nemo-writes

[nemo-writes]

Welcome back 😁

glad to be back darling!!! you're great too!!!

[nemo-writes]

𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚣𝚣𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚖 I chapter one

(dr. michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!violinist!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: on the days when the pitt leaves him frayed and half-empty, robby takes the long way home. what begins as a quiet ritual becomes something more, and then a single glance turns solitude into recognition, and silence into trust.

⤿ warning(s): none

⟡ story masterlist ; next

✦ word count: 2.6k

The morning shift had ended like they all did lately, on the edge of something fraying. 

Robby’s shoulders felt stiff, his head a shade too full, and everything behind his eyes ached with the dull throb of a long day stretched past its breaking point. The hospital lights had followed him out, burned into the backs of his eyelids.

He could’ve gone straight home. Should’ve, probably. But instead, his feet veered left, taking the longer route, the one that wound through a quieter stretch of neighborhood blocks tucked between the hospital and his building. It wasn’t the most efficient way, he’d discovered it one night months ago by pure accident after zoning out at a red light and taking the wrong turn. He might’ve kept on walking right past it that first time, too, if he hadn’t heard it.

Music.

Not blaring from someone’s stereo or a careless party upstairs, but something real, something alive. A violin, warm, deliberate, and so close to the bone that it had stopped him mid-step. He’d stood there like a fool on the sidewalk that night, head tilted, scanning apartment balconies until he found the source.

Third floor. South-facing. Balcony half-wrapped in ivy and blooms, the kind that didn’t come from a plastic pot or some grocery store shelf. Lavender, trailing vines, morning glories that curled around the metal railing like they’d claimed it for good. Ceramic pots and chipped terra-cotta lined the ledge, and tucked amid them was an old folding chair with a cushion that looked sun-faded but well-loved.

And just behind the glass door, barely cracked open as if on purpose, was the sound. The violin. You.

He never saw much more than your silhouette through the sheer curtains. Sometimes a leg curled beneath you, a bow lifted to shoulder height, or the dip of your head as you played. But the music was always there, tender, rich, intimate in a way that made him feel like he’d stumbled into something private and sacred. And maybe he had.

Now, months later, he took that long way home like a man chasing oxygen.

It had become his ritual. Not every night. But on the bad ones, the ones where The Pitt chewed through his calm, where the residents wouldn’t listen, where the weight of lives lost or nearly lost curled in his gut like rusted wire, those were the nights he walked that stretch on purpose.

Tonight, the air was cooler than usual, with the sharp bite of autumn creeping in beneath the still-green trees. The streets were mostly empty. A few porch lights glowed quietly, moths fluttering like ghosts in the glow. A dog barked somewhere. A siren wailed in the distance, fading.

And then, there it was.

He slowed without meaning to, gaze already lifting to the familiar building.

The lights on the third-floor balcony were dim but warm, fairy lights looped around the railing, casting soft halos over the lush tangle of greenery. The window was cracked, just enough. As always.

Then came the sound, slow and wandering at first, like you were testing something, tuning yourself back into the world before giving it anything more. The first phrase floated downward, loose and unhurried, brushing across his skin like mist. Then it repeated, tighter now, clearer, then built into something fuller. He couldn’t name the piece. He didn’t care. It wasn’t about that.

He stepped off the sidewalk and leaned against the low brick wall across the street, finding the familiar groove where the ivy curled and the wall had crumbled just slightly beneath the weight of time. Hands in the pockets of his jacket, he tilted his head up, not enough to look like a creeper, but just enough to close his eyes and just listen.

He never stayed long enough to be weird. He didn’t linger so late that the music stopped, or you caught him looking. That wasn’t the point. He didn’t even think (and hoped) you knew. But sometimes the curtain shifted just slightly. And he liked to believe it was on purpose. That maybe you’d noticed him once, and rather than being unsettled, you left the window cracked wider. Played a little louder. Sat closer to the light.

That maybe you’d left that sliver of space open for him.

Tonight, the music was different. There was something hushed and melancholy threaded through it, not quite sorrowful but distant, like memory being traced, or something old being carefully unfolded. It caught him in the ribs, pulled something loose inside of him he’d been holding too tightly for too long.

He could picture you in there, the lines of your fingers as they moved over the strings, the way your brows might furrow slightly when you fell into the rhythm, completely unaware, or perhaps completely aware, of how the sound carried through the night like a lifeline.

He stood there until the last note curled into silence and faded beneath the buzz of crickets and passing cars. Only then did he shift his weight and exhale, a real exhale this time, deep, full, not tinged with frustration or fatigue.

Just... breath.

He didn’t clap. Never said a word. Just glanced up once more, caught the glint of something silvery in the glow of your fairy lights, a watering can, maybe, or a string of windchimes, then turned slowly back to the sidewalk, feet heavier but his heart lighter.

Maybe tomorrow would be another shitshow. Maybe he’d lose another patient. Maybe his hands would shake again, or he’d snap at someone who didn’t deserve it. But for now, for just this sliver of the night, something in him had been soothed.

Not fixed. But softened.

He walked the rest of the way home without rushing, still carrying the shape of your music in his chest.

. . .

The first few notes were unsure. 

You started over twice, correcting your bowing mid-stroke, adjusting the angle of your wrist as muscle memory kicked in, stubborn and imperfect. It was late, but that hour had become your sacred time. The building had mostly gone quiet. The neighbors were used to your odd hours by now, or at least tolerant. Some nights you'd leave the window shut. But on the better ones, when the wind was calm and your hands steady, you’d crack it open just enough.

Tonight, you cracked it on purpose.

The chair was in its usual place on the balcony, set back just behind the glass door where you could still see the street through the weave of leaves and stems. The lavender needed trimming. The ivy was getting wild again. But you left them alone. Let them grow.

You played through the phrasing again, low, controlled, the kind of tone they’d be listening for in the philharmonic auditions next week. You could almost see the adjudicators in your mind: stern, upright, frowning into their clipboards while you tried to make magic under fluorescence.

And still, the one thing you kept thinking about, the thread that distracted and grounded you all at once, was him.

You didn’t know his name. Not officially. Just a face at first, tall, lean, always in dark clothing, badge sometimes still clipped to his jacket, shoulders hunched like the world sat heavier on him than it did anyone else walking that sidewalk. The first time you’d noticed him, you’d paused, mid-shift, bow hovering just above the string, heart crawling up your throat. You’d thought he was angry, or annoyed. You’d been sure he was going to shout up—Shut that off! or People are trying to sleep!

But he never did.

He just... stood there. Listened, and then left.

The first time it happened, you’d locked the window after. Moved the chair farther inside. You even skipped a night or two. But curiosity gnawed at your nerves like something small and sharp. The second time, you kept the curtain drawn but cracked the glass an inch. The third, you played something slower. Risked sitting closer to the light.

By the fourth night, you were leaving the window open on purpose.

You didn’t know his story, but when he stopped in front of your building, even for just a few minutes, his posture changed. Not completely. Not dramatically. But enough. His head tilted. His shoulders eased, ever so slightly. It wasn’t much, but you noticed. You’d trained to notice nuance. In music. In people. In everything.

And God help you, it made your cheeks warm every single time.

The idea that your music did that, that it reached someone enough to make him choose to stop, to re-route his way home, it was dizzying. No applause. No conversation. Just... that shared moment.

You caught a glimpse of him again tonight, through the leafy barrier and the dim light. He was across the street, same spot as always, one shoulder leaned into the brick wall, head tipped slightly back. You let your eyes linger only a second, just long enough to recognize the cut of his beard in the streetlight, the way his hands stayed buried deep in his pockets. Then you looked down at your strings again.

And played for him.

Your bow lifted and fell like it was alive in your grip. You swore you felt it, an invisible thread stretching between your balcony and the sidewalk, humming with something delicate, private, real.

But then, as always, it ended.

You didn’t see him go, but you heard the last scrape of his boot on the sidewalk as he pushed off the wall and walked away. His silhouette passed briefly beneath the streetlight and vanished into shadow.

Your music faltered. Then you let the last note bleed into silence, bow hovering midair. And then you stopped.

The quiet afterward felt sudden. Startling. You lowered your instrument, let it rest gently against your leg, and stood without fully deciding to. Stepped over pots of mint and trailing fern, brushing against the edge of the railing to peer down into the dark street below.

Empty now, but you stared anyway. Half-hoping he'd glance back, even though he never did.

You knew it was silly. You didn’t even know his name. But still, your stomach did that fluttering thing. That stupid little lurch, like something in you had been chosen. Like you’d managed to soothe something inside someone whose life was infinitely more difficult than yours.

And suddenly, it mattered. More than it should have. More than you’d admit.

The philharmonic audition was next week. You should’ve been nervous about scales and excerpts and intonation. You were. But tonight, what kept you warm wasn’t a judge’s clipboard or the thought of a stage. It was that quiet man with sad eyes who stopped beneath your balcony on the nights he needed saving—and let you play him whole again.

. . .

The rain had passed, leaving everything slick with a quiet sheen. Streetlight reflections shimmered in shallow puddles, the air thick with petrichor and warmth from the cooling pavement. Robby’s coat clung slightly to his shoulders as he walked, collar turned up against the breeze that wasn’t quite cold, but still sharp enough to remind him he hadn’t eaten.

He should’ve gone straight home. He should’ve kept walking like every other night, stuck to the corner across the street like always, half-hidden, half-haunted. But the music tonight had pulled at something. The melody you played wasn’t slow or sad or heavy. It danced. It teased. It skipped through measures like it was smiling, and that alone felt… different.

He didn’t notice his feet had veered until he was standing right below your balcony. Closer than he’d ever dared.

The vines were thicker up close, tender green ivy curling over clay pots and tangled between iron bars like they were holding the whole thing together. The scent of lavender and crushed mint lingered in the air, and faint golden light bled through your open curtains.

And then the music stopped.

It didn’t fade. It cut.

A moment later, there was the soft scrape , the rustle of your sleeve brushing leaves, the muffled squeak of your heel catching slightly on the threshold, and then your voice, from just above:

“Hey!”

He looked up so fast it startled you.

You were leaning carefully over the railing, framed by string lights and wild green.Your expression was this tangled mess of shyness, curiosity, and something warm flickering in your eyes, like surprise, but not unpleasant.

“I thought that was you,” you said, voice a little breathless, fingers curling around the iron rail. “You’re the guy, right? The one who always stops?”

Robby blinked, his throat doing that ridiculous catch it always did when something emotional knocked the wind out of him. “Yeah,” he managed. “That’s me.”

A pause bloomed. You shifted your weight nervously.

“I, um—” You gave a crooked smile, shoulders lifting. “I wasn’t sure if I should say something. I didn’t want to ruin it, you know? But then tonight... I don’t know. The piece felt like it was looking for something. So I figured… maybe it was time.”

You leaned a little closer over the edge. “Did you like it? The song?”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Opened it again, looking slightly baffled that the question had caught him off guard.

“I…” he spluttered, then laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. Very much.”

You laughed, the sound giddy. “You sure? Because that didn’t sound confident.”

“It was,” he said quickly, stepping closer, hand resting on the wall now as he craned his head to see you better. “It was beautiful. All of it. I’ve been hearing you for a while now. Even on the rough days, especially then.”

Your smile faltered just enough to show how much that meant to you. Then you gave him your name, a little louder now. “Since we’re… talking now.”

His smile tugged wider, eyes bright beneath his furrowed brow. “Robby. I work over at Pitt.”

“ER, right?”

He blinked. “You know?”

“I guessed,” you said with a shrug, cheeks coloring. “Well, guessed and eavesdropped. You walk like someone carrying twenty different emergencies in your spine.”

That made him laugh again, really laugh, not just politely. It was the kind of laugh that made you smile bigger, brighter, like a secret had finally been named out loud.

A beat passed. Something shifted. Something unspoken. The wind moved the ivy like a curtain. Then, with a breath, you reached downwards. You leaned down a little more, extended your hand out over the edge and openly towards him. It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t even an invitation.

It was trust.

And without hesitation, Robby stepped in and lifted his hand up to yours.

Your fingers met midair, his palm warm and dry, your hand cool from the breeze. The touch was gentle, neither a shake nor a squeeze, just the simple act of holding.

You grinned down at him, glowing a little. “Nice to finally meet you, Robby.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he murmured, tightening his grip just enough.

Your fingers lingered there for a beat longer than necessary. Then you let go, gently, pulling back to rest your hand against your chest.

“I should finish the piece,” you said, eyes still locked on his. “You can stay. If you want.”

His heart squeezed. “I want.”

And as you turned back toward your chair, violin already cradled in your arms, Robby stepped back to the center of the street, head tilted upward, closer than ever, finally known, and for the first time in a long time, profoundly seen.

divider credit

[nemo-writes]

I was just thinking about you the other day!! I’m glad you’re back and am so happy that you’re starting a new series!!

you're amazing and ty for keeping me in your lovely thoughts! honestly this one came out of me re-watching the pitt bc i finally got my bestie into it. so yeah! it's gonna be on the shorter side, but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

[nemo-writes]

honestly, do whatever you feels right for you! everyone has various ways of dealing with how a beautiful piece of work can be ruined by their authors for being such absolute pieces of crap. you can turn it into something else, just let it die, or even just... float in the air. whatever feels right to you!

babe sorry for not getting back to you sooner. i’ve actually given it a lot of thought, and honestly (and just for my peace of mind) i’m going to let it rest for now. maybe i’ll revisit it down the line, but not rn. tysm for your lovely message, you’re an absolute star 💛

[nemo-writes]

um so....i'm back how yall doing..........

[nemo-writes]

𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚣𝚣𝚘 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚖

(dr. michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!violinist!reader)

⤿ synopsis: he’s a worn-down er doctor who takes the long way home just to hear you play. you're a violinist chasing a dream, leaving your window open for the stranger who always stops to listen. neither speak or reach out—until one night, you do

⤿ warning(s): ⚠️ check chapters for individual warnings ⚠️

chapter one;

chapter two;

chapter three.

[nemo-writes]

wait other post cancelled. mutuals. when r ur birthdays.

[nemo-writes]

once upon a time i had this half-written sandman fic just chilling in my drafts…but now… how do y’all deal with problematic creators/authors? like genuinely pls help 😭

[nemo-writes]

This is for all the unsung fic writers; the ones who don’t make the must-read lists, the ones who don’t get recced, the ones who don’t get hundreds of kudos, the rarepair writers out on the peripheries of fandom, the ones who toil away quietly for the handful of people who read and love them. You matter - you’re a writer too, and don’t you ever forget it. :)

[nemo-writes]

NEMO NEMO NEMO OH MY GOD I HAVE LOVED ABSOLUTELY SMITTEN IT WAS SO SO SO SO SO GOOD IM GONNA MISS WIATING FIR UPDTAES SM BUT NOW I CNA GO BACK AND REREAD THE WHOLE THING😭😭😭 AW IM GONNA MISS THIS SM BUT THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR AHRD WORK I LOVE IT SO MUCH THANK YOU🫶🫶🫶😭😭😭

BABY YOU ARE A STAR, YOU ARE BEAUTY, AND YOU ARE EVERYTHING THAT IS RIGHT IN THIS WORLD 💖💖💖

THANK YOU FOR YOUR KIND MESSAGES AND FOR JUST BEING HERE. AND NO WORRIES WHEN SEASON 2 DROPS? OH WELL, YOU BETTER BE READY, SON!!!

[nemo-writes]

dear lovely readers,

after countless hours, rewrites and many, maaaany doubts, absolutely smitten is finally complete! whether you’ve been here since the beginning or joined somewhere along the way, i’m deeply grateful for your time, your patience, and your willingness to engage with topics/themes that weren't always easy to read.

thank you again for staying, for reading and for feeling ❤️

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I epilogue

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: the last box is sealed, the key turned, and the future is now smaller, quieter—measured in soft laughs, careful steps, and the warmth of someone who stayed. there are still aches, and some ghosts linger, but they no longer lead.

⤿ warning(s): panic attacks

⟡ story masterlist ; previous

✦ word count: 2.6k

Boxes line the hallway like a trail of breadcrumbs—taped, labeled in your tidy block print: LINENS, TEA, FRAGILE, MISC OR MEMORIES. Every lift sends a dull ache through the ribs that never fully forgot the fall, but you manage, pacing yourself the way physio taught: lift with legs, breathe, rest. Sun slants through the doorway of the apartment you kept so neat for so many years, catching dust motes that dance like reluctant confetti.

Mr. Donnelly hovers near the radiator plant that once refused to die. He’s thinner, cardigan buttoned crooked, but his grin is boyish. “Raccoon-proof lid’s coming with you, right?” he teases, voice cracking with emotion.

“It’s practically an heirloom,” you answer, sliding the lid into an open box. The laugh costs a twinge of pain, but the heaviness in your chest feels lighter than it did months ago.

Donnelly’s eyes mist. He pulls you into a gentle, grandfather-safe hug—arms careful of your still-tender shoulder. “Neighborhood rounds won’t be the same,” he murmurs.

“You’ll keep the stairwell in better shape than I ever did,” you reply, patting his back. When he lets go, he presses a spare key of his own place into your palm. “Just in case,” he says. You squeeze it once, then tuck it into your pocket.

A knock—two quick, one slow—taps on the open door frame. Jack steps in, shouldering a duffel and wearing that battered leather jacket you once accused of having more patches than cow. He’s kept the beard, now trimmed but defiantly scruffy, and the sight sparks warmth behind your sternum.

He surveys the room, eyes dancing.

“Thought I’d missed the heavy lifting,” he says, setting the bag down. “Turns out you’re ahead of schedule.”

“Blame the chronic insomnia,” you answer, wiping a wisp of hair from your forehead with the back of your wrist.

Jack’s eyebrow arches, the playful one. “Doctor’s orders were no solo heroics.”

“Doctor wasn’t here at 5 a.m. when the tea crate mocked me,” you shoot back. That earns a low chuckle.

He crosses the small distance, palms settling on the sides of your face—careful of the tiny scar above your brow—and steals a kiss: warm, deep, edged with laugh lines. It tastes of peppermint gum and promise. You kiss him back until Donnelly coughs politely into his sleeve.

Jack eases away, eyes unashamedly bright. “Morning, Mr. Donnelly,” he offers, handshake firm.

“Take good care of her,” Donnelly tells him, voice gruff. “She’s got more lives than my ex-wife’s cat, but let’s not test that again.”

“Plan to keep her bored,” Jack says, scooping up the TEA  box. “New place has zero rooftop access, improved locks, and a big kitchen.”

The mention of your new place still hums strange in your ears—half thrill, half fear. You’re not moving into Jack’s loft (that conversation ended with both of you laughing at the idea of one bathroom), but you did choose an apartment two blocks from his, sunlight slanting through south windows, rooftop well-secured.

Little by little, independence and closeness found a compromise.

Jack hefts another box, the LINENS one, pausing when you wince adjusting your knee brace. “Break time,” he declares. “Physio rules.”

You don't argue and perch on the lone chair left unboxed while Jack and Donnelly ferry cartons outside. From that seat you can see the empty wall where photos once hung and other small details that showed this place had truly been lived in. The place doesn’t feel haunted anymore, just emptied of relevance—ready to be someone else’s normal.

The quiet invites reflection, so you pull out your phone and open the family thread—one you swore you’d never leave on read again after Laura discovered second-hand how close you’d come to dying. Your thumb hovers a moment, then you flip the camera and frame the living room’s bare walls, the single chair, the roll of bubble-wrap like an un-popped promise. Officially moved out. You type beneath the photo. New chapter loading. Love you three—updates soon.

Laura’s reply dots appear almost instantly, but before words land, a tiny GIF of confetti rains across the screen courtesy of Paul, followed by Lily’s voice memo: a giggling Good job, Auntie! Don’t forget the glitter in your new house! Laura’s text arrives last: Proud of you. No more martyr radio silence—daily report accepted in emojis and cake photos. ❤️ You send back a selfie—sweaty, mascara smeared a little at the edges, but smiling—then tuck the phone away, promise kept.

As if on cue, Jack returns, wiping sweat with the hem of his sleeve. He kneels, resting his hands on your good knee. “Pain scale?” he asks softly.

“Three,” you admit. “Maybe four when I breathe wrong.”

“Breathing’s overrated,” he says, smile crooked but eyes serious. “We’ll ice in the truck, med when we unload.”

You nod, trusting him the way you learned to on a roof at sunrise. Chronic aches will linger; nightmares still punch through sleep some nights. But therapy, good food and Jack’s hand during the worst waves—they’re scaffolding that holds.

Donnelly waves from the doorway, keys jangling. “Everything’s loaded. I’ll follow in my jalopy—make sure you two don’t ditch that raccoon lid on the highway.”

You laugh. Jack rises, helps you stand. Your body doesn’t argue today; maybe tomorrow it will. He threads fingers through yours, guiding you to the threshold.

“You ready to lock up?” he asks.

You glance around at the bare walls, the echoing floors, and despite the bittersweet tug, your answer surprises even you:

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

You turn the key, hand it to Donnelly for the landlord, and step into the bright corridor. Mr. Donnelly pats your shoulder one last time, then heads for the stairs. Your knee aches, your ribs protest, but the pulse at your wrist beats steady under Jack’s thumb, reminding you that healing, like love, is rarely quick but always possible.

Down on the street, autumn wind flutters loose tape on cardboard. Jack opens the passenger door, steadies your brace, and kisses your temple before you climb in. The window frames Mr. Donnelly waving like a proud uncle. Jack starts the engine, turns the dial to your favorite blues station, and pulls into traffic heading east—toward sunlight, tea, and whatever comes next.

. . .

The plan had been simple—Friday-night tapas on Carson Street, your first real evening out since the cane went back in the closet.

You showered early, traded compression sleeves for a floral blouse, even swiped on lipstick you hadn’t worn since for ever. But as you twisted at the sink to add the finishing touches to your look, a bolt of pain speared from rib to spine—nerve lightning you’d hoped was dying out. It stole your breath, and with the breath came memory: slick scaffold, the whump of bone on metal, Moylan’s whisper in your ear.

The bathroom lights tilted. Steam from the shower crowded close, suffocating, and suddenly you were back on the roof fighting for oxygen.

You braced both hands on the counter, forcing slow inhales the therapist drilled into you—four counts, hold, eight counts out—but your heartbeat wouldn’t quit sprinting. Jack’s text chimed and it up your phone—Leaving now. Can’t wait to see you twirl.

You stared at the words until they blurred, anger flaring hotter than pain. Twirl? With this body? With memories clawing up your throat? You silenced the phone, locked the screen, and curled onto the bath mat, palms over ears as if that could dam the noise inside.

Ten minutes later someone jiggled the front-door key—Jack’s spare you’d given him “for emergencies and forgotten lunches.” You didn’t answer. Keys clacked, hinges sighed, and his boots crossed hardwood, steady, searching.

“Hey, running late?” he called, voice light but laced with concern.

He stopped outside the bathroom when he heard the stifled breaths. The door cracked; you shoved it hard, catching him in the shoulder.

“Go away,” you snapped, vision tunneling.

Jack didn’t flinch. “Pain spike?”

“Not your problem.” You backed against the tub, arms wrapped around ribs as if that could bolt them in place. A sob escaped, acidic with shame. “I-I can’t even button a shirt without seeing him—how am I supposed to go out like nothing happened?”

Jack stepped in, slow, palms visible. “Then we skip everything,” he said softly. You glared, chest heaving. “Skip tonight, skip me—doesn’t matter.”

“Well, it matters to me.” You snapped as he crouched, careful of your knees, and you shoved him again, heel of your hand against his chest. “You want ugly?” you hissed. “This is it. Panic attacks, rage, the works. Go date somebody whole.”

He caught your wrist—not in restraint, but as if pinching a bleeding line. “Whole is a myth,” he murmured. “I’m missing a leg, remember?”

The quip should have made you laugh, but tears crushed it. You slid down the tub, hands over face, shoulders shaking. Jack sank beside you, back to the cool tile, and said nothing else. A minute. Five. Just the two of you breathing, your ragged inhales gradually syncing with his measured ones.

When words returned, they were whisper-thin. “It still hurts,” you confessed—ribs, knee, the memory. “Sometimes I hate this body.”

“I love this body,” he answered, eyes bright. “It’s the one that came back to me.”

Silence again, but softer. You let him guide your hand to his chest, feel the even pound there. After a while the pain eased to a livable hum, the room finally steadied.

“Tapas another night,” he said, pushing a stray lock behind your ear. “Tonight: couch, rice packs, bad rom-com?”

A shaky laugh. “And tea.”

“Always tea.”

He helped you up, pain flaring then ebbing under his grasp. In the living room he propped pillows just so, tucked the heating pad under your ribs, queued the cheesiest movie he could find. Halfway through, when the heroine tripped into the hero’s arms, you caught Jack studying you—not with pity but with fierce, patient affection. You thought of your shove, your anger, the ugly side you’d warned him about.

“Still here?” you murmured.

“Still here,” he echoed, and kissed the scar at your brow like a vow.

The movie’s credits crawl in silver letters across a pink-and-cotton-candy sky. Your tea sits half-finished on the coffee table, steam ribboning into the lamplight. Jack’s arm is a warm bar across your shoulders, palm idly tracing circles at the curve of your upper arm—slow enough that your ribs hardly complain.

You clear your throat, voice still raspy from the surge of panic. “I… also did something today.”

Jack’s thumb stills on your arm, waiting. “Yeah?”

“I handed Gloria my formal notice.” Saying it aloud again makes your pulse skitter. “Two weeks. I’m officially done.”

A beat of silence—then his arm firms around your waist, not possessive, just steady ballast. “How’d she take it?”

“She understood—signed it right away, actually.” You swallow. “I wanted to tell you over dinner, make it a celebration.” You gesture at his rumpled blouse now half-untucked. “But instead—boom.” You tap your temple, wincing at the memory of white-hot pain and rooftop ghosts. “Another episode.”

Realization crosses Jack’s face. “So quitting—good news—but also the straw on the haystack.”

“Pretty much.” You offer a shaky smile. “Sorry the fancy tapas plan went to hell.”

He shifts, starfishes a hand over your ribs in a gesture equal parts apology and promise. “This counts as a whole ass party when the news is this huge.” His eyes search yours. “And for the record—I’m proud of you. Even if the landing was messy.”

His beard is rough velvet against the fine hairs along your hairline. The living-room lamp has dimmed to a single amber pool, and the rain’s soft percussion muffles the city to a hush so complete you can hear the faint tick of the second hand on your thrift-shop wall clock. It’s the same beat that once timed your post-op vitals; now it keeps tempo for a quieter life.

“And Margot—” warmth swells behind your sternum just speaking her name— “pulled strings at Allegheny Community College. They need a clinical educator. I have an interview Tuesday morning.” You exhale, half terrified, half thrilled.

Jack leans back, eyebrows climbing. “Look at you. Should I start calling you Professor?”

“Please don’t,” you groan, though the grin won’t be contained. A bubble of giddiness rises—half fear, half freedom—and escapes in a laugh that shakes your sore ribs. You wince, and Jack’s hand instantly stills.

“Easy,” he murmurs, though he’s smiling too. “I’ll need you in one piece when I fend off every starry-eyed first-year who develops a crush on the hot new teacher.”

You snort. “Hot? They’ll be too busy watching me limp past the whiteboard.”

He kisses the crown of your head. “Trust me—limp or not, you’ll spark academic heart palpitations. I’ll swing by on my dinner break, flash the ER badge, scare ’em straight.”

“Jack Abbot, campus watchdog.” The idea dissolves you both into breathy laughter. When your mirth fades, a hush settles—thick with kettle heat and bergamot. Jack’s fingers resume their lazy circles.

“So,” he says quietly, “new job, new apartment, no rooftop drama. Think we can call this a fresh chapter?”

“Feels like one.” You study the living-room shadows, faint tremor still in your knee but nowhere near the earthquake it once was. “There’ll be bad days. Pain spikes. Flashbacks.”

He smiles against your hair. “Whatever comes, we handle it."

The word settles warm and sure. You melt farther into him, head on his chest. Beneath your ear, his heartbeat drums a steady four-four rhythm—no alarms, no rooftop wind, just the man who stayed even when you shoved him away.

Another siren wails somewhere—life moving at hospital pace—but it fades under the domestic hush of this small room. You picture your future: wax-polished halls, rows of curious students. No scalpels, no midnight pages anymore. It hurts, but the possibility of teaching, guiding...nurturing, it swells your heart, still fragile, still hesitant.

“Hey,” Jack murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “What’s first on your syllabus?”

“Drain-labeling protocol,” you say without hesitation.

Jack tips his head back and groans—half agony, half delight. You’re still laughing when he lunges, gentle but unstoppable, scooping you sideways onto the sofa cushions. His arm braces your ribs just right, the other cradles your neck, and his mouth finds yours with a hunger that’s all slow burn, no rush. His beard rasps your skin, sparks everywhere your nerves remember how to feel good.

Suddenly, the kettle in the kitchen clicks to a rolling boil—an impatient little whistle. Jack break of the kiss with another groan and starts to rise, murmuring something about pouring before the leaves scorch, but you fist the front of his shirt.

“Stay,” you whisper against his lips. “It can wait.”

He hesitates only a breath—long enough for you to drag him back down. The second kiss melts any lingering protest: slow, exploratory, tasting of bergamot and promise. Your fingers slide into his curls; his hand skims the healed curve of your waist as though relearning a map he hopes never to misplace again.

Steam puffs into the room from the unattended kettle, curling like a curtain around your laughter when you finally surface for air. Jack presses his forehead to yours, breath warm, eyes bright. “First you quit Surgery, then you corrupt tea-brewing standards,” he murmurs. “Total anarchist.”

“Only the important rebellions,” you reply, catching his lower lip between your teeth just enough to make him grin.

Somewhere beyond the rain-streaked window, streetlights blink through mist, buses groan, and life rolls its everyday credits. But inside this circle of lamplight and residual steam, beginnings feel soft as fleece, endings quiet as a held breath, and the two of you—tangled together on a well-loved sofa—taste what comes next one kiss at a time.

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[nemo-writes]

i'm almost done with absolutely smitten’s epilogue, and after that, i’ll be letting the story (and the fandom) rest for a bit. thank you so much for sticking around, i mean it! from the bottom of my heart, thank you 🥹🥹

[nemo-writes]

NEMO YOU ARE INSANE YOUR WRITING IS INSANE I LVOE IT I JSUT READ CH 14 OF ABSOLUTELY SMITTNE AND OH MY GOD OH YK GOD OH MY GOD WOW WHAT THE HELL WHAT THE HELLY WHAT THE HELLYANTE ITS AO BEAUTFIULF YOUR WRITING IS PERFECT😭😭😭

it's always my absolute pleasure!!

[nemo-writes]

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter fourteen

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: in the quiet that follows disaster, the days stitch themselves forward. jack holds the line beside you, while the people you love build scaffolding around your sleep. recovery isn’t swift, but it’s real—felt in laughter, in small rebellions, and in breath.

⤿ warning(s): medical talk + procedures

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 2k

Jack jolts awake in the ICU family lounge, neck kinked, mouth sour. 

The wall clock reads 09:48; he must have dozed twenty minutes tops—long enough for caffeine to burn off and hunger to gnaw in. Beside him stands Margot, hair half-escaped her bun, night-shift badge still clipped though daylight streams through the blinds.

“That’s all the sleep you’re getting, soldier,” she murmurs, pressing a protein bar and a cup of lukewarm tea into his hands. “I’m finally going home before Ben files a missing-person report. But heads-up—your girl’s sister just texted the front desk. They’re on their way up.”

Jack scrubs his face. “You pulled a double.”

“Triple, technically,” Margot says, attempting a smile. “But she’d do it for me. Go meet the family—try not to look like a ghost.” She squeezes his shoulder, then forces herself down the corridor, coat over scrubs, exhaustion dragging at every step.

Jack first makes a beeline to the scrub-machine—the hospital’s weary confessional booth. He scans his badge; the carousel inside whirs like a tired roulette wheel and spits out a fresh packet. 

In the staff bathroom he unpacks the crisp set, changes, and then leans over the sink. Cool water sluices over puffy eyes; he scrubs until the copper scent of dried blood yields to antiseptic soap and stale peppermint. A quick brush of teeth, damp fingers through unruly curls. The mirror still shows a scruffy hollow-cheeked man, but at least he’s wrapped in clean fabric and the tremor in his hands has eased. 

One deep breath later he heads for the lobby—ready, as much as anyone can be, to meet your family at the doors. He doesn’t forget to shove his blood-stiffened top and pants down the machine’s return chute on his way, hears them thunk into the bin, and stands a second with palm flat to the metal. He swallows the ache that rises—hold the line, he reminds himself—and heads for the elevators.

The doors part to reveal who can only be your sister and her husband. Her face is unmistakably yours—same determined brow, same worry etched deep. “Dr. Abbot?” Her voice quavers.

He nods and steps forward, catching her hands before she can wobble. “Jack. I’m glad you made it.”

They introduce themselves as Laura and Paul—him clutching their carry-ons, eyes wide from sleepless travel. 

“You saved her,” Laura whispers.

Jack’s voice comes rough. “Surgery saved her. She’s fighting hard.” He draws back enough to see her face. “Come on—I’ll explain everything as we go.”

He steers them toward a quiet alcove off the lobby. As they sit, he outlines the fall, the injuries, the long night of surgery—stripping jargon until only truth remains. He then explains Moylan in measured strokes: a pathology tech who slipped past security, obsessed with you for months, and waiting for one vulnerable window. One which he eventually got and seized. 

Laura pales but listens, knuckles tight around a travel-size tissue pack. “She never told us how bad it was,” she murmurs.

“She didn’t want the worry to cross state lines,” Jack says, voice gentle—then falters. The guilt he’s held at bay all night steals through the crack. “I kept telling myself I’d be there, I should have—” 

The words shatter in his throat.

Laura lays a hand over his. Her grip is firm, eyes bright with the same grief—and strength—you carry. It hurts, it really hurts.

“You saved her life down on that scaffold,” she says. “If you hadn’t been there, we’d be planning a funeral, not a recovery. Hold on to that.” She squeezes once more, anchoring him. Even Paul nods, silent reinforcement.

Jack draws a solid breath and collects himself. “She’s on medications to keep her still,” he explains, guiding them toward ICU. “It lets her body heal without fighting every tube. She can’t wake up until we dial them back, but hearing can slip through. Talk to her.”

They gown, sanitize, and step into the subdued hush of intensive care. Laura’s breath catches at the sight of so many lines feeding into you—the ventilator’s slow hiss, the rhythmic click of IV pumps. But she masters the fear and moves to your bedside.

“Hey, trouble,” she murmurs, voice trembling yet steady. “Lily’s third volcano erupted glitter everywhere. I have pictures for when you wake up—you’re going to roll your eyes so hard.”

Paul circles to the opposite side, finds your uninjured hand, and folds it into his own. “Just rest. We’ve got everything else covered.”

Jack steps back, watches the pulse on your monitor climb half a beat—as if your heart recognizes home when it hears it. When visiting minutes dwindle, Laura turns to him.

“Thank you,” she says. “For staying.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And so, the next two weeks unspool in slow, deliberate stitches—every day a thread that keeps you tethered while the rest of the unit and your family hold Jack steady so he doesn’t rust in place.

Day 3

Margot slips in before dawn with contraband Earl Grey and a small Bluetooth speaker. She sets it on your table and queues the lo-fi playlist you once used to tame a jittery med-student. “White-noise with a pulse,” she tells Jack, then corners him outside the glass: “Drink some of the tea, take a shower, and write your op-notes. She’d roast you alive if you missed work rounds.” He returns three hours later, hair damp, charting tablet in hand—tired, but moving.

Day 4

Dana and Robby arrive together on their post-shift shuffle. Dana reads you the day’s memes from the nurse group chat, her laughter deliberately oversized to vibrate through the mattress rails. Robby brings a ridiculous stuffed fox wearing a helmet visor. He props it by your good arm, then drags Jack to the vending machines (“Protein, brother—stat”). Jack swallows a turkey sandwich he swears tastes like cardboard salvation.

Day 5

Garcia appears in crisp clothes—official day off, hair actually down. She spends exactly five minutes at your bedside, whispering numbers you used to throw at each other like darts: “Clamped in three minutes, thirty-two seconds… sponge discrepancy zero.” When she exits she pins Jack with a flinty stare: “If you skip tomorrow’s trauma board, we’ll discuss your liver with the interns.” Jack shows up to the meeting, presents Moylan’s case in objective detail, and feels the weight lessen a gram.

Day 7

Fin tiptoes in after night shift, balancing a Bento of his own making—rice bricks and lumpy tamago. He sets it beside you, clears his throat, then counts the IV pump beeps under his breath to match your heart rate. When Jack arrives, Fin startles and blurts, “I practiced a drain label six times.” Jack claps his shoulder. “She’d be proud.”

Day 9

Jules brings a stack of ridiculous romance novels and places them on your cabinet. “Studies say read-aloud boosts neural recovery,” she claims, opening one sharply. She reads a dramatic kiss scene until Jack’s ears redden and your pulse ticks up two points—visible proof, maybe, that somewhere inside the sedation fog you find the melodrama hilarious.

Day 10

Ellis barges in muttering about missing retractors. She plants a cartoon “NO KNOCK” sign on your door, then informs Jack of every supply-room scandal just to keep him irritated enough to stay sharp. He snorts, retorts, and for ten minutes forgets to track the seconds between breaths.

Day 12

Laura and Paul learnt the ICU rhythm. Laura shows you photos of Lily, some silly, some cute. Paul sets up a video call so your parents—too frail to travel—can see you, even if you can’t answer. Jack hovers in the background, translating every beep for your mother until she finally nods, comforted by the numbers. Neither of the three ever answer fully when they ask about the details of the incident. That's one place where they won't go.

Day 14

Shen drops off a thumb drive of blues classics labeled “Auditory PT.” A speech therapist confirms it’s time to start reducing sedation, test your brain’s response to sound. The first afternoon Jack plays a slow B.B. King track, your eyelashes flutter. The second song earns a faint grimace at a sour note—tiny but seismic. Jack’s knees nearly give out.

Some nights, when the pumps are calm and the monitors steady, he leans close to your ear and recounts the smallest details: Ellis finally labeled forceps right; Fin’s drain counts perfect; the sunrise looked like mango pulp over the river. He tells you he misses arguing over music, misses the way you line up syringes by height. He tells you the rooftop is still waiting.

And though you give no verbal answer, the trending numbers say your body is inching toward the surface—liver stable, chest tube output dwindling, neuro checks a touch sharper each shift. Odds are still a steep incline, but every visitor, every enforced meal, every stubborn return to the ER keeps Jack from freezing on one spot of tile. Together they form the scaffolding—a safer one—holding him steady until the day his voice alone will coax your eyes open to the light.

It happens in slow, uneven increments—nothing cinematic, just the body deciding it’s tired of obeying the drip.

First, your eyelids twitch. Heavy, gummy, like someone swapped them for sandbags. You drift again, surface, drift. Margot is the first to note the flicker and nudges the respiratory therapist with her. Sedation’s already tapering; they’ve been waiting for this.

Hours later your lashes sift open to a strip of ceiling tile. Light blurs at the edges. Something huge anchors your throat, hisses warm air into your lungs. You fight a gag reflex that feels a century old; hands try to rise but soft restraints remind you why they’re there.

Margot leans into view, eyes tired but bright. “Hey, there. If you can hear me, blink twice.” You manage the signal—slow, deliberate.

Then, they run the protocol: neuro checks with a penlight, squeeze tests, a pressure support trial to prove the lungs can solo without the machine. When your numbers hold, the RT deflates the cuff, tilts your chin, and the tube slides free in a hot rush that tastes of plastic and old air.

Your first breath alone rasps like tearing paper; your throat feels flayed. Someone pats saline across cracked lips. You try to ask the time, but it comes out a croak—no vowel, just static.

Margot smiles anyway, then hits the call bell. “She’s awake.”

Footsteps scramble in the hall—orders barked, shoes squeaking—but you slip sideways, exhausted by the effort, eyelids shuttering on the world again.

You wake next to silence and dim daylight. No visitors yet, just the ventilator cart pushed back in the corner and the soft beep of a minimal monitor load. Hair greasy, gown damp, arm stiff in a bulky brace—you feel like a scarecrow after a storm. Still, you’re breathing on your own, chest aching with each expansion but gloriously alive.

Then, the door bursts open.

Jack stumbles to a halt at the threshold, beard now grown and crescent, eyes wide and disbelieving. He hesitates as if the room might vanish.

Your voice scrapes the bottom of a well. “Nice… beard.”

The words are barely there—husky, cracked—but they’re enough. Jack’s face crumples; he crosses the room in two strides and drops to one knee beside the bed. Tears spill unchecked, beard catching the shine.

“You came back,” he whispers, voice breaking on every syllable.

You lift a hand—trembling, IV tugging—and find his cheek, coarse stubble prickling your palm. It hurts to smile, but you do. In that unremarkable, throat-raw moment—no trumpets, no miracle soundtrack—life simply restarts: one ragged breath, one relieved sob, one brief laugh from Margot hitting the monitor silence button.

Outside, alarms continue in other rooms, lunch carts rattle down corridors, the city churns beyond the windows. But inside this modest square of ICU tile, beard scratches skin, tears salt the sheets, and the odds finally lean in your favor.

divider credit

[nemo-writes]

little remmick redraw

[nemo-writes]

give them to me give them to me right now NOW!!!!

i might write a dance macabre spin-off starring our lovely könig… but who knows? honestly, i need to shut my mouth until i finish the main fic 🥴🥴