Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts with:

“Do you need some extra cash?”

Samira blinks at Jack Abbot. Sure, she was half-delirious from her fourth day shift in a row, but she felt like she was missing something.

“I’m a resident.”

He nods. “Obviously.” Follow up: how are you with kids?”

“If I’m getting paid, I’m whatever you need me to be.”

She mostly jokes. Samira had never disliked kids, exactly, or had trouble with them when they came into the ED. But she also never spent any considerable amount of time in their presence. Since starting med school, she’d barely seen much of her family—and whatever nieces or nephews she did have, they never chatted much at the family functions they were typically both dragged to..

Abbot let out a chuckle at her response and nods again. “Well, I just need someone to watch Annabeth while I’m on night shift. She’s a very independent girl, so it wouldn’t entail very much. I just don’t like the idea of her being home alone.”

Samira has only met Annabeth Abbot twice in her time as a resident at the PTMC. Abbot is incredibly tight-lipped about her, keeping the details of their relationship to himself—unlike McKay, who somehow finds a way to bring Harrison up in any conversation she can. Not that Samira minds. But despite not wanting to pry, some part of her is thrilled at the opportunity to learn more about him and his life. For no reason in particular, of course, other than general curiosity.

“That’s it?” Samira asks.

“Yeah, I can bring her at handoff, and then you can just take her back to my place, have dinner, watch some T.V or something, go to sleep, and I'll be home in the morning to take her to school. Pretty straightforward.” It definitely sounded pretty straightforward. If Samira wasn’t mistaken, it seemed like Abbot had everything planned out. Almost like he’d rehearsed it.

She shrugs. “Sure, sounds good.”

Abbot cocks his head.“You don’t want to think it over? Mull it over?”

“I mean, I guess I should ask how much you’re paying.”

“35 dollars an hour.”

“I can start today.”

Abbot chuckles softly. “Your enthusiasm is duly noted. But no, she’s fine tonight. She’s with her best friend, Sarah.”

Samira raises an eyebrow. “Steep competition?”

He nods. “You have no idea. Sarah’s mom is always fucking me up. Giving Annabeth all types of sugar ‘til she’s bouncing off the damn walls. Ruins her for weeks.”

Samira laughs, nodding along like she understands what any of that really meant. She had never spent a full day with a child, let alone an entire week. “Well, I’m actually off tomorrow, so, if that works?”

His eyes widened slightly. “Oh, really? That works great. We can all do something together, maybe just eat some dinner, you’ll be able to meet her and then I can show you around the house?”

“Sounds good, you should have my phone number, right? Just let me know the time and place.”

Abbot smiles and gives her a quick thumbs up before he turns around and walks away, presumably to finish handoff.

Only then, did the gravity of the situation hit Samira, washing over her with a slow sense of dread. Her stomach twists, what is she doing? Working in the Emergency Department is hardly a walk in the park, would a distraction like this detract from her work? From how she shows up with her patients?

Samira already had his phone number programmed into her phone, he’s sent her a few journals she found interesting over the years she’s been a resident, but they’ve never used it for any other reason. Honestly, her stomach was starting to drum up some anxiety the realer everything became.

Still, surely it couldn’t be that bad. All she has to do is hang out with a kid for, like, an hour, and make sure she doesn’t die in her sleep. What could go wrong?

The next day, Samira gets her first text from Jack Abbot. Well, one that wasn’t a link to some obscure medical journal.

And so, at 5:54 PM, Samira Mohan stands in front of Jack Abbot’s incredibly large two story home. It’s painted white with navy accents and a big wide door decorated in gold accents. It reeks so much of suburbia, it almost reminds her of home.

The doors open by themselves, revealing a timid Annabeth Abbot. She is wearing a Bluey t-shirt with blue jeans, holding some type of stuffed animal in her right hand. “The Ring camera kept yelling at us that you were here,” she states in her most matter-of-fact voice.

Samira blinks a few times at her candor, before attempting to break into a soft smile, “Thank you. It’s nice to meet you again,” she says, trying not to cringe at her own awkward tone.

“Thanks,” she replies before turning around to lead Samira further into their home.

Jack Abbot’s home contains warm brown wooden floors and navy walls, making her feel more at ease. She walks past the foyer, matching Annabeth by keeping her sneakers on, and into the expanse that is Abbot’s living room. The brown wooden floors turn into a soft carpet that is filled with their couch, a La-Z-Boy and a coffee table in front of a comically large T.V.. Annabeth does not bat an eye at the sheer size of it and instead plops onto the couch.

“Hey, thanks for coming!” He calls from the kitchen.

Samira turns around to see Abbot in the kitchen, busying himself on the stove, seemingly letting something finish cooking in the pan. Samira wonders for a brief moment if this means she has to feed the kid every night, and if that food is expected to be homemade, because then she really is definitely in over her head. She has always been decently useless in the kitchen, no matter how hard she tries. She doesn’t think anyone or anything can save her now, sans maybe a rat in her hat controlling her.

“Do you just want to take a seat at the table? The pasta is almost done, I hope it’s seasoned enough for our esteemed guest.”

“If you guys think it’s too spicy, it should be good enough for me.” She smiles, hoping it comes off light enough that he can see she’s joking.

He lets out a quiet laugh. “That would be a great litmus test if I haven’t already been pushing the limits with Annabeth’s spice limit. She will pour hot sauce on anything, nowadays.”

Samira smiles kindly at Abbot. “Bringing her up right.”

He shrugs. “I’m trying,” pauses, and then, “Annabeth! Come on in, honey, it’s time for dinner.”

Annabeth, for all it’s worth, doesn’t seem particularly phased by Samira’s presence or the present arrangement. She puts her little bookmark in between the pages of the book, sets it down softly on the couch and brings her little stuffed animal to have dinner with them at the spacious room’s large mahogany table.

Abbot, or maybe Annabeth, had already set the table, so he comes around the table with a pot of fresh spaghetti, setting it down next to the tray of baked chicken before taking his own seat.

“Go ahead, serve yourself, Mohan.” For whatever reason, the usage of her last name sort of jolts her. Like she almost forgot her place, that she may be in his home, eating his food, with his daughter, but he is still very much her attending. And, now, sort-of her boss.

She smiles softly at Abbot and Annabeth, nodding as she grabs a small helping of the spaghetti and a few pieces of the cut up chicken. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot, it looks great.” Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Annabeth’s face briefly scrunch up at the honorific before returning back to a neutral expression. She tries not to think about what Annabeth might be thinking.

Abbot, however, seems incredibly pleased when Samira starts digging into the pasta. It’s definitely flavorful, she will give him that. She doesn’t think she’s thought too hard about what some of her coworkers do after work, or when they’re not on shift, but for whatever reason, she doesn’t think she ever pegged Jack Abbot as a homebody who made pasta with Italian seasoning. Maybe that was her fault.

“It’s great.” She smiles.

He beams back at her, like he was waiting for her to say something. “Flavorful enough?” he jokes.

She faux ponders for a moment, as if she has to truly think about it, “Maybe lighter on the salt next time…” She trails off, smiling slightly at him.

“Ah,” he shrugs, “I’ve certainly tried.” He smiles back at her, more freeing than how he seems to react in the ED, but it still seems a bit restrained.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the way Annabeth stares into her pasta, wholly unamused. However, Abbot speaks first, turning his focus to her, “How do you like it, Annie?”

Annabeth’s head shoots up, blinking in between her dad and Samira. “It’s great, thanks Dad.”

Samira bites her lip. Is she meant to do something right now? Should she be exercising her child engagement prowess? Should she make some joke she copied off of TikTok to amuse her?

Maybe because he could pick up on the situation, or maybe because he’s just being a father who needs to pay attention to his daughter, Abbot ends up taking over the conversation, starting to ask her questions about school that day.

Samira knows she should try to pay attention, try to learn things about Annabeth, but her brain keeps floating off as she finds new things around the home for her to notice. She looks around and notices the spare photographs they have hanging around the home. She can’t make out every face, but she notices that there are never more than 2 people at a time in a photograph. Her heart twists in a weird way at the discovery.

“So, Mohan,” he starts, snapping Samira’s attention back to the conversation at hand, “I’ll have to head out in a little, can I give you a short house tour before I leave?”

She nods, “Yeah, sounds great.”

Annabeth picks up on the cue, grabbing her plate to wash up before she heads back to the couch to presumably continue reading her book. Samira is almost confused at what role she’s even meant to play here. The kid could be a tax-payer for all that she’s concerned.

“You can come back and finish your plate if you need, no rush. The house isn’t that big.”

Yeah, right. Samira thinks before looking down at her plate and realizes she really didn’t make that much of a dent on her dinner. She would feel worse about it, but Abbot is already walking towards the living room and taking a left, probably assuming that she was right behind him.

Quickly, she gets out of her seat to follow him down the small hallway.

“On the right, there’s a small bathroom in here,” he says, opening the door for her to peek her head in. The bathroom is a clean white room with a singular photo of the beach above the toilet. She turns off the light and follows him to another room.

He steps in, turning on the light to reveal a large brown room with flower motifs. It seems cozy enough, full of carts and books, holding more than enough knowledge or documents. She lands her eyes on the large desk in the middle with a computer larger than her own T.V.. She thinks she should be surprised, but at this point, she’s more annoyed than anything else.

“This is just my study. I don’t use it much, honestly, but I have a bunch of medical books and journals if you want. I’m sometimes sent them, or I buy them, I don’t know. I’m always a big fan of physical copies, I think it’s important we are able to self-store them.”

Samira nods politely at the revelation. “That’s cool. Have you read them all?”

He shrugs. “Mostly. There might be a few that have fallen through the cracks.” He pauses for a moment, turning to look at her. “You’re welcome to read some of them if you want. If you can’t sleep, or if she’s doing her homework. You have free reign. I trust you’ll keep them clean.” He winks at her, though she has to assume it’s playfully more than anything else.

Her eyes widen, a small smile growing. “Oh, wow, thank you, Dr. Abbot. I appreciate it. I will definitely take you up on that.” Because, well, who is she fooling? It’ll probably be the first thing she does when he leaves.

He smiles at her response, like he was hoping for it. He turns off the light to the room, cocking his head to the left, signalling her to follow behind him as he leads her out of the hallway and up the stairs.

Upstairs, he briefly shows her his bedroom, which contains a large bathroom with a shower and bathtub, and Annabeth’s room, a quaint four walled room that has mostly pink decorations along with various pop culture posters and pictures of what seems like her friends and dad. It's cute, she thinks to herself, as he shows her the similarly-decorated bathroom that belongs mostly to Annabeth, but, as Abbot quips, Samira is “welcome to use as well since Annabeth doesn’t have her own exclusively until she is older.”

Last, but certainly not least, he shows her the guest bedroom. It’s a large white room with a similarly large white bed in the middle. It doesn’t have much else other than a drawer, night stand and smaller T.V. in the far corner. Unlike every other room in the house, it lacks color, personality, and any type of decoration. It feels sort of soulless, which Samira thinks of herself as rude for feeling, because it’s not as if she’s an interior designer herself. Truthfully, it eerily reminds her of her own.

“You’re welcome to sleep in here, if you’d like. Feel free to bring over whatever you need, some spare clothes or if you prefer a different type of duvet, just let me know.” He comes off incredibly casually in his communication, as if this level of accommodation truly was no big deal.

Samira just smiles and nods at him. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she hesitates for the slightest of seconds, before adding, “you have great taste.”

He shrugs a little, leading her out of the bedroom and turning off the lights in the rooms and hallways. “It’s not really me. Robby dated an interior designer a few moons ago. She was pretty helpful in setting up the house how it is now. I sort of went through an entire re-do after Claire passed.”

It’s a little weird to hear about Robby’s personal life, especially when she feels like she knows so little even after 3 years of working under him. Maybe it’s because part of her doesn’t want to, preferring to paint him as the boss who is always riding her ass for things she knows she needs to work on, instead of someone with a colored outside life and feelings.

But Samira nods along anyway. She hasn’t been back to her childhood bedroom in years and sometimes can barely stand being in rooms that remind her too much of her father. On particularly bad days, mint green can send her to the hills.

As they walk down the stairs, Abbot starts listing off different things for her to keep in mind, mostly some basic facts about Annabeth. He makes it clear that she’s an independent little girl, that she’s quiet but she knows how to speak her mind. He tells her that she is pretty good about her homework, but to double check her work. He usually does the day’s cooking before work and if she doesn’t eat it, he just puts it in the fridge with reheat instructions. Annabeth doesn’t fight about her bedtime usually, but he reminds Samira to check in on her because if one isn’t careful, she will stay up all night reading a book or sneaking an iPad into her room to watch whatever she’s into at the time. Maybe it’s the time crunch or the fact that Annabeth isn’t that far from them, but Abbot is truly speaking at speeds unlike anything she’s ever seen.

At the foot of the stairs, Abbot stops his rambling and turns to look her into the eyes. It’s the first time she has this level of eye-contact with Abbot all night, though it is unlike any way she’s seen him before. His eyes are fierce and intense, a level of seriousness that he isn’t known for.

“I just want to say thanks, you know. Hopefully it won’t be that difficult or anything, but this means a lot to me.” The sincerity in his voice is sort of endearing, if Samira didn’t feel another slightly threatening energy coming off of him. Or maybe she’s making it up in her head.

Either way, she smiles, wider than she has all evening, and nods gently at him. “Of course, I don’t mind at all. Hopefully she will like me.”

Abbot laughs, quietly and to himself, but he laughs as if that sentence is genuinely hilarious to him. “Trust me, she will,” he says, with another bold amount of conviction.

Samira chooses to believe him.

For a brief moment, Samira wonders if Jack Abbot simply does not know his kid like he thinks he does.

After nearly a week, any relationship she is attempting to have with Annabeth is at… well, a standstill might be the best way to describe it.

The first evening is incredibly uninteresting, Annabeth opting to quietly read on her own for the entire evening until it was time to go to sleep. Samira had checked the homework scattered on her desk and all of it looked completely fine and finished. It was a little anticlimactic, the way Annabeth made her way to bed, turning off all the lights herself and even leaving the door open so Samira didn’t have to worry about her secretly staying up all night or sneaking out.

Samira, herself, fell asleep on the couch, watching some random show on Netflix that also looked family friendly enough in case Annabeth found herself downstairs for whatever reason.

The next night was no better, in terms of feeling useful. Samira took Annabeth home from the hospital with a grateful looking Abbot heading into work behind them.

Once they arrived, they heated up some of Abbot’s leftovers, Samira helped (very minimally) with whatever homework she had left, they watched some Phineas and Ferb (because Samira kept axing anything with a higher T.V. rating, she didn’t have that conversation with Abbot yet and she simply wasn’t ready to be the one to expose Annabeth to the horrors of the world if she didn’t have to) until Annabeth said she was feeling sleepy already (an hour before her bedtime) and went up to her room.

This time, Samira didn’t bother going upstairs to check on her until 11pm, because if Annabeth wanted to be bad and watch something on her tablet, she wasn’t in a position to reprimand her anyway. Not that it mattered, because the girl was fast asleep when Samira poked her head just slightly past the door.

The night ended the same as before, Samira drifting into a dreamless sleep on Abbot’s leather couch with a single blanket covering her.

The rest of the week doesn’t veer too much off course, the two girls falling into a rhythm where they barely speak and instead just eat whatever leftovers they have and watch a PG movie before Annabeth turns in, of her own volition, and Samira passes out on a couch that is starting to fight back.

It’s not bad, per se.

Samira has never considered herself to be the kid-type anyway, and this ends up simply proving her point.

Deep inside, though, Samira sort of feels like she’s scamming Abbot out of his money. She knows she desperately needs it, but briefly wonders if she should somehow give some of it back. After all, she really isn’t doing much to earn it.

On the 7th morning, Samira thankfully has the day off, not that her body seems to ever know the difference, because she gets up at 5 AM anyway, choosing to lounge around on the couch until she sequestered herself to the bathroom and pretended to be somewhat put together.

She’s sitting at the dinner table, reading a copy of one of Abbot’s many medical journals before she hears him coming in, making a bit too much noise than seems necessary.

She turns on her phone to check on the time, and a little early, she thinks.

However, she puts the document down, grabbing her bag before making her way to the foyer. In the past week, he is usually stumbling in, a little disheveled, barely making it in time to give Annabeth a forehead kiss before she goes off to the school bus. This time, however, he looks a bit more composed, and instead holding two paper coffee cups.

“Good morning,” he breathes out.

“Good… morning?” Samira laughs slightly. “You’re early,” she comments.

“Robby came in early. You know his workaholic self, he couldn’t wait to get in.”

She sighs at the news. “Marked safe from working under Robby while he’s in a mood.” For a brief moment, she freezes, she technically just insulted an attending in front of another attending. Is this grounds for a reportable offense? Is there an attending code she should know about?

Instead, Abbot laughs, a little heartily at that, completely unphased, “You definitely are.” He winks at her, which Samira can only assume is in a teasing way, before he hands her a paper cup. “I got this for you, by the way.”

Samira’s eyebrows furrow as she looks down at the cup and then back at Abbot. “Thanks, but I really don’t drink coffee, I could never…”

“Get into the taste?” he fills in, not unkindly.

She nods slowly, “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, “No sorry, just try it.”

She carefully brings the coffee up to her lips, taking a reluctant sip, also briefly worried about it burning her tongue, before the spice hits her at full force. She takes another sip, just to be safe, her eyes widening as she pulls the cup away, staring back at Abbot now.

“Is this--”

“Yeah,” he says, a bit sheepish. And then, “Is it the right type? I consulted around the hospital a little, I didn’t think Starbucks was known for their chai.”

She laughs and shakes her head. “No, you’d be right. And yes, it is. I didn’t even know they made chai this good in the city. I usually have to make it at home, if I want it the way I like it.”

“Well, I’m sure the way you make it is way better than whatever I paid for, but I’m glad it’s okay.” He says, eyes baringly honest. It almost makes her flinch, the ardency of his gaze.

“No, seriously, this is great. And super unnecessary, by the way, you do know you pay me, right?”

He laughs. “Of course, I just wanted to show my appreciation this way. I really do, by the way, appreciate it. I hope you know that you’re basically a life saver here. I’ve been struggling a lot with her at night, just worried sick, honestly. I was almost going to leave PTMC because I wanted more flexible shifts, and then, I don’t know. Basically, I just appreciate it. That’s all. This is nothing for me.”

Samira blinks at him, trying to gather her bearings with his confession. It feels a bit weird to hear struggles from an attending. She’s so used to putting them all on this pedestal, like they’ve achieved the highest position in life. It's a bit sobering, honestly, to hear otherwise.

“Oh, well, I appreciate your trust. It’s super easy, you have yourself a good kid.” That doesn’t fucking like me, is unsaid.

Abbot’s eyes soften. “Thanks, I feel that way too.” He takes a sip of his own coffee cup, which Samira can only assume is actual coffee, when he points to the stairs. “I should probably go make sure she’s ready for school. The bus will be here before I know it, even with my few extra minutes.”

Samira nods, bursting her own bubble she created of the space around them.

“Of course, go ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow night, Dr. Abbot,” she says, slipping her shoes back on. She smiles at him, a small nod of respect as she moves past him to head out the door.

In the briefest of moments, smaller than the eye could ever catch, she feels her shoulder brush with Abbot’s own, sending the smallest of butterflies to her stomach, mixed with tiny electrical waves of shock run down her arm.

She tries not to stop in her tracks, instead letting the blush travel up her cheeks, walking faster than she ever has to her car. Only after she buckles herself in, starts her car and locks the doors does she allow herself to let out the breath she barely realized she was holding in.

Shit, she thinks. This cannot be happening.

Thankfully, whatever is happening, doesn’t allow itself to interfere with her job(s).

Her and Annabeth start to fall into a quiet little rhythm. They heat up food from Abbot or order take out on nights that he tells them to, Annabeth works on her homework and Samira reads from a journal while they play some music they both like in the background, they watch some T.V. and then go to bed. It’s not that different to what Abbot had described the job as, but Samira has seen her fair share of nanny movies (two, at least), so after a full month of babysitting Annabeth, Samira can’t help but feel a bit disheartened.

Should she be bonding more with Annabeth? Should they be sitting on the couch and gossiping about boys? Should she start to learn about all of Annabeth’s past traumas or what it’s like being the daughter of an ED physician? Should she ask for embarrassing Abbot stories to hold over his head at work? (Not that she would, because that would be incredibly inappropriate and violate a few workplace boundaries, but this is all existing in her fantasy, sue her.)

It’s not like there’s a guide for How to Bond with Your Night Shift Attending’s 10-year-old Daughter.

However, it all comes to a head on a Tuesday evening, with Annabeth and Samira staring at the leftover lasagna in the fridge.

Annabeth has never been overly chatty. Her and Samira have had a few nice conversations, Annabeth knows that Samira’s dad has passed, she knows why, they’ve had surface level conversations about grief, about how it’s okay to not be okay and you don’t have to carry it everywhere.

But it hasn’t gone further than that, it especially hasn’t gone further than Annabeth nodding and saying a soft, “Okay.”

Which is why Samira can’t help but be surprised when Annabeth turns to Samira, the fridge light framing her face in a way that lets the tears on her cheeks shine, and dives into her arms.

Samira wraps her arms around the small girl, enveloping her. It feels a bit foreign, and she can’t help but feel awkward. She tries to think of it like a patient, the love she feels when she helps solve a problem for them, or is able to talk to them about possible solutions. How sometimes they reach for a hug to thank her and it feels natural, she knows how to do it, she knows how to give comfort to them.

But… she doesn’t know what Annabeth’s problem is.

And worst of all, she doesn’t know if she can solve it.

Annabeth has an iron grip on Samira’s zip up hoodie, more focused on herself as she continues borderline sobbing into Samira’s t-shirt. Samira smooths her hands over Annabeth’s hair, feeling the brunette strands underneath her fingers, moving up to massage gently into her scalp.

For what seems like an eternity, with the way sorrow surrounds the air, the weight of it all allows time to blend into each other, to the point Samira doesn’t even notice that somehow they had closed the kitchen door shut, Annabeth finally pulls away, wipes at her eyes (even though the tears had already dried on her cheeks) and looks up at Samira with her big blue eyes.

“Can we go to the couch?” She musters out, hesitancy at the seams of her words, as if Samira was going to turn her down, or reject her.

She merely nods, smiling gently. “Of course, whatever you need.”

The walk to the couch is fairly quiet, but the girls stay close together. Samira can feel the desperate energy radiating from Annabeth, the fear mixed in, that any step too far would sever this entire connection. Samira could feel that Annabeth needed her physically close.

When they sit on the couch, Samira feels herself easily slipping into her physician stance, sitting up a little bit to show authority but keeping quiet to invite vulnerability. Maybe if she’s able to ask the right questions, to get to the root cause, she could be able to fix it. Or start diagnosing the problem to pass off to Abbot.

Annabeth doesn’t talk for a few beats, probably recollecting her thoughts more than anything. Her eyes are bloodshot and what little makeup Abbot allows her to put on is smeared across her eyes, her cheeks are flushed red and Samira looks down to see her hands shaking just slightly. Her heart breaks a bit, just seeing how fragile she looks.

“Sorry, I know this is a lot,” is how Annabeth starts. Samira wants to cut in and reassure her, tell her everything is okay and she has seen too much to be embarrassed for a grieving 10-year-old. “But I guess it just got a bit overwhelming today.”

“It’s okay, truly. I’m here for you.” She purses her lips, and then, “what got overwhelming today?”

Annabeth looks up from her hands, her eyes pleading a little with Samira’s, something unspoken. She takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly before speaking. “My friend, Sarah, was just complaining about her mom. I can’t remember what exactly, maybe about curfew, I don’t know. But then once Sarah started, then my other friend Jasmine joined in and complained as well, and then before I knew it, the entire lunch table was talking about their mothers, in one way or another. Either they were complaining or defending, it didn’t matter.

“It usually doesn’t bother me, I mean, I’m used to it by now. But I guess I’ve just been feeling worse and worse about mom, how I don’t have one, how I can’t join in.” Her fingers are toying with her t-shirt, a loose thread unraveling at the seams. She takes another deep inhale before blowing it out. “It just sucked. It still does. It sucks, hard.” She finishes.

And… It's a lot. Samira knows first hand the feeling, the sickening twist of jealousy that people are even able to have these discussions about their parents, that they’re privileged enough to complain their father is smothering them with attention. Even though there was always that logical part of her brain trying to say you know that isn’t the case, Samira, it never mattered. Samira remembers the countless afternoons she came home screaming into her pillow, crying herself sick to the point until nearly throwing up.

“I understand.” Samira starts, hoping that Annabeth takes her word at face value, doesn’t try to raise any flags. “I can see how that would hurt you.”

Annabeth nods. “Even though I know they don’t mean to.”

“Especially when they don’t mean to.”

Annabeth smiles gently at Samira. “I just wish some of them could understand. Or they could know how lucky they are to have someone who cares for them. To have a mom that cares for them.”

She truly gets it, more than Annabeth may ever know, almost to a point where she feels a light stab in her abdomen, like the words are bringing up memories she thought she had lost to time. “Maybe it’s up to you to help them see it.” She says.

“Maybe,” Annabeth says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “I dunno.”

“It’s all up to you. You don’t have to do anything for them, but if you think they need it, that they could learn, then I don’t see why not.” It’s advice that Samira herself might not have listened to when she was her age, but isn’t that what the next generation is for? To learn from their mistakes?

Annabeth, however, doesn’t seem moved, instead, “I think I could tell them how it feels. But they won’t feel it. They won’t know what it’s like to not know your mom. To not be able to ask her these questions, to even have her care about your curfew. I know dad is pretty easy, and he cares, but sometimes I still feel like I’m missing something. And it makes me feel worse.”

She takes another deep breath, slower than her past ones, and when she opens her mouth to speak, the words are shaky as they fall from her lips, “I feel like I’m a bad daughter.”

Samira’s expression remains calm, like a patient in the ED just admitted to not watching their step and that they’re the cause for this entire visit, as if someone had confessed they had recently greased a ladder and that’s why their husband had slipped and fallen. It’s how she’s trained, after all, to not make sudden reactions, to not scare off the patient.

She, then, reaches out and plants a gentle hand on top of Annabeth’s fingers still toying with the loose thread. She can see and feel the way it relaxes her, the way she melts into the touch. Good, she thinks. First step.

“I can see why you’d think that. Why you’d feel guilty. Can you tell me what else you think about? Is there something else?” Her tone is gentle, falling back into the rehearsed programming she has worked so hard on in the ED. She knows how this goes, it almost feels relieving. She knows how to handle these situations. She does this all the time.

Annabeth shrugs, “I just feel like I’m letting him down. Like I should do more, because it’s just me and him.”

“And what do you feel like you should do more of?” She asks very genuinely, because she’s not sure what a 10-year-old would expect of herself. Even though that deceptive voice in the back of her head sneers at her, reminds her that she felt the exact same way, threatening to bring up the responsibilities Samira had taken over after her father’s passing.

“I dunno. I ask him sometimes. He doesn't say anything.”

“So, do you think maybe being his daughter, is enough for him?” She suggests, hoping it comes off nonchalantly and innocently as possible.

Annabeth doesn’t answer, not right away. Instead she purses her lips and furrows her eyebrows, like she’s truly trying to think about it. The moments in the room stretch further and further, but Samira lets it linger. She is not inexperienced when it comes to awkward silences, or rooms to allow a patient to find their words or footing. It’s one of the easiest things for her to do, to allow the patient to figure it out on their own. To come to their own conclusion.

Annabeth’s is: “Maybe…”

Samira takes Annabeth’s hands into her own, the loose thread falling back into her lap as she speaks, “I’ll be honest, Annabeth. These feelings? These thoughts? They don’t go away. They might never. I get jealous sometimes, still. When someone complains about their dad calling them too much, or when a dad is in the E.R. and the daughter doesn’t seem as interested, even when the dad seems sweet. I get it. But this won’t get any better by keeping it in. Have you told your dad about some of these thoughts? These feelings?”

Annabeth shakes her head, just barely, as if she doesn’t want to fully admit to it.

Samira smiles gently, hoping to coax Annabeth further out of her shell, “I would start with that. Talk to him, ask him if he wants you to do anything. Now, if you’re asking me, that might be a mistake and you might be forever stuck on dinner duty now,” Annabeth giggles quietly at that, “But if you don’t talk to him now, you’ll become sadder, but so will he,” she says, her tone remaining masterfully mellow.

Annabeth doesn’t look fully convinced yet, but her eyes are no longer red and her cheeks have paled, returning to its neutral state. Her shoulders aren’t as tense, and her hands stopped shaking a while ago. She seems incredibly calm, now, like Samira could see the stress lift just enough off her little body. She nods at Samira, opting to drop her hands to engulf her into a full hug once more, this time clean of any tears or snot.

Samira allows herself to wrap around the girl, allows herself to feel closer to Annabeth than any patient she’s ever treated.

In a new schedule, some consistency is always welcomed.

It’s only been two and a half months since Samira took up this little favor for Abbot, yet she finds it challenges her all the same.

After their little heart-to-heart, Annabeth makes Samira promise that she won’t say anything to her father. She tells Samira she will tell him on her own, that they have some plans that weekend and she will be able to muster enough courage but also the right words, just so she doesn’t hurt her dad’s sensitive feelings. Samira laughs at the idea of Dr. Abbot being described as sensitive, but she simply agrees and allows her to cement it with a pinky-promise.

Every evening feels like a new challenge, a new case, almost, but if Robby didn’t rush her through cases and let her take her time with a patient.

It’s a bit disorienting.

After every shift, she still briefly wonders if Dr. Robby is on the other side of the door, his stern frown in tow as he reminds her of statistics, data, patient turn around time, the whole nine yards.

And, okay, she knows he isn’t entirely wrong.

She knows the situation with beds. With the waiting room. With Dana still bracing every time she heads out for a smoke break, anticipating another angry person ready to take their frustration out on the health care worker.

And so, she tries.

She tries to be faster with her intake, to ask as many questions as possible without it feeling like an interrogation, making the patient feel comfortable and relaxed throughout the entire stressful endeavor that is the ER.

But old habits die hard, she learns.

Every morning she walks into the hospital, away from Annabeth and Abbot, and finds the same argument every time. She sees patients who come to her, restless because they’ve waited nearly 8 hours in pain and feels that pang of guilt. On those days, she can’t do anything but agree with Dr. Robby and feel like she’s diagnosing against a ticking clock for the rest of the day.

Not much changes in the hospital. Samira thinks she’s grateful for that.

The world moves forward. She's pretty much never scheduled with Abbot, nor does he come in early anymore. Most of her conversations with him are relegated to the parking garage where he tells her what’s for dinner and how to heat it up. Samira mostly pays attention, nowadays.

But it helps her with compartmentalization.

To Annabeth and friends, she’s Samira.

At the hospital, she’s Dr. Mohan.

And to Jack Abbot, attending, and her sort-of boss, she is Mohan.

Sanctioning these parts of her off for the appropriate parties help her brain find the best way to show up, how to be fun when Annabeth asks of her, how to be kind and compassionate when a patient asks of her, and how to ensure a task is done when Abbot asks of her.

It all works, and is part of her routine. One of those things you can rely on, and she couldn’t be happier.

At this stage, Samira knows how Abbot prefers to greet her.

With a backpack slung over her shoulder, standing awkwardly in the kitchen.

It’s something she’s been doing for months, because Abbot knows how to be on time, and this is the way she’s found eliminates the awkward small talk or the polite don’t you have somewhere else to be? that he won’t say out loud but Samira is sure that he says to himself.

She knows her place in his house, she knows that he knows she sleeps on the couch, that she packs in her backpack and doesn’t leave a drawer, and that she pretty much spends most of her time in the living room reading more than touching or eating anything in his home.

On a Saturday morning, Samira looks forward to a day off that would insist of her sitting in a park, reading one of her own medical journals (she has her own, too!) and sipping on some iced matcha from her favorite coffee shop. After that, maybe she will go to a movie or… more than likely, just head back home and stare at the clock until she gets to head back to work.

What this day will not insist of is coming back to the Abbot household, since Annabeth is already packed to be at a friend's house all weekend.

At 7:06 AM, Jack Abbot walks past with a bag of groceries in tow and a sunny disposition. Samira raises her eyebrow, her hand squeezing onto the strap of her bag as he inelegantly plops the bags onto the kitchen counter.

“Good morning!” he says, far too cheery for the hour. And then, “stay for breakfast?”

Samira’s head cocks to the side, just slightly, so as to not give away her surprise at the question.

“Sorry?” she asks.

“Can you stay for breakfast? I’m just doing pancakes and chicken sausages, simple stuff,” he explains, leaning against the kitchen island. Samira is standing a bit awkwardly near one of the island chairs, her fingernails starting to scrape against the rough material of her backpack strap. If only that was enough to ground her in this almost otherworldly experience.

“Oh,” she says, quite intelligently.

“No pressure,” he adds, the words rushing out.

“No, it’s not that,” she says. “It’s just… wouldn’t want to imposes” she says, wholly meaning it.

“No imposition, Samira. Honest.” She nearly balks at the way he says it, so coolly, so blazingly honest, almost a bit practiced. He’s never called her Samira, yet it sounds so natural falling from his lips. Even if there seemed to be a bit of a stumble in-between the syllables, like he’s unused to it as well, or if he’s a bit nervous calling her by her name. By her first name.

“Oh,” she adds once more. “Okay.” She smiles.

He grins back at her. “Great!” He says, and she can tell he seems actually happy at this, with a hint of disbelief. It's baffling.

“Can you help me?” he asks, his back turned to her as he starts unloading the various groceries from his bags. Milk, flour, oranges, chicken sausage links, tofu, chicken thighs are just some of the items she catches out of the corner of her eye as she jogs back to him in the kitchen.

“I am the worst cook known to man,” she says.

He shakes his head, “Can’t be, I know Robby.” He says.

She laughs at that, shrugging. “I’m sure my skills can make Robby look like the next Bobby Flay.”

“Highly doubt that. He can’t boil water.”

“That is an exaggeration,” she says, before adding, “Right?”

He pauses from the groceries, turning to her and winking playfully (right?) at her.

She can’t help the way her cheeks heat up, only slightly.

“Come on, they’re just pancakes.” He says, easily. “I’ll watch the whole time.”

Samira mulls it over in her head. Briefly, she wonders if this is going to humiliate her completely in front of her attending. Why should she care? Even if she knows why she does. Ultimately, she shrugs, smiling gently at him.

“What the hell, sure,” she says.

“Pancakes are no pigtail catheters, at least.”

“A pigtail catheter would be less intimidating to me.”

He rolls her eyes at her, “C’mon, Samira. You’re the smartest doctor I know.” He says this directly to her, his entire body turned toward her, gazing into her eyes with a fierce intensity, one that makes her want to flinch away. It’s like he’s reading her. Or confessing something to her. Baring his soul.

Then he turns around, “Okay, let me find the pancake recipe.” Walking away only a few steps to reach into his ingredient drawer. “The flour and milk are already out. Can you measure 2 cups of flour? And pull out the salt and eggs, please.” Reciting it like he’s calling out for a hemostatic dressing or portable X-ray.

For all that it’s worth, making pancakes is fairly easy. Mixing flour, eggs, and milk together and letting it sit on a pan until the batter bubbles is one of the simplest things one could learn when it comes to cooking, but you can best believe there has never been a recipe Samira has met that she hasn’t been able to burn. And pancakes are no different, apparently.

After her third burnt one, Abbot stares in disbelief at the pan.

“Maybe it’s the pan.” He decides.

“I think I’m just cursed. I have a black thumb, but for cooking. A burnt thumb,” she concedes, ready to give up and hand him the spatula instead.

“No,” he shakes his head. “Samira Mohan, you will not leave this kitchen until you make a golden brown pancake and enjoy it, goddamnit.” It’s said with an air of conviction that Samira would find sweet, if it wasn’t about her stupid fucking pancakes.

“That’s nice,” she laughs, because he is a bit ridiculous.

“Let’s try this,” he says, reaching over to the stove to turn down the heat just a smidgeon lower. Then, he reaches across her, gently knocking her hand in the direction of the ladle. She immediately catches onto what he’s doing, reaching for the ladle and fills it up with the same amount of batter she has been doing. He reaches to encircle her wrist with his fingers before stopping and turning his eyes toward her own.

His eyebrows raise slightly, and she knows what he’s asking. She nods, just once. He takes it, wrapping his fingers around her wrist. He then delicately pulls her wrist over the pan, watching as it continues to sizzle from the last bout of butter they poured in, and helps rotate her wrist, only about 65 or so degrees. The pancake batter falls much slower from the ladle this way, and she almost flinches back from the butter popping out of the pan, but he puts his left hand on her lower back, keeping her in place.

Once the ladle is mostly empty, they turn the ladle a complete 180 so everything falls out onto the pan. He lets go of her wrist as it’s almost on autopilot for her to put it back in the bowl of batter.

Betraying her, her brain whines from the loss of contact, wanting the warmth of his hand around her wrist once more. She’s then reminded of his left hand, still resting, only slightly, on her lower back. He might have forgotten it’s there, but Samira isn’t ready to remind him.

She turns her gaze back to the pancake, watching it slowly start to cook, the batter side up becoming more and more matte by the second. With the warmth from the stove, she suddenly feels burning hot. Her cheeks heat up more, and her head turns to her right, almost involuntarily, to find Abbot—Jack, gazing at her, his eyes a confusing expression. He looks… almost in awe. She’s seen that expression a few times, none of them directed at her. She’s seen the way he praises the interns, sees how he looks at patients who have some epic backstory, and how he works well with both the night shift and the day shift. He always looks with intensity, this much she has known for a few years, but she’s never felt it so closely on her own skin.

The pancakes, she thinks, but cannot bring herself to worry about.

The fucking pancakes, her brain tries once more.

She blinks, more like a flinch, which snaps him out of his train of thought. Then, almost like conditioning, he reaches over to the spatula and holds onto the very top of the handle. He gestures it towards her, which prompts her to grab onto the bottom half of the handle. Their hands are on top of one another, when he leads it towards the edges of the pan.

Slowly, he guides her to slowly lift the pancake from the outside, before gently pushing the entire spatula under the pancake.

“1,” he whispers. When has he been this close to her ear?

“2,” he says.

“3.” He helps her flip the pancake completely, revealing a golden brown bottom.

She blinks at it, in complete awe of her own work.

“Oh, my God,” she says, mostly under her breath.

“Told ya,” he says, his left hand traveling up to her shoulder, patting her once before letting it fall down to his side.

“Christ, Dr. Abbot, maybe you should be focusing on teaching, then,” she says.

If he’s bothered by the formal address, he doesn’t show it. Instead opting for. “That was all you, Samira.”

She feels like she’s full on blushing at this point, even with her wide eyes. “Well, you did—“

“I mean it. That was all you,” he says, low. The entire moment feels a bit like deja vu.

She blinks at him, nodding. “Thanks.” He smiles warmly at her, almost pleased that she accepted the compliment.

The rest of breakfast remains blissfully uneventful. Samira and Jack take turns finishing off the pancake batter. For the hell of it, Jack also adds sprinkles and chocolate chips to a few. Samira sweetly asks for a chocolate chip one when they call Annabeth down to join them for breakfast at nearly 8:12 AM. She seems happy enough to see Samira, picking a sprinkled pancake while she tells Jack and Samira all about her plans with her friends that afternoon.

It’s all quietly domestic.

When it’s time for Annabeth to be dropped off at her friend’s house, Samira excuses herself before Jack can ask her to head out. After a morning like this, the quiet and awkward Can you get out? would sting too much.

Jack, however, has the decency to look a bit resigned. “Okay,” he says softly. Annabeth is sitting in the car as they stand in front of the Abbot door.

Samira smiles, hoping her gratefulness oozes out. “Thanks for breakfast, I appreciated it.”

“Anytime,” he says, like he means it.

“Sure,”

“I’m serious. Maybe next time you can teach me?” he says.

She laughs, cocking her head to the side. “Teach you what?”

“Show me how to make chai, the way you like it.”

“Really?”

He nods, looking incredibly sincere. His features are all soft, focused, unlike the hard focus he has at the hospital. His guard is completely down, she can tell. “I’d love that.”

She smiles at him, nodding. She sticks her hand out. “It’s a deal.”

He takes it, almost immediately. His fingers feel softer in her hand than they were on her wrist. His warmth is immediately transferred, despite the warm spring air around them. She feels it deep in her bones. She shakes his hand just once before pulling her hand back, maybe too fast to seem casual, but knowing her place all the same.

His hand is slower when returning to his side, as if he needed to process it.

It’s all a bit much.

Samira waves goodbye to Jack and Annabeth before hopping back into her car back to her one bedroom apartment.

She spends the afternoon completely by herself. It’s confusing the way she starts to feel a bit unsettled by it.

She’s been on her own since she started med school, let alone residency. She moved away from Jersey, opting to use a partial scholarship instead of staying at home or in a place she used to call home.

There’s always been that small little part, telling her that there’s more than what she’s been doing. She sees excellent physicians she went to school with balance relationships, balance the nights out, balance the various parties that different masters programs throw.

But then she arrives home and all she wants to do is find a new study, find a new way to save people, find a way to ensure that no one would suffer the way her father did. She can’t bring herself to look in the mirror, fuss over her makeup or her outfit, because isn’t she just turning her back on the thousands of patients who have a rare disease that the ED might not be well equipped for? Isn’t she betraying her father, who waited for days in pain, only to be dismissed over and over again by ten minute assessments?

Looking around her white walls, she wonders if it’ll ever be enough for her. She sits on her bed, completely devoid of any real color or decorative pillows. She remembers the day she moved in, how she bought the bare minimum she could afford from a variety of Target, IKEA and Amazon and hasn’t bothered to continue looking since.

Maybe it’s one of those days, she thinks to herself.

One of those days she walks in earlier to the hospital, easily blending in with the night shift and shadowing a few cases before being able to handle a few on her own before Robby could officially get on her case. She’s working tomorrow, but she’s already feeling restless from her brief time off.

It’s been too long, she thinks.

The hospital is in full swing when she arrives, just as normal. She has started to find some type of comfort in chaos, like she can manage it all somehow.

Dr. Shen barely blinks at Samira coming in far too early, something she used to do all the time as an R2. She can tell he wants to ask where she’s been, but she doesn’t actually know how privy anyone is allowed to be re: Annabeth. She has to safely assume she’s hiding a secret, under lock and key, kept away in her heart.

He assigns her to triage with Dr. McKay. It’s a bit more remedial than she usually does, but Cassie has always been nice to Samira, even after telling her she was a bit of a loser after PittFest. But Samira thinks she needed to hear it. She probably needs to hear it again.

Triage is easy work with McKay. They fall into an easy rhythm together, calling different cases, admitting people further if they need, a case or two requiring more hands-on work than either of them initially realized. One patient going into cardiac arrest, another one having a vein burst. Nothing like getting some blood on your scrubs to wake you up during a night shift.

After Samira changes her scrubs, she finds Cassie yet again, finishing up with a patient to send him back to the waiting room. He looks less than pleased, but doesn’t seem to raise any type of complaints, so he waddles on back.

“Hey! Glad to see you with less blood,” she says.

“Glad to be in less blood. Felt like an intern, for a moment.”

McKay snorts a little at the joke. “We’ve all been there,” she says, mostly as an agreement.

Samira walks with her back to the waiting room. “How’s Harrison?”

“Oh! He’s good. He begged me to let him try out for baseball, and I actually think he’s really good, but he insists that he’s a, quote unquote flop, so he’s currently refusing to go to practice. I’m telling him to stick it out for one season, but I have a feeling I might lose this one.”

“Strike out, ouch,” Samira replies, with possibly the only baseball terminology she knows.

“You can say that again.”

“I get it,” she says, because she knows Annabeth had an entire month where she begged for a certain video game, and once Abbot finally caved, she played it for about two hours before regaling back to her normal stack of books. However, she does claim that she has to be in the right mindset to play, and that’s why she’s not all over it, but Samira knows better.

McKay cocks her head to the right. “Yeah?” She says, like she’s picking up on her tone.

Samira nods, smiling softly. “Yeah… kids come up with the funniest excuses to get out of things, you know?”

“I do know.” McKay says. She sounds a bit all-knowing this way, but it’s not unkindly. She smiles at Samira, in a way she hasn’t truly seen before. It’s almost like she’s… proud of her?

“I hope you’re taking care of yourself, Samira.” She says.

“I am!” Samira exclaims, hoping her tone conveys her reassurance, and doesn’t sound as crazed as it could.

“And that you’re letting yourself be taken care of.” McKay says.

If she has anything else to add, she doesn’t bother, instead opening the door to the waiting room.

It almost makes Samira fully stop in her tracks, wanting to let the words hit her like a fucking truck. But she’s a trained fucking physician, Goddamnit. She allows herself to falter for only a beat before falling in behind McKay, navigating the room and keeping an eye out for the patient that she’s requesting.

She can think about it later.

Ever since Annabeth allowed herself to open up to Samira, it feels like the slowest yet most rewarding trek up a hill. Every day starts to feel like progress. Annabeth and Samira have worked themselves up to being able to talk for hours, mostly full of Annabeth describing her days in excruciating detail. If she wanted to know the inner workings of a 10-year-old social ground, it didn’t matter, because every day she learned about it anyway.

She takes everything in stride, allowing all her hard work to finally pay off in all the different ways Annabeth starts to trust her. Sometimes they actually bake together, surprising Jack with some mostly not burnt cookies. He always says he likes them, but she does believe that he’s just humoring them.

They go out now, too. Sometimes Samira will accompany her and her friends to the movies, to the ice skating rink, to a restaurant, to the park. The first time Annabeth asked Samira to join them, Samira swore she almost cried (though she might never admit it.) It’s probably weird for her to feel so invested in Annabeth and her wellbeing all of a sudden.

Now, when Annabeth comes to Samira, it feels less clinical and more familial. She barely noticed the shift.

On top of it, Samira has allowed herself two drawers in the guest bedroom. The rest of it has remained mostly untouched, but she does keep her toiletries in the bathroom now. It just makes sense, she justifies to herself. Why would she continue packing up her skin care and toothbrush? It was getting too repetitive.

Jack, also, has been endlessly gracious. He does take her up on his own offer, and she teaches him to make chai. It takes entirely too long, because they kept getting distracted and Jack kept making one too many jokes, which had meant the chai boiled over itself a few times, but they hadn’t made too much damage. In the end, Jack wrote the entire recipe down and put it away in his own personal cookbook. Samira found the whole thing to be a bit silly, until he kept showing up at the PTMC parking garage with Annabeth in one hand and a thermos of chai in the other.

It’s another part of the routine Samira chooses not to acknowledge.

The part where she stays for more breakfasts than she doesn’t, the part where he always leaves chai ready for her to heat up in the morning, the part where her and Jack exchange more than just a few words about dinner when he gives her Annabeth, the way he sometimes comes home earlier with an iced matcha (to spice some things up, he claims).

She tries not to think about it. About what it means. Because every time he hands her another mug, or another bonus, he claims it’s because Annabeth Abbot is the light of his life, and that he would forever feel indebted to Samira, because anything guarding her soul is a rare gift. And more days than not, Samira wants to believe him and take him at face value.

But some disgusting part of her own heart wonders if it could be something. Or does she see it only because she knows she secretly wants it? That sometimes she wonders what it would be like to walk into the Abbot household and never leave. What would it be like if she never had to go back to her dreary and undecorated apartment? What would happen if she could learn how to cook with Jack every night?

It’s all in her head, she tries to remind herself.

Jack Abbot is many things. But in love with Samira Mohan would never be one of them.

And that’s okay, she tells herself. It’s better this way.

Besides, she would rather focus on Annabeth. Any way for her to stay part of this, she would do it. And risking it doesn’t seem like an option anymore.

With summer just around the corner, the weather is beautiful for one of the first days that year, the sun shining down on them at the park, the rays hitting her skin just so. Annabeth is a mostly independent girl, so Samira reads one of the journals from Jack’s study on the swingsets, looking up every few minutes or so to make sure she can still spot the girl.

All of her friends had gone home nearly an hour ago, but Annabeth had already made a few new ones on the playground, so they’re all happily playing together on the slides, putting themselves in any imaginary scenario possible.

Samira remembers being her age, back when she had substantially less anxiety and pressure, when she was happy to make friends with anyone who crossed her paths. It’s one of those thoughts that causes a pang of unease in her stomach, the idea that Annabeth might be on the receiving end of some of that worry, of some of that trepidation. She tries not to think too deeply about Annabeth’s future, mostly because she doesn’t know how much longer she will be privy to it. If one day, Annabeth simply doesn’t need overnight eyes, or if Abbot puts a newfound level of trust in an 11-year-old over a 10-year-old and Samira will be sent back to her white walls that remind her of the life she had built on her own. How she was simply invited for a short while into someone else's, and she has no control over it.

She doesn’t even realize how long she had gotten lost in her own head until Annabeth comes running over, breathless but clearly a bit tired.

“Can we go now?” she asks.

“Sure,” Samira says, a bit shocked, only because Annabeth has never really excused herself, not when it’s come to her friends or the playground.

“I have to go back and tell my new friends you said no, by the way,” she says, still failing to catch her breath.

“Sorry?”

“I told them I’d ask you if I could play longer, but I’m tired and hungry, so I need to pretend you said no.” She says, completely serious.

“Okay…” Samira says. “You know you’re allowed to say no, though, right?”

Annabeth shrugs. “I guess. I’ll just be right back.” And without another moment to spare, she nearly darts over to a small group of kids who look like they’re highly anticipating Annabeth’s answer and Samira’s approval. It’s almost comical how quickly all their faces drop with the news, and Samira might laugh if she didn’t remember these were 10-year-old kids who lived for this shit.

“I had to look all sad,” she says, once they gather up Annabeth’s backpack and head back to her car. They had the decency to go on the longer path that strategically avoids getting too close to the group of kids who are mostly still huddled together, but looking increasingly less distraught than a few minutes ago.

“It’s kinda funny you did that, but next time you can just say ‘I’m hungry, bye, nice to meet you.’” Disciplining (or whatever is close enough to it) for Samira is still a bit confusing, even though Abbot once expressly gave her his consent because he “believes she could never be unjustly upset.” But her fear of crossing that line, or god forbid be inappropriate is too loud for her.

“I guess.” Annabeth says, and Samira can hear her frown in the backseat. “But I don’t want to be rude.”

“I don’t think what I said was rude.”

“Well, obviously not, but I’m not like you. I don’t know if it would sound nice if I said it.”

“Why wouldn’t it be nice?”

“I dunno.”

Samira smiles, amused.

Kids.

“Listen, if you want to practice with me, write some of these phrases down, you can have them memorized. So that when someone asks you to stay longer and you don’t want to, you already practiced what to say and how to say it.”

Annabeth is silent for a few moments, breathing in and out in the way Samira taught her.

“Maybe…” She says. “Isn’t that a little weird, though?”

“I don’t think anyone has to know.” Samira tries.

“But I would know. That seems embarrassing.”

Samira wants to laugh, mostly because kids' worries are so silly, but she briefly remembers one of the parenting blogs she had read once reminding her that she doesn’t want to belittle her in any way, to invalidate her feelings, especially around social image.

“Well,” she starts slowly, “I think your two options are workshopping some phrases with me, just to have in your back pocket, or you will have to rely on me or your dad looking like the bad guy in every situation.”

“Is that so bad?” she asks. “You guys always have my back.”

This is fucking manipulation, Samira thinks to herself, even as her heart warms at the words, feeling that breadth of adornment that she is so used to at this point.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Samira laughs this time, which Annabeth joins in on.

And then, “should we go pick up some bagels and drinks for your dad? He’s gonna be irritated if we don’t bring something back, or get cranky from his little nap.”

Annabeth snorts at this, yelling out an enthusiastic “PLEASE!”

At a red light, Samira reaches for her phone that was in one of the cupholders and reaches back to hand it to Annabeth. The eternal downside of Pittsburgh having a great bagel scene, is that Saturday morning guarantees that the lines will be wrapping around the pentagon itself by the time you even think you want a bagel.

“What does your dad want, do you think?” Samira is pretty confident she knows, because Abbot doesn’t bother straying from his normal egg, cheese and chicken sausage bagels on everything anytime he brings home bagel sandwiches for the girls. It’s one of those things you can count on, the sun shining, the waves crashing against the shore, and Jack’s bagel order.

“His usual, I guess. Egg, cheese, and sausage.” Annabeth seems incredibly uninterested in her dad’s order.

She doesn’t normally like to correct Annabeth too much, especially over the small things, but because she has her phone, “Don’t you mean chicken sausage?”

Annabeth goes silent for only two beats before, “oh, yeah, I forgot he switched when he hired you. Sorry, I fixed it in the app.”

Samira blinks at the response, “Sorry?” She says.

“Do you want your normal? Egg and cheese? I think they still have asiago bagels as well, I know they’re always out when you order.”

No, she thinks, I want you to go back to what you just fucking said.

Instead, “yeah, thank you. Sounds great. Can you tell them to add hot sauce?”

“I can, but dad still has that bottle of your favorite hot sauce at home, if we are just going to go back home.” She says, incredibly casual for the fucking nukes she’s delivering.

“Okay.” Is all Samira can land on.

Samira has been good at compartmentalizing everything so far, filing different settings for different parts of herself, savoring the private bits all for herself. It feels like a gut punch, to slowly have him unravel this in her. And listen, she could handle it for a while. She can handle the cups of chai, the cups of matcha, the chocolate chip pancakes, the ever growing list of Indian spices now hiding in his cabinet that he won’t ever admit to her are there, even though she can taste turmeric in their fucking rice nowadays.

But there’s truly only so much she can take.

She maintains the speed limit in the right lane, getting to the shop in what she can only assume is a timely manner. Her and Annabeth waltz in, grab their bag off the mobile order counter and get ready to go back home.

Home. She thinks of it as home.

As she pulls into the Abbot driveway, she takes a deep centering breath, trying to focus on the important things in life, like money, and being a doctor, and paying off her debt to become a doctor. And it doesn’t matter if Jack Abbot is an insufferable human being, she needs this job, she cannot do doubles every single day, she can’t continue paying the interest on some of these loans. She needs this money in ways she didn’t even fully realize when she accepted the job.

Annabeth has become a bit of a touchy person ever since she started to feel closer to Samira, which is currently manifesting in Samira holding the brown bag of bagels in her left hand and holding Annabeth’s hand in her right.

“Home!” Annabeth yells out as they cross into the foyer.

“Hey!” Jack screams back, nearly running into the room. His hair is proof that he just barely woke up, with the way the curls seem to be almost unruly. His sweatpants and incredibly tight black t-shirt are also proof, but that’s okay.

His eyes dart from the bag to Samira’s eyes and then down to the way their hands are still clasped together.

“How was it?” He asks.

“It was great! Samira’s the best, she helped me lie to get away from my new friends.” Annabeth says, reaching out to hug her dad, subsequently dropping Samira’s hand in the process.

When Jack pulls away, he raises his eyebrows at Samira before reaching out to grab the bagels from Samira. “Promoting lying?” He jokes.

Samira rolls her eyes as she reaches down to take off her sneakers, “Even if I did, I have to make sure she’s growing up to be just like you.”

Jack laughs at this, then turns around to head back to the kitchen. “Come on, girls! I made some fresh chai, let’s dig in before the bagels get too cold!”

Annabeth happily runs after him, because he’s let her have some diluted chai now and she’s (for whatever reason) obsessed. It’s a bit sweet, because Samira isn’t fully used to all these white people liking her recipe, since it’s not as sweet as the commercial type, and even if the Abbots are lying to her about liking it, at least they’re nice about it.

“Coming!” She calls out.

After eight months of taking care of Annabeth Abbot, Samira is nearly moved to tears when Annabeth formally invites her to her birthday party. She doesn’t even know how to measure how far they’ve come, sometimes, if she thinks about it. She sometimes sits on the couch with Annabeth and tells her how nervous she was that Annabeth wouldn’t like her. Annabeth said she sounds like a big worry-wart, and sometimes it just takes a while for a person to get adjusted. Samira laughs until her stomach hurts.

“Really?” Samira says, when her words truly sink in.

“Duh,” Annabeth says. “You’re with me, like, every day. Obviously I want you to be there.”

Jack is there, too. He is standing behind Annabeth in the foyer, a hopeful expression resting on his face.

“I would love to.” She says, and if she sees relief flood over him out of the corner of her eye, she respects him too much to bring attention to it.

Annabeth wraps around her torso, squeezing too tightly. “Thank you, Samira.” She says, completely and wholly earnest. Each word holds a type of love that Samira never imagined in her wild dreams could ever be hers. It’s mesmerizing.

“No, thank you!” Samira laughs as she hugs her back, trying to hold back her tears. She looks up, locks eyes with Jack as he nods.

A single tear slips past.

The birthday party itself is a mostly quiet endeavor. Annabeth has humbly requested that they have a movie sleepover at their house, catered by her favorite Italian restaurant as they watch any PG-13 movie her heart wishes.

(Samira thinks it's cute that Jack refuses to pop her bubble, because he actually printed out a list of movies he thinks she would like, and then emailed it to all of the parents attending so they could approve or disapprove of it. Poor Annabeth doesn’t even know how predictable she is.)

While Samira is invited, that mostly means she eats dinner with them (and Jack) and watches one (1) singular movie with them. Their pick is the effervescent Ponyo that Samira convinced the entire brigade of tween girls was a cool movie.

While Samira sits on the couch, Jack mostly stays in his study, because Annabeth couldn’t be clearer that this was a Girls Only! party. It is incredibly endearing the way she broke the news to him, but she also knew that she was too much of a daddy’s girl to truly kick him out for too long.

Hushed, and definitely not meant for her ears to hear, one of Annabeth’s friends next to her on the floor turned to her and whispers “Is that your dad’s girlfriend?” to which Annabeth scrunchs up her nose and shakes her head. Unfortunately, Annabeth is a far superior whisperer to her friend (Sarah?), because Samira doesn’t hear her response. But she does see her expression, and she could feel Annabeth’s disgust.

Jack Abbot, if he wasn’t already, was strictly off-limits.

“Really? You didn’t change your keyboard shortcut?” Is the first thing Jack asks when she walks in the door.

“You did?”

He shrugs. “I’m hip.”

“Not really part of the definition for that, but okay.” She says, rolling her eyes. “How is she?”

“Samira, I told you, all is well.”

“If she’s not feeling well, then all is not well.” She huffs out.

“I am a doctor, you are aware of that?” His words are light, but gentle. Like he knows that she needs some type of grounding, like he knows how to handle her irrationality.

“Obviously.” She says.

He’s silent for a few moments, crossing his arms over his chest, surveying the situation like he does in the ED. She starts to feel like one of his patients, a chill running down her spine at the thought.

“Come on, I’ll show you.” His voice is calmer now. It starts to soothe some of the anxiety coursing through her veins as she allows herself to follow Jack up the stairs. She must have walked up these stairs a million times by now, walking into Annabeth’s room and making sure she was safe. It feels different now.

Samira and Jack stand in front of her door. Samira lets out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. She turns to look at Jack, suddenly so incredibly nervous, like she’s about to walk into a reckless storm. It’s all so silly, she reminds herself.

Except, he’s completely relaxed, his eyes are softer than they ever have been, his lips are turned down, but not in a frown, more like he’s focusing on her. He gives a short nod and reaches out to turn the doorknob, slowly pushing it open for Samira to see.

When she peaks her head in, she can see a completely still Annabeth in bed. There are random tissues everywhere, despite the trashcan right next to her bed. It makes Samira smile, just because. Other than that, her room is undisturbed, as if the sweetest girl in bed isn’t suffering. It feels a bit jarring, to notice how normal everything looks.

Samira can’t help herself walking past Jack and brushing against his arm just slightly, reaching for some of the loose tissues to discard into the bin. She doesn’t plan on waking Annabeth up, or even making a sound over a whisper decimal, just to make sure she is getting optimal rest. But it doesn’t seem to matter, because Annabeth hears anyway.

“Samira?” She calls out, her throat sounding a bit sore.

“I’m here.” She responds, reaching out to place her hand on top of Annabeth’s shoulder.

Annabeth’s eyes open, just barely, to see Samira’s probably crazed out and worried expression, however if she seems bothered by this, she doesn’t say so. Instead, she smiles gently at Samira, reaching out from under the covers and pulls her into a suffocating hug.

“Thank you for coming.” She says.

Samira hugs back, with everything she has in her. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Over a cup of coffee, Samira and Jack sit on the couch, mostly waiting to see if Annabeth needs or wants anything from either of them.

“I appreciate you coming out.” He breaks the silence, looking up from his mug and into her soul (as always).

“Sorry for sort of bulldozing in. You obviously don’t have to pay me for this, since you technically said you didn’t need help today.” It was only once they sat down did a decent amount of embarrassment wash over her. Truthfully, she’s been painfully awkward since the birthday party, considering she stayed out with the girls as much as possible and then left the minute she could. She didn’t want to be alone with Jack anymore.

It’s all so confusing, she thinks. And it’s getting increasingly harder to remember her place in this family. In the family she is paid to be part of. And today was another example of it, coming into work when you are essentially not wanted or needed is usually not a great look for any employee, especially if you have the same boss at both jobs, in this case.

“Don’t be sorry.” Jack says, with a level of seriousness that she hasn’t heard many times outside of the ED. “And don’t worry about pay, seriously. Annie is happy you’re here.”

“I’m not really doing anything, though.” She replies, awkwardly. “Plus I’m drinking up your coffee.”

“I don’t think that’s very fair, you hate coffee. You’re probably punishing yourself enough by drinking this to worry about not accepting payment.”

She smiles softly.

“Thanks for letting me be here. For letting me check on her.”

“You don’t have to thank me for this. I would never prevent you from seeing her.” He says.

Yeah right, she thinks bitterly. Until you realize that I’m the worst employee known to man and your daughter is disgusted by the idea of us together.

“Besides, she wouldn’t let me. She adores you.” He smiles.

“It’s a two way street.” She replies.

He nods. “I know.”

Silence blankets the room for a few minutes, or whatever feels like a few minutes, yet Samira chooses to sit in it comfortably anyway.

“I really do appreciate everything you do with her.” He says. And Samira wants to cut him off, tell him it’s no big deal, like she always does. But he looks at her with this strong emotion behind his irises, and she can feel her breath get stuck in her throat.

“I say it a lot, but that’s because I am, and I don’t consider anything to be enough. I know it’s not all about the money, or material things, and I know you like her enough, but it truly means so much that you care this deeply about her.” He says, his voice breaking a little bit during some of the words, like he’s been thinking about them this whole time but still doesn’t know how to say it.

“Anyone would do what I do.” She says, shrugging, if only just to break the tension. It’s swarming the air. “She’s a great kid.”

He nods enthusiastically, “She is! But it hasn’t exactly been easy for her. Trust is not something she hands out lightly.”

“As she shouldn’t.”

He laughs low. “Yeah, of course.” Then, “but you’re wrong. You do so much more than what I technically asked of you.”

“Well, either way, I’m happy to do it.” And she is, the late nights with Annabeth, the consoling her on her mother’s anniversary, telling her about her father, driving her to eat out because Abbot hadn’t made anything new in 2 days and they were bored, going to the park with her, going to the movies, hanging out with her friends and interacting with them instead of sitting on her phone in the corner. They’ve started to become small moments of joy in her day, moments that pile up and give her even more fuel for heading back to the hospital.

Everything about being with the Abbot family feels like it’s made her a better doctor. It's tested her relationship building, how she chooses to talk to children; how she empathizes with parents. Going home no longer feels like one large decompression where she stares at a wall. Instead, it starts to feel a little bit like going down a winding staircase: taking her time, but still reaching the destination.

Which is why she has to protect it with everything in her.

“I know, Samira. I know.”

She smiles at him, raising her mug of coffee to him.

“That's why I picked you.” He adds, not taking his eyes off of her. “Smartest, most empathetic doctor I know? Yeah, no wonder this gamble paid off.”

To this, she does roll her eyes. “Sure.”

He doesn’t laugh along with her, “I’m serious.”

She stares at him, like she’s the one unbearing his soul this time. Choosing to finally read him for who he is, not the person she thinks he might be, or the person he should be. She reads him and sees the truth.

“Oh.” She says intelligently. “Well,” She chews on her lip, eyes darting to the ground. “Thanks, then.”

She doesn’t hear a response, but she can hear the rustling of the couch, which means he simply nodded along with her small acceptance.

Very distantly, Samira can hear a few shouts. Maybe they shouldn’t have decided to be an entire floor down from her if they wanted to hear her ask for help.

“I think she’s awake. I’ll head back up.” She says, excusing herself from the couch before Jack had much time to respond.

She allows herself to get lost in her work, resorting back to her normal bedside manners of taking vitals, helping her sit up as she rehydrates, asking her a few engaging questions so Samira can quadruple check that there’s nothing going on that they’re not aware of.

(“My dad already went through this with me.” She had complained.

“Humor me.” Samira had shrugged. Annabeth seemed to have relinquished control, if only because she now believed she was driving the bus and it was less Samira interrogating her or doubting her, but instead Annabeth indulging Samira’s neurosis.)

It feels good to return to something so familiar. The hospital has been part of that for her recently, as well. Even Dr. Robby riding her feels better than normal, a small reminder that no one knows of her weirdly secret double life, and she’s not receiving special treatment, and she’s not crossing some unknown professional boundaries that had been laid out for her since day one.

It’s one thing to oddly obsess over your attending’s daughter.

It’s another to be in love with her father.

After twenty minutes, Annabeth claims she’s had enough, that she truly just wants to sleep now. Samira feels inclined to believe her, getting up to leave the room and head back downstairs to the dragon’s den when Annabeth’s stomach growls. Samira doesn’t think she’s being dramatic when she says it's something akin to a lion yelling out in pain.

She turns around, raising her eyebrow slightly as she leans against the door frame. “Is there something you’d like to share with me?” She not-asks.

“No…” Annabeth winces.

“Why are you being so stubborn? It’s not like we’re sending you to jail.” She laughs gently.

Annabeth shrugs, “I just don’t need you and dad to be all over me. It’s no big deal. I cough. I will recover.” She says, so matter-of-fact.

“Well, that’s a great outlook. It’ll be even better once I get you some food. I’ll be back.”

“Don’t I get to pick?” Annabeth pouts, actually pouts, it’s such a sight beholden, part of Samira wants to laugh and the other wants to coo incessantly.

“I thought you weren’t hungry?”

Annabeth opted not to answer, instead narrowing her eyes at Samira. Samira let out another soft laugh, shaking her head as she turned around and headed back down the stairs. It sucks she really is such a shitty cook, she would have loved to make something for Annabeth. Maybe they have some canned soup she can heat up, surely she can’t burn anything like that, right?

As Samira rounded the corner into the kitchen, it turns out that she’s worrying a lot about nothing, considering Jack is already simmering something in a pot on the stove and using a fork to tear chicken apart.

“What’s this?” She asks, approaching the space gently, as to not scare him or snap him out of any cooking trance he may be in.

His head darts up from the chicken, his eyes brightening up as a tender smile slides onto his face. “Hey, how is she?” He asks.

“She’s okay. She’s hungry.”

He nods. “I figured as much. I’m making her favorite chicken noodle recipe.”

“Can I help?” She asks, for the very first time in the kitchen.

If he seems surprised by this, he doesn’t even budge as he gestures for her to come closer, “I’m just tearing some of the chicken up, but I already started boiling the broth and seasoning it. Can you get the pasta from the pantry and pour it into the broth? We have to cook it first, so you can set a timer after you pour them in.”

Samira heads to the pantry, “I do know how to make pasta, at least.”

“Well, I’ll thank the Lord for that one, then.” Jack calls out.

She rolls her eyes, navigating the mess that sometimes Jack leaves in there with leftover containers and different boxes sticking out. “Which pasta does she want?” Samira yells, probably a bit too loud, as she finds the multitude of boxes on the far left side of the shelves.

After a few moments, “Whichever one you think would make an 11-year-old feel like a million bucks.” Which is very vague and not helpful at all. She ends up picking out the rotini.

In the kitchen, Jack is still working on the chicken, but is suddenly moving at a suspiciously slow pace. Something that Samira doesn’t have the balls to ask him about, instead opting to carefully read the directions before opening it and pouring it into the simmering chicken broth.

“Siri, set the timer for 8 minutes.” She calls out to her phone.

“You children with your devices.”

Samira scoffs. “It’s just Siri, you don’t use it?”

“She’s already listening, why would I bother?”

“You’re ridiculous,” Samira says, biting her lip as she leans against the counter next to the pasta.

Jack turns around, the chicken perfectly shredded on the cutting board as he smiles, winks at her, and places the board on the counter next to her.

They’re unbearably close, almost suffocatingly close with the way he’s standing just to the left of her, his arm nearly brushing hers. It feels oddly similar, reminding her of how electric she felt after a few pancakes just a few months ago. Her eyes choose to look away, to focus her vision on literally anything but this moment here with him. Unfortunately her eyes find themselves looking at him anyway, looking at the way he organizes the chicken on the board, for whatever reason. But that’s not what catches her eye. She looks down at his fingers, at how meticulous he always is during cooking, while he prepares meals for Samira and Annabeth. The amount of care he puts into them. It's a type of devotion that Samira hasn’t heard of in a while.

But then she notices it.

She really, truly, honestly sees it.

He’s not wearing his wedding ring.

There are moments where fight, flight or freeze kick in. When your brain starts to shut down from the amount of external input and has to rely on muscle memory to carry you through. And at this moment, she freezes.

In all honesty, she tries to tell herself, she doesn’t really pay attention to his hands, she has never paid attention to his wedding ring, how often he wears it, when he takes it off, how he cleans it, etcetera, etcetera. It has never mattered to her, because she didn’t need another reminder on what a bad idea it was to have any type of feelings towards Jack Abbot. She had all the barriers she needed, she had all the guilt already. All she really knew is that sometime before she was hired, he definitely wore his wedding ring every single day. She had known this, not from always staring, but mostly from the staff doing all the staring for her and reporting back.

Another thing she notices is the faded tan line, how there is enough evidence to support that it’s been off for some time now. And if she couldn’t feel stupider about the fact she just noticed it was off, the real life realization that anytime in the past 8 months, he could have been adjusting to life without his wedding ring is… just a bit fucking jarring to her.

But then she thinks of Annabeth’s disgust. Of the way her little face scrunched up.

She feels sick.

She’s making herself sick.

Instantly, Jack notices the shift in her mood. He’s already too close to her, but the way he shifts his body towards her, his eyebrows furrowing as he carries real concern in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” He asks.

Samira can’t bear to speak. She doesn’t even know where she would stop.

He pauses, his right hand drops the knife onto the plastic surface and then slowly, almost at a snail’s pace, reaches up to her cheek. The path is clear, and the speed is intentional. Samira could step away if she wanted, she could run away forever and never return. She could turn him down, whack his hand away. She knows it. She knows that he’s giving her the chance to do that. To say no.

She stands completely still.

His hand is softer against her skin than she anticipated. And with shame, she admits that she has thought about this. Has thought of how he might caress her, how he might handle her. Would he be gentle? Rough? Inbetween? Would it matter to her?

His thumb traces up and down her cheek bone, reassuring more than anything else. The kitchen is in a quiet hum, the only sound is coming from the pot, boiling the pasta. It’s incredibly unsexy, all things considered, but Samira can’t help the way her heart is racing in ways that might get her sent back to her own workplace, a heart attack threatening against her chest.

“The chicken was already cooked,” is the first thing he says.

She busts into a small fit of laughter, her eyes crinkling as he keeps his hand on her cheek, the small yet gentle movements persevering.

“You’re ridiculous.” She whispers.

He shrugs, his head tilting to the side before smiling, “Maybe. But it made you laugh.” He says. “Mission accomplished.” He whispers this one, as if he wants to keep it between the two of them, a secret that only they would be able to understand.

They are so close, bodies nearly pushed together, with the way her knees are slightly knocking against his. She can feel his breath against her own lips, can feel the way his elbow hovers near her clavicle, feels so close to him that she feels overwhelmed by every sense imaginable. He leaves his left hand against the kitchen counter, probably because that was the one actively touching the chicken, yet it doesn’t stop the way Samira almost feels boxed in by him. Feeling like his entire presence is encapsulating her, swallowing her in and protecting her.

His eyes flit to her lips, though his thumb never ceases. She can see his eyes scale back up, locking eye contact with her. And this time, she can truly see it for what it is. She sees the same want that exists in her belly, she can see the exact same hesitation, the way he looks completely and unmistakably infatuated.

And for the first time, she wants to give in. She wants to close her eyes and allow his lips to canvas against her own lips. She wants to get to know him in every way possible. She wants to kiss him in the morning, eat lunch with him, pick up Annie from school with him, eat dinner at their house and help her with her homework. She wants to do that over and over and over again, for the rest of time. The way his thumb continues brushing against her is lulling her further and further into that sense of security, like he’s pulling in with her, like it’s absolutely and positively safe to head first into something she’s spent the better half of a year convincing herself of otherwise.

For once in her life, she wants to be wrong about something.

Her eyes flutter shut, giving him the last amount of space to do it, to complete this stupid fucking dance and just take her away.

She can feel the way he moves in, how his breath feels closer and closer to her lips.

She’s excited. She’s nervous. She’s thrilled. She’s sick to her stomach. She’s happy. She’s miserable. She’s so fucking over the moon, she’s going to throw up anyway.

BEEP!

They jump apart, Samira nearly screaming in fear as Siri kindly reminds them of the fucking timer she had set for the pasta.

Jack’s hand hadn’t allowed itself to go far, instead reaching for her wrist, now despite the fact that there’s almost an ocean between them. Samira stares at Jack in complete horror.

“Pasta’s done.” She says weakly. Her voice nearly breaks, almost like it's fighting with her own throat.

Jack doesn’t say anything, instead now his eyes are set ablaze, like he’s truly angry for once. Is that directed at her? She worries, anxiety coursing through her veins. His gaze is hard and his eyebrows are furrowed. She briefly wonders how she looks, she probably has a decent amount of fear written on her own expression. Embarrassment, dread, confusion. It’s all in there.

She’s horrified at herself.

What had she just tried to do?

It wouldn’t matter if Jack reciprocated any type of feelings, because he is still her attending, her employer. He pays her. He is Annabeth’s father. If anything happened to them, and it jeopardized her relationship with Annabeth, she’d never be able to forgive herself.

She was being selfish, she knows. So unequivocally selfish. Thinking only of her own desire.

Disgust washes over her.

And she needs to get out of this fucking house.

She yanks her wrist out of his grasp, which doesn’t actually take that much, since he immediately lets go. Her own elbow jerks into her own body from the uneven use of force.

“I should go.” She rushes out, not bothering to wait to hear anything from him. She doesn’t have time to analyze if his expression changes, if he seems just as apologetic or if he’s more headstrong about this than her.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have nearly half as much as her to lose.

He will still have his job, he will still have Annabeth, he will still have the white picket fence house and she will be rendered nothing. No better than a Resident slut who couldn’t keep it in her pants.

She runs to grab her bag from the couch, pulling on it entirely too hard before heading back out to the foyer. She is thanking her lucky stars that her shoes are fairly easy to slip on, because she had already been in a rush coming over. Her shoes are already on when she finally hears Jack’s voice filtering in, half out of breath.

“Wait, Samira!” He says.

“Tell Annabeth I hope she feels better.” She says, reaching into her bag to pull out her set of keys to his house and drops it on the small jump bowl next to the door. She doesn’t need it, she thinks bitterly to herself. Even if Abbot doesn’t miraculously fire her because of this, she’s better off drawing up these walls and boundaries around her. That way, she can’t get hurt. She can’t ruin everything.

She’s out the door before Jack can protest.