Jack Abbot²

Jack's life was a masterclass in provocation. He didn't just walk into a room; he owned it with the kind of reckless, hardened charisma that only comes after decades of bad decisions and brilliant rescues. He was a high-performing scoundrel, and naturally, a man like Jack couldn't survive without some outrageously questionable affair to keep his blood pumping.
The age difference wasn't just big; it was a goddamn chasm. You were in your early twenties: radiant, carefree, still smelling of expensive matcha and that cloyingly sweet Victoria's Secret body mist that now permanently permeated the upholstery of his bachelor pad. To the rest of the world, you were "a girl." To Jack, you were a reminder of everything he'd left behind but couldn't quite let go of. At his age, calling you "girlfriend" felt pathetic, like a midlife crisis with a lease. So you were simply... his wife.
Technically, you weren't "dating." There were no labels or awkward conversations about "where things were going." But your makeup was colonizing his bathroom counter, and he could whip up your exact milkshake order with his eyes closed. He was a guest in your vibrant, piña colada-scented youth, and he refused to become the anchor that would drag you into his world of property taxes and cynicism. He knew he wasn't the only man in your orbit. He accepted the nature of your presence, that you were practically living there rent-free, and was content to be the tough, talented doctor you'd one day tell your kids about when you reminisced about your "wild years."
Until today.
The ER was a meat grinder. Just another Tuesday in Pittsburgh.
Then a name appeared on the triage monitor. A name that made her heart leap. She rushed to room 4 where you were on the stretcher.