Citizen Of Metropolis & Member of the Pitt Crew

When your brain was being rational, it told you that Dean was with you because he loved every part of you. And when you struggled to love yourself, he was always there to remind you why you should.

Dean was a very vocal advocate of women. He was a proud, unapologetic, ladies’ man and he knew, with a label like that, he had a responsibility to treat women well. Priding himself on the deep, unshakeable respect he had for women, he made it his mission to understand that womanhood was a beautiful, but complicated, experience that left its mark. It meant that women came in all shapes, and all sizes. It meant that boobs wouldn’t always be perfectly perky or that parts of the body could be darker than the rest of the body. He knew about chafing, stretch marks, and how the skin could jiggle. He loved every part of womanhood, and you knew that.

Logically, you knew there’d be no benefit to Dean being with you if he didn’t want to be.

However, at times like these, logic didn’t mean a damn thing.

You didn’t always feel this way about yourself. Sometimes you just existed, going about your day as any other person. But then, there would be times when you’d get a harsh, unsolicited, reminder that society wasn’t built for people who were bigger. People like you.

You’d go shopping with your friends and try on a pair of jeans, only for the largest size on the rack to barely pass your thighs. You’d notice people looking uncomfortable when you squeezed into the empty seat next to them on the train. You’d worry about what you ordered at restaurant, terrified someone would judge you for eating too much.

It was exhausting.

You couldn’t get away from it at home either. You’d rifle through your closet, looking for something to wear, you’d pick up clothes and think to yourself ‘that’s so big, there’s no way it fits me.’ Only for it to be a perfect fit. Or, even worse, too small.

You really didn’t feel like this all the time. You had worked on yourself and your self-esteem. There were times where you’d wear a crop top because it looked cute, telling yourself that others wore crop tops, so why couldn’t you. Sometimes you’d wear a tight dress because it showed off your curves.

It wasn’t easy to get there, and you weren’t fully there all the time, your mind was a prison sometimes. And society didn’t help. But that’s why you loved Dean. He was so carefree and couldn’t give a toss about societal standards.

That morning had started out fine. You had excitedly put on the form hugging outfit that you were wearing for that reason. However, as you watched the scene in front of you, it all came flooding back.

Dean was leaning against the kitchen counter, laughing at something Allie Hayes, his ex-girlfriend, was saying.

And, as if a magician had snapped their fingers, the mental gymnastics began.

Allie was gorgeous, fitting effortlessly into the swimsuit-model category. She could wear his oversized hockey jersey and look like a delicate dream, rather than looking like she was a defenseman on the team. And, to top it off, she was a lovely person. She had done everything she could to make you feel welcome when you had first started to date Dean, never once made you feel like it was her territory you were stepping into. You honestly couldn’t understand why they had even broken up.

Your brain started to calculate the maths that made sense to nobody but you. You wondered if people looked at the two of you together and couldn’t add the pieces together. The golden-haired hockey god with the sculpted physique and you, a woman who took up space in a society that expected women to shrink. How did that add up?

They wouldn’t do that with Allie. Those pieces made sense together; the maths was simply 2+2 = 4 there.

Your mind, venomous and sharp, kept spinning out of control. Does he look at her and remember how easy it was? Are they laughing together about how he traded down? Is he pleading with her to take him back?

Suddenly, you became very aware of your outfit. The fabric felt suffocatingly tight in all the wrong places. Your curves felt like they were drawing the eyes of everyone in the room as they protruded out over your high-waisted jeans.

At times like these, your brain was a masterclass in self-sabotage.

It didn’t matter that Dean had spent hours tracing your stetch marks like they were roads to heaven.

It didn’t matter that he publicly looked at you with a hunger that made your knees weak.

It didn’t matter that he gently coaxed you into being comfortable sleeping together with the lights on and that he hadn’t run away when he finally saw all of you.

None of that mattered. Your brain was screaming over the bass of the music, over every rational thought you’d ever had, drowning it all out. He wants to get back with Allie. She is everything, and I’m nothing.

It was a horrible, ugly thought that was entirely unfair to yourself and to Dean, who had never given you a single reason to doubt his love and loyalty. But, your insecurities didn’t care about fairness.

You took a shallow, shaky breath, your chest tightening as you watched them. The way everything she did looked effortlessly charming and feminine.

A suffocating, bitter, knot rose in your throat, choking your breath. You had to get out of there before anyone could see the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the room until they locked directly onto yours, as if he had a red alert that signalled to him that you needed him. The easy smile he had been sharing with Allie shifted into something deeper, something warmer, as he looked at you.

He put his cup down on the counter, murmured a quick goodbye to Allie, and began sliding his way through the sea of drunk college students, heading straight for you.

You were standing with two of your friends, desperately trying to signal to them with your eyes that you all should go. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. You felt like you couldn’t move because you knew he would follow. Then you’d have to face him.

Within seconds, Dean arrived and threw a possessive arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his chest. The familiar scent of his expensive cologne, usually a smell that provided you with comfort, suffocated you. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, pressing another kiss on you. “I missed you.”

Your friends immediately giggled and exchanged knowing glances. “Okay, so that’s our cue to leave!” one of them teased.

“Yup, see you in class tomorrow girlie,” the other said.

They vanished into the crowd before you could even protest, leaving you feeling alone in Dean’s arms.

You forced yourself to tilt your head up, pressing a quick peck to his jaw.

“I missed you too,” you managed out, forcing a smile to hide how you felt.

But Dean knew you better than that, your smiles always reached your eyes. His eyebrows furrow in slight confusion. His eyes scanned your face with an intense scrutiny and he saw the slight glassiness in your eyes.

“Hey,” he said. He dropped his arm to cup your cheeks in both hands. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

The concern in his eyes almost broke you. It would be so easy to tell him, but the shame of your own insecurity felt too heavy, especially with Allie still in the room.

“Nothing,” you lied, voice tight. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, you didn’t like to lie, especially to Dean. He was big on trust.

You gently pulled away from his touch, his hands dropping from your face. “I’m just… really tired, Dean. I think I need to go.”

“Okay,” Dean said easily. “I’ll come upstairs with you.”

“No,” you rushed out too quickly and too loudly. “I need some space; I need to go… home.”

Dean blinked, looking genuinely confused. “Home? But I thought you were staying here tonight? Your bag is upstairs.”

He was panicked now, eyes searching yours again for some sort of understanding of what was happening. A rare flash of sadness crossed his features and you wanted so desperately to kiss it away but your brain couldn’t stop telling you that this was the right move. That it would be better for him if you left. If you pushed him to want you gone.

“Talk to me, babe. Did I do something wrong? Let’s just go upstairs, just you and me.” The panic in his voice sent a painful pang straight through your chest.

“No, it’s not that,” you choked out, unable to look him in the eye. The sound of voice was enough to make you cry, if you combined that with the look on his face, you were done for. “I just need to be in my own bed tonight. Please.”

Dean felt completely helpless. He hated to let you go, but he also respected your boundaries too much to keep pushing for you to stay when he knew you didn’t want to.

He reached into his pocket, his jaw clenching. “Okay. Okay, yeah. If that’s what you need. I’ve had a few beers, so I can’t drive you.” He sounded incredibly mad at himself for that, as if he could have known he needed to stay sober. “I’m ordering you an Uber.”

You didn’t bother to say goodbye to anyone, or pick up your bag from upstairs, as you weaved your way outside. Dean followed you, keeping a protective hand on the small of your back the entire way.

He waited on the porch with you in the chilly air. There were a few couples out here, cuddling together and giggling as they whispered into each other’s ears. Dean so desperately felt the urge to pull you in and not let go.

After a few long minutes of standing in the heavy silence, the car finally pulled up. He opened the door for you. When you slipped inside, you expected him to shut it immediately, but he didn’t. He kept a tight hold on the handle, leaning down as he pleaded, “text me the second you get in. Please.”

Blue eyes trembled as they watched for your response. Dean looked devastated as he chewed his bottom lip. Unable to bear it, you put on another fake smile and nodded. Anything to get him to go. He closed the door gently, but, to you, it felt like that was the door closing on your entire relationship.

As the Uber pulled away, the tears finally fell. You looked back to see Dean still standing there, watching your car until it disappeared around the corner.

He didn’t wait for you to get home to start texting you.

Dean (22:10): I don’t know what I did, but I’m so sorry. Please let me fix it. Dean (22:10): I love you. So much. Dean (22:11): Just tell me what you need from me.

By the time you unlocked your front door twenty minutes later, your chat history with him looked like a wall of messages.

You stared at your phone screen, the words blurring together through another wave of tears. You wanted to reply. You were going to reply. But how could you? What could you say that would make any sense? That would justify this?

You crawled into bed and immediately pressed your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds of your sobs. Your body convulsed as you cried harder, the weight of everything hitting you at once.

You cried until exhaustion finally took over your body. You cried yourself to sleep without even realising it.  

The next morning, you woke up with a splitting headache and dry throat. Memories of last night came flooding back to you. You were supposed to respond to Dean’s messages, at least to let him know you’d gotten back safely. Instead, he would have seen that you left him on read.

You hurriedly reached for your phone, your heart dropping into your stomach as you saw he had continued to send messages throughout the night.

Dean (02:14): Still haven’t heard from you. Getting worried. Please just let me know you’re safe.

Dean (03:45): I know you asked for space but I cannot sleep until I know you’re okay.

Dean (06:11): I’m coming over.

The last message was sent barely half an hour ago. You jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom to brush your teeth and try to make yourself look presentable. Your eyes were bloodshot from the tears; you hadn’t even washed the make-up from your face last night.

A heavy, frantic, pounding echoed from your front door. Your mind raced again, given the timing of his texts, you doubted if he had even slept. He should not have been behind the wheel. And how fast did he have to drive to get to you in this time?

You hurriedly wrapped your dressing gown around yourself and padded down the hallway. When you opened the door, the sight of Dean stopped the breath in your lungs.

He looked completely wrecked. He had changed from since the party; but his clothes were already wrinkled. His usually stupidly perfect hair was sticking up in all directions, as if he’d spent all night running his fingers through it. There were dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes. He really hadn’t slept.

A shuddering breath escaped his lips as he saw you. “Thank God.”

Before you could say a word, he stepped across the threshold, closed the door, and pulled you into his arms. He held you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the frantic thumping of his heart. He was trembling.

“You terrified me,” he muttered, his grip tightening. “You told me you needed space from me, didn’t text or answer my calls. I thought you got into an accident, I thought someone hurt you. But then I saw you were reading my messages and… I thought… I thought you were leaving me.”

The rational part of your brain roared back to life, screaming at you to see how much he loved you. He wasn’t thinking about Allie or anyone else. He was falling apart because he thought he had lost you.

“Dean, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your own voice cracking as you wrapped your arms around his neck. “I’m soso sorry, I’m okay.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his hands moving up to cup your cheeks. His thumbs gentle wiped away a stray tear that you hadn’t even noticed had fallen.

“Are you leaving me?” he asked, voice fragile.

“No,” you sighed, leaning into his touch. “Not if you don’t want to leave me.”

“Of course I don’t, babe. But can you please just talk to me?” he pleaded, his blue eyes searching yours with pure desperation. “Please, I’m losing my mind here.”

He would never admit it to anyone else, but he was a deeply emotional man. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders while acting like nothing fazed him. But, in front of you, that act was dropped.

You looked down, unable to hold the weight of the guilt you felt. Swallowing hard, the truth came tumbling out of you, tasting bitter and heavy on your tongue.

“I… I saw you talking to Allie and my brain just… it just went haywire. It’s great that you have a healthy relationship with your ex, it just speaks to the kind of man you are but…I… I just...” Your fingers bunched into the fabric of his top as your words trailed off.

He stayed silent, patiently giving you the time you needed to collect your thoughts.  

“She’s amazing and she looks better than I do… physically.” Your voice lowered, it was so embarrassing admitting this out loud to him. No matter how much you trusted him with your feelings. “I just worry that you’re going to wake up one day and realise what you lost.”

Dean let out a sharp, pained, breath, his jaw tightening. Before he could interrupt, you pressed a hand to his chest. “Let me finish, please.”

He gave you a tight, silent nod, urging you continue.

“I know it’s stupid, I know it isn’t a problem that you created, Dean. It’s an insecurity inside of me. I just… yeah, I guess I just have more of a mountain to climb than I thought. I don’t want to leave you, but I’d understand if you wanted to leave me so you don’t have to deal with all of this.”

Dean was quiet for a long moment. When you looked up at him, he didn’t look angry at your explanation or relieved that you had given him an out from this relationship.

“Okay,” he said finally. His voice was steady. “Let me be clear. There is no comparison between you and Allie. She’s my past, which I cherish, but you are my present, and my future. Understand?”

You nod your head, you needed to hear that.

“I have no reason to leave you. No desire to leave you,” he continued. “I’ll admit, I’m not a big fan of the radio silence last night, but I love you. I love us. Part of that love means that we go through some tougher times together, and you are completely insane if you think that I’m leaving you to climb any part of a mountain alone.”

You didn’t know what to say, a thick knot of emotion blocking your throat. Instead of trying to speak, you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him down to you. Dean didn’t hesitate; he met you halfway as you pressed your lips to his in a kiss. The softness of the kiss showed all the words you wanted to say.

“Thank you,” you mumbled against his mouth before kissing him again.

“I mean it, we’ll work through anything together,” he vowed, his hands sliding down over your curves to rest securely on your hips. “What do you need from me? How can I be better at supporting you?”

You let out the breath that you felt like you’d been holding since last night, the tension finally melting out of your muscles. “Just… please be patient with me while I fight my way back to reality, I guess.”

Dean nodded instantly, his expression serious. “Done.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“Never. Now,” he murmured, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he looked at you. “Seeing as neither of us slept well last night, I highly suggest we go catch up on some lost sleep.”

He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he dropped his voice to a suggestive whisper. “And once we’re rested, I am going to show you, very slowly, exactly how obsessed I am with you and your beautiful body. Does that sound good?”

You nodded, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.

“Good,” he said. Without another word, he hooked his arms under your thighs, picking you up effortlessly and carrying you down the hall into your bedroom.

Doesn't mean the room isn't crowded. People crammed into chairs, standing along the walls. The tvs play the news, a boring chart about stock prices or the cost of gas. Robby’s not really paying attention. His eyes dart across each patient, making quick assessment of what he can see.

Make sure nobody was dying. Making sure nobody is on the verge of-

Hold on.

Robby freezes, hand pausing against his shoulder as he turns back to the pair of girls in the chairs across the room. Two familiar looking twelve year olds, both sharing a chair, hips pressed together, brows furrowed in annoyance.

“Will you scoot over-”

“I’m as far as I can go-”

“Nuh uh. You're trying to hog-”

“I am not!”

Robby’s heart practically plummets into his gut as he registers he’s not just looking at a familiar pair of twins. He's looking at his twins.

Those are Robby’s girls- his Maddi and Liz.

Still in their pajamas and sporting messy hair, elbowing each other in the oversized chair they were sharing, a phone playing some disney movie between them.

Robby swallows thickly, moving on autopilot, apologizing as he skirts around an elderly man with a walker. The girls look up before he even gets to their chair, ‘dad’ radars going off. Because somehow they always knew. When his car was pulling into the culdesac, when he was the one picking them up from school.

Liz’ face lights up first, her crooked teeth breaking out into a big smile. She's got on her gray hoodie over pink pj's, converse kicking her sister. Maddi gives her a withering look, noticing Robby a fraction of a second later. She gasps in surprise, waving her thick pink sweater sleeve to garner his attention, teal pajama pants tucked into rain boots .

Not that she had to. Robby would know his girls anywhere.

“Dad!”

They scramble out of the chair, limbs clashing, the phone tossed on the floor as Robby hurriedly crouches down to embrace them.

“Hey,” Robby chuckles, an arm around each girl, hands already feeling for any bumps or bruises. He laughs as he looks both of them in the eye, a hand cradling Liz’s cheek, the other brushing along Maddi’s hairline. “What are you two doing here? It's Saturday. Isn't mom making-”

“Pancakes. But the pot holder was-”

“Mom burnt her hand and so we had to get dragged-”

“Liz was trying to grab the turtle for the car-”

“And she was screaming-”

Robby shakes his head, holding his hands up to try and calm them as they jabber over each other.

“Okay, wait. One at a time-”

It was always like this. Two girls bursting at the seams wanting to be heard first, needing their father to understand.

They ramble on.

“Of course then she had a blow out-”

“We offered to help but mom said no.”

“She didn't want to hurt the baby-” Robby makes a face.

“Woah, what about the baby? Where's your mom?” Liz sighs and Maddi rolls her eyes.

“Dad. Weren't you listening?!”

Robby gives Maddi a look, head tilted with the kind of silent parental authority that said “watch your tone.” Liz reaches out to tug Robby’s sleeve, her head turned around.

“There she is, dad.” She points toward the bathrooms, where in fact, you were. Robby feels himself tense up at the sight, diaper bag slung over your shoulder, six month old baby on your hip… and a tight, pained look on your face.

The cloth wrapped snuggly around your hand might explain that.

Robby stands with a grunt, hands finding the girls’ shoulders automatically, guiding them back to the chair.

“Sit here for another minute will you?”

Liz makes a face.

“Dad we've already been here an hour,” Maddi huffs.

“Just sit there. I’m gonna talk with your mom,” he presses a kiss to Liz’s head before marching off in your direction.

You're struggling to get something into the diaper bag, Hazel fussing against your shoulder, her sounds muffled by the stuffed turtle she was chewing on.

“I know, baby girl. Give me a minute and I’ll find your cheerios. I just need-”

“Hey,” Robby calls out your name softly as he reaches to caress your back, being careful not to startle you. You give him a surprised look, your eyes wide with relief.

“Robby- oh,” your head falls against his shoulder as he pulls you close. Hazel shrieks at the sight of him, socked feet kicking against your hip.

“What are you doing here?” Robby asks, the question rougher sounding than he’d like. Not that you notice. You're too busy feeling relieved as he takes Hazel from your arm, the turtle smushed between her little body as he pulls her close.

“I- Robby it was so stupid. We were making pancakes and the girls were getting water everywhere. The sausage was smoking in the oven- I didn't realize the potholder was soaking wet when I grabbed it- and the-”

“No honey,” Robby shakes his head, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “What are you doing here?” Robby nods his head towards the crowded waiting room, the twins watching the two of you carefully from their chair, acting patient now.

“Waiting,” you purse your lips, glancing down at your hand. “The lady at the front desk said it wouldn't be too much longer.”

“You should have called me. I could have-”

“Robby,” you shake your head. “I’m not going to cut the line just cause I’m your wife.”

“Why not?” Robby shrugs, Hazel giggling softly at the movement. “I pull the chief attending card all the time.”

“Yeah. For free chips and guac at the mexican restaurant down the street. Not when there are actual lives on the line,” you gesture towards a man being wheeled in, blood dribbling from his forehead. Robby unconsciously shifts Hazel’s face away from the sight, glancing at the twins again. They're back to their movie, pretending like they weren't listening.

They were. They always were.

Robby sighs, looking you up and down. You hated the emergency room. Actively avoided it any way you could. He could count on one hand the number of times you had visited the ED.

When Maddi sprained her finger playing volleyball at school, the time Liv broke her tooth and split her lip riding a friend's skateboard. When Robby had cut his hand open trying to build the girls a playhouse for Christmas one year.

The most recent time had been during your last pregnancy; unable to keep any fluids or liquid down, you’d been sick as a dog.

Hazel whines in Robby’s arms, looking between you and him with a big pout. You sigh, giving her a smile as you carefully maneuver your bag so you can reach inside.

“I know, baby. I know you're hungry. I’m sorry.”

You were here.

Two girls haphazardly dressed, Hazel in an emergency onesie Robby knew she'd just been changed into; the outfit you had been wearing when Robby kissed you goodbye that morning still cozy around your frame.

And the towel wrapped around your hand.

Robby helps you zip the diaper bag, reaching for your injured hand.

“You said you burned it?” You hesitate for a moment, finally letting him take a peek when Robby gives you a look. You concede, the unnatural warmth of your skin radiating from the thick layers of terry cloth.

Balancing Hazel and her cheerios in his arm, scrub sleeve surely soaked with drool, Robby peels away the towel. You inhale sharply as the cool air hits the burn, your skin an angry red, palm peeling and blistering in places. Robby swallows thickly, looking at the painful wound.

You look away from it first.

“It doesn't hurt that bad anymore. I soaked it for twenty minutes before we came here.”

“How long have you been waiting?” Robby asks. You don’t meet his eye.

“Just a little while.”

“You don't have to lie to me. I know this hurts.” You take another shaky breath, your hand flexing against his touch.

“I can't just cut the line Michael. That's not right-”

“You're not cutting anything. Okay? Let me take care of you.” Robby lets go of your hand gently, thumb brushing your cheek as he cups your face.

You melt into it slightly, glancing over at your other girls. They're watching you expectantly, practically buzzing with anticipation of leaving the waiting room. Robby could see you were ready to cave, wanting to get out of there.

He adds a final nail to the coffin, crouching a bit to meet your eye.

“Please.”

Robby can see it. The resignation crossing your face, the pain of your hand catching up to you.

“Okay,” you nod slowly. “But only if l’m not messing with your work-”

“Of course not,” Robby presses a kiss to your temple. “Come on. You ready Hazel?”

The baby blows a raspberry, squealing happily before chewing on a cheerio she manages to grab. You nod towards the girls, gesturing for them to get up. They share an equally happy sentiment as their sister, quickly following you through the staff entrance.

“Finally!” Maddi sighs, pulling her sister up. “Come on.”

“I’m coming!”

------------------------------------------------------

You can feel the eyes on Robby as the five of you enter into the Pitt. The Emergency Department’s big bad chief… a smiley baby girl in his arms and two preteens following like baby ducks.

It was cute, you have to admit. Maybe cuter if your hand wasn't throbbing like you’d thrown it into a pile of glass.

Liv holds on to the sleeve of your sweater nervously, looking around at the bustling nurses and loud monitors. Robby glances back at the three of you, making sure you were still alright. You give him a small smile, observing the worry lines already creasing between his brows. The calculations and treatment plans and patient names he was likely filing through. Slotting your name next to an already crowded roster.

You really had tried to hold off going to the emergency room. It hadn't hurt that bad when it happened, surprised you mostly.

But your palm had gotten redder and hotter as the minutes ticked by, your girls looking at you with worry. Robby was always telling you to call him if something happened. Always leaving in the morning with the same goodbye whispered against your cheek.

“Love you. Call me if you or the girls need anything.”

But it just didn't feel right to skip the line. To get in simply because your husband was the chief attending. Although the sentiment was becoming a little stale as your palm throbs deeper.

As you pass by the nurses station, Maddi lights up, quickly finding her favorite person in the ED.

“Hi Mel!”

The blonde resident pauses, turning from her conversation with Langdon, a bright smile blooming when she sees your girls.

“Hey!”

Maddi runs, in spite of Robby’s warning to be careful, tall frame running into Mel’s open arms.

“Is everything alright? I never see you guys here.”

“Peachy,” you raise your injured hand. Frank cringes behind Mel, whistling as you show him the burn.

“Oof. You soak it?”

“Please, she's married to a doctor. Of course she did,” Robby says, chest puffing proudly. Langdon laughs.

Liz clings to your sweater shyly as Frank looks over at her. Then Hazel. His eyes light up like a kid getting candy.

“Ah, Miss Hazel. I see you've graced us with your glorious presence. My favorite Rovinavitch!” Hazel squeals as Frank tickles her foot, curling into Robby’s chest. Maddi lets out a protesting gasp.

“Hey. I thought I was your favorite!”

“Yeah. Before Mel stole you from me.”

“I did not,” Mel frowns, adjusting her glasses with a little smile. “Can't steal what you never had.”

“That’s alright. We all know who my real favorite is,” Frank glances down at Liz, giving her a quick wink. She blushes furiously, turning further into your side.

You laugh, glancing over at Robby. He just shakes his head, cringing as Hazel squeals again, turtle clutched tightly in her flopping hand.

Dana peeks her head out from behind a curtain, squinting over her glasses.

“Is that my happy Hazel I hear?” The charge nurse comes over, giving your older girls a tight squeeze before grinning at your youngest daughter. “Hi beautiful girl.”

Robby can't even protest before Dana is scooping Hazel into her arms, the six month old wiggling around happily. Always the center of attention.

You have a crowd forming, Trinity and Princess inching closer and cooing at the baby, Dennis giving high fives to your older girls.

Robby sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly as his staff fawns over his girls.

“Okay, most of you have patients you need to see.”

“Do we?” Princess asks, eyes wide as she makes faces at Hazel. Robby rolls his eyes.

“Yes. Now, go on and scram.”

“Mom,” Liz looks up at you apologetically.

“Yeah baby?”

“I’m really hungry now.” You sigh, closing your eyes and nodding.

“I know. I’m sure.”

The girls had really been troopers. Helping you clean up the mess breakfast turned out to be, waiting patiently to go to the hospital, keeping the complaints to a minimum. They'd grabbed some granola and fruit before you’d left the house, but they were growing girls. You'd seen them out eat Robby a few times already and it was getting closer to lunch time.

You look over at Robby who takes Hazel back from Dana, brow furrowing as he looks you up and down.

“What's going on? You okay?” You nod, your uninjured hand running over Liz’s short hair.

“The girls need food.”

“Sustenance,” Maddi groans. She then gets a look on her face, turning to her sister. The two lock eyes and huddle, shoulders pressed impossibly close as they whisper. You raise your brow suspiciously, Mel laughing behind her hand as she watches from her computer.

Liz nods and stands beside Maddi as they approach Robby. He frowns.

“Uh oh. What’s the council discussing this time?”

“Can we get Starbucks?” He cocks his head.

“Um. Here?”

“Yeah. You can order it on your phone,” Liz adds quietly.

Robby shares a look with you. You shrug.

“I could use a chai.”

"You're encouraging bad habits," he mutters.

"Robby, you know they're not gonna eat the soggy pb and j's they try to pass off as food in the cafeteria," you whisper back.

Robby sighs, looking between your two girls. You can see the torn expression on his face, the fight between saying no because he still wasn’t thrilled about the girls drinking coffee just yet and also saying yes because they’d already been through a wreck of Saturday-

“Please,” Maddi pouts, hands clasped desperately. Her big brown eyes, mirrors to her fathers’, shine beneath the hospital lights. Robby opens his mouth, the words lost as Liz adds another please.

“Please papa.”

Oh. Your girls were good.

You snicker to yourself as you watch Robby become undone in real time. Any pushback he might’ve had lost at the name. The first name the twins had called him.

‘Papa.’

Before they decided they were too cool and the social norm of ‘dad’ was adopted.

Robby sighs, head lowering in defeat. Dana gives your arm a squeeze as she passes by, smiling fondly.

“Okay, fine. But I don't want you two drinking straight sugar for breakfast. You're getting egg sandwiches too.” Maddi makes a face.

“Egg?”

“That's the deal Mads.” She crosses her arms, a familiar looking pout crossing her face.

“Fine.”

“Hey Boss,” Perlah calls out, the red phone pressed to her chest. “We’ve got an GSW coming in five.”

Robby looks up, nodding. “Uh, okay. Give me just a minute.”

“Sure,” Perlah smiles at Hazel who gives her a friendly wave. Robby fishes his phone out of his pocket, handing it to Liz.

“Here. You can get one drink and a sandwich. One,” he gives the twins a pointed look. They giggle, nudging each other knowingly. “Mel can take you guys to the breakroom. Stay in there until I come to get you.”

“What about Hazel?” Maddi asks, reaching over for Robby’s phone in spite of the way Liz keeps it clutched tightly to her chest.

“She'll stay with me honey,” you smile. “She's got to eat soon.” Robby checks his watch, looking between you and the baby. You had her on a pretty strict schedule; the girl loved her consistency.

Liz frowns, looking down at your hand with sad eyes. “Mom. Are you gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine, baby. Your dad will fix me up just fine.” You smile again, meeting her eye reassuringly.

But with each passing minute your hand starts hurting even more. You know Robby can see it. The forced line of your smile.

It's the same smile he's shared a hundred times over. The brave face of a parent.

“Cap-” Dana starts, giving Robby a look. “GSW is here in two.”

“Right,” Robby hums, the sound gravelly and tired. He had that look on his face, the one you'd seen plenty of times over. When he was being pulled in multiple directions and didn't know which he should choose. “Okay, uh, Mel-”

“I got the girls, Dr. Robby,” she smiles. He nods, gratefully.

“Feel free to get yourself something too, okay.”

“Oh, that's alright-” Mel shakes her head as Maddi tugs her hand, pulling Mel away towards the break room.

“Mel. Starbucks has boba now!” That gets her attention.

“Really?” Liz nods in agreement, fingers already zooming across the screen.

“Well, they're tapioca pearls. Not really boba. But the same thing…”

You feel the tension in your shoulders release slightly as the girls follow Mel into the break room, and you allow yourself to finally let out the whimper you'd been holding.

“Ow,” you hiss under your breath, cringing as you bring your hand closer to your chest.

Robby turns, his hand moving to rub a soft circle on your back.

“Okay mama, let's get you taken care of.”

“Robby-” Dana’s voice cuts in, the red phone in her hand. “Another ambulance on the way. Three minutes out.”

Robby lets out a frustrated sigh, cursing beneath his breath. “Okay. Okay that's fine. I’ll have Dana look over your hand first and then I’ll be right there.”

“Whatever you have to do,” you nod. “Remember, I’m just like any other patient you’d see-”

“You're not just any other patient,” Robby shakes his head. He presses a kiss to your forehead as he passes Hazel over to Dana, her arms already ready for the baby. “You're my wife. And you deserve the best, okay. I’ll be right back.”

Robby gives Hazel a little wave goodbye, a pair of gloves seemingly materializing in his hands, face already set with a determined focus. You watch him head off to a gurney being wheeled in, voice steady and authoritative. Dana stands beside you, bouncing the baby slightly.

“He hit the jackpot with the four of you, you know.”

“I know,” you smile. Dana nods.

“Good. Let's get you taken care of, okay?”

------------------------------------------------------

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” Robby looks at you apologetically over his glasses, gloved hands gently prodding your burnt palm. It looks somewhat better after being cleaned and sterilized. Although Dana is a master at making even the most frightening cases look appealing.

“No sorry, it's not you,” you look down at your daughter- or rather what you could see of her beneath your nursing cover. Just the sliver of a onesie covered foot kicking rhythmically. “She's being extra aggressive today.”

Robby smiles to himself, leaning over to grab something off the tray laying between you.

“Told you she's teething.” You roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I can't believe it- ow! Hazel,” you hiss. Robby pauses, watching as you try to peek at the baby with one hand. “Gently honey. Mommy already has enough she's got to try and do with one hand.”

“Are you sure you don't want me to wait till you're finished feeding her?”

“It's okay,” you shake your head and smile. “You guys are busy enough. The Robinavitch’s are multitasking pros. I can manage.” Robby chuckles, shaking his head.

“Come on. Indulge me. I think this is the longest I’ve sat all morning.” You smile, your eyes raking over Robby.

He's sure he looks a mess, after two trauma cases and a patient consult. Hair mussed from running his hand through it, scrubs rumbled and splattered with something he couldn’t quite identify.

It still surprises him how much can change in just thirty minutes. Someone's whole life flashing by, blood on his hands and decisions on his head.

You hum, looking down at Hazel.

“Alright Doctor Robinavitch. Whatever you say.” Robby groans slightly, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, don't call me that.”

“What,” you laugh. “It’s appropriate, no?” You gesture at the patient room, the walls lined with medical posters, curtains still drawn shut to give you privacy.

“Yeah, well not when it's coming from you. That's how we got this little one,” Robby reaches over and gently shakes Hazel’s small foot. She kicks back and you smile, arm adjusting to hold her closer again.

“Well it’s not my fault you have a thing for role play. And I wouldn't trade her for anything.”

“No. Me neither,” Robby chuckles. She'd been a surprise for sure. Almost more jarring than the first time around when you found out you were having twins. But it was hard to imagine life without her now.

Robby shakes his head and hums, picking up the medicated balm and beginning to smear it gently over your palm.

You sigh, eyes closing as you lean your head back against the chair. Robby smiles, watching you.

“Tired?” You nod.

“Yeah," you say slowly. "More frustrated, I think. I wanted to get some things done around the house today. Get the living room picked up at least.”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs, gathering a long strip of gauze to wrap around your palm. You peek your eyes open, unenthused.

“Robby, the same basket of laundry has been sitting by the couch for a week.”

“So have the girls put it away.”

“It’s your laundry.” He smiles sheepishly, looking down as he continues to wrap your hand.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” you tease. Robby can see a shift cross your face, and you get more serious. “I am going to need your help though. At least, for a couple days.”

“I know,” Robby scratches the scruff of his beard. “I figured I’ll have to rearrange some things.”

“By some things you mean getting home on time, right?” Robby gives you a look.

“Woah, hey. I’ve been getting home at a decent hour.” You throw him a look.

“Ten at night is not a decent hour, Michael.”

Oof. Michael.

Robby shifts in his seat, setting your now wrapped hand on the table between you. You slide it away, closer to you. Robby narrows his eyes.

“I thought you said you weren’t mad.”

“I’m not mad,” you huff. “I just… it’s hard sometimes. And I get it. I know you’re the boss and the hospital needs you. But we need you too, you know.”

“I know.”

“I mean it Michael. Those girls are growing up faster than you’d think. And while yeah, I wouldn’t mind you being home earlier to help around with dishes or watching the baby, I want you around to just be with them.” You smile sadly.

Robby knows he’s been busy. The long hours he’s been putting in, the overtime. The late nights where he’d get home and crash on the couch with barely a hello and goodnight to the girls. Dana always chided him for staying so late. Even when she was doing the same thing-

“You’re turning her into a single mother, Robby.”

“She’s okay. She hasn’t said it’s bothering her.”

“Of course it’s bothering her. Your wife is just a saint and won’t say anything because she hates seeing you worry.”

Robby looks at you now in the patient room, carefully pulling the nursing cover away now that you had both hands back, oddly adjusting your daughter as you check her.

“I think she’s finally asleep,” you murmur. Robby watches you carefully. Not assessing. Not diagnosing. Just watching.

It hits him then, watching you juggle his daughter and your injured hand and your other girls in the break room… just how much you truly kept everything held together.

The glue of the little Robinavitch clan.

And Robby had been playing the part of chief attending much more than he’d been playing father and husband. Leaving you to gather the pieces and try to make something good out of it. Robby scoots his chair closer to you, cupping your cheek as you look at him in surprise.

“I’m sorry.” Your eyes widen at the sudden movement.

“For what?”

“For not being here like I should. For having you worry about whether you’re bothering me at work when you’re hurting.”

“Robby-” He cuts short whatever you were going to say with a soft kiss, lips pressed gently against yours. You melt slightly into it, cheek pressed against his as he moves to press another against the corner of your mouth. Then the corner of your nose. And-

There’s a knock at the door. You hum, giving Robby a smile.

“I think that’s for you.”

“They can wait.”

“Robby…” you give him a look. He pulls back, thumb brushing against your cheek. “Go. It’s okay.”

Robby sighs, grunting as he pushes off from the chair. He pushes the curtain aside, taking in Whitaker standing nervously at the door.

“Yeah?” Robby asks, brows drawn low with curiosity. “What’s happening?”

“Uh, I was told I had to give this to you,” Whitaker holds out a perspirating plastic cup and a paper bag with something sweet smelling. “I believe the instruction was ‘make sure mom eats. So she feels better faster.’”

Robby laughs, taking the drink and bag, the smell of banana bread wafting towards his face. He also takes the phone Whitaker holds out, the dark phone case splattered with something that smells like whipped cream.

“Thanks for relaying the message huckleberry.”

“Oh sure. Your girls are quite the pair.” Robby smiles.

“They are.”

Whitaker stands awkwardly for a moment more before adding- “Also Dana said we’re in shambles without you.”

"Yeah, okay. Hang in there for a couple more minutes. I'll be back soon."

“Aye aye captain,” Whitaker gives a two finger salute. “Just don’t be too long. Dana might start threatening to recruit your girls.”

The two laugh and Robby closes the glass door gently, balancing the goodies in his hand. Your eyes are wide with appreciation as Robby holds up your food.

“It was for you.”

“Oh thank the Lord,” you grin.

Robby laughs, helping you take off the nursing cover, Hazel gently passed into his arms. You pick at the banana loaf, pushing a generous chunk over to Robby as he sits down again.

“Here.”

“No, I’m okay,” Robby shakes his head as he settles his sleeping girl on his chest. You give him a look.

“Robby…”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“I know you haven't eaten all morning.”

Robby huffs and takes a piece with a mumbled thank you. You give him a bright smile, letting out a pleased hum as you eat. Robby sits, enjoying what he knows is the last bit of quiet before he's thrown back into the throes of the ED.

------------------------------------------------------

Bonus:

You're packing up the diaper bag, the twins helping you tuck in extra bandage wraps and medicated ointment into the side pockets. Maddi happily slurps on a caramel lined coffee cup, Liz sipping at something tall and green. Robby watches them fondly as they hover over you, Hazel still sleeping in his arms.

"Mom, I got that."

"Here, I can hold the bag!"

"No I can-"

"Girls," you chuckle. "It's fine. One of you can hold the bag and the other can hold my drink."

Robby's phone pings and he fishes it out of his pocket, frowning as he reads the notification. You don't notice as you take the baby from him, holding her closely.

"You girl's ready to go?"

They nod enthusiastically, giggling softly beneath their breaths. Robby's frown deepens as he looks at them over his glasses.

“Hey… why does it say my card was charged a hundred and thirty dollars?”

------------------------------------------------------

"Not quite, handsome," you teased, setting the tray carefully on the nightstand. "Just a girlfriend who knows exactly what a twelve hour shift feels like. Come here."

He walked over, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and left a soft kiss in your neck.

"You're my lifesaver," he whispered against your skin.

Jack sat down on the edge of the mattress. You watched as he leaned forward to unfasten the straps of his prosthetic leg. It was a routine as natural to the two of you as breathing. He slipped the socket off, setting the prosthetic carefully against the nightstand. He rubbed the residual limb with a sigh, the tension visibly leaving his lower back, before swinging his leg up and propping himself up against the pillows.

You slid into bed right beside him, pulling the duvet over both of your laps and settling the breakfast tray between you.

Jack immediately reached for the coffee, taking a long gulp. "God. I needed this so bad."

"Rough night?" you asked, cutting into a pancake.

He leaned his head back against the headboard. "The usual Saturday night madness. Two vehicle accidents, a couple of bar fights, and a teenager who thought fireworks in June were a brilliant idea. But..." He trailed off, his eyes turning a little distant as he stared at his coffee mug. "...there was one case right at the end of the shift that’s still sticking with me."

"Yeah? What happened?"

Jack took a slow breath. "A guy came in. Severe chest pains, classic myocardial infarction. We had to rush him straight to the cath lab. His kid was with him, must’ve been no older than seven or eight. Just sitting in the waiting room, crying, holding a handmade card he’d drawn."

Jack looked over at you. "The kid kept asking if his dad was gonna make it, because he couldn't give him his draw if he didn't wake up. It hit me right in the chest when I realized the date." He offered a poignant smile. "It’s Sunday. It’s Father’s Day."

You reached across the tray, slipping your hand into his. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours, squeezing tightly. "Did the dad make it?" you asked softly.

"Yeah," Jack nodded with relief. "We got the blockage in time. Stable, recovering in the ICU. Before I clocked out, I walked past the room and saw the kid sitting on the edge of the bed, helping his dad hold the draw. Just... totally protective of his old man."

The bedroom fell into a quiet silence. Jack stared down at your joined hands, his thumb tracing circles over your knuckles.

"Seeing them like that," Jack said, his voice dropping quieter now. "It made me think. I spent so many years just focusing on surviving, on the ER, on just making it through the day. I never really let myself look past the next shift."

He lifted his eyes to meet yours, intense and full of an emotion that made your heart skip a beat.

"But looking at that kid today… and then coming home to you, seeing you waiting for me like this… it made me want it, again. For some time, I've been thinking about it, really wanting it, you know?" He swallowed hard. "A family. With you. I want to be that guy one day. The one getting the messy handmade draws."

A sudden rush of warmth blooming in your chest.

"You're going to be an incredible father, Jack," you whispered looking into his eyes. "You’re already the most protective and caring man I know."

A radiant smile broke across Jack’s face, reaching all the way to his eyes and crinkling the corners.

"Yeah?" he murmured playing with your fingers.

"Yeah," you laughed softly, but a sudden wave of nerves and excitement fluttered in your stomach. You hesitated for a second, testing the waters. "How exactly do you see yourself as a father? You think you can handle diaper duty after a twelve hour trauma shift?"

Jack chuckled, leaning his head back against the pillows as he genuinely thought about it. "Honestly? I think I’d be the overprotective dad who checks their breathing every five minutes. And I’ll just use my trauma precision to handle the swaddling. And I'll probably be the guy teaching them how to throw a baseball while completely ruining my prosthetic." He smiled warmly, looking at you. "And with you by my side? I think I'd be a pretty damn good one."

You bit your lip, a wide smile breaking across your face that you couldn't suppress.

"Well," you said, your voice suddenly a little breathless, "I certainly hope you'll be a good father."

Before he could register the sudden shift in your tone, you abruptly moved the breakfast tray off your laps.

"Okay, why the rush? Where's the fire?" Jack blinked, startled, as you hurriedly carried the tray across the room and set it down on the small table by the window.

"Just clearing the blast zone," you teased, your hands shaking slightly with adrenaline. You walked over to your dresser, pulled a small wrapped gift box from the top drawer, and walked back to the bed.

Jack watched you, thoroughly confused now, his eyebrows furrowing as you slid back under the covers and handed him the box. "What’s this? Did you buy me a gift? Something on sale for Father's Day?"

"Shut up and open it," you chuckled, sitting next to him.

Jack gave you a suspicious look as he pulled the ribbon.

He lifted the lid, removing a layer of white tissue paper.

His tired look vanished from his face instantly.

Resting at the bottom of the box was a tiny small pair of knit newborn shoes. And resting right beside them was a white plastic stick with two distinct and undeniable pink lines.

The bedroom went completely silent.

Jack froze as his brain tried to process what he was looking at. He stared at the positive pregnancy test with his chest rising and falling in quick breaths.

"Are you..." Jack’s voice cracked completely, his throat tight. He looked up at you, his eyes suddenly glassy and swimming with tears. "Is this... are we...?"

"Happy first Father's Day, Jack," you choked out, tears of your own finally spilling over.

Jack carefully placed the box on the nightstand next to his bed, his hands trembling so badly he didn't want to risk dropping it.

The moment his hands were free, he lunged forward, catching your face. "I love you, i love you, i love you." he said placing kisses all over your face. "God, I'm so happy, I'm gonna be a dad," he muffled against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. "We're going to be a family."

"Yes, handsome, you're going to get a lot of messy handmade draws."

Jack hooked his arms under your thighs and waist. In one effortless motion, he lifted you directly onto his lap. You gasped in surprise, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders to steady yourself as you straddled his good leg, your knees framing his waist.

Jack didn’t hesitate. He cupped the back of your neck with one hand, his fingers tangling in your hair, while his other hand anchored firmly around your lower back, pulling your hips flush against his.

Then, he leaned up and kissed you.

It was a passionate, deep, and utterly breathless kiss. His lips parted yours with possessive tenderness, tasting the salt of your shared tears as he poured everything he was feeling into the kiss.

It was a promise, a thank you, and a declaration of absolute devotion all wrapped into one.

You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, leaning into him completely, melting against his chest. You could feel the emotional tremble in his lips.

When he pulled back, he didn't let you go, he kept his forehead pressed firmly against yours. His hand moved down to rest flat against your stomach, his fingers spreading wide over the fabric of your shirt, already protectively.

"You have no idea of the happiness I'm feeling right now," Jack whispered, his voice was so intense with emotions tjhat it made your heart ache. "You have absolutely no idea how much I love you."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

Baelor’s mismatched eyes surveyed the ballroom.

Everything is going well… so far.

Today is the feast of the Maiden, and all the daughters of the great houses were brought to the Red Keep. The main purpose: to find suitable husbands. All the mothers of Westeros made sure their daughters wore the best gowns and best jewels coin could afford. They whispered among themselves about who has recently become widowed, who is looking for a bride, and who has the best land and titles.

Baelor wasn’t spared.

He doesn't have enough fingers on his hands to count how many Ladies approached them with their daughters and introduced them to him. The daughters would curtsy to him and speak to him with their sweetest voices. Some of them were as young as fifteen. Baelor politely went away from this conversation, feeling a little bit irritable with the attitude of some of these mothers.

He has been a widower for quite some time, and he has made no attempt to find himself a second wife. His mother probably wished he had a wife and, for her, more grandchildren. He has two healthy sons, one who is already married. His line is set, and there’s no need for a wife and more children. 

“I can’t believe she’s actually here!” He heard one lady whisper, horrified.

“The nerve! She’s walking bad omen!”

“How could she do that to her own cousins?"

He looked over and saw who they were talking about.

A woman wearing a grey gown enters the ballroom with two young ladies behind her. Some courtiers stopped their conversation and openly gawked at her with curiosity, mockery, disdain and a bit of pity

“Ser Delaney.” He called for his steward. “Who is that Lady and why does her presence cause this much fuss?”

Ser Delaney tells Baelor the woman’s name and house.

“Her husband divorced her.” Ser Delaney whispered. “That’s why they’re staring at her like that.”

“Divorce?” Baelor asked, surprised. “On what grounds?”

"Barrenness, my Prince," His steward explained. “She had been wedded to Ser Helios for almost a decade, and her belly not once swelled. He got the same Septon that wedded them to annul the union. He got remarried a few months later.”

It’s almost impossible to get a marriage annulled. The only ways to get an annulment are impotence, non-consummation and barrenness. There must have been enough proof for a Septon to come to that decision.

Baelor looks at her as discreetly as he can. He watched as the lady and who he assumes to be her cousins sat down. The younger of the two girls is looking around at people staring at them with her head low and her shoulders tensed. The woman in grey gently tipped her cousin's head forward. They shared a look and then a smile. A silent conversation that was enough to ease the young girl’s discomfort.

Baelor smiled at that interaction; it reminded him of when he was younger and his mother would tell him to keep his chin up when the courtiers commented on his Dornish side.

A Lord comes inside with who Baelor assumes to be his daughter. The Lord looked at the Lady in grey, and he smirked mockingly in her direction. Some people take great pleasure in other people's misery.

“That’s the Lady’s former husband," Ser Delaney whispered. 

Baelor hummed as he looked at her. The Lady in Grey didn’t pay attention to her former husband. She quietly sipped her wine and talked with the people at the table with a composed face.

“The young lady he just entered with is his new wife."

Baelor looked at his steward with a haughty look. He assumed she could be a younger family member. His steward shared the same expression as him.

...

“The Florent boy is looking at you," You teased.

Your cousin Muriel blushed. “No, he’s not!”

Your other cousin, Muriel’s sister, Mina, laughed. "Yes, he is!”

You smiled at their antics.

These Lords and Ladies expected you to lock yourself in your family’s keep and drown in your misery, but no. Just because you are no longer a wife doesn’t mean you are not a person. If you want to join a feast with your cousins, you will. Your former husband can flaunt his child bride all he wants; you will not cease to exist just because he made your vows void.

“He’s so handsome.” Muriel said dreamily.

“Then you should talk to the Florent boy.” You said.

“Not him!” Your cousin corrected. “The Hand.”

You and Mina stared at the high table where Prince Baelor was talking to the lord next to him. He looked handsome indeed.

“You think the song is true," Mina asked.

“What song?” You asked.

“You know…” Your cousin shrugged her shoulders. “The song.”

You glared at her through the corner of your eye. “You are not supposed to know that song.”

“I know, but it’s so catchy!” She groaned and mumbled under her breath. “Country was in peril; the Anvil was a rock. The Hammer smashed the bastard with his giant veiny—"

And as if he could hear from afar, Prince Baelor turned his head and looked directly at your table. You and your cousins turn away so quickly your necks made a snapping noise, and you three burst into laughter, not caring about the looks thrown your way.

The feast went on. Wine flowed and the music kept on. The Florent boy approached the table and asked Muriel for a dance, which the girl happily accepted with blushed cheeks. You and Mina stayed at the table talking and enjoying the cake when another Lord approached her and asked her for a dance; she too accepted and joined her sister on the dance floor.

You remained.

Part of you is happy that your reputation didn't disturb her cousins’ prospects, just like those other nobles whispered. 

The other part of you feels empty.

No Lord as looked at you with anything but pity or like you were a walking disease. No Lord appraoched you and asked you for a dance. You don’t think that will ever happen.

You look at the table where your former husband and his new wife sat. He looked happy and he was surrounded by various people. How can he forsake his vows to you and still be surrounded with warmth while you are the one that has to be the pariah? Is it because you barely fought for your marriage like a good noble lady should? What was the point in fighting for something that was as barren as your womb?

“Cake, my lady?” A servant asked with a tray full of cakes.

You nodded, and the servant placed the plate on the table.

“Thank you.”

You grabbed your fork and started eating the cake. You moaned at the taste. It was a delicious cake with berries and a hint of vanilla. You eat the cake while keeping an eye on your cousins, making sure those boys didn't take any liberties with their hands. You take another bite, and suddenly pain suddenly floods your mouth. Blood floods your mouth immediately, and the metallic taste mixes horribly with the sweetness of the cake. You drop your fork and clasp your jaw as you groan in pain.

Conversations at the surrounding table stop.

You feel something hard in your mouth, and you think it’s your tooth. You forgot all the decorum and spit on your plate. Blood, pieces of cake and an object fall on the plate. You look at what you think is your tooth, but to your relief, it isn't. It was bigger than a tooth, and it was mint green instead of white.

“What a…” You mumbled.

“My lady, are you alright?” A kind male voice asked.

You look up, and to your horror, it was Prince Baelor, and you present yourself to the heir to the throne with blood caking your lips and teeth. Words were stuck in your throat.

Prince Baelor didn't care that you didn't answer him. He took out a handkerchief and handed it to you. You hesitantly accept it and press it to your mouth; you could smell wax and parchment.

Your cousins approached you and checked on you while Prince Baelor inspected the object that was on your mouth with the fork. His brows furrowed as he looked at it.

“What is that?” Muriel asked, grossed out.

“The Maiden, I believe.” The Prince answered.

You take a closer look at it, and he is correct. It was a small miniature of the maiden with her serene face and gentle smile. How did it end up on the cake?

“Bessie!” A servant cried out. “They found it!”

A woman in an apron covered in flour ran into the hall. That must be Bessie. She runs to your table, not caring about the blood in your mouth or the presence of the prince. She reaches the plate and picks up the miniature of the maiden that was covered in your blood and spit. Mina gags.

“Oh, my lady! You have been blessed.” She tells you with joy as she holds the figure of the maiden up in the air like a war trophy. "Congratulations!"

You let out an indignant noise. Blessed with what? A chipped tooth?

“The Lady is bleeding.” Prince Baelor said with a firm tone that sent shivers down your spine. He put his hand on your shoulder, and you could hear your heart beating in your ears. “She could’ve choked as well. A Lady as been harmed under my roof. Explain yourself or you and your fellow workers will find work elsewhere."

Bessie’s face became white. He didn't raise his voice, not once, but you could hear the promise in his tone.

“My Prince.” The cook cleared her throat. “At every feast of the Maiden, I put a miniature figure on our cake batter, and the maiden who finds it is destined to be wed by the end of the year and have a child within the next. It’s a tradition in my hometown, and it always comes true.”

There’s laughter behind you. It’s a cruel and cold laugh. You recognised that laughter; it’s your former husband’s. He laughed just like that when the Septon declared your union null and void.

You’ve been married for almost ten years, and red has always stained your sheets. When you were late for a few days, you held your breath and then let out a disappointed sigh. You drank tonics that midwives promised to boost fertility, but it only made you want to throw up. You laid on your back and gripped the sheets so hard that your hands cramped when various maesters put their cold hands and instruments between your legs. You held babies in your arms, and for a few minutes you pretended they were yours. You kneeled in front of the statue of the mother and prayed feverishly.

Humiliations flood your body, and you want to disappear.

“I meant no harm, m’lord!" Bessie said, thinking they were laughing at her. “The lady has been chosen by the Maiden!”

You couldn’t control yourself and sobbed into the Prince’s handkerchief.

A hand smashes against the table, rattling the cups and utensils and quieting down the laughter. You look up and see the Prince’s balled fist on the table. He looked at the table where your former husband was sitting with a ferocity that made you wonder if that is how a dragon is supposed to look.

“Ser Delaney, please escort the lady and her cousins to a washroom so that she can clean herself.”

He stared at you, and all of the harshness in his mismatched eyes evaporated, and his gaze softened as he held his hand towards you. You accepted his hand, and he helped you get up. You followed the steward out of the hall with your cousins by your side and eyes staring at you, but you only hoped that the Prince still had his on you.

...

Baelor let out a tired sigh as he walked to the washroom.

The feast has gone well if you ignore the cake accident.

If Baelor had a motive, he would ban Ser Helios from the keep. He can still feel the way her shoulder tensed under his hand when that man laughed cruelly at her, and the sound of her sob echoed in his ear. He’ll make sure the lady and her cousins are settled comfortably and under his care for the remainder of the festival.

He stands in front of the door but stops the guard from announcing his presence. He listened in to the conversation. He listened to the sound of water in the basin and the two young ladies talking to each other. If his old Septa saw him now, she would pull his ear until it turned red.

“That baker is foolish!” He heard one of her cousins say. “Who puts a choking hazard on a cake? What if you had choked instead of harming your mouth?”

“Well, Prince Baelor would’ve probably saved her!" The other cousin said. “Did you see the way he ran the moment she let out that painful screech? For a moment it looked like he was flying.”

Baelor smiled softly but shyly. 

The reason why he was so quick to go to her side is because he was staring at her right until she spit out that miniature.

He didn’t mean to. His gaze just kept drifting to that table, and he couldn’t look away. She smiled beautifully, and when her gaze saddened, he just wanted to go to her and bring back that smile. When the cake was placed in front of her, his heart made a funny movement when her tongue poked out and licked the cream off the fork. Then it made another when she winced and let out a pained groan. He jumped off his chair when she leaned forward and spat out blood on the plate.

“And how would he save her? Shoving his fingers down her throat? It would’ve made it worse!”

“Probably!” She giggled. “Have you seen the size of his hands?”

Baelor unconsciously looked at his hands. They’re average for all he knows.

“They probably felt nice.” The cousin teased.

The Lady finally spoke. “By the Seven! He touched my shoulder, not my tit!”

The trio burst into laughter, and the guards at the door turned their heads away to avoid eye contact with the Prince. Baelor eavesdropped enough. With the tips of his ears red, he ordered the guard to announce his presence.

“Prince Baelor Targaryen, my ladies!” The guard announced.

The laughing stopped.

The door opens and he goes in. The three ladies go to the centre of the room and curtsy to him. The cousin, Mina, was biting her lip, trying to contain the laughter that was still stuck in her throat. The other cousin, Muriel, was looking down, begging the floor to swallow her. The Lady, the woman he came to see, was looking directly at him.

“My lady.” Baelor nodded at her. “If you need a Maester, I would be glad to send my personal maester to check on you.”

“You are too kind, my prince.” She said. “The wound has stopped bleeding, so there's no need to create such a fuss.”

"Nonsense." Baelor said quickly. He cleared his throat. “You are a guest, and your comfort is my priority.”

The Lady smiled and she wrung the handkerchief, his handkerchief, in her hands.

“If there’s anything you need… you can come to me.”

The two younger cousins share a look and have a silent conversation among themselves.

“Thank you, your grace.” She looked at the handkerchief in her hand. “Unfourtnulyey, there’s blood on the handkerchief you so kindly gave me. I’ll be sure it’s thoroughly cleaned before returning it to you.”

“Keep it.” Baelor said softly. “Will I still be seeing you at the feast again?”

The Lady smiled sadly and shook her head. “I’m afraid not, my prince. I feel I had my fill of them.”

Baelor buried his disappointment. He understood why. There were a few Lords and Ladies whispering about the baker’s words and how the Gods make funny jests once in a while. He’s not much of a believer like his namesake, but he does wonder if the Maiden has plans for the Lady in front of him. Perhaps it’s just a silly superstition.

...

You stay up at night and stare at the handkerchief Prince Baelor gave to you. The bloodstains have faded thanks to the hard work of the laundress. Part of you, for an unknown reason, felt disappointed you couldn't smell that faint scent of musk and parchment.

You can still remember the way he looked at you. You wonder if he knows your story. If he did, you’ll never forget the way his gaze held no judgement whatsoever and looked like a true person.

The Prince told you to keep it, but as you traced the stitches that formed the dragon sigil, you decided you wanted to do more. At the first sign of light, you sat on the chair near the window and started to embroider. By noon you were done.

You walked through the halls searching for the familiar form of the Lord Hand. You found him in the gardens with his oldest son, Valarr. You smiled but you stopped yourself. Doubt starts to settle in like an uninvited guest.

Would he even accept your gift? He was just being kind to you, nothing else.

You look at the handkerchief in your hand. It’s not perfect now that you take a closer look at it when the sun is at its peak. You did it in such a hurry. The dragon you stitched was a bit crooked; the heads were different sizes, and it looked more like a gecko than a powerful dragon.

You bit your lips as anxiety flooded you. You should leave. You lift your head and your heart skips a beat when you see Prince Baelor staring at you. It starts to beat faster when he says something to Valarr and walks towards you.

You bow when he reaches you.

“My lady, is there anything I can help you with?" He asks gently.

You clear your throat. “I wished to thank you once more for the other day.”

He smiled. “As I told you before, your comfort is my priority."

“Even so, I wish to express my gratitude even more.” You presented him the handkerchief.

Prince Baelor barely looks at it and grabs your hand carefully. Your body shivers with the contact. “My lady, I told you there’s no need to return it…”

“I made it!” You stop him, and you curse yourself for speaking that way with him.

He blinked and looked at the hand holding yours, now noticing how different the piece of fabric on your hand is compared to the one he gave you. He grabs it and holds it carefully. His mismatched eyes analyse the stitches in front of him. 

He looks up at you, and his gaze looks different. Relaxed, you could say. “Thank you, my lady.”

“It’s not perfect…” You try to say it.

“It does not matter.” He says softly. “And it being made by your bare hands makes it even more… special.”

You smiled shyly. “The dragon looks like an angry gecko.”

Prince Baelor laughed. “It does look a bit like one. Thank you, once again, my lady.”

You nodded. “You’re welcome, my prince.”

You bowed one more time and left.

Your whole body felt tingly.

...

She made it for him.

She created something with her own hands just for him. Not because she wanted favour with him but because she wanted to thank him and nothing else. Something inside Baelor warmed up.

He carefully traced the stitches. It was not perfect, but he did not care. This was his.

Baelor was so focused on the cloth that he did not hear Valarr call for him until he stood right next to him.

Baelor blinked and looked at his son. “Yes, son?”

“Are you alright?” His son asks.

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Because I’ve been calling for you for quite some time and you didn’t answer.”

"Apologies, I was..." He tried to find the words.

“Is that the lady you mentioned the other day at supper? The one whose tooth broke was almost broken by the maiden.”

“Yes, it was her.” He confirmed. “She just wished to thank me one more time.”

“She’s also the one whose marriage got…”

“Let us not speak of someone who is not here to speak for themselves, Valarr.” Baelor snapped, feeling the urge of protecting her even though he knows Valarr wouldn't say anything inflammatory towards her.

Valarr raised a brow but nodded his head. “Of course, father.”

They started walking.

“I do wish to add one thing.” Valarr said after a while. “Her ‘husband’ is quite a pathetic man if you ask me.”

Baelor remained silent for a moment.

Andrew’s bleeding body and betrayed soul burned almost as hot as the house behind him. 

Flames threw heat against his back with every staggering step he took. His large hand pressed against the wounds littering his torso, his shirt squishing wetly under his palm. Each inhale and exhale caused spurts of blood to continue soaking the fabric. Exhaustion dragged him down like a ball and chain; he was so tired.

He wondered if this was it, if he was about to just give up in the house that started it all. Surely someone had already called about the fire; surely cops and other federal officers were on their way. But even with those thoughts, Andrew couldn’t help but worry about everyone but himself. 

The pool lapped in crashing, rhythmic waves against the concrete side, a calm sound compared to the raging chaos around him. With a grunt, he lowered himself to sit on the edge, boots coming to rest on the first stair, the fabric instantly soaking in the chlorine scented water. His body ached, ached, ached, and his mind reeled with the last hour where everything went so horribly wrong. 

His betraying nephew, his lost and probably injured baby brothers, his fading life; Andrew wasn’t sure which one hurt the most. 

With shaking hands, he pulled out two items from his back pocket: his phone and a small photo. The corners of his mouth failed to turn at the sight of his younger self and his sweet-looking twin that he had failed so many years ago; J had made sure that his failure to protect her sank deeper and hurt more than his wounds. A small sob pushed out in one puff of air, and a singular tear made its way across his cheeks, mixing with the blood trickling from a cut near his eye. 

Andrew placed the photo down carefully and looked at his phone second. Behind him, the fire continued to roar on, leaving no part of the famous Cody house untouched. His attention should have been on getting out of there, on finding Deran and Craig, but all he could think about was the phone call he had to make. For a split second, he hesitated, thumb frozen over the contact, before he touched the screen. 

You picked up in two rings. “Andy?” you breathed, voice already filled with a panic that made his heart clench. “Andy, what’s going on. I saw—you were being transferred, but—the news, I don’t know what’s happening.” 

He pinched his eyes shut, allowing more tears to squeeze their way out of his tear ducts. “I’m sorry,” he said first. “I’m so sorry.” He could almost envision your pinched, worried face if he thought hard enough. “You need to listen to me.” 

“What’s going on?” you repeated. “Talk to me.” 

Iron-tanged saliva pooled around his tongue. “Everything went south. J talked; Craig and Deran are gone but—” He inhaled sharply. “I don’t know if they’re going to make it.” 

He couldn’t stand the sound of your shaking breathing on the other line, the one you made when you worried on his behalf. 

“Andy—” 

“There’s money,” he interrupted, so awfully aware of the growing heat behind him. “In your name. You’re gonna be taken care of, I made sure of it. You’ll never have to worry about anything, understand?” 

“Money? What? What are you saying, Andy?” 

He looked down and over at the photo then down to his pool-soaked boots. “I think this is it for me,” he whispered, heart breaking right into two at the thought of leaving you alone in this world. “Cops are comin’; the house . . . I took care of it.” 

“You’re at the house?” you questioned, and Andrew could hear the tell tail sound of your keys jingling on that keychain he always told you would mess with the ignition.

He mentally cursed himself for the slip up, not wanting you to come after him and possibly find what he left behind. “Stay home,” he ordered. “Don’t-don’t come here; it’s not safe.” 

“But—” 

“Promise,” he stated, hand reaching to pick up the photo again. “Promise you won’t come here.” Each word hurt to get out. 

“I’m not going to leave you to die, Andrew,” you argued. “Not when I can do something about it.” 

“No,” he moaned, sides protesting with the word, body tensing with fear at the thought of you driving over. “Sweetheart, don’t come.” 

Your keys stopped jingling, and he quietly sighed in relief. However, his heart sunk down to his toes when the sound of your car humming to life filled the speaker. The tires squealed. 

“Just,” you started, pausing when words failed. “Wait for me. Please, Andy, wait for me. I’ll be there soon; you know this. You don’t get to die on me, Andrew Cody.” Your voice rose with each sentence. 

Andrew sat there for another moment before his world slowly tipped to the side. His bones protested at the change, and his shoulder screamed when it came to rest on the concrete. Like sticky molasses, he shifted slowly until his hands dipped into cool water, photo of him and Julia quickly becoming soaked. His chest heaved in heavy, labored breathing. His poor auburn curls flattened under the weight of his head against the brick outline. 

“Andy?” you whimpered. “Are you there?” 

It took him a minute to gather the strength to speak. “Yeah,” he croaked. “’M here.” 

“Do you remember what you told me the first time you walked me home?” 

This time, Andrew’s lips quirked upward for a millisecond at the memory. “Yeah.” 

“You said—” He heard you thickly swallow. “You said that no matter what, you wouldn’t leave me behind.” 

He closed his eyes. 

“A-and if-if—” It was almost like you couldn’t even speak the idea of him dying into existence in fear that it’d happen. “That’s breaking your promise.” 

Andrew stayed silent as sirens wailed in the distance to the point that he thought that you could probably hear them through your phone. He didn’t want you mixed up in any of this; he had tried his damn hardest to keep you as far away from his family activity as possible. 

“I’m almost there, okay? I’m coming.” 

He didn’t know how much time had passed between your sentences, the world becoming blurry and sounds reaching his brain through cotton. He had lost a hold on the picture minutes ago, and it had slowly drifted out of reach, close to being so waterlogged that it threatened to dip below the surface and sink to the bottom. The only thing he kept a firm grip on—even if his strength was quickly waning—was the phone, his one lifeline to you.  

Dark black spots danced in his vision, and his breathing stuttered and slowed. 

“Almost there,” you kept repeated, like saying that would grant you the power of teleportation. “I’m almost there, and then, I’m going to get you all patched up. You’re going to be just fine. We’ll move somewhere safe, start a future together, just like we talked about yeah?” 

Andrew’s chest heaved. “Yeah.” 

“Tell me what you see, Andrew. What do you want our future to look like; keep talking to me.”  

The next few words hurt, but he wasn’t just going to leave you without saying anything else. “A house.” 

He heard a large sniff, followed by a watery exhale. “Yeah? What kind of house.” 

“Big. Safe. Warm.” 

“It sounds so nice.” 

“Full.” He closed his eyes. “Full house.” 

“You always did want four kids,” you tried, but the attempt to lift spirits fell flat. “What else?” 

“All girls,” he muttered, his energy almost draining each time his mouth opened. “First one, then twins, and one baby.” 

A small laugh crackled through the speaker. “Sounds like a dream. You’re going to be such a good dad, Andy.” 

He hated the way you continued to speak like he was going to make it out alive. He knew you were still on the way, and the sirens were slowly growing louder even through his cotton (blood)-filled ears. His fingers loosened, and the phone dropped onto the ground with a thunk. 

“Andrew? What was that?” 

He thought he responded, but really, the words were all jumbled in his mouth. He dragged his cheek across the rough concrete to get his mouth closer to the dropped phone. The black spots had grown significantly as blood continued to pour from his body. 

With one last large breath, he said, “I love you.” 

His mind went quiet soon after, despite your yelling across the line for him to hold on. All fight left his body in a single moment, frame deflating under the weight of what was about to happen. Andrew Cody was close to death, and for the first time since meeting you, he felt truly at peace. Every blink of his eyes slowed; he didn’t know which one was going to be the last, but when his eyelids finally settled, and he couldn’t find the strength to open them again, he fully welcomed the darkness. 

_______________________

You didn’t know what to expect to find when your car squealed into the fully-flame-engulfed Cody house’s driveway. 

Andrew had gone silent on his end almost two minutes ago, and your heart thundered against your sternum. You didn’t even pull the keys out of the ignition before your door swung open. Your feet hit the ground, and you dashed around the corner to the side fence entrance. It took your shaking hands two tries before the latch gave way. Flames roared in your ears as you pushed through the gate, but all you could focus on was the Andrew-sized lump lying unmoving at the pool’s edge.

A cry of pure anguish tore through your throat. You didn’t stop running until your knees hit the pool’s ledge. You didn’t have time to dwell on the pain of your joints. 

“Andrew?” you questioned, hands reaching to roll him over on his back. His body swayed under the motion, completely boneless. “Andrew?” Your hand curled into a fist and rubbed erratically against his sternum, just like you’d seen on TV. “Come on; come on!” Tears began streaming steadily down your face. “Andy, Baby, come on! Don’t do this to me!” 

When he failed to make any signs of waking up, you quickly dug two fingers into the side of his neck and held your breath, waiting—hoping to feel something, anything below his skin. When you felt a dull pulse, you pulled your fingers away with a gasp of relief. 

“You stay with me, Andrew Cody,” you grunted as your hands slipped under his arms, back straining under his dead weight. 

Really, you hadn’t thought anything through; Andrew was almost double your weight, but the adrenaline coursing through your body was somehow enough for you to start dragging him across the backyard. 

Almost back to the fence, you stumbled, ass falling down to the grass with Andrew pressing down on your front. Almost on the next street over, the sirens were getting dangerously close. If you didn’t move in the next few moments, they’d either drag you away and shoot Andrew on the spot as a convicted and escaped murderer or they’d drag you away and leave him to burn along with the house. You couldn’t let that happen; you’d rather die than let that happen. 

So, with all the strength you could muster, you stood back up and kept yanking. Andrew stayed unconscious as his body bumped along the grass and then dragged across the small bit of driveway. A deep groan from the house had your head whipping up in time for you to witness the integrity give way under the flames. Plumes of smoak wafted high, but Andrew was already put in the passenger seat with the back all the way down for him to lie against. If you happened to pass officers on the way out, they’d only see you, Andrew being covered by the door. 

Just like when you pulled in, your tires squealed on the way out. Your left hand gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles while the other held onto Andrew’s limp hand, thumb brushing against his split knuckles. Through the air, your phone rang a few times before a voice answered on the other line. 

“Deran?” you called out. 

He answered with your name in a saddened tone. “Yeah?” 

“Where are you? Is Craig with you?” 

A sobbed choke followed. “Craig’s . . . Craig’s—fuck!” 

You bit down on your bottom lip to stop it from wavering, and your hand gripped Andrew’s just a tad bit tighter, knowing he was about to meet the same fate. 

“Please,” Deran said, not waiting for you to say anything else. “Please tell me you’ve heard from Pope. He went back to the house to go after J; he said he’d find us, but—” He shakily exhaled. “But it sounded like he was saying goodbye instead.”  

Your eyes drifted from the road down to Andrew, who still remained unconscious. “I have him, but Deran—” You looked back toward the road, blinking rapidly to rid your eyes of tears. “It’s bad. There’s so much blood. I—” You sniffed loudly. “I have to get him to a safe place. Is there anywhere you can think of?” 

The line went silent for a few moments. “Smurf had a house . . . in Encinitas. I can meet you there, but . . . do you think he’ll last that long?” 

“He’ll have to. Or I’ll bring him back just to kill him myself,” you muttered, spinning the steering wheel under your palm to take the closest exit. “Send me the address, and Deran?” 

He sighed heavily. “Yeah?” 

“Stay safe, okay? I’ll see you there.” 

You hung up without another word, and the address came through not even a breath later. Your thumb continued to run across Andrew’s knuckles the entire 13.4-mile drive, hand never once letting go of his. The only thing that kept you from losing hope entirely was the slow up and down movement of his chest. Oh how you prayed for his hazel eyes to open, but even with your muttering and begging, they stayed closed. 

Every so often, you’d look over your shoulder or stare right through the rearview mirror, heart thudding in awful anticipation of possibly seeing any battalion of police cars following you. But as your car stuttered to a halt in front of a non-descript house, the fear of being found was slowly overtaken by the fear of truly losing Andrew. 

You exhaled slowly, forehead coming to rest against the wheel for just a moment, giving yourself a small chance to breath before you got out of the car. You quickly rounded the hood and opened the passenger door. Deran was nowhere in sight, and you didn’t want to wait for him to get there to help you transfer Andrew indoors. He needed to get inside as quickly as possible. 

So, for the second time in thirty minutes, you shoved your arms under his and pulled with all your might. His feet hit the ground hard, but it was at least better than his full body. Your feet scuffled along, sandals definitely not the best choice for lugging your almost-dead fugitive boyfriend into a safehouse. 

His weight pressed against you as you tried to get through the door, mentally thanking whoever last stayed there for stupidly forgetting to lock it. With one hand, you twisted the knob, and a wave of heat washed over you once you got through the threshold. You didn’t dare stop until you lugged Andrew onto the closest couch.

You all but collapsed next to him, shoulder pressed against his arm that had fallen over the side. Without thinking, you reached up and gingerly brushed a curl away from his face. He didn’t move one inch, and that terrified you. 

You weren’t a doctor. You weren’t certified to give him any medical attention. However, that didn’t stop you from ripping his shirt off, finally laying eyes on his multiple wounds and bruising that almost swallowed his skin. Your hands hovered over his torso, mind not knowing where to even begin. 

The sound of the door creaking open, though, had you grabbing the gun from his waistband and pointing it toward the front. Your finger shook against the trigger, but when the door opened fully and reveal an exhausted Deran, a sigh of relief wheezed from your lungs. 

“Deran,” you sobbed, pushing up from the ground and speed walking over to his open arms. He smelled of thick sweat and blood, but the solidness of his arms around your shoulders was enough to make you feel safe. “P-please; I don’t know-know what to do.” 

Deran took one look over your shoulder, and his breath hitched of his older brother looking closer to death than he’d ever seen. His arm slipped from your body as he walked over in small, hesitant steps. “He—” He sucked in a breath. “He’s not dead, right?” 

“No,” you breathed out almost instantly. “He’s still holding on. But with all the blood loss, it’s going to take him a long time to wake up.” Your arms wrapped around your middle. “But he has to-has to wake up.” 

You watched Deran lean down and press his forehead against Andrew’s before withdrawing. Recovery was going to be long, and the moment he woke up, you’d have to move him quickly to someplace safer. But all you could do for now was join Deran at the couch and stand like guard dogs, watching over Andrew as he slept. 

_______________________

Andrew tensed the moment he became cognitive enough to know that he wasn’t dead.

His hands clenched at his sides before taking fistfuls of plush couch cushion. His bones ached as he lied there, unknowing exactly there was. If he’d been caught by police, a couch would be the last place they’d put him. And if he actually died, he wondered if God was playing a trick on his mind, putting him someplace comfortable before he’d be judged for his sins. Neither idea though seemed to stick while he pushed himself in an upward position. He blinked rapidly, and the scene before him came into a sharp, vivid image. 

Bloodied rags and bottles of alcohol covered the spans of the small table that seemed to have been haphazardly pushed out of the way. Lines of drying, brown blood made a small path from his couch to the front door, and Andrew could only guess it all belonged to him. He kept a hold of the cushion in a grounding fashion. The last thing he remembered was your scared voice begging him to keep talking. 

Flashes of pain raked through his soul, and panic began to bubble under his skin. 

He’d been taken from his burning grave. He didn’t know where you were or if you had even made it to the Cody house. The idea of you pulling up, running inside just to not find his body had him itching to stand. But his knees buckled the moment he tried to get up, and a low groan pushed from his chest. 

The sound must have echoed, because a thunder of footsteps followed almost instantly. Andrew tensed again, mind running with the possibility of who had actually taken him away. His hand reached for the gun he knew he had tucked in his waistband, but all he grabbed onto was an empty space. 

His hands would have to be enough. They curled into fists and rose in front of his chest; however, they immediately fell back to his sides when you and Deran came around the corner into view, both pausing when you noticed who exactly had made the large thump. 

You gasped loudly before continuing to rush toward him. Only sobs spilled from your mouth while you kneeled in front of him, hands gently coming to rest on his naked shoulders. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck, and your left hand quickly buried itself into the curls at his nape. 

Andrew, almost frozen in disbelief, shakily placed his hands on the small of your back.

“You-you’re awake,” you stuttered, pulling your face back to look him in his hazel eyes. “You woke up.” You softly swiped you thumbs across the skin under his slowly blinking eyes. “You came back.” 

Andrew closed his eyes fully. “You told me to wait.” 

Wanting to be closer, you leaned forward until your forehead touched his, your eyes also fluttering shut as the two of you held each other. It wasn’t until Deran shifted that you parted. Andrew’s eyes opened and looked over your shoulder at his brother, and his eyebrows pinched when he wondered what was wrong with the picture. 

“Craig?” he asked, tone all gravely with an ever too present underlying pain. 

Deran shut his eyes and shook his head, silently telling Andrew everything he needed to know. 

He all but crumbled back into your arms, thick hands finding a strong hold on your sides as he finally allowed himself to grieve; grieve for the life he had, for the life he lost, for Craig, for J’s betrayal, for Cath, for Julia. 

But the tears also healed.  

They signified that he was alive, breathing, and in your arms. 

His sobs sputtered to a slow stop until he quieted. You stayed still through it all, wanting Andrew to be done only when he was ready. Your hands continued to pet and run through his blood-matted curls while he stayed buried in your front. Your lips gently placed intermittent kisses against his temple, and Andrew lightly hummed at the feeling. 

He didn’t know where the two of you were supposed to go from there. You and he would have to flee California while he knew Deran would want to stay, lie low, and find Adrian at some point. Andrew knew that time was ticking down, that it was only a matter of time before the cops started looking for him and Deran. But all he could care about in that moment was the rise and fall of your chest under his ear and the feeling of having his arms wrapped around your middle. 

_______________________

For one split second four years ago, you didn’t think the life you always wanted was possible. 

But as you stood in front of the small, farmhouse that seemed to glow against the sunset, you took a large inhale of air. Well, as much air as you could with two developing babies currently pressing upward against your lungs and all your other important organs. Your stomach stretched far, and you ran a hand down the swelled bump. 

A squeal from the front yard had caught your attention, which was how you found yourself standing on the wrap-around porch, baby bump held between your hands. Your cheeks warmed with a smile as you watched Andrew carry your almost 4-year-old daughter through the tall grass where the lightning bugs were just starting to twinkle.

Your shoulder rested against one of the pillars, and the cool breeze of April settled against your cheeks in soft and fleeting puffs that carried the smell of approaching spring and rainwater. You knew that if you walked down the steps and into the grass, the ground would squish softly between your toes. 

“Mama!” Julie yelled from where Andrew was currently holding her out like she was flying. “Do you see! Do you see da glow bugs!”  

“I see!” you called out in response, not even trying to fight the smile that pretty much never failed to stretch your face since you found this small part of paradise. 

“Daddy! Put down! I wanna see Mama!” she squealed right into Andrew’s ear. 

You watched as Andrew contemplated setting her down before he flipped her face up and pretending to bite at her tummy, the sound of his playful growl mixing so wonderfully with the sound of Julie’s giggles. He took large steps in your direction, deciding to just carry his daughter instead of having her walk through the soft and slightly muddy yard; his nicely cleaned and polished floors would thank him later. 

The sound of her pitter patters up the steps caused your heart to flutter; it was a noise you’d never get over hearing. 

“Be careful,” Andrew warned when he noticed Julie coming at you with a bit more speed than your poor knees could probably handle. “Remember to be gentle with Mama.” 

Julie all but screeched to a halt before continuing on at a much slower speed. Her small arms wrapped around your left leg, and your left hand trailed through the mop of auburn curls. She was, in all aspect of her tiny life, Andrew’s twin. And you were more than fine with it, even if you’d grown her for nine months just for her to come out with a frown that matched her daddy’s to a tee. 

“Go wash your hands; dinner’s almost ready,” you said, giving her one last pat on the head.

She squeezed your leg one last time before dashing into the house, squealing her entire way in. You couldn’t help chuckle at the noise. 

It hadn’t taken long for Julie to be on her way after you and Andrew found this small piece of land. The house had needed fixing, but it was something you could envision your family growing in. And just five weeks into renovations, you’d shown him three tests with double lines so dark they almost looked black. Andrew had cried openly after dropping to his knees in order to rest his forehead against your then flat stomach. For the next nine months, he panicked, prepared, cried some more, and panicked again. But the moment Julie was placed in his arms, you knew exactly then that Andrew Cody was meant to be a father. 

His hand sliding across your belly brought you out of your reverie. “They being good?” he asked, leaning down to press a kiss to your bump before straightening to kiss you. 

He was answered by a few kicks to his palm that sent flutters thought your body. 

“They want out,” you muttered against his lips before pressing back into him. “Can’t believe you called it. First Julie, now A and B. You think you’re gonna be correct with the last?” 

Andrew pulled back and smirked. “Definitely. Like I said, sweetheart, all girls.” 

Your eyes gently raked across his face, taking in each and every freckle that dotted his face like constellations you could see on a clear summer’s night. You caressed his cheek with your fingers, and his eyes fluttered as he leaned into your hand. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For staying.” 

“Thank you,” he echoed. “For never giving up.” 

The two of you stood there, enjoying each other’s company, until Julie called for you deep in the house. 

“Duty calls,” Andrew muttered, curling an arm around your waist. 

“Yes,” you mused. “Yes, she does.” 

The rest of the evening went in warm touches and moments you never wanted to end. And like many nights before, you went to bed surrounded by your small family with a large smile each time Andrew tugged you in a bit tighter in his sleep, knowing that everything would continue to be exactly as it should be. 

Peace. That's what this getaway was about, taking you somewhere the two of you could live as a young couple, un-disturbed. It was about the only thing that had gotten Robby through the last tough weeks of work. All the blood and death and bathroom breaks of locking himself in stools to silently cry was all so he could come home to you and his family in one piece.

Now, he could shred every responsibility that didn't include being your husband and that wasn't a responsibility. More an honour.

Robby looked down at you with a smile, expecting to see one back. Instead, you were looking down at your phone. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

“I'm just checking in with the kids.”

He groaned and grabbed your phone, throwing it ahead into the cabin. It landed somewhere soft on the rug. “They'll be fine, they're what? Twenty something?”

You laughed and stepped closer into his circle of heat, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and drawing yourself closer. “Look at you, pretending not to know your kids ages.”

Robby dropped the bags, snapping his arms around your waist and holding you up. “What can I say? I'm loving... attentive...”

His beard scratched up and down your neck as he littered slow kisses there.

“Should I carry you through the doorway? Like when we were married?” Robby wasn't exactly encouraged by the idea with your laughter shaking in your chest.

“I don't think your back can handle that, old man.”

His brows rose up, tongue poking the inside of his cheek and you bit back a smirk. He couldn't help but think how sexy you looked, even after kids and marriage you never failed to stop looking beautiful.

And Robby had never found being called old sexier.

“Well,” he grunted, lifting you further till your toes were scraping the floor. “How about you go up to that bedroom and I show you just what this old man can do?”

“Dad's gonna kill me... Dad's gonna kill me.”

Noah watched his brother, John, pace the small hospital room. For such a tiny pace he was making good job at trekking miles. “Relax, at least we're in a hospital,” he said. “That way they can shock you back to life.”

“So he can kill me all over again!” John hit his forehead with the palm of his hand, the smack bouncing around the walls.

Their sister, Casey, laughed on the bed.

She was taking all this surprisingly well considering it was her arm broken and limply lying in her lap.

The brothers looked to her as if remembering she was there. Like she wasn't the reason they were there. Well- technically it was John's fault. Because he was older and he was supposed to be looking after Casey. He should have been the one watching her on the trampoline. Should have seen how she fell on her arm and a sickening crack followed.

To her credit, Casey didn't cry.

Instead she let out a string of curse words that would make a sailor shudder.

Noah didn't know which is dad would hate more: the cast she'll inevitably be put in or the words she'd some how picked up.

“How're you feeling?” John asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hungry,” she said, pulling out the puppy dog eyes and pout that only a six year old could do effectively.

“Can't eat I'm afraid, not till we've got that arm looked at.”

“Will I need stitches?”

Noah let out one loud, ha! “Worse!”

Casey shrieked.

“Noah!” John lectured.

“What? I'm being honest! Honestly is the best policy.”

“Not when it scares her!”

“I'm not scared,” said Casey, momentarily misplacing her broken arm as she tried to flail them around only to end up teary eyed at the pain.

John shuffled closer to her side in panic, throwing an arm around her shoulder and comforting her. “It's okay, oh, it's okay.”

“I want daddy!”

John and Noah looked at each other, gulping.

It had been a total of four hours. Four hours they'd been gone and already things had gone wrong! The drive up to their cabin alone was five so they'd maybe only had three hours of relaxation. That was enough, right?

For months their dad had drilled it into them he was taking their mother away for an anniversary he had to work three months ago. This was the only time off together your schedules could work out. After all, PCMT didn't run steady without the attending and nurse.

We'll be gone three days, their dad told them, sitting the two brothers a year apart down. Carter will be busy at Presby so I need you two to look after Casey, alright? John you're eighteen, you're in charge.

Noah had never been happier to be younger.

It was all amusing to him really, besides the fact his sister was hurt- obviously.

“I want daddy too,” Noah laughed.

John paled.

Suddenly the door flew open and just when Noah thought it might have been a doctor they'd never seen, or Abbot or Dana, it only got worse.

Carter rushed in, white lab coat billowing a second behind him. Their dad thought it was tacky and dumb (med students haven't worn them since the 90s, he'd said) but their mom thought Carter looked handsome so- the doting mommy's boy he was- Carter always wore it.

Noah rolled his eyes.

“Hey, hey, what's going on here?” he rushed over to Casey, pressing a kiss to her forehead and petting down her hair. “You okay? She okay?”

“She's fine,” said John, standing from the bed.

“My arm hurts,” whined Casey.

“I'll give you ten bucks to say nothing,” said John.

Casey made a dramatic move in holding in her words.

John should have done it for five.

Carter looked around the room like he was wholly confused even if he was in his second year of med school in Presby and was accustom to the look of a hospital room. “Where's her chart? Has she been looked at? Has Dana been in?”

“No, I got us in on the down low,” said Noah, standing from his chair.

Carter hovered over the computer, trying to find a way to log in that didn't mean hacking into the system. “The down low?”

John reached his other side. “I bribed Donnie to get us a room.”

“Why would you do that?”

“So they don't call mom and dad!”

“They're not here?” Carter asked, a furrow between his brows.

“No, they're up at the cabin,” said John.

“Their romantic getaway, you remember that?” asked Noah.

Carter's expression dropped. “That was today?”

“Yeah that was today, where have you been living?” said Noah, knowing his brother lived in the second biggest room of the house and had been pretty much vacant from it with his studies. Noah had took to invading the room at any chance.

John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “We called you cause... you know, you're a doctor.”

“Well, no, I'm a med student,” said Carter, though briefly the word 'doctor' had gone to his head. And ego.

“But you're so good at it,” encouraged Noah, thumping their eldest brother on the chest and fixing his crooked stethoscope. “What better time will you have to put your skills to good use then to help our sister?”

The three looked back to Casey who was watching them, blinking.

“How's your pain on a scale of one to ten, Casey? One being no pain at all, ten being horrible, terrible, worst pain of your life?” asked Carter, keeping his voice as light and brotherly as possible.

Casey looked to John.

He sighed. “You can talk, Casey.”

She thought about it for a second. “A seven?”

Carter cursed under his breath.

John and Noah shared a look, knowing who to blame Casey's exclamations on. “You can order labs,” said John.

“Yeah, get her a scan or something,” added Noah.

Carter laughed them off. “I can't, I don't work here!”

John put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Of course you can, you're a Robinavitch.”

“Hey,” said Santos, approaching the nurses station as if in a daze. “I'm like totally not crazy and I totally don't miss the guy or anything but I swear I just saw a younger version of Robby walk in here.”

“What?” Javadi laughed.

Whitaker nodded along, as if he'd expected it. “You must really miss the guy, huh?”

Santos rolled her eyes. “No, Jesus that's not it. I just mean Robby's literal doppelganger just walked in, white lab coat and all.”

Dana didn't make it a habit to listen into gossip... sometimes she couldn't help it. She lingered at the nurses counter, listening with one ear to everything else around her in case there was an actual emergency.

“Really, where?” Javadi asked.

“Hey! You three!” Dana called, snapping her fingers as she approached the three, peering at them over her glasses. “We got beds to empty, people to see, let's move it!”

The three were resigned to do their job, as so many usually were, but Dana watched them go, ensuring they were all going to three separate locations but not before she caught Trinity leaning into Javadi, whispering in her ear an exam room where this mysterious young Robby was hid in.

Dana wondered but not for long as she found the room with not one, not two but four Robinavitch children inside.

A grin formed. It was always good to see them, especially since she'd been seeing them since they were babies, having held each one of them in her arms and held each of their hands as they started to walk. Sometimes they still needed the hand.

Carter, John and Noah's backs were to the door, the three standing over the bed in clear thought if their folded arms and tense backs were anything to go by, so like their father they were.

Casey Robinavitch, the youngest of the set, was first to spot her, smiling wide. “D! D!”

“Well look what the cat dragged in!” she celebrated.

Casey did what she could to move but Dana was there at her side, embracing her and helping her back down onto the bed.

The boys were less enthusaticaly.

“Hey, Dana,” John said quietly.

Carter was by far his father's son in looks. The same sloped nose and brown eyes. Dressed up as a doctor he looked even more the part. It freaked Dana sometimes, like having the ghost of young and cocky Michael Robinavitch hovering around the place.

John and Carter- still alike their father- had a bit more of you in them. In their smile and eyes. Casey too.

“What the hell's going on here, you miss me that much you invaded the place, huh?” she asked though she could tell by all three of the boys looking worried and Casey sitting still that there was some reason to have been here.

“It looks like Casey broke her arm,” said Carter, brushing back his hair. “A simple Distal Radius fracture.”

“You got all that without a scan? Presby must be teaching you something,” she teased.

Carter blushed.

Dana cast her gaze to the quiet John and Noah. “Which one of you supposed to be looking after my girl here anyway?”

They both pointed at each other.

Dana shook her head and rolled her eyes before focusing ahead to Casey. “Okay, honey, you hungry? I keep a stash of candy in my draw, you want a piece?”

She nodded enthusaticaly.

“But she'll need surgery for her arm, she can't eat,” said Carter.

“Even I knew that,” added John.

“Yeah well the OR's a little backed up,” said Dana with a pat to Casey's knee. She stood up and drew the curtain around them, closing them in. “We had an accident and there's a long que.”

She didn't want to get in the specifics of crash that involved all the OR's time but Carter approached her.

“Anything I can do?” he asked.

Dana smiled. She had to say, it was good to see the kids that were made from her favourite attending and nurse. “No, kid. You stay here with your family, I'll handle everything.”

“What's with the curtain?” asked Noah.

“Are we grounded?”

“You're all a bit of a celebrity around here, the new residents and med students don't know you guys exist, heck they only realised your parents were married after Huckleberry caught them in the lounge.”

“Ew,” said John.

“Caught them what?” asked Casey, full of child like innocence.

The boys looked to Dana in amusement.

“Doing things adults shouldn't do at work,” she said.

Casey wasn't satisfied. “Like what?”

“You can ask them when they get here.”

“You're not gonna call them, are you?” asked John, adam's apple moving in his swallow.

“Have to kid, sorry! I'll get Princess to take you to X-ray, sound good?” she asked Casey, knowing Princess was her favourite (other than herself of course) because she was better at braiding than both her parents.

John fell into his seat, hunched over. In comfort, Carter clamped a hand on his shoulder.

Dana left the family, shaking her head and trying to hide her smile. She'd pushed you and Robby to go away, trusting that the three boys you held in such high esteem would handle looking over one small girl who really wasn't that much trouble.

She hated to be proved wrong.

Hated even more she had to interrupt the two of you after she'd had to watch the sultry looks passed between the two of you and stop the two of you from disappearing together into rare empty beds and store rooms.

Dana called you first, shaking her head while she did.

“Robby!”

He groaned into your neck, his arms caging in your head as he moved in and out of you with a rapid pace. Sweat covered both your bodies from the long-awaited sex he planned to drag out. “My god,” he groaned.

Your nails scratched down his back leaving angry welts in your place. He licked lazily at your neck, moaning and groaning at the taste.

The both of you were as loud as you liked, without kids barging in to say they couldn't find the remote or wanting to know what was for dinner. The cabin stood alone with only trees as its companion so you could be as loud as you liked.

He'd had you coming on his mouth and fingers- then once more for luck- before he finally found himself home in you and that was how it felt, coming home.

Your back arched into him as his hips met yours. “Michael... Michael...”

You could feel him grin into your neck. “Gonna come again? Come on my cock, jus how I like.”

Robby found your lips and kissed you openly, all teeth and tongue. His breathing was laboured, his lips a hungry mess. His hips drove in more and more, his groaning louder, face scrunched in concentration to last.

“Please, Michael, please,” you whined against his lips.

Robby licked at your lips, nodding-

Suddenly there was a loud ringing and vibration against the wood off the bedside table where you'd left your phone.

Robby groaned but not in pleasure. As his lips pulled away from yours you turned to look at your phone. “Ignore it, ignore it,” he begged, cupping your cheek to move you to look at him again.

You let him kiss you, let him distract you with his tongue as he drove his cock in and out quicker, desperate to chase your high.

“Oh god, hurgh, fuck!”

Your phone still rung and his grip hardened on your face.

“Could be... could be the kids...” you uttered.

“They're fine, they're fine-”

But you couldn't help but stretch, under the feign of pleasure you arched up and grabbed your phone, turning it face up.

“Jesus-” Robby grunted but stilled inside of you, impossibly close.

Hospital. Work. Calling.

“Jesus-” he chuckled dryly. “Hasn't even been a day.”

Before you could even think about answering it Robby snatched it from your hand and threw it half way across the room.

“Robby!” you laughed.

Your arms wrapped back around him and drew him in, legs going around his waist as his cock continued his work.

“Jack, thank god!” Dana gasped when she spotted the night attending making his way in. He greeted her with a bag already over his shoulder, giving her a brief hug.

“Hey, got your message, what's going on?” he asked, brows knitted together in worry.

It was a last ditch attempt. Dana had called you a handful of times from the hospital phone and her own. She'd tried Robby and been sent straight to voice mail. Nothing. She couldn't exactly blame the two of you, it was supposed to be a holiday.

None of the kids were willing to be the one to make the call and other than tackle them to get a phone Jack was the last result.

“Got a family situation, the parents won't pick up,” she explained.

“What kind of family-”

Dana led him into the exam room.

Casey was sitting in the bed, her arm up in a sling with a pizza box in her lap. Next to her Noah was cosied on the bed while John and Carter were on each side of the bed, chairs pulled him and pizza slices in hands.

“Uncle Jack!” Casey cheered.

The boys at least looked happier to see him than they had Dana. They knew if Jack was here it meant they couldn't get in contact with either you or their dead.

“What's this? A pizza party and I wasn't invited?” he said, setting down his bag and heading for Casey, checking in on her first.

“What's this? Where's the pizza come from?” asked Dana.

“They were hungry, I ordered,” said Carter.

“And surgery for her arm?”

Carter chocked down the last of his pizza. His doctors coat was still sat on his shoulders but his tie was lose around his neck and several pens were missing from his pocket. “The OR's backed up, you said that, you gave her a lollipop!”

Dana tried her best efforts to be mad on behalf of Robby but it didn't work. Robby could maybe be mad at the boys if he had the right too but Casey he could never seem find to be angry with. A daddy's girl through and through.

“Hey, Carter, how's Presby?” asked Jack, all the while testing the pain with Casey.

“Good, it's er, it's good,” he said. “I told them there was a family emergency.”

There was only one reason Carter had gone to Presby and that was to keep work and home away from each other. He couldn't be a student under his dad and mom.

“So you er-” Noah started. “Couldn't get through to mom or dad, huh?”

There was an un-denying gleam of joy at that.

“No, we couldn't,” said Dana. “But we're gonna keep trying.”

Carter crossed his arms over his chest as if he were the concerned doctor and not the worried older brother. “We need their permission for the surgery, what happens to her arm if it's not put right soon?”

“Well good news is I can pull weight in the OR, though we'll have to wait for the pizza to go down,” said Jack, taking a bite from the slice Casey held in hand. She laughed. “What colour we thinking? Pink? Red? Black?”

“Can I have three colours?” she asked.

Jack shrugged. “I'll put the request in.”

“Why aren't they answering? Maybe they're asleep?” said John.

Noah smirked. “Or maybe they're enjoying their free time.”

Jack shot him an unamused look.

“I meant playing games!” he defended.

“Like twister?” asked Casey.

Carter looked away, scratching the back of his head as Dana hid her smirk along with him.

“Yeah, twister.”

You'd managed to escape the clutch's of Robby, managing to throw his shirt on and get to the kitchen for a glass of water. Your legs had been shaky in the sort of delicious way you'd missed.

It was dark out, the small orange glow of the lights around the cabin lighting your way as you downed half your drink.

The wooden floor creaked behind you. The curve of Robby's belly met your back.

His hands wound under his shirt on your body, fondling your hips. “I thought the point of a get away was no clothes allowed.”

You bit your lip, gently setting down your glass of water. “And if I turn around are you going to be following that rule?”

Robby chuckled into your skin. His lips found your neck again, kissing over the bruises he'd left from before. It started slow, the sort that reminded you of your first time before his teeth met your skin and nipped. His hands got further up your skin, running over the curves of your body. “Why don't you look and find out?”

The idea of Robby in all his beauty had you salivating at the mouth and lower parts when a vibration alerted the two of you.

Robby groaned again, the both of you finding his phone left in his pants pocket crumpled on the floor.

It seemed you'd been in a hurry to get them off.

“The thing keeps going!”

Robby was naked, and it distracted you all through the walk to get his pants, fishing for his phone. Not that he cared, he only finished your glass of water.

Your hormones were going crazy, begging you to climb your husband like a tree but you still managed to answer the phone. “Michael's phone.”

“Jesus what's it take to get you to pick up a phone!” Dana said in a way of greeting.

“Oh, hi Dana, how are you? Sorry, we were... busy.”

“Yeah busy my ass, listen you guys need to come back.”

“Why, what's happening?”

Robby heard the worry in your voice and turned to look over his shoulder.

“Your kids are here, Casey's hurt.”

“So let me get this straight: You're letting Jack sign your cast first, then Carter, then John, then me!” gasped Noah.

The family had made themselves at home at in the small room, Casey in the bed like the queen of the castle though even queens needed sleep.

Carter was watching his sister come in and out of sleep while John stayed close to her side, stroking back her hair. They'd put her in the list for the OR, it was backed up enough that by the time she got in her eating wouldn't have been a problem. In three more hours he'd have to get back to Presby and carry on a shift. He should've used the time for napping but found the hospital chairs not so comfy.

Casey nodded, as if proud.

“It's John's fault and he gets to sign it before me!”

“He didn't steal my favourite crayons!” she said.

Jack raised his brows at Noah. “Crayons?”

Noah stuttered with all the eyes on him. “I was taking notes.”

“In crayons?” asked Jack.

“Colour helps you retain information! Look it up!”

There was a gang of laughter before the doors burst open.

Robby was first into the scene and you were close behind.

“Dad!” said Casey.

“Hey, sweetie,” he greeted, by-passing everyone else in the room to press a kiss to her forehead, keeping a hand on her fine arm. “What the hell happened?” he asked to the room.

John and Noah fell into your side, trying to be safe there away from the wrath of their father. “She- she was on the trampoline and she fell, broke her wrist.”

“Distal fracture,” corrected Carter.

“Why weren't you looking out for her?” Robby asked as he took Jack's stethoscope from around his neck, pressing it to her chest as if there could be something wrong and as if they hadn't already checked.

“I-I turned my back for a second,” said John.

“It's okay,” you said, stroking back John's air just a little.

You walked past the boys, greeting Carter quickly before you set on the edge of Casey's bed. Your daughter had your eyes. “Hey honey, how are you feeling?”

Robby gave her another kiss on the forehead before stepping away and letting Jack- the closest thing the kids had to an uncle- take his place. There was a small wave of his hand and the boys- even Carter- fell into step. “So tell me why not even five hours into the trip with your mother we're called back in because you let your sister get hurt?”

“He didn't let her get hurt, dad,” Noah defended. “It could've happened whether or not John was watching her.”

Robby's hands ran up and over his face, pulling at the lines of age and worry. Deep down he knew that was true and the boys knew he knew that. It didn't change that Casey had been hurt and ended up in the hospital. If it had been one of them- Carter, John or Noah- Robby and you would have drove with the same speed.

“Okay, okay,” Robby nodded. “And who let her have pizza when she's in line for the OR?”

John and Noah turned to Carter.

Robby frowned. “Are they teaching you anything at Presby?”

“Dana said the OR was backed up!”

“Don't drag me into this kid!” called Dana from the open door and over the crowd that had formed.

On second look Robby spotted Whitaker, Javadi, King and Santos at the door with Samira- all of who knew you and Robby well, knew you had a flirty thing going on yet had no idea the life you'd shared and continued to create behind the scene.

Next to them stood Langdon, the one holding the door open for them all to see. The one that did know and had even played a hand in Casey's birth.

“Holy shit,” said Whitaker.

“You have kids?” asked Javadi. “Like actual, real-life off springs?”

Carter frowned, looking from the crowd to you. “Why do they seem so surprised at that?”

You smiled, leaning your head on Casey's as she babbled about the accident and everyone she wanted to sign her cast (including barbie herself). “Well, we didn't really mention the whole kids part.”

“So nobody knew we existed?” asked Noah, offended. “What happened to pride and joy?”

“What happened to pain in my ass?” said Robby, lovingly. At least, Carter thought it came off that way. “Okay- yes, yes,” he said addressing the crowd. “We have kids, we didn't say anything because well frankly it was none of your buisness-”

“I knew I saw a younger Robby!” said Santos. Her phone was in hand and clicking with the sound of a picture of the room- specifically Carter-before anyone could stop her.

“It's not like I don't have my hands full with you lot already,” Robby mumbled, rubbing at his temples. “But yes, we have four beautiful children, anything else?”

There was a clear of a throat. Surprisingly not from the crowd of doctors but from behind him. From you.

“What?” asked Robby.

You gave him a pointed look.

He'd said four kids. Had he got it wrong? Somewhere along the lines it did get hard to keep track of them all. Who had exams when, who was in line to follow in their footsteps in practising medicine, who wanted a dog for christmas, etc.

Just in case, Robby did a head count, counting his kids off on his fingers: Casey, Noah, John, Carter. Casey, Noah-

It wasn't till he looked at you and saw your hand lingering over your stomach that he realised.

He thought back to the wine you'd declined at dinner last week, to the morning sickness you'd tried to hide from him, to the way you said there were things to talk about when you had a chance alone. After four, Robby should have been good at spotting the signs.

Five children it would appear.

“Congratulations, brother,” Jack was first to say, smiling in amusement that you'd caught your husband so off guard. Again.

John and Noah were next in clapping him on the back before attending to you in the same celebrations.

Robby took it all red in the cheeks as Santos started to clap behind him, Whitaker following un-sure a beat behind her.

“Jesus, dad, can you keep it in your pants for once,” joked Carter, standing at his full height next to him.

Robby shrugged, arms folding over his chest. “Takes two.”

Noah frowned. “Ew.”

Casey, the poor girl with the broken wrist, wasn't sure what was going on. “Takes two to what?”

The room fell silent. You pursed your lips, looking to Robby for some explanation.

Carter patted his dad on the back, slipping out of the room.

John smirked. “Yeah, dad, takes two to what?”

“Name?” you asked professionally.

“Filip Telford.”

“Age?”

“Depends who’s askin’.”

You deadpanned. “The woman deciding whether you’ve got internal bleeding.”

“…Forty-eight.”

“See? Wasn’t hard.”

His mouth twitched.

You pulled gloves on and moved toward him. “What happened?”

“Fell.”

The paramedic barked a laugh loud enough that another nurse looked over.

You lifted an unimpressed brow.

Chibs sighed dramatically. “Fine. Got punched.”

“Why?”

“Man was upset.”

“With?”

“A variety of things.”

“Did one of those things include your face?”

Another twitch of amusement.

“You always this friendly, nurse?”

“Only with patients actively wasting my time.”

You started cutting away the bloodied shirt before he could protest. Bruising bloomed across his ribs already, ugly purple spreading over tattooed skin.

And Christ.

The man was built like he’d been carved out of bad decisions and whiskey.

“You fractured anything before?” you asked.

“Aye.”

“How many times?”

“Yes.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

His eyes sharpened immediately at the sound, like he’d discovered something interesting.

You ignored it.

“You allergic to anything?”

“Hospitals.”

“Mhm.”

“Authority.”

“Noted.”

“Cheap beer.”

That finally got a laugh out of you.

Small. Brief. But real.

And something about it hit him square in the chest.

You saw it happen.

The way he looked at you afterward changed completely.

Not flirtatious exactly.

Focused.

Like he’d decided to remember you.

You didn’t expect to see him again.

Men like him came into emergency departments all the time. Fights. Crashes. Stabbings they refused to explain. Dangerous men with dangerous jobs and worse survival instincts.

Usually they disappeared back into the world after discharge papers.

But three weeks later, Filip Telford came back into your ER with a nail through his hand.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

“…Again?” you asked.

“Aye.”

“How.”

“Construction accident.”

You looked at the leather kutte.

Then at the tattoos.

Then at the very obvious motorcycle boots.

“Right.”

“I’m diversifyin’.”

“Into carpentry?”

“Tryin’ new things.”

The nail had gone clean through the fleshy part of his palm. Painful but survivable.

Still stupid.

Very stupid.

“Sit,” you ordered.

Obediently—shockingly—he sat.

Your coworker Nina wandered past, glanced at him, and immediately grinned.

“Oh, your boyfriend’s back.”

“He is not my boyfriend.”

Chibs looked deeply pleased by the accusation.

Nina pointed at the nail. “What’d you do this time, handsome?”

“Construction accident.”

She looked at you.

You looked at her.

Together, in perfect sync: “Bullshit.”

Chibs laughed.

Low and rough and genuinely entertained.

You cleaned the wound carefully while he watched you instead of the procedure.

“You always this accident-prone?” you muttered.

“Only recently.”

“Mhm.”

“You think I’m lyin’.”

“I think if I asked ten follow-up questions, your story would collapse instantly.”

“Aye, probably.”

You glanced up. “At least you’re honest about it.”

“Honest with you.”

The words landed strangely between you.

Not flirtation.

Not entirely.

Just… truth.

And for reasons you couldn’t explain, that was worse.

You finished wrapping his hand.

“Try not to impale yourself for at least a month.”

“No promises.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And yet ye patched me up anyway.”

“That’s literally my job.”

“Aye.” His eyes stayed on yours. “Still.”

The third visit happened at two in the morning.

You walked into Trauma Two and stopped dead.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Chibs looked up from the hospital bed, nose visibly broken and ice pack pressed to his face.

“There she is.”

“You cannot keep coming here.”

“Technically I can.”

“You look like someone hit you with a car.”

“Motorcycle, actually.”

You blinked slowly.

“…You drove your motorcycle into something.”

“No.”

“Something drove into you?”

“Aye.”

“That’s worse.”

He shrugged and immediately winced.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, grabbing gloves. “What happened?”

“Dog ran into the road.”

“You crashed avoiding a dog?”

“Wasn’t gonna hit the wee thing.”

You tried not to react to that.

Failed a little.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“Did the dog live?” you asked quietly.

“Aye.”

“Okay. Good.”

He smiled through the swelling.

And there it was again—that sharp strange pull in your chest.

Because he looked terrifying.

Scarred and bruised and tattooed and built like violence.

But he’d wrecked his bike to save a stray dog.

You examined his nose carefully.

“Broken.”

“Figured.”

“You have a concussion?”

“Probably.”

“You say that like it’s normal.”

“Depends on the month.”

You sighed heavily.

“You are absolutely my worst patient.”

“And yet ye sound fond.”

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You pressed gently against his ribs and he hissed.

“Bruised,” you said. “Nothing cracked this time.”

“Improvin’.”

“Debatable.”

When you stepped back, he caught your wrist lightly.

Not enough to restrain.

Just enough to stop you moving away.

His hand was warm even through your gloves.

“Name,” he said softly.

You frowned. “You know my name. It’s on my badge.”

“Aye. Your last name.”

You hesitated.

It was stupid to hesitate.

But something about him felt… dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with physical harm.

Dangerous because he paid attention.

Dangerous because every time he looked at you, you felt seen in a way you weren’t used to.

“Nurse confidentiality,” you said finally.

He grinned despite the broken nose. “That bad, eh?”

“You’d survive without it.”

“Maybe.”

But he looked disappointed.

And annoyingly, that bothered you.

After the fourth visit, your coworkers started taking bets.

“I’m serious,” Nina said over coffee. “That man is in love with you.”

“He doesn’t even know me.”

“He keeps nearly dying in increasingly creative ways to come see you.”

“That is not what’s happening.”

From the other side of the break room, Dr. Harrison looked up from his sandwich.

“The biker with the accent?”

“Yes,” Nina said.

“He asked if you were working before he agreed to stitches last week.”

You froze.

“…What?”

Dr. Patel shrugged. “Thought you knew.”

You absolutely did not know.

And suddenly several things clicked into place.

The suspicious timing.

The weirdly selective compliance.

The fact that he always somehow ended up in your section of the ER.

“Oh my God.”

Nina looked delighted. “OH MY GOD.”

“It’s not like that.”

“It is absolutely like that.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands.

Unfortunately, your traitorous stomach fluttered.

The fifth visit involved a ferret.

To this day, you still weren’t entirely sure how.

“What do you mean it bit you,” you demanded.

Chibs sat on the bed looking genuinely offended. “The little bastard was aggressive.”

“Why were you near a ferret?”

“Friend owns one.”

“Why.”

“Ask him.”

“Did you try to pet it?”

“Aye.”

“You absolute idiot.”

“It looked friendly.”

You stared at the bite on his arm.

Then at him.

Then back at the bite.

“You’re in a motorcycle club.”

“Aye.”

“You’ve been stabbed.”

“A few times.”

“Shot?”

A pause.

“…Maybe.”

“And a ferret is what gets you?”

“Mock me all ye like, nurse, but the wee demon drew blood.”

You laughed so hard you had to sit down.

Actually laughed.

Not the tired polite version you gave patients.

Real laughter.

Tears-in-your-eyes laughter.

And Chibs looked at you like he’d gladly get mauled by a thousand ferrets if it meant hearing that sound again.

The realization hit him suddenly.

Hard.

Oh.

Oh, he was in trouble.

You learned things about him in pieces.

Never all at once.

He rode with the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original.

He smoked too much.

He drank whiskey like water.

He had a daughter he spoke about with a softness that transformed him.

He was fiercely loyal.

Protective to a fault.

Smarter than people expected.

And lonely in a way that settled deep in his bones.

He learned things about you too.

You worked too many hours.

You forgot to eat when stressed.

You hummed unconsciously while charting.

You had a habit of touching people gently even when they were difficult because you believed fear deserved kindness.

You laughed hardest when exhausted.

And despite spending your life taking care of everyone else, almost nobody took care of you.

That one bothered him.

A lot.

The sixth visit was bad.

Actually bad.

No jokes.

No ridiculous excuse.

No teasing.

You walked into trauma and your stomach dropped.

Blood.

So much blood.

Chibs sat slumped on the gurney pale beneath his beard, one hand clamped over his abdomen while another biker hovered nearby.

You recognized him vaguely from previous drop-offs.

Tall. Blond. Panicked.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathed.

Chibs looked up slowly.

And even half-conscious, bleeding through gauze, he relaxed when he saw you.

“There’s my girl.”

Your heart stumbled.

Professional.

Stay professional.

“What happened?” you snapped.

“Knife wound,” the blond man said quickly. “He wouldn’t let us call sooner.”

“Because he’s an idiot,” you muttered.

“Yeah,” the blond agreed immediately.

You cut through layers of blood-soaked fabric with shaking hands you prayed nobody noticed.

The wound was deep.

Too deep.

Fear hit you hard and sudden.

Not patient fear.

Not the detached clinical concern you were trained for.

Personal fear.

Sharp enough to hurt.

“Filip,” you said firmly. “Stay with me.”

His eyes dragged to yours immediately.

“There y’are.”

“You are not allowed to flirt while bleeding out.”

A weak grin.

“Bossy.”

“Pressure’s dropping,” another nurse warned.

Your pulse spiked.

“OR now.”

The blond biker moved aside as they rushed the bed forward, but before Chibs disappeared through the doors, his hand caught yours weakly.

Just for a second.

Enough.

And quietly, almost too quiet to hear:

“Didn’t mean t’scare ye.”

Then he was gone.

You couldn’t stop shaking afterward.

Nina found you in the supply room twenty minutes later.

“You okay?”

“No.”

The honesty surprised both of you.

You leaned against the shelves and pressed a hand over your mouth.

“I shouldn’t care this much.”

Nina’s expression softened instantly.

“Oh.”

“He could’ve died.”

“But he didn’t.”

“No, but—” Your voice cracked unexpectedly. “God, Nina, I thought he was going to die.”

And there it was.

The thing you’d both been avoiding naming.

Because somewhere between broken ribs and ferret bites and late-night teasing conversations, Filip Telford had become important.

Terrifyingly important.

He was in recovery for three days.

You visited exactly zero times.

Because that would be inappropriate.

Unprofessional.

Dangerous.

You absolutely did not stand outside his room twice during shift changes.

You absolutely did not ask for updates from his surgeon.

You absolutely did not feel sick every time someone mentioned complications.

On day four, you walked into work to find a coffee sitting at the nurses’ station.

Your exact order.

You frowned.

Nina smirked from across the hall. “Guess who’s ambulatory.”

You turned.

And there he was.

Pale still. Slower moving. One hand pressed carefully against healing stitches beneath his flannel.

Alive.

Your chest physically hurt with relief.

Chibs watched the emotion cross your face and looked strangely overwhelmed by it.

“Hi, nurse.”

“You should not be walking around.”

“Doctor said light activity.”

“This does not qualify as light activity.”

“Brought ye coffee.”

You stared at him.

At the careful way he stood like the movement hurt.

At the exhaustion under his eyes.

At the fact he’d come here first.

“You got stabbed,” you said quietly.

“Aye.”

“You could’ve died.”

His expression changed.

Softened.

And for the first time since meeting him, the joking disappeared completely.

“I know.”

Silence stretched.

People moved around you both.

Phones rang.

Machines beeped.

But suddenly it felt strangely private.

“You scared me,” you admitted finally.

The words seemed to hit him harder than the knife had.

His throat moved.

“Sorry, lass.”

You looked down at the coffee because the tenderness in his voice was too much.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Aye.”

“You keep getting injured in increasingly ridiculous ways.”

“To be fair, gettin’ stabbed was less ridiculous than the ferret.”

A startled laugh escaped you.

And just like that, the heaviness cracked.

His eyes warmed instantly at the sound.

God.

You were in trouble too.

After that, things changed.

Subtly at first.

Then all at once.

He started stopping by when he wasn’t injured.

Which honestly should’ve been reassuring, except somehow it wasn’t.

Because injured Chibs at least gave you an excuse.

Healthy Chibs showing up with coffee just to see you was significantly more dangerous.

“You know,” Nina said one morning while watching him lean against the nurses’ desk talking to you, “most people buy flowers during courtship.”

“He’s not courting me.”

At the desk, Chibs caught your eye and smirked slowly like he knew exactly what was being discussed.

Traitor.

Nina snorted. “That man looks at you like you invented sunlight.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re doomed.”

One night near the end of your shift, you found him outside the hospital smoking.

Rain misted lightly over London streets.

He looked tired.

Older somehow.

You approached carefully. “You know those’ll kill you.”

“Aye.”

“You say that very casually.”

“Occupational hazard.”

You leaned beside him against the wall.

For a while neither of you spoke.

Then quietly, he said, “Ye ever think about quittin’?”

“The ER?”

“Aye.”

“All the time.”

“But ye won’t.”

“No.”

“Why?”

You thought about it.

About the exhaustion.

The trauma.

The impossible hours.

The heartbreak.

Then about the little old lady who squeezed your hand last week because you sat with her while she was scared.

About saving lives.

About making unbearable things slightly less unbearable.

“Because it matters,” you said softly.

He looked at you for a long moment.

“Aye,” he murmured. “That sounds like you.”

The rain grew heavier.

You should’ve gone back inside.

Instead you stayed.

“You know,” you said eventually, “I still don’t believe half your injury stories.”

“Only half?”

“Maybe less.”

He grinned.

Then winced because apparently smiling still pulled at healing stitches.

“You really should consider safer hobbies.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Knitting.”

“Can ye imagine?”

Despite yourself, you did.

Chibs Telford sitting in a leather kutte knitting aggressively.

You burst out laughing.

And he looked absurdly pleased with himself.

The first time he touched you outside the hospital, it was accidental.

Mostly.

You’d fallen asleep in the break room during a brutal overnight shift.

Head on folded arms.

Completely dead to the world.

Until warmth brushed hair gently away from your face.

You startled awake instantly.

Chibs froze beside your chair.

“Sorry, lass.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Brought food.”

You blinked blearily at the takeaway bags.

“…You brought me food?”

“Nina said ye forgot dinner again.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

Nobody did things like that for you.

Not really.

And the terrifying part was how natural it seemed to him.

Like caring for you wasn’t a big deal.

Like you were worth the effort automatically.

“Filip…”

He looked suddenly uncertain.

“I can stop.”

“No.” Too fast. You softened immediately. “No, I just…”

Emotion clogged your throat unexpectedly.

Exhaustion made you vulnerable.

Dangerously vulnerable.

“You remembered,” you whispered.

Something shifted in his face then.

Something deep and aching.

Because he knew that tone.

Knew what it meant when people were surprised by kindness.

Slowly, carefully, he crouched beside your chair.

“You matter t’me, lass.”

The words shattered something in you.

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

At the scars cutting across his face.

At tired blue eyes.

At rough hands capable of violence and tenderness in equal measure.

At the man who kept showing up.

Again and again and again.

And suddenly it became impossible to pretend this was casual.

“You matter to me too,” you admitted.

His breath caught.

Silence.

Then very gently:

“Dangerous thing, that.”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

It really was.

The seventh ER visit happened because he got shot in the ass.

You stared at the chart for a full ten seconds before entering the room because surely you’d read it wrong.

You had not.

“You got shot in the ass.”

“To be fair—”

“No. No, there is no ‘to be fair’ here.”

“It grazed.”

“You got grazed in the ass.”

“Aye.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose while he laughed helplessly.

“You are the stupidest man alive.”

“Probably.”

“How does this even happen?”

“Occupational hazard.”

“That is not an occupation!”

“Debatable.”

You pointed sternly. “Pants off.”

His eyebrows lifted immediately.

“Buy me dinner first.”

“Filip.”

“Worth a try.”

You were trying so hard not to smile.

And failing.

Terribly.

As he shifted carefully onto the bed, he hissed in pain.

Instantly your amusement faded.

“You okay?”

The softness in your voice seemed to catch him off guard.

“Aye.”

“You sure?”

His gaze held yours.

Then quietly:

“Better now.”

Oh.

Oh, you were absolutely doomed.

By then, everyone knew.

Not officially.

You still hadn’t kissed.

Hadn’t dated.

Hadn’t crossed the line hanging between you both.

But the entire ER knew.

The bikers definitely knew.

And judging by the amused looks you occasionally got from heavily tattooed men dropping Chibs off, they found the whole thing hysterical.

One afternoon a man with dark, curly hair and sunglasses leaned over the nurses’ station while Chibs was getting stitches.

“You the nurse?”

You looked up cautiously. “Yes?”

He grinned. “Thanks for keepin’ our boy alive.”

Before you could answer, Chibs shouted from the bed:

“Fuck off, Tig.”

“Make me.”

“You’re bleedin’ on my floor,” you called calmly. “Behave.”

Tig blinked.

Then burst out laughing.

“Oh, this is serious serious.”

Chibs looked genuinely murderous.

You had no idea why that made warmth bloom in your chest.

It happened three months after the stabbing.

Not during some dramatic moment.

Not after a near-death experience.

Not in pouring rain or under fireworks or whatever nonsense romance movies preferred.

It happened at four in the morning in a hospital vending machine alcove.

You were exhausted.

He was bruised again—minor this time, thank God.

And both of you were sharing terrible coffee while the hospital hummed quietly around you.

“You know,” you said, “normal people usually meet in bars.”

“Aye?”

“Or through friends.”

“Mm.”

“We met because you apparently view bodily injury as a hobby.”

“In my defense, ye looked pretty the first time.”

You choked on coffee.

He grinned.

“You cannot say things like that casually.”

“Why no’?”

“Because I’m holding near-boiling liquid.”

“Avoidin’ the compliment, I see.”

You looked away because he was watching you too closely.

Too warmly.

“You flirt more when sleep deprived,” you muttered.

“And ye blush when complimented.”

“I do not.”

“Lass, your ears are red.”

“Oh my God.”

His laugh was soft this time.

Fond.

Dangerously fond.

The vending machine buzzed quietly beside you.

Then he said, very carefully:

“Can I take ye to dinner?”

Your heart stuttered.

There it was.

The thing that had been coming for months.

Real.

Terrifying.

You looked at him.

At the hope hidden carefully behind humor.

At the vulnerability he tried so hard to mask.

And suddenly the answer felt obvious.

“Yes.”

He blinked.

Actually blinked.

Like he’d expected resistance.

“You sure?”

“You got shot in the ass for me.”

“That was unrelated.”

“Debatable.”

A grin spread slowly across his face.

Warm. Real. Beautiful in a rough uneven way.

And before fear could stop you, you leaned forward and kissed him.

Soft.

Brief.

Coffee and smoke and whiskey and surprise.

For one stunned second he didn’t move at all.

Then one hand cupped your jaw carefully—so carefully for a man built like violence—and he kissed you back.

Like you were something precious.

Something he’d been afraid to break.

When you pulled away, both of you looked a little wrecked.

“Well,” Chibs said hoarsely.

“Well,” you echoed.

“That seemed promising.”

You laughed quietly.

And God, the look on his face after hearing that sound while kissing you—

He doesn't look up.

Of course he doesn't.

Happy always knew it was you.

Maybe it was the sound of your footsteps. Maybe it was the way you breathed. Maybe it was something worse, something far more dangerous, something neither of you had ever been brave enough to name aloud.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

You simply stand there looking at him.

At the exhaustion etched into every line of his body.

At the tension gathered across his shoulders.

At the way his hands hang loose between his knees, fingers flexing occasionally as if they couldn't quite decide whether they wanted to curl into fists.

Something painful squeezes around your heart.

"Happy."

Your voice comes out softer than you'd intended.

A rough exhale escapes him.

Not quite a sigh.

Not quite a grunt.

Just acknowledgment.

Just exhaustion.

The kind that settled deep into a man's bones.

For a moment you simply stand there, taking him in, your chest tightening painfully at the sight.

Most people gave Happy space when he was like this.

Most people knew better.

You find yourself moving toward him anyway.

You cross the room.

Slowly.

Giving him every opportunity to tell you to leave.

He never does.

Probably never would.

When you reach him, your thighs brush against his knees.

Still he doesn't move.

Your hand lifts.

Rests gently on his shoulder.

No hesitation.

No uncertainty.

You'd long since stopped being afraid of touching Happy Lowman.

Maybe because you'd learned years ago that the monster everyone else saw wasn't the whole man.

Maybe because somewhere along the way he'd started looking at you like you were something precious.

Maybe because touching him had started feeling as natural as breathing.

Whatever the reason, your hand settled there easily.

Immediately, almost unconsciously, he leaned into it.

Just slightly.

The movement was so small most people would've missed it.

You didn't.

A slow breath left his chest.

Your heart cracks a little.

"Oh, sweetheart."

The words slip out before you can stop them.

For a second nothing happens.

Then one large hand lifts.

Settles against the back of your thigh.

Just above your knee.

Barely any pressure at all.

But it feels like a question.

A request.

A plea from a man who doesn't know how to ask for things.

Your chest tightens.

Without speaking, you step forward.

Moving into the space between his legs.

The reaction is immediate.

His other hand finds your waist.

Then the first follows.

Large palms spreading across your back.

Holding.

Not restraining.

Not possessing.

Just holding.

As though he'd finally found something solid enough to lean against.

You move closer.

And closer.

Until there isn't any space left between you.

Happy's forehead brushes your chest.

The contact seems to knock something loose inside him.

A long breath escapes him.

The kind that sounds dragged from somewhere deep.

Only then does he finally lift his head.

Dark eyes find yours.

God.

The exhaustion there nearly undoes you.

Not physical exhaustion.

Something deeper.

Something older.

The kind that settles into a person's bones.

"Hi."

His voice was rough.

Low.

Like it hurt to use.

Your lips soften.

"Hi, Happy."

For a second his eyes slip shut.

Just for a second.

Like hearing you answer had given him permission to rest.

Then they open again.

Lock onto yours.

And something vulnerable flickers there.

Gone so fast you almost thought you'd imagined it.

"Come here."

A laugh threatens to escape you.

"You've got me trapped between your knees already."

A faint twitch pulls at the corner of his mouth.

Then his hands tightens against your back.

Pulling.

Not hard.

Just enough.

And somehow you end up even closer.

Happy shifts forward on the mattress.

Closer to the edge.

Closer to you.

As though there was still too much distance between you despite the fact that your bodies were already touching.

His forehead drops back to your chest.

Resting there.

Right over your heart.

The tension beginning to leave him in slow increments.

You could actually feel it.

Feel his shoulders loosening.

Feel his breathing evening out.

Feel the way his grip changed from desperate to simply content.

Your fingers slide over his head.

One hand cradling the back of his neck.

The other tracing softly across the tattooed skin of his scalp.

The same way you'd soothe a wounded animal that finally trusted you enough to let itself be touched.

Immediately, another breath leaves him.

Long.

Shaky.

Almost broken.

The sound made your chest ache.

Because Happy never let anyone see him break.

Never.

Except here.

Except with you.

You don't know how much time passes.

Minutes.

Maybe an hour.

Long enough that your legs start aching.

Long enough that the sunlight shifts across the room.

Long enough that Happy's breathing settles into something calm and steady beneath your hands.

Nothing existed except the weight of him against you.

The warmth of him.

The quiet.

The way his thumbs keep moving against your back as though reassuring himself you were still there.

As though he can't quite believe you were real.

Eventually, he lifts his head.

The loss of his weight makes your chest feel strangely cold.

His eyes find yours immediately.

Like they always do.

Like they can't help it.

One hand leaves your back.

Rises slowly.

Carefully.

As though he isn't entirely certain he's allowed.

His palm settles against your jaw.

Large and rough and unbelievably gentle.

The gesture feels unbearably tender coming from him.

You lean into it instinctively.

You let your hand slide from his head.

Resting it against his cheek.

Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone.

The stubble there scratched lightly against your skin.

His eyes close.

Happy makes a sound.

A tiny sound.

A wounded sound.

Like that simple gesture had nearly finished him off.

"Baby."

Your breath caught.

Because he'd never called you that before.

Not once.

Yet somehow it sounded like he'd been calling you that in his head for years.

"Baby," he whispered again.

His thumb strokes your cheek.

His gaze searches your face.

Memorizing it.

Like a starving man looking at a feast.

"Don't go."

Your heart stops.

Because he wasn't talking about tonight.

Wasn't talking about this room.

Wasn't talking about the next five minutes.

It was everything.

Every year behind you.

Every year ahead.

Don't leave me.

Don't disappear.

Don't wake up one day and decide I'm too much.

Too old.

Too damaged.

Too difficult to love.

You could see it in his eyes.

See it in the fear hidden beneath the vulnerability.

The fear that if he finally reached for you—

You might disappear.

Your eyes burned.

"My love," you whisper.

The words escape before you can stop them.

Happy froze.

Completely.

You feel it happen.

See it happen.

The entire world seems to stop turning.

"I'm not going anywhere."

His eyes shut.

A shudder moves through him.

Not dramatic.

Not obvious.

Just enough for you to realize how terrified he'd been.

How long he'd been carrying that fear.

The hand on your neck slid into your hair.

Holding you.

Not forcing.

Not demanding.

Just holding.

Like something precious.

Something fragile.

Something he couldn't believe belonged to him.

When you lower your forehead to his, he lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like relief.

"Baby..."

His voice cracks.

Actually cracks.

And suddenly you understand.

This wasn't a bad day.

It wasn't exhaustion.

It wasn't the run.

It was years.

Years of wanting.

Years of watching.

Years of convincing himself he shouldn't have you.

Shouldn't need you.

Shouldn't love you.

And losing that battle anyway.

You kiss him first.

Soft.

Gentle.

Barely there.

The second your lips touch, a strangled sound escapes him.

A sound so heartbreakingly vulnerable that your entire chest tightens.

His eyes close immediately.

Like he'd been waiting for this.

Like he'd dreamed about it.

Like he'd spent years imagining what it would feel like.

Then he kissed you back.

And somehow the tenderness of it felt more intimate than anything else ever could.

Because there was no urgency.

No greed.

Just relief.

Pure, overwhelming relief.

Like two people who had spent far too long pretending they could survive without each other finally giving up.

His hand tangles into your hair.

The other drops to your thigh.

Then suddenly he's pulling.

You barely have time to react before he guides you onto his lap.

A startled yelp disappears into the kiss.

He settles you against him like you've always belonged there.

Like there's never been another place for you.

When he finally pulls back, a thin thread of saliva still connecting you, his eyes search your face.

Looking.

Checking.

Making sure.

The second he finds no hesitation, no fear, no regret, he's kissing you again.

One hand slides up your spine.

The other remains steady against your back.

Your arms wind around his neck.

You press yourself closer.

Chest to chest.

Heart to heart.

A groan leaves him.

Low.

Wrecked.

"Baby."

His lips brush along your cheek.

The corner of your eye.

Your jaw.

"You're killing me."

A smile pulls at your lips.

You answer by pressing soft kisses across his forehead.

Across the lines that only appear when he's tired.

Across the man who never realized how deeply he needed to be loved.

"Feeling's mutual, baby."

The noise he makes is almost a growl.

Almost a laugh.

Almost both.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

His hands settle over your shoulder blades.

Holding you carefully.

Like something precious.

Something irreplaceable.

His eyes lock onto yours.

His hands are trembling.

Actually trembling.

And when he looks at you, there's no wall left.

No armor.

No distance.

Just love.

Terrifyingly obvious love.

"Mine."

The word isn't possessive.

Not really.

It's simply a truth.

The sun is hot.

The sky is blue.

You're his.

He's yours.

The realization settles warm and steady inside your chest.

His hand slides down your spine.

"That okay?"

The question nearly undoes you.

This man.

This enormous, terrifying, tattooed killer.

Asking permission.

Asking if it's alright for him to belong to you as much as you belong to him.

You lean forward and kiss him.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

Lingering.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.

"My love, that's more than okay."

The smile that breaks across his face is devastating.

Rare.

Beautiful.

It transforms him completely.

Makes him look younger.

Softer.

Happy's eyes shine.

"Your love," he whispers.

His voice shakes.

"My love."

His forehead presses against yours again.

His arms tighten around you.

And for the first time all day, all week, maybe all year, he looks completely at peace.

Hours later, Chibs goes looking for Happy.

He pushes the bedroom door open just enough to peek inside.

Then immediately stops.

You and Happy are tangled together beneath the blankets.

Your head rests on his chest.

One of his arms is wrapped securely around your waist.

His cheek is pressed against your forehead.

Even asleep, he hasn't let you go.

Can't.

Won't.

For a moment, Chibs simply stands there.

Watching.

Taking in the sight of the most dangerous man he knows looking happier than he's ever seen him.

A soft smile tugs at Chibs' mouth.

Then he quietly backs out of the room.

Through every exhausting hour of the night, he'd carried the image of you with him—your sleepy smile, the way his t-shirt would hang off one shoulder when you shifted beneath the blankets to make room for him.

He could almost feel it already: the warmth of the bed, the familiar weight of your head settling into the space between his shoulder and neck as if it had been made for you. Even half-asleep, your hand would find its way to his chest, your fingers tracing absent, comforting patterns against his skin.

It's all he's thinking about when he leaves the Pitt. It's all he's thinking about when he takes the fast way home, weaving through familiar streets with a tiredness settled deep in his bones. By the time he finally reaches his door and turns the key in the lock, he can almost feel it already.

It takes him a second to realise something's different.

The house isn't quiet like usual.

Jack hangs up his jacket to the sound of blaring music echoing down the hallway as a sweet smell drifts towards him. He slows when a softer voice joins in as he makes his way into the house.

It's yours.

Jack rounds the corner and leans against the doorway. From there, he can see you standing at the stove. You flip a pancake, then lift the spatula to your lips like a microphone, belting along completely unabashed.

His lips spread into a wide smile. For a moment, he doesn't say anything. He just stands there and watches.

You're swaying slightly to the music, completely unaware he's there. One of his old t-shirts hangs off one shoulder, and there's a faint dusting of flour across your cheek.

God, he loves you.

The song ends, and he finally starts clapping. "That was a nice performance," he grins. "Almost better than the nightly ones."

You let out a startled yelp, nearly launching the spatula across the kitchen. "Jesus. What the fuck, Jack?"

His laugh comes out tired but genuine as he pushes away from the doorway and crosses the room. "Sorry."

You glare at him over your shoulder. "No, you're not."

"No," he agrees.

Your glare lasts all of three seconds before he reaches you. His hands settle automatically on your waist, thumbs brushing back and forth over your shirt. The ache in his leg is still there. The headache, too. But being close to you makes both seem a little quieter.

He ducks his head, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You try to stay annoyed, but your mouth twitches. "You're home early," you mumble.

"Thank god, I was." He wraps both arms around your middle and rests his chin on your shoulder. "Would've missed the concert."

You groan.

"Encore?" he asks.

"I'm charging you for that."

"No husband discount?"

"No husband discount."

"Hm." His nose brushes your cheek, then your jaw, before he presses a lingering kiss beneath your ear. "I don't mind paying full price."

You finally turn in his arms, one hand settling against his chest. Now that you're standing face-to-face, there's no hiding how exhausted he is.

Your expression softens immediately. "Long day?"

"The longest." His forehead drops against yours. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The music continues quietly in the background while you smooth a hand through the hair at the back of his neck.

His arms tighten instinctively around your waist, and he lets more of his weight settle against you, holding you a little closer. Your hips sway gently together.

He closes his eyes. Home. This is home.

Then you gasp. "Oh, no." You twist around. "My pancake."

Smoke curls up from the pan. He watches as you rescue what is now essentially a hockey puck. You stare at it. He stares at it.

"It's a little crispy," he offers.

"It's charcoal."

"I like charcoal."

You snort. "You are such a liar." Jack grins as you point the spatula at him. "Go shower. I need to focus."

"Bossy."

"Jack."

He steals one last kiss anyway, quick and warm, then another because you smile halfway through the first one.

"Go."

"Going." His hand slides across your hip as he passes, giving you a gentle squeeze.

Behind him, he hears you start singing again before he's even reached the hallway. His smile follows him all the way to the bathroom. It isn't what he'd spent the last twelve hours imagining.