and understanding. “Yeah. That sounds about right, too.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the tray table, voice quieter now.

“Grief’s a tricky bastard, Sunshine. People think it’s this big heavy thing you carry, but it’s not. Not really. It’s something that lives in you. Moves around. Some days it sits in your lungs and you can’t breathe. Some days it curls up behind your eyes and every damn thing makes you cry. And some days it just… pulls at your side like an old scar when you sit too long.”

Jenna stared at him, eyes wide, wet and still.

“But it doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong if you laugh. Or eat cake. Or win a poker game.”

She gave a soft breath of a laugh through her nose. “I always win poker games.”

He grinned. “Yeah, you do. And that’s something worth celebrating.”

She nodded slowly, brushing her thumb along her scar through the fabric of her hoodie.

Then she laid down her cards: full house, sevens over twos. “Speaking of winning.”

Tommy groaned, tossing his cards face-down. “You’re a menace.”

Jenna smirked. “Don’t forget it.”

And in that golden-lit room full of beeping monitors and half-finished healing, a fifteen-year-old girl with a fresh scar and an old soul sat with a man who had already learned how to live with ghosts.

And for a few minutes, the grief didn’t win.

August 15, 2017 – 7:50 p.m.

The hallway outside Room 3 had faded behind her. Jenna sat at the workstation again, posture stiff, hands resting still on either side of her tablet. The buzz of the ER continued around her—phones ringing, monitors chirping, the squeak of shoes against tile—but she wasn’t hearing any of it.

She was somewhere else.

Somewhen else.

The gummy bears.

The scar that used to burn whenever she laughed.

Tommy’s gravelly voice telling her grief was like a phantom limb.

Some days it pulls at your side when you sit too long.

She swallowed hard and blinked, her vision snapping back into focus on the glow of the screen. Her tablet was still on Tommy’s chart, but she hadn’t moved in over a minute.

Across from her, Jack was watching.

He hadn’t said anything when she returned to the desk—just subtly shifted his weight, one hand resting against the edge of the counter, the other loosely holding a pen he wasn’t using. But he hadn’t looked away from her, either. His gaze was steady, sharp, but there was a thread of concern buried in the lines between his brows.

“You with me, Kid?” he asked quietly.

Jenna blinked. Turned slightly. “What?”

Jack’s voice was calm, but the use of Kid—not Dr. Robinavitch—was deliberate. It wasn’t condescending. It was… concerned. Personal.

“You spaced,” he said simply. “Long enough for me to notice.”

Jenna exhaled through her nose, then shook her head, grounding herself again. “Just… had a memory. From when I was sixteen.”

Jack waited, didn’t press.

Before either of them could say anything else, Lena rounded the corner, tapping her iPad with the practiced speed of a woman used to juggling eight things at once.

“Hey,” she said, looking at both of them. “Tommy’s labs are running now—CBC, BMP, lactate, and a UA just went up. Cultures are cooking. I’ll let you know as soon as we get results.”

“Thanks, Lena,” Jack said, already shifting to open Tommy’s chart again.

Lena glanced at Jenna, who was quiet again, her fingers now fidgeting with her stylus.

“You good, honey?” Lena asked softly.

Jenna nodded. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

Lena gave her a knowing look, then turned and disappeared back toward triage.

Jack still hadn’t looked away from her.

Jenna finally turned her head and met his eyes. “I can handle this.”

“I know,” he said simply. “Start fluids. We’ll reassess once the labs post.”

Jenna nodded, pulling herself upright again, stylus in hand, already keying in the orders.

7:56 p.m.

The hum of the ER carried on around them—monitors, footsteps, voices—but Jenna was still.

She sat at her workstation, chart open, cursor blinking halfway through her note on Tommy’s presentation. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. Her eyes tracked the screen—but they weren’t seeing it anymore.

Then she stopped typing.

Slowly, she turned her head toward Jack, who sat a few feet away, skimming another patient’s chart on his tablet, back straight, leg braced against the base of the stool, perfectly composed.

“Dr. Abbot,” she said softly.

He looked up immediately, eyes meeting hers.

“How long did you serve?”

Jack’s brow twitched just slightly, but he didn’t seem caught off guard. He sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest.

“Two full tours,” he answered quietly. “Eight years. And then a third—I made it through about a year before… I came home.”

No elaboration. No stories. Just that—straight and clean, like a report stripped to what mattered.

Jenna didn’t ask what happened after that. She didn’t need to.

She just nodded, her eyes on him now—not as a resident watching her attending, but as a woman watching a man slowly take shape in the gray in-between of truth and omission.

Jenna studied him for a moment longer. Then nodded slowly.

“It makes sense.”

Jack’s brow creased just slightly. “What does?”

She hesitated, then said it simply, like stating a fact.

“How deeply you stare into people. Like you’re reading them.”

He raised an eyebrow—just a flick—but said nothing.

Jenna continued, voice quiet but sure. “You don’t just watch. You read them. Like you’re scanning for danger… or for weakness. Or for truth.”

A long pause hung between them.

“You’re trained to,” she added softly.

Jack didn’t answer right away. But his eyes held hers for a beat longer than necessary.

Jack didn’t move, he held her gaze, but his voice, when it came, was quieter than before.

“Not always something I can turn off.”

Jenna’s lips curved—not quite a smile, more acknowledgment than anything.

“I don’t think you should.”

Their eyes held for one long, still second.

Then she turned back to her screen, fingers finding the keyboard again.

No denial. No explanation. Just that.

And Jack, for a moment, just watched her. Not like a soldier. Not like a doctor.

Just like a man who’d finally been seen.

8:02 p.m.

Jenna was still seated at her workstation, chart open, stylus in hand, when she heard Lena’s familiar clipped footsteps approach. She looked up just as the charge nurse rounded the corner, tablet in hand, her expression instantly pulling Jenna upright.

“Bloodwork’s back,” Lena announced. “UA looks clean. But his bloodwork—”

She didn’t have to finish. Jenna was already standing.

“White count?” Jack asked, stepping beside Jenna in one smooth motion.

“WBC’s 18.2, lactate’s 4.1, creatinine’s creeping, and his temp’s climbing. Heart rate’s hanging around 118. BP just dropped—last read was 89/56.”

Jenna’s heart thudded. “Shit.”

“Only the blood flagged it,” Lena said. “If we hadn’t drawn that set—”

“We did,” Jack interrupted, his voice calm but iron-edged. “That’s what matters.”

He looked at Jenna. “Septic until proven otherwise. Let’s go.”

Jenna was already moving.

Jack followed close behind, barking short instructions over his shoulder. “Lena, page pharmacy—vanc and zosyn, stat. Grab two liters of LR and prep for a second line.”

Lena was already ahead of him, turning on her heel with a “Copy that.”

Jenna reached for her iPad as she walked, heart pounding but hands steady. “I’ll push fluids and start the sepsis note. We’re going to need a full workup and repeat labs in four.”

“We’ll monitor MAP closely. If he doesn’t respond to the bolus—”

“Pressors,” she said with him, already flipping open Tommy’s vitals on her screen. “I’ve got his allergies, no contraindications.”

They moved together with practiced urgency—two minds syncing in motion.

No wasted words.

No panic.

Just action.

And behind all of it, just beneath Jenna’s steady breath and Jack’s clipped cadence, sat one unspoken truth:

This wasn’t just any patient.

This was Tommy.

And he wasn’t going to crash on their watch.

8:07 p.m.

The curtain swished open, and the energy in the room shifted the moment Jenna stepped through.

Tommy looked worse than he had twenty minutes ago—his skin was clammy, eyes slightly glassed over, his breathing shallow. The monitor behind him beeped steadily, but every other sound felt muted under the weight of what Jenna already knew. Jack was right behind her, IV fluids in hand, face unreadable but fully locked in.

Jenna stepped to the bedside, her tablet tucked under her arm. She lowered herself so they were eye level.

“Tommy,” she said gently. “Your labs came back. You’re septic.”

He blinked slowly, like the word took a second to land.

She continued, her voice calm, her words simple. “Your body’s fighting an infection in your blood. It’s serious. But we caught it early. We’re starting antibiotics and fluids now, and we’re monitoring you really closely. We can treat this.”

Tommy was quiet for a moment. His eyes didn’t meet hers. Instead, they stared just past her, toward the wall.

“No,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Jenna’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“No more, Sunshine,” he rasped. “I don’t want it.”

She blinked. “Tommy, if we treat it now, we have a chance to get ahead of it. But if we don’t—”

“I know what sepsis is,” he said, voice sharp for half a second before it softened again. “I know what happens if you don’t treat it. I’m a stubborn old bastard, not a stupid one.”

Jenna stood frozen for a moment, the world narrowing to the space between her hand and the rail of his bed.

“I’m tired,” he said finally, eyes still not meeting hers. “I’m so goddamn tired.”

Jenna didn’t speak.

Tommy’s voice was quieter now, but clear.

“I’m tired of the heroin needles. Of cold benches and people pretending they don’t see me. Of being a man with no leg and nowhere to go. I’m tired of the way they look at me like I’m already dead. Like I deserve to be.”

Jenna felt her throat tighten.

“I’m tired of the concrete,” Tommy said, his eyes finally finding hers. “Of the street corners. Of bridges and cops and shelters that smell like bleach and piss and other men’s ghosts.”

Silence filled the room like a fog.

Behind her, Jack didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

He let Jenna have the floor.

Tommy’s voice cracked just slightly. “I don’t want another round of antibiotics just so I can go back under the overpass in three days. I don’t want to fight for a life that’s not living anymore.”

Jenna knelt slightly beside his bed, her hand braced on the rail.

“You don’t have to go back there,” she said quietly. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. If we treat this… you get to choose what comes next.”

Tommy gave a bitter chuckle. “You think I have choices?”

“You do.” Her voice broke slightly. “And if you don’t see them, then I’ll hold them for you until you can.”

Tommy looked at her—really looked at her—and for a moment, he didn’t see a doctor or a volunteer or a kid from a hospital hallway.

He saw Jenna.

The girl who used to play poker with him for gummy bears.

The girl with the scar who came back.

And the woman who refused to give up on him.

He didn’t answer right away.

He just stared at her hand resting on the bedrail, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel invisible.

Not yet a yes.

But not a no.

And Jack, still in the corner, quietly set the IV bag down. Ready. Waiting.

Hope held its breath.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above them, casting a pale glow over Tommy’s weathered face and the weary defeat that had settled into the corners of his eyes. But Jenna didn’t flinch. She leaned in closer, hand still braced on the rail, her voice steady—anchored in something deeper than medicine.

“Tommy, listen to me,” she said, her words quiet but charged with purpose. “I’ve been pushing for change here. For you. For people like you.”

He looked at her, confused—but still listening.

“I presented a proposal to the hospital board in June. I’ve been working with Dr. Martin in psych and Lena and a few nurses from wound care—we’re building an outreach program. Street follow-up, shelter liaisons, mobile clinics. We’re fighting for a part-time street medic unit and warm hand-offs to housing programs. Not just discharge paperwork and ‘good luck out there,’ but actual care. Continuity. Dignity.”

Tommy’s lower lip trembled. His eyes, watery now, filled slowly to the brim.

“I wrote it with your name on the top of the draft,” she added. “Not for show. Not for pity. But because I remembered. Because you matter.”

Tommy blinked once, then again, and a single tear broke loose and ran slowly down his cheek.

He tried to speak, but his voice caught. So instead, he just looked at her—like she was a miracle in a black scrub top with a stethoscope and a heart ten times too big.

“My angel,” he whispered, voice rough and frayed. “You really are, Sunshine.”

Jenna’s own eyes brimmed, but she held it together. She had to. For him.

“I just need you to hold on to the fight a little longer,” she said, gently wrapping her fingers around his. “Let me help. As long as you’re willing to take it—I’ll keep showing up.”

Tommy didn’t answer right away. His lips quivered, jaw trembling like the decision itself had weight.

And then—he nodded.

Just once.

“I’ll take the treatment,” he whispered.

Jenna smiled through the burn in her throat. She squeezed his hand, then added, “Good. ‘Cause between you and me?”

He gave her a questioning look.

“Having two legs is wildly overrated.”

That made him laugh. A real one—raw, breathy, a little broken—but real.

And behind them, Jack finally moved. He stepped forward with the IV bag, silent as ever but ready—bearing witness to something rare: a man choosing to live again, because someone saw him.

And because a girl he once taught poker had come back as a doctor who kept her promises.

Army Medical Center - Walter Reed Memorial - October 2014

The ceiling tiles didn't change.

Jack had counted them.

Forty-seven full ones. Six half. One cracked, right over his head.

Same number every morning. Same number every night.

The sterile white room smelled like antiseptic and starch and old pain. There was a window, but it looked out over a parking garage. Jack hadn't opened the blinds in three days.

The bed beneath him was too soft. Too forgiving.

Not built for men who used to sleep with one hand on a rifle and both boots on the ground.

His right leg ended just below the knee-wrapped in gauze, elevated slightly, heavy even though it was gone.

He could still feel it sometimes.

The ankle that wasn't there. The toes that didn't itch.

Phantom limb pain, they called it.

As if naming it made it less cruel.

The door clicked, and Jack didn't turn his head.

The nurses knew not to startle him.

A tray was slid onto the side table. Oatmeal. Applesauce. Water with lemon.

He didn't touch it.

His hands were folded over his abdomen, his forearms still marked with faint IV bruises. His dog tags were gone. They'd been taken from him the day he was medevac'd out of Kandahar-cut from his neck before they wheeled him into the OR. He remembered the moment they were gone more clearly than the blast itself.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

No radio chatter.

No diesel engines.

No voices calling out grid coordinates.

Just the beep of the monitor and the soft hiss of the oxygen line he didn't need anymore but hadn't asked them to remove.

Jack blinked at the ceiling again.

He couldn't remember the last time he spoke aloud.

The other medics told him he was a hero.

The nurses called him sir.

The chaplain stopped by twice a week and offered peace he didn't believe in.

But none of them had seen his squad.

None of them had pulled eight bodies from sand and shrapnel while their sergeant screamed he was the only one left.

None of them knew what it felt like to survive by accident.

His jaw clenched, and he finally turned his head slightly-to the nightstand where a folder sat untouched.

Inside:

- Names.

- Reports.

- Death certificates.

- His own X-rays.

- Photographs that still made him wake up gasping.

Jack closed his eyes.

He didn't cry.

He never did.

But when the pain came-when it wrapped around the ghost of the leg he didn't have-he bit down so hard on his own tongue he tasted blood.

And still, he didn't make a sound.

Because Jack Abbot was a soldier.

A medic.

A survivor.

And this hospital bed-this stillness, this silence, this sterile new world —was the first place he had ever truly been alone.

8:17 p.m.

The curtain eased shut behind him, muffling Jenna’s voice—low and steady as she coaxed Tommy into comfort, her presence more effective than any sedative. Jack stood just outside for a moment, one hand on the doorframe, jaw set like he was anchoring something in place before letting it go.

Then he turned down the hall, steps even, deliberate.

Lena was leaning against the wall near the meds cart, tablet in hand, one eyebrow already raised when she caught sight of him. She didn’t say anything at first—just smiled, that sharp little sideways grin that said she knew more than she let on.

“What’s that look for?” she asked, tilting her head.

Jack let out a breath through his nose, shook his head once.

“She just told that man,” he said, voice low and slightly incredulous, “that having two legs is wildly overrated.”

Lena blinked. Then grinned, full and genuine. “No she didn’t.”

“Oh, she did,” Jack said. “Straight-faced. Right after talking him into treatment. Just said it like it was medical advice.”

Lena laughed quietly, then leaned her head back against the wall with a soft sigh. “God, I love her.”

Jack’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by something more reflective. His eyes drifted toward the curtained room again, where Jenna’s voice could still be heard—low, warm, steady.

Lena tilted her head. Her tone gentled, watching him closely. “She know about yours yet?”

Jack’s gaze shifted—just a flicker. “No.”

Lena didn’t tease. Didn’t prod.

She just met his eyes with quiet certainty. “She won’t flinch. Not even for a millisecond.”

Jack’s jaw twitched slightly. He didn’t smile.

But he nodded once. A silent acknowledgment.

A rare, unguarded beat of hope.

And for the first time in a long time, he believed it.

8:19 p.m.

Jack leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest, eyes still trained vaguely in the direction of Tommy’s room. He hadn’t said anything for a moment—not since Lena told him Jenna wouldn’t flinch.

But something she said earlier was still turning over in his head.

He glanced at Lena.

“The programs,” he said. “What she was talking about in there. The outreach. Is that real? Or was she just saying it to keep him anchored?”

Lena’s expression softened immediately. “Oh, it’s real.”

Jack turned his full attention to her now.

“She’s been working on it for years,” Lena continued. “Started her intern year, barely knew how to navigate Epic and still managed to corner half the psych team between trauma codes.”

“2014?” Jack asked, eyebrows lifting.

Lena nodded, a little proud, a little exasperated. “Yup. She came to me and Dana two weeks into residency with this hand-drawn sketch of a street medicine rotation. Had no idea how to fund it, no institutional support, but she had numbers, case studies, contacts from shelters she’d already built relationships with as a med student. And a list of names—people she remembered. Tommy was on it.”

Jack blinked, absorbing that.

“She’s been refining it ever since,” Lena went on. “We help when we can. Dana’s been a damn bulldozer for her behind the scenes. Jenna writes, organizes, pulls the data. She presented to the board last month again.”

Jack shook his head slowly. “I didn’t know.”

“She doesn’t brag,” Lena said simply. “She just builds.”

He went quiet, gaze drifting down the hallway again. The curtain still hadn’t moved.

Lena watched him carefully. “You didn’t expect her to be soft and relentless, did you?”

Jack let out the ghost of a breath. “No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think I expected her to be this much.”

Lena smiled, warmth bleeding into her smirk. “She’s a lot. But it’s the good kind. The kind that changes everything.”

Jack nodded once, the look on his face unreadable—but something in his eyes had shifted.

She really was the real thing.

And he was starting to realize he was lucky to be standing close enough to see it.

Jack shifted his weight, arms still loosely folded as he stared down the hallway, watching the curtain to Tommy’s room sway slightly from the air vents. Behind it, Jenna was still moving—quiet, focused, relentless.

After a long beat, he spoke.

“Does Robby know about the programs?”

Lena let out a laugh that was half exasperation, half admiration. “Oh yeah. He knows. Nearly had a full-blown coronary last spring when she decided to do an in-person assessment on The Kraken.”

Jack blinked slowly. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” Lena said, grinning. “Robby was on a trauma call when she left the building. I think Dana had to physically keep him from marching into the boardroom afterward and demanding she be assigned an armed escort for the rest of her residency.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Why the hell would she go near him alone?”

“Because he was lucid,” Lena said with a shrug. “And because no one else would.”

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose.

“And for the record,” Lena added, eyes dancing, “she hates that nickname.”

“The Kraken?” Jack asked.

“Won’t say it,” Lena confirmed. “Won’t even respond when other people use it. She insists on calling him Mr. Krakozhia. Says if she’s going to treat someone with dignity, it starts with their name. And if you call him anything else around her? She’ll stop what she’s doing and correct you.”

Jack raised a brow.

“I’ve seen her do it to attendings, nurses, medical assistants, techs, a poor volunteer,” Lena said. “Even did it to one of the psych fellows during rounds. Dead serious. Voice like stone. ‘His name is Mr. Krakozhia.’”

Jack shook his head slowly, something like reluctant awe creeping across his face.

“She’s not soft,” Lena said, more gently now. “She’s principled. There’s a difference.”

Jack didn’t answer. Not right away. He just stared toward that curtain again.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t worried about someone under his wing.

He was starting to realize he might be following her.

8:31 p.m.

The curtain pushed open with a soft swish, and Jenna stepped out into the hallway, tablet tucked under one arm, curls frizzed from sweat and motion. She exhaled through her nose as she approached Jack, who was still standing near Lena, arms folded, eyes already on her.

She didn’t slow her pace.

“Fluids are halfway in,” she began without preamble. “Antibiotics started—vanc and zosyn. Pressors are on standby, but his MAP’s holding at sixty-six for now. Second lactate and blood cultures are drawn, I flagged them stat. Repeating labs in four hours. Vitals q15. Chart’s updated.”

Jack gave a small nod as she spoke, tracking her every word with that still, quiet focus of his.

“I talked to psych just in case he destabilizes overnight—he gave consent, but he’s fragile. I’d rather not have security involved if we can avoid it.”

Another nod. Still no interruptions.

Jenna finally stopped in front of him, not out of breath, but braced. Her grip on the tablet was tighter than it needed to be.

She looked up at him, eyes steady. “This is the first sepsis case I’ve run point on without someone swooping in to take it from me.”

Jack didn’t speak.

“I mean actually run. Beginning to end. I didn’t have to shout to be heard. I didn’t have to wrestle the chart away. You let me lead it.”

Jack’s brow ticked, just slightly.

She lifted her chin. “Did I miss anything?”

He paused.

And then shook his head.

“No,” he said quietly. “You didn’t miss a thing.”

Jenna’s shoulders sank half an inch—relief flickering just beneath her composure.

Something flickered in Jenna’s face—not quite a smile, not quite relief. Just the quiet, stunned weight of being trusted. Of being seen.

Jack gave a slow nod. “You ran it like an attending.”

Jenna blinked once, then nodded too, more to herself than to him.

And maybe for the first time in a long time, she believed she could.

Jenna gave one final nod, the tablet now tucked tight against her side, then turned and walked off down the hallway. Her steps were measured but purposeful, already moving toward her next task, her next patient, her next fight. The weight of the case still clung to her shoulders, but she carried it differently now—earned, owned, steady. She didn’t look back.

Jack watched her for a second longer than he meant to.

Only when she rounded the corner toward the nurses’ station did he finally exhale and turn—right into Lena’s smug, waiting smirk.

She didn’t even try to hide it.

“Told you,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Everything about that girl is magic.”

Jack stared at her flatly for a beat.

Then muttered, “Get back to work.”

Lena just laughed and sauntered off, completely unbothered.

And Jack?

He didn’t say it out loud—

But he didn’t disagree.

next chapter

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[kingmohan]

honestly not enough appreciation for Esme the janitor, who appears five times in the entire season for a few seconds each and managed to make me cry with two of those appearances (when she finds the blue hair ribbon on the floor of the trauma room after the code on the drowned little girl, and when she sees Robby after his breakdown, immediately notices his emotional state, and asks him how he's doing + offers to get him something to eat or drink- which she did at the beginning of the shift, too, when she told him there was food in the lounge)

[kingmohan]

[kingmohan]

I know getting too attached to any one dynamic in an ensemble show, especially one where the writers and producers have made it clear they intend to eventually cycle cast members to reflect the end of residencies, is always going to be asking for disappointment, but god, Samira and Robby's relationship is just too good.

From a story perspective, I cannot see a world in which it wouldn't be incredibly disappointing to have her leave after season two and her residency. She's Robby's narrative mirror! They represent so much of each other's fears! She's him on a speed run, having experienced her central trauma as a child while his wasn't until he'd already been a doctor for twenty years! She's his narrative heir that has demonstrated that she's already better than him in very real ways! She's the only person that expresses interest in how to actually run the ED, with her interest in changing hospital level policy to improve treatment of sickle cell patients and her curiosity about hospital procurement policy while in the middle of a crisis response.

It's just such a perfect character dynamic. If Samira is ever out, I might cry.

[kingmohan]

some more the pitt headcanons bc I need season 2 like, yesterday:

- Mel gets Samira into megan thee stallion and now Samira listens to her on the way to the hospital to hype herself up

- Whitaker is always randomly quoting obscure bible verses that are technically related to the conversation but wild to just say at the drop of a hat

- McKay loves olives. I don’t know much but I know this

- Gloria dresses like a sim. No one has ever seen her in anything but a pastel blazer.

- Robby has a huge record collection and it’s organized alphabetically

- Jack Abbot is insanely good at parallel parking

[kingmohan]

Jack Abbot has a dog, not purebred but a mutt. Something that looks like it was thrown in toxic waste like the joker. This dog is fucked up and has eaten his drywall. This dog is an idiot. This dog runs in to screen doors. This dog is hideous. Worst dog ever. And he loves that hellion.

He also has a cat. A judgmental cat. A cat that sleeps on his pillow and slowly migrates to his face. This cat has snuck in to his go bag and ended up in the ED.

His pets are menaces to society.

[kingmohan]

2025 EMMY NOMINEES KATHERINE LANASA AND NOAH WYLE

[kingmohan]

supriya has been spotted on set!🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ i’m loving the purple shirt liiiikeeeee