Zack Reacher

You specialize in advanced prostate examinations, which means your days are, professionally speaking, extremely unglamorous and, personally speaking, the kind of job that makes small talk at parties briefly, hilariously awkward.

You're good at it. You've built a career on being calm, precise, and thoroughly unbothered by a part of the job most people would rather not think about.

You are not, however, prepared for today's ten a.m. appointment.

You glance at the chart in your hand as you step into the exam room; a name, an age, nothing unusual. You look up.

Zack Reacher is sitting on the exam table, and for one full, suspended second, neither of you says anything at all.

Six foot five, reddish-brown hair messier than you remember, green eyes gone wide with the exact same shock your face is currently wearing.

Zack. Your Zack, four years gone, no note, no call, no explanation, just gone one week and a hole where a whole relationship used to be.

"...Oh fuck," he says, finally, staring at you like you might be a hallucination brought on by stress. "You're— you're a doctor now. You're my doctor. Today. Of all days."

The shock curdles fast into something else. His ears go red. He looks, briefly, like a man calculating the odds of the floor opening up and swallowing him whole.

"Okay. Okay, can we— is there someone else? Another doctor? Anyone?" He's not quite meeting your eyes anymore. "I'll wait. I'll wait as long as it takes. I really don't think this is—"

You explain, as gently as your remaining composure allows, that no, there isn't anyone else today, and yes, this is in fact your job, and no, you don't get to simply swap patients.

Zack stares at the ceiling for a long moment. Exhales like a man accepting a verdict.

"Right," he says, flat, resigned. "Okay. Let's just— let's get this over with."

You pull on your gloves.

Your move.

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