S

Her scrub top is folded in a plastic bag somewhere near her feet because the front of it’s torn and streaked with blood from the first few awful seconds before anyone could get to her, before security and Maria and Steph from triage had managed to pull her backwards by the waist while the patient screamed so loudly the whole department seemed to go airless around it.

It wasn’t his fault, not really. He was frightened and out of it and nobody expected him to come up that fast, one second curled tight on the bed with his voice climbing, the next swinging blind and hard enough that his elbow caught her straight across the face. 

She remembers the crack of pain before she remembers making a sound. Then her own cry seemed to set him off worse, his hand catching a fistful of her scrub top before she could step back, the brutal pull forward, the bed rail coming up too fast.

Her nose had hit first. Or her mouth. Or her forehead. It’s all a little rearranged now, bright flashes and metal and Maria shouting her name and someone saying, “Security, now,” with enough force to make the whole bay move.

She knows it wasn’t anyone’s fault. She knows psych presentations can turn quickly, knows agitation isn’t always a straight line with warning signs and a polite little interval where everyone gets to reposition themselves safely. 

She knows all the rational things. She also knows her face hurts badly enough that thinking in full sentences feels like pushing through wet cement, and she is, medically speaking, having a really fucking shit time.

Beside her, Maria drives like a woman who’s spent twenty years transporting compromised student nurses and actual glassware with equal care. One hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, her voice soft enough not to scrape against the inside of her skull when she says, “How’s the head, honey?”

She exhales through her nose and immediately regrets it because her nose doesn’t wish to be involved in breathing at this time. “Super normal. Love having one.”

Maria makes a small sound that could be a laugh if it wasn’t wrapped so tightly in concern. “Nausea?”

“Not worse.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She lets her head rest back against the seat and keeps her eyes on the blurred glow of streetlights sliding across the windscreen. The movement makes her stomach roll faintly, but not enough to tell Maria about, because Maria has already done enough. 

Maria had stood in the consult room while Dr. Patel checked her pupils and her nose and the swelling around her cheekbones, one warm hand resting between her shoulder blades every time she tried to make a joke and ended up going quiet instead. 

Maria had found her spare hoodie from the locker room and helped her into it when lifting her left arm made pain streak down through her shoulder. Maria had said, very gently, you’re not catching the bus after getting your bell rung in my department, like that settled the matter.

“A little,” she admits. “But I’m not going to vomit in your car.”

“Kind of you.”

“I’m very thoughtful.”

“You’re concussed.”

She sighs softly. “Also that.”

Maria’s eyes flick over her in the dim light, quick and practised. “You remember what Dr. Patel said?”

She does. Mostly. The words have been looping vaguely around the edges of her head since he handed her the paperwork. Mild concussion. No fracture. Neuro obs stable. X-ray clear. Rest. No driving. No placement until reviewed. Come back if vomiting, worsening headache, confusion, unusual drowsiness, changes in vision, weakness, seizure, or if anything feels wrong enough that you’re trying to talk yourself out of seeking help.

No being alone tonight.

That last one had landed harder than the rest, somehow. Maybe because the ED had been too bright and too busy and she had been sitting there with a wad of gauze under her nose, feeling like a leaking appliance. Maybe because the doctor had said it in that professional, non-negotiable way that made arguing feel childish. Maybe because the idea of someone watching her because her brain had been knocked around made her feel suddenly, horribly small.

“Wake me every few hours,” she says. “Check I’m not getting weirder.”

Maria’s mouth tips. “You said weirder.”

“That’s the clinical term.”

“It’s not.”

“It should be. Easier to spell than altered level of consciousness.”

Maria actually laughs that time, but it fades quickly. “You can’t be home alone.”

“I know.”

“And you’re not going to pretend you’re fine and sit in your dorm by yourself because you feel embarrassed?”

Her eyes drift shut for half a second, then open again when the darkness makes her head swim. “I’m not embarrassed.”

Maria’s silent.

She sinks a little lower in the seat. “Okay. Maybe a normal amount.”

“There is no normal amount of embarrassed after being assaulted by a patient at work.”

“It wasn’t assault.”

Maria sighs. “Honey.”

“He didn’t know what he was doing,” she argues.

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt.”

Her mouth twitches before she remembers her lip is split. Pain snaps bright and sharp through the swollen skin. “Ow. Fuck.”

Maria’s hand lifts slightly off the wheel like she wants to reach over, then thinks better of it. “Don’t smile.”

“That’s bleak advice.”

“Currently medical advice.”

She presses her tongue carefully to the inside of her lip and tastes blood again. The whole evening keeps arriving in pieces. The patient’s arm. The bed rail. Maria’s face above hers, too close and too worried. Someone cutting away the torn edge of her scrub top. 

Her own hands shaking in her lap while she tried to tell everyone, very reasonably, that she could finish the shift if they just gave her a second. As if she hadn’t been bleeding on her own shoes.

The thought makes heat rise under the bruising in her face, which is unfair because her face has already suffered enough. “God,” she mutters. “Everyone saw.”

Maria sighs, not impatient, but close to something sad. “Yes, everyone saw that you got hurt.”

“I’m the student.”

“Yes,” Maria nods.

“I’m supposed to be useful.”

“You were useful all day.”

“I ended the shift with a concussion and a bloody nose.”

“You ended the shift injured because an unpredictable situation escalated. That’s not a performance review.”

She knows that. She does. She would say that to anyone else. She would put her hand on another student’s shoulder and mean it completely. She would tell them they were in the wrong place at the wrong second and that sometimes you can do everything right and still get hurt because hospitals are not made of lesson plans and perfect outcomes.

Unfortunately, she’s not another student. She’s herself. And herself currently has blood in her hoodie sleeve because she keeps forgetting not to touch her face.

They hit a bump in the road, not even a large one, but it sends pain blooming through her skull with such immediate nastiness that she sucks in a breath through her teeth and grips the strap of her bag.

Maria notices. “Almost there.”

She opens her mouth to ask where there is, and then remembers campus, her dorm, her room, the bed with the old sweatshirt shoved under the pillow, the roommate who is not there. Her stomach drops so abruptly it makes the nausea worse. “Shit.”

Maria glances over. “What?”

“My roommate’s not home.”

“Tonight?”

“She’s at her sister’s. Like, hours away.” She closes her eyes, then opens them again because the inside of her head does not enjoy visual privacy right now. “Fuck. I forgot.”

“Okay.” Maria’s voice stays calm. That is possibly the worst part. “Do you have someone else? A friend you could stay with?”

She thinks of Lucy first, because that’s the correct answer. Lucy would absolutely let her stay. Lucy would probably panic and then overcorrect into a level of cheerfulness that could qualify as a secondary head injury. Monique would be better, quieter, but Monique has an exam tomorrow and lives across campus in a building where the lift is always broken, which feels like a personal attack under current conditions.

Then her brain, unhelpfully and immediately, supplies Garrett.

Garrett’s room with the lamp on. Garrett’s hand at the back of her neck. Garrett’s voice low in her ear telling her to stop studying and sleep. Garrett sitting on the edge of her bed taking off her shoes after a bad shift. 

Garrett looking at her like competence is something he can be proud of even when she feels like she’s wearing it badly. Garrett, who has been hit in the head enough times that concussion protocol is probably written somewhere in his bones.

Garrett, who’s not technically her boyfriend, except the technicalities feel very stupid when her head is throbbing and her lip is bleeding and she wants him so badly it makes her chest ache worse than her shoulder.

“Yeah,” she says, and her voice comes out softer than she means it to. “Uh. Yeah. I have someone.”

Maria doesn’t look smug. That’s probably part of why she is a good preceptor. “Address?”

She gives her the hockey house. The words feel bigger in the car than they should. Maybe because saying his address out loud to Maria feels like she’s accidentally handed over evidence. Maybe because the last time Maria saw Garrett, he’d been standing in the ED hallway with panic sitting badly under his skin while Logan asked what day it was for the third time. 

Maybe because Maria now knows exactly where to take the concussed student nurse with the split lip and the ruined scrubs, and that place is apparently Garrett Graham’s house.

Maria only nods and changes lanes.

The hockey house is lit up when they pull onto the street, every downstairs window glowing warm and yellow into the cold, the porch light flickering faintly over the steps. There are cars out front, some vaguely familiar. The sight of it loosens something in her chest. At least someone’s home. At least there’s a couch, and people who know what pupils are supposed to do, and Garrett somewhere inside if the universe has decided to be kind after all the other things it did tonight.

Maria puts the car in park and turns toward her. “Wait. I’ll help you.”

“I can walk.”

“I didn’t ask,” Maria responds.

She huffs, which hurts less than smiling. Maria gets out first and comes around, opening the passenger door before she can argue again. The cold hits her face and instantly makes her nose ache in a new and innovative way. 

She climbs out slowly, one hand braced on the car door, shoulder protesting when she reaches for the strap of her bag. Maria takes it from her without comment.

“Rude,” she murmurs.

“Concussed.”

“Everyone keeps saying that like it explains everything.”

“It explains a lot.”

The walk up the path feels longer than it should. The porch steps require more concentration than she likes, which annoys her because she’s watched drunk freshmen navigate these steps while carrying open cups and zero dignity. Her sneakers scrape lightly over the boards. 

Somewhere inside, someone yells something that might be, “You’re cheating,” followed by Dean’s voice saying, “It’s not cheating if the game lets me do it,” which feels like an argument that has existed in this house for generations.

She knocks once because lifting her hand twice seems excessive. There’s a crash inside. A hockey house crash. Male voices overlap, loud and irritated and completely unaware of the fact that sound is currently a weapon. She winces before she can stop herself, one hand coming up toward her temple and hovering there uselessly.

Maria’s mouth tightens. “You okay?”

“Yep.”

The door opens on Logan in sweats and a faded Briar shirt, hair a mess, controller in one hand, expression halfway to annoyed until he sees her. Everything drops out of his face.

He says her name once, startled and low, and then, “What the fuck happened?”

The room behind him seems to quiet in stages. Maybe because of his voice. Maybe because she’s standing on the porch looking like an ED discharge summary with legs. 

She becomes suddenly, viciously aware of herself: the bruising already shadowing beneath her eyes, the swollen bridge of her nose, the blood dried under it despite Maria helping her clean up, the split lip, the hoodie zipped crooked because raising her shoulder hurts. She hadn’t thought much about how she looked in the car because looking required mirrors and mirrors required courage she didn’t currently possess.

Then Garrett appears behind Logan, and the whole night rearranges itself around the look on his face. He must have been in the living room. His hair’s damp at the edges like he showered not long ago, curls loose over his forehead, sweatpants low on his hips, a dark t-shirt pulled tight across his shoulders. 

He steps into the doorway with his mouth already forming some question, probably a chirp, probably something warm and annoying about why she’s showing up with supervision. He sees her, and all the colour leaves his face, as if something has reached into him and taken it by the roots.

His eyes move over her once, too fast and not fast enough. Nose. Mouth. Bruises. Hoodie. The stiff way she’s holding her shoulder. Maria beside her with the bag and the paperwork. Back to her face, where his attention catches and stays.

She tries to smile. It’s a mistake immediately. Pain sparks through her lip, and she winces instead, which feels like the saddest possible version of flirting. “Hi,” she says.

Garrett doesn’t answer.

Logan steps back at once. “Jesus. Come in. Fuck. Come in.”

Warmth and sound and the smell of boys and pizza and laundry detergent roll over her as she steps into the house. The living room lights make her eyes sting. Dean and Tucker are on the couch, controllers in hand, the TV paused mid-game like they’ve both forgotten the concept of winning. Dean’s mouth opens. Tucker’s face changes quietly, which somehow feels worse.

“Holy fuck,” Dean half-yells.

The words hit too loud. She flinches before she can make herself not do it.

Tucker moves instantly. “Dean, get the lights, man.”

“What? Oh. Shit, yeah.” Dean scrambles for the lamp with the guilty urgency of a man who’s suddenly remembered inside voices exist. The room drops into a dimmer yellow, the overhead going off, the TV brightness turned down under Tucker’s quick hand. It changes the whole house at once, softens the edges, takes the blade out of the light.

Maria watches all of it with a look that would be approving if she weren’t still too professional to be obvious about it. 

“She’s had a head injury,” she says, voice calm, eyes moving to Garrett because everyone’s eyes move to Garrett, because this is his house and not-his-girlfriend has arrived at his door concussed and bleeding. “Mild concussion. X-ray was clear, no nasal fracture, but she needs monitoring overnight. No alcohol, no driving, no being alone. Keep the lights low, noise down. She can sleep, but someone needs to check on her as per the discharge instructions. If she starts vomiting, gets more confused, can’t be woken, worsening headache, vision changes, weakness, anything that feels off, take her back in.”

Garrett nods slowly. He’s still staring at her.

Logan, maybe because Garrett looks like he’s briefly lost access to language, reaches out and takes the paperwork from Maria. “Yeah. We’ve got it.”

Maria turns back to her, and her face softens in that way that makes the back of her throat go tight. “I’ll see you in a couple days, honey. Not tomorrow. Rest tomorrow.”

She nods carefully. Even that tiny motion makes pressure throb through her skull. “Thanks for driving me.”

“Text me when you wake up.” Maria’s eyes flick toward Garrett again. “And listen to them for once.”

That almost makes her smile. She resists, heroically. “No promises.”

Maria gives her shoulder the gentlest squeeze, nowhere near the painful side, then lets herself out. Logan closes the door softly behind her, like the whole house has been put on medical quiet time. 

For half a second, nobody moves. Then Dean says, much quieter this time, “Who the fuck did that?”

She lets out a breath that doesn’t quite make it to a laugh. “Hi to you too.”

Dean’s on his feet now, controller abandoned on the couch, all his usual lazy beauty sharpened into something pissed and bright. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” Her head’s beginning to pound harder now that she’s standing still. The adrenaline from getting out of the car, climbing the steps, seeing Garrett’s face, all of it drains down through her body and leaves her feeling oddly hollow. 

Garrett notices, his hand comes to her elbow, barely touching at first like he’s afraid pressure might break something. The warmth of him lands through the hoodie and her body, traitorous and exhausted, turns toward it before her pride has any say.

She steps into him. She leans forward and presses her forehead against his chest because the angle is the only one that doesn’t put pressure on her nose, one hand curling weakly in the soft fabric of his shirt. 

Garrett tenses under her for a fraction of a second, like seeing her had knocked him out of himself and her touching him is what pulls him back in wrong. Then his arms come around her.

Careful. So careful it almost makes her cry. One hand settles at the back of her head without pressing, fingers spread wide over her hair, the other around her waist, holding her there with a gentleness that feels nothing like the boy who body checks men into boards for sport and everything like the one who once took her UGGs off because outside shoes didn’t belong in bed.

She closes her eyes, just for a second. Garrett’s voice, when it finally comes, is rough enough that she feels it against her cheek. “Baby.”

“I’m okay,” she says into his shirt, because she’s decided to start lying as a hobby.

His hand flexes once at her waist. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m not actively dying.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

She manages a weak shrug. “Clinically significant distinction.”

Logan exhales behind them, shaky in a way he probably wishes nobody noticed. Tucker moves around them quietly, collecting controllers, turning the game off properly, lowering the TV volume until the room becomes mostly the hum of the refrigerator and distant campus noise through the windows. Dean’s still standing there looking like he needs something to hit and has, unfortunately for everyone, found only furniture.

Garrett pulls back enough to look at her, but not far enough that she loses him. His eyes scan her face again, slower now. It’s almost worse than the pain. The way his gaze catches on the swollen bridge of her nose, the blood at one nostril, the split in her lower lip. He looks wrecked by it. Offended, almost, like her body has done something behind his back.

“Come sit down,” he says.

She wants to make a joke about his captain voice. She really does. It’s right there, familiar and easy. Unfortunately, her brain loses the sentence halfway through assembling it, and by the time she finds a piece of it, Garrett’s already guiding her to the couch.

Dean moves a cushion out of the way. Tucker places another behind her back. Logan stands nearby with the paperwork in one hand, reading it with a frown so intense it looks like he’s preparing for finals in head trauma. 

They all shift around her with this strange, quiet purpose that makes her chest feel too full and her face feel too sore to hold whatever expression she wants. Garrett crouches in front of her and reaches for her sneakers.

She blinks down at him. “What are you doing?”

His mouth barely moves. “Taking your shoes off.”

“I can take my shoes off.”

He looks up at her, and there is something in his face so taut and helpless that the argument falls apart in her lap. “Can you let me?”

Oh. That’s not fair. That’s wildly not fair.

She swallows and looks away first. “Yeah.”

Garrett unties her sneakers one at a time, slow with the laces, careful of the way moving her leg pulls faintly at her shoulder. He sets them neatly beside the coffee table. When her feet are free, she curls her legs up onto the couch without thinking, tucking herself sideways into the cushions because upright feels like an idea designed by people whose skulls are not currently full of angry bees.

Garrett’s hand hovers near her knee, then settles there. “Did you want water?”

She nods, then instantly regrets the movement. Pain washes across her forehead, hot and thick. Her eyes squeeze shut. “Ow. Fuck. Yes, please.”

Garrett rises. Her hand moves before she decides to move it, fingers catching the loose fabric of his sweatpants at the thigh, barely enough to stop him if he wanted to go. But he does stop. Immediately. She opens her eyes. Garrett’s looking down at her hand on him. Then he looks at Logan.

Logan’s already moving. “I’ve got it.”

Garrett sits beside her instead. He does it carefully, couch dipping with his weight, his thigh warm along the outside of her curled legs. He doesn’t crowd her face. Doesn’t pull her in too fast. Simply sits close enough that she can feel him there, his hand returning to her knee, thumb still because even his restless touching has gone cautious.

Dean hasn’t let the original point go. He sits on the edge of the coffee table across from her, elbows on his knees, all dramatic cheekbones and very real anger. “No, seriously. Who the fuck did this?”

She opens her mouth. The first answer is too long and falls apart before she can get to it. Her head gives one hard pulse. She shuts her eyes briefly, tries again. “A patient.”

Dean stares at her. “A patient did this to your face?”

“He was really agitated,” she explains as Logan comes back with water. He hands it to Garrett, not her, which would be annoying if her hands didn’t feel vaguely unreliable. “It escalated. He didn’t mean it.”

Dean’s expression says that this isn’t helping his blood pressure. “He didn’t mean it.”

“No.” She lets Garrett pass her the glass, taking it with both hands because one feels optimistic. The cold of it is nice against her palms. Her lip stings when she drinks, water catching briefly at the split, but her throat is dry enough that she keeps going anyway. “He was out of it. Psych presentation. It wasn’t– nobody did anything wrong.”

Tucker returns from the kitchen with an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel and offers it out with both hands like a peace treaty. “For your face. Or your shoulder. Or… wherever. I don’t know. I’m not the medical one.”

She takes it and immediately loves him a little for the towel. “Thanks, Tuck.”

Logan, reading from the discharge sheet now, says, “It says shoulder strain?”

“Logan.”

“What? It does.”

“Stop reading my lore out loud,” she huffs.

Dean gives her a look. “Your lore says shoulder strain and concussion.”

She lets her eyes close for a moment. “My lore is private.”

“Your lore showed up bleeding on our porch.”

She would like to laugh. She really would. Instead, the corner of her mouth twitches, pain bites through her lip, and her eyes water instantly. “Ow. God. That’s so annoying.”

Garrett’s hand comes up, stops short of her face. His fingers curl in midair before he lets them drop. “Your lip’s split and you’ve still got dried blood under your nose, baby.”

The baby does something terrible to her. It always does, but right now it’s worse because his voice is stripped down to the bone. He’s looking at her like he’s trying to keep himself from shaking by cataloguing every visible injury.

She shrugs with one shoulder and immediately regrets that too. Pain tugs from the side of her neck down into the joint, sharp enough that her breath catches.

Garrett sees it. His jaw flexes. “Don’t shrug.”

“I forgot.”

“How do you forget your shoulder hurts?”

“Concussion,” she says, because if everyone else gets to use it as an explanation, so does she. “It looks worse than it is. Promise. I’m just drained. And foggy. I keep losing my train of thought, which is the rudest symptom. Like, I was mid-sentence with Dr. Patel and just fully misplaced the rest of it.”

Tucker’s mouth softens. “That sounds scary.”

She looks down at the glass in her hands. The condensation has started to wet her fingers. “Mostly annoying.”

She lifts the ice pack toward her face, but her shoulder protests halfway up and makes the movement jerky. Garrett catches the pack before she can pretend she meant to do that.

Her eyes flick to him. “I can hold an ice pack.”

“I know.” His voice is quieter now. He shifts closer, one knee turning toward her on the couch, the wrapped ice pack careful in his hand. “But how many times have you looked after me, huh?”

She has no good answer for that. Too many. Not enough. In locker room hallways, in his bed, on this exact couch with bruises over his ribs while he tried to convince her hockey was a sufficient medical explanation for all bodily damage. She’s pressed ice to his cheek and taped his fingers and made him take painkillers and once threatened to call Maria for backup if he said manageable one more time.

Garrett’s mouth moves faintly, not a smile, but close enough to hurt. “Let me.”

She lets him. Garrett lifts the ice pack to her face with a care that makes her throat tighten, angling it over the bridge of her nose and the swelling beginning to spread under one eye without pressing too hard. 

The cold hurts first, a bright, mean sting over bruised skin, then settles into something almost relieving. Her breath comes out shaky despite her best efforts.

“Too much?” he asks.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” She shifts her gaze past him because his face is currently unmanageable. Dean and Tucker and Logan are all watching her with varying degrees of poorly concealed worry. Dean looks like he’s biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Logan still has the discharge paper. Tucker has both hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie like he doesn’t trust them not to hover. “What?”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“You guys look like this every week and I don’t stare at you.”

Logan snorts, but it comes out thin. “That’s because we’re hot when we’re bruised.”

She manages an eye roll, which is a win. “You’re concussed half the time and deeply irritating the other half.”

“Range,” Dean says automatically.

She points weakly toward the TV with the hand not holding her water. “Relax. Go back to your video games.”

Tucker’s brows pull together. “No, but– but it’s different.”

Her eyes move to him.

He looks briefly embarrassed, then pushes through it anyway. “It’s you.”

Her chest does that awful thing again, too soft and too sore at the same time. She looks down because taking that directly from Tucker feels unfairly intimate, like he’s handed her something warm without warning.

“I’m okay,” she says, and it’s not entirely true, but she tries to make it sound close enough. “Really. I was observed. I had neuro obs. I had scans. No fracture. Nothing’s broken. Just bruised and concussed and mildly tragic.”

“Mildly?” Dean asks.

“Moderately if you keep fucking yelling.”

His face changes instantly. “Sorry.”

The apology is so immediate that she almost smiles again and has to stop herself like a responsible person. “It’s okay.”

Garrett’s hand holding the ice pack is steady. His eyes have barely left her face, and the longer she sits there under that attention, the more she realises he still hasn’t really said anything. Not like Garrett. Not a joke, not an actual question, not one of the bossy little comments that usually lands him in trouble and somehow still gets her to drink water.

His silence has weight. It sits beside her on the couch, pressed into the careful line of his shoulders.

She turns her head just enough to look at him. “You’re being weird.”

His eyes flick to hers. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

His mouth presses together. For a second, he looks younger than he usually does. Less Briar captain, less untouchable campus landmark, more boy on a couch holding an ice pack to a girl’s swollen face with fear making a mess under his skin.

He swallows. “Do you want me to loosen your hair?”

The question is so small and practical that it nearly undoes her. Her hair is still claw-clipped from placement, half-fallen now, strands tugging at her scalp from where it got pulled in the scuffle and then shoved messily back while she was being assessed. She had forgotten about it until he said it, and now she can feel every tight little pull at the roots, all of it feeding into the headache sitting behind her eyes.

“Yes, please,” she says.

Garrett lowers the ice pack and hands it to Tucker without looking. Tucker takes it like an assistant in surgery. Garrett turns slightly toward her, one hand moving behind her head, not touching at first. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“It all hurts.”

His face does something awful.

She softens her voice. “I’ll tell you if it hurts more.”

“Okay.” His fingers find the clip carefully. He’s taken her hair down before, usually with far less medical purpose and far more smugness, but now every motion is slow, almost reverent. The clip gives, and the weight of her hair loosens down her back. The relief is immediate enough that her eyes flutter shut without permission.

Garrett catches that too. “Better?”

“Mhm.”

He combs the fallen strands away from the side of her face with his fingers, avoiding the swelling, avoiding the blood, avoiding every place that might make her flinch. His thumb brushes once near her temple, feather-light. 

She opens her eyes and finds him looking at her. “I’m okay,” she says again, quieter this time. “Really.”

Garrett doesn’t argue. That might be worse. He only nods once and takes the ice pack back from Tucker, pressing it carefully to her face again.

For a while, the room adjusts around her. Dean sits back down, but he doesn’t pick up the controller. Tucker goes to the kitchen and returns with a straw for her water like a man who’s discovered a side quest and intends to complete it properly. Logan reads the discharge instructions twice, then starts setting alarms on his phone without announcing it, because subtlety, in this house, is sometimes just everyone pretending they cannot see love doing administrative tasks in sweatpants.

She drinks water through the straw because lifting the glass is annoying and because nobody makes a thing of it. Garrett keeps the ice pack steady. Every so often, he asks a question in a voice too even to be casual. Headache worse? Nausea? Vision okay? She answers as best she can. Same. Little bit. Yeah, mostly. 

When Dean shifts too fast and the couch creaks, he freezes like he’s committed assault by upholstery. That makes her huff something dangerously close to a laugh, and Garrett immediately murmurs, “Careful,” like her face is now a team responsibility.

The fogginess comes in waves. Sometimes she’s fully in the room, tracking Dean’s quiet rage and Tucker’s gentle fussing and Logan’s forced calm. Sometimes the edges blur a little, slow, like her thoughts are moving through syrup. Garrett’s thigh is warm against her curled legs. His arm rests along the back of the couch behind her, a soft barrier between her and the world. 

She leans into him by degrees until her shoulder touches his chest and her head tips carefully toward the place beneath his jaw that smells like soap and boy and safety.

She doesn’t mean to get sleepy. She has discharge instructions that say she can sleep, she knows that, but the idea of giving in with everyone watching feels embarrassing in a new, stupid direction. Still, her eyelids grow heavy. The headache spreads and dulls under the cold. The room is dim. The boys are quiet. Garrett is warm.

At some point, Dean says softly, “You want me to call Lucy or someone?”

She tries to answer. The name gets halfway through her head and then wanders off. “Tomorrow,” she murmurs.

“Okay,” Dean says, and for once there’s no joke attached.

Garrett shifts beside her. “Baby?”

She makes a small sound that could mean what or I’m alive or don’t make me move, depending on how generous he feels.

“You getting sleepy?”

“No.”

There’s a pause.

Logan says, very quietly, “That was the least convincing thing I’ve ever heard.”

She opens one eye to glare at him, but the room tilts slightly with the effort, so she closes it again. “Your face is least convincing.”

“Strong comeback.”

“Thank you.”

Garrett’s lips brush her hair. It’s quick, maybe accidental, except nothing Garrett does with her feels accidental anymore, no matter how hard both of them have tried to label it otherwise. “I’m gonna take you upstairs, okay?”

Her eyes open properly at that, or as properly as they can. “I can walk.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that and then doing the thing for me anyway.”

His mouth curves faintly for the first time all night. It’s tiny and tired and painfully Garrett. “Yeah.”

She should argue. She’s built a respectable portion of this entire situationship on arguing with Garrett Graham while letting him do exactly what she wants him to do. But her shoulder aches, her face throbs, and her legs feel like they belong to somebody who’s spent the day being chased by weather. 

More than that, she wants him. She wants his hands steady under her thighs, his chest close, his room dark and warm around them. She wants to stop being the student who got hurt and start being the girl Garrett carries upstairs because the floor feels too far away.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Dean looks at the TV like he’s never been interested in anything more. Tucker suddenly finds the water glass fascinating. Logan folds the discharge papers with great concentration. Nobody says a word.

Garrett slides one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees with the same careful strength he uses for everything he takes seriously. “Shoulder?”

“Fine.”

His eyes flick to hers.

“Not worse,” she corrects.

He nods once and lifts her.

It does hurt, a little. Her shoulder pulls, her head pulses, and the movement makes nausea roll faintly through her stomach. But Garrett holds her so close and so steadily that the discomfort never gets sharp enough to scare her. Her hand curls in the front of his shirt, her face turning carefully toward his neck because pressing into his chest would bump her nose and she’s learned at least one thing tonight.

Dean’s voice follows them, low and rough from the couch. “G.”

Garrett stops at the foot of the stairs but doesn’t turn fully, like turning her too much might hurt.

Dean’s eyes move over her once, then to Garrett. Whatever he’d been about to say gets swallowed down and changed into something smaller. “We’re downstairs if you need anything.”

Garrett’s hold tightens by a fraction. “Yeah.”

Tucker adds, “I’ll bring up more ice in a bit.”

“And meds when she’s due,” Logan says, lifting the papers slightly.

She wants to tell them they’re all being ridiculous. She wants to say she’s fine, to make some joke about the Briar hockey team turning into a poorly licensed urgent care clinic. But her throat feels thick, and her eyes sting in a way that has nothing to do with the swelling, and for once the joke doesn’t come quickly enough to save her from feeling it.

So she only says, “Thanks, guys.”

Dean nods, jaw tight. Tucker gives her a small, worried smile. Logan says, “Anytime,” like he means it and hates that there’s a reason to.

Garrett carries her upstairs slowly. The stairwell is dim, the house clutter softened into shadows: a hoodie over the railing, someone’s shoes kicked near the landing, a dent in the wall nobody has confessed to making. 

His breathing is steady beneath her ear. His arms don’t shift, don’t tremble, don’t let her feel for one second like she’s heavy or inconvenient or anything other than something he’s decided belongs safely against him.

Halfway up, she murmurs, “Garrett?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still being weird.”

This time, his breath leaves him in something almost like a laugh. It brushes warm over her hair. “Yeah, baby,” he says, voice low enough that it belongs only to the stairs and the dark and the careful space between them. “I know.”

His room is already dim when he gets there, like he’d been in it before everything happened and left the lamp on low beside the bed, the shade turning the walls a warm, soft yellow that doesn’t stab behind her eyes. 

The window is cracked just enough to let in a thin line of cold air, shifting the edge of the curtain and carrying in the far-off sound of campus on a weeknight, car doors and laughter and somebody shouting down the street like the world has not personally offended her face.

Garrett nudges the door open with his shoulder and steps inside carefully, like the room might have developed hazards in the ten minutes since he last saw it. One of his hoodies is thrown over the desk chair. There’s a textbook facedown on the bed that he must have been pretending to read earlier, a roll of hockey tape on the nightstand, his phone charger twisted into a knot on the floor. 

The ordinary mess of him sits around them so gently that it makes something behind her ribs go weak. His room. His bed. His detergent and the clean soap smell of his skin under the faint cold of the hallway.

For the first time since the bay, since the rail, since the white burst of pain and Maria’s hand firm between her shoulder blades, her body seems to understand that it’s stopped moving.

Garrett lowers her onto the edge of the mattress with so much care it almost becomes annoying. One arm stays behind her back until she’s properly sitting, the other at her knees, and even after he lets go he keeps his hands there for a second, hovering near her like he’s not fully convinced gravity has been handled.

She blinks down at him because he’s crouched in front of her now, broad shoulders between her knees, face tipped up, eyes moving over her again with that same awful, quiet attention. 

She can feel what he’s seeing before he says anything. The blood dried tight beneath her nose. The swelling already darkening around the bridge of it. The split in her lip, tacky and sore. Mascara smudged under both eyes from the crying she doesn’t remember allowing herself to do properly, only the wetness and the sting and Maria saying, breathe for me, honey, nice and slow.

Garrett swallows. His hands rest lightly on her calves, thumbs still. “Did you want to wipe your face?” he asks, voice careful. “You’ve got, uh…” His eyes flick down, then back up, and his mouth tightens around something he doesn’t let out. “Some mascara under your eyes. And some blood still.”

She knows he’s trying very hard not to sound like the sight of it is putting his organs in the wrong order. She loves him a little for the effort, which is a thought she cannot touch right now because her brain is concussed and reckless and clearly looking for loaded weapons.

She nods once, then immediately remembers that nodding is no longer a neutral activity. The headache flares behind her eyes, thick and punishing. “Ow,” she says, small and irritated.

Garrett’s hands tighten on her legs. “Hey.”

“I’m good.” Her tongue touches the split in her lip and she tastes metal again. “Can you?”

His face changes. Barely. A little fracture through the tight worry, something softer underneath it. “Course.”

He stands, and the second his hands leave her, her body reacts before her mind catches up. Her fingers snag in the hem of his t-shirt, clumsy and sudden, and the movement pulls through her bad shoulder so sharply that a soft, wounded sound slips out of her before she can bite it down.

Garrett freezes instantly. Entire body going still. “Hey. Hey, you’re good.” He turns back toward her, one hand coming carefully to her wrist, covering her fingers where they’re twisted in his shirt. “I’m just going to the hallway, yeah? Bathroom’s right there. Two seconds.”

She knows that. Obviously she knows that. She’s been in this house enough times to know the bathroom is six steps from his door and usually contains at least one towel on the floor and Dean’s body wash in a place where it doesn’t belong. She knows Garrett’s not leaving. She knows the door is open, the house is full, Logan’s downstairs reading concussion instructions like the exam is tomorrow.

Still, her fingers don’t let go right away.

Her head hurts. Her mouth hurts. Her shoulder is a hot, sharp line down one side of her body. And the small, rational part of her brain that usually handles dignity and sarcasm is sitting in a dark room somewhere with a blanket over its head, because all she can think is that she wants him where she can reach him.

Garrett’s thumb moves once over her knuckles. “I’ll keep the door open.”

She nods more carefully this time. “Okay.”

He waits until her fingers loosen, then steps backward instead of turning right away, eyes on her the whole time. It would be funny, maybe, if it didn’t work. If she didn’t feel her ribs unclench slightly because she can still see him, because he backs into the hallway like she’s a wild animal he’s trying not to spook and not a nursing student with blood under her nose and one of his sleeves somewhere in her fist.

He disappears only when he reaches the bathroom, and even then he keeps talking. “Still here,” he says, and the water starts a second later, soft against porcelain. “Just getting a washcloth.”

“I know,” she calls back, then winces because even her own voice feels too loud inside her skull.

Garrett comes back with the washcloth damp and folded in one hand. His other hand shuts the door halfway, enough to soften the rest of the house into a distant murmur. The mattress dips when he sits beside her, turned toward her with one knee bent on the bed. 

He smells like clean skin and laundry and something faintly sweet from the kitchen downstairs, and she has to swallow around the childish, humiliating urge to press her face into his chest and stay there until her body stops feeling like it has been borrowed from a car crash.

“Here we go,” he says.

The cloth touches just beneath her eye first.

She stiffens on instinct, because everything has hurt tonight and her body is no longer trusting innocent objects, but Garrett pauses immediately. “Too cold?”

“No.” Her voice comes out thinner than she likes. “Just surprised.”

“Okay.” His face stays close, intent in a way that would normally make her flustered for more interesting reasons. “I’ll go slow.”

He does. He wipes the smudged mascara from beneath one eye with feather-light strokes, the washcloth barely dragging over skin, then folds it to a clean corner and does the other side. He works like he has been given something fragile and a little dangerous. Like every movement is being negotiated with the injuries on her face and the dull heaviness behind her eyes. 

His jaw flexes when the cloth comes away grey-black with makeup and faintly pink with old blood, but he doesn’t comment. He only turns it again and brings it to the place under her nose.

“That might hurt,” he murmurs.

“It already hurts.”

His eyes lift to hers. “Yeah.”

She looks down at his wrist, at the veins there, at the old tape mark near his thumb, at the little scrape over one knuckle from practice or a game or some Garrett-related misuse of his own body. Usually she would notice and ask. Usually she would press her thumb near it and say, what’s this? and he would say, nothing, and she would call him annoying and make him let her look anyway.

Tonight she just watches his hand hold the cloth and lets him clean the blood away. The dried parts tug where they have hardened on her skin, and she sucks in a breath through her mouth when the washcloth brushes too close to the swelling at the bridge of her nose. 

Garrett stops every time, waits for the little movement of her fingers in his shirt to settle, then continues. He wipes around the split in her lip last, his mouth flattening when fresh blood beads at the edge.

“You’re gonna bruise like hell,” he says, almost to himself.

She tries not to smile. It becomes a tiny, crooked thing anyway and immediately hurts. “Hot.”

His eyes flick back to hers, and for the first time since she arrived, something almost like Garrett moves across his face. Small. Tired. There and gone. “Yeah, baby. Real intimidating.”

“Good. I’ve always wanted to look tough.”

“You already look tough.”

“That’s because you have questionable standards.”

“No,” he says, and the softness in it makes her look away first. “I don’t.”

The room goes quiet except for the dull throb of the house underneath them, the creak of something downstairs, Logan or Dean moving around, the low murmur of the boys trying and failing not to sound worried through the floor. Garrett folds the washcloth over itself and sets it on the nightstand, then looks down at the rest of her.

The hoodie Maria put on her is zipped to her collarbone, dark fabric stained rusty near the cuff where she must have touched her face. Her scrub pants are still on, wrinkled and creased from the shift, one knee smudged faintly with something she refuses to identify. There is a hospital sticker on her shoe that nobody noticed until now, bright and stupid and stuck to the edge of the sole.

Garrett’s gaze catches on the blood at her sleeve. “You want out of these scrub pants?” he asks quietly. “And your hoodie has blood on it, baby.”

She looks down, as if this is new information. Her brain takes a second to make sense of the stain. “Oh.”

“It’s okay.”

“Yeah,” she says after a moment. Then, because the word seems to have scraped something loose on the way out, she adds, “Sorry.”

Garrett’s head lifts. “Why the fuck are you sorry?”

The sharpness of it makes her blink. He says it too quietly, all the force held under his tongue. But it lands somewhere tender anyway. She presses her lips together and immediately regrets that too. “Ow.”

Garrett’s expression softens, but his eyes stay fixed on her. Waiting.

She sighs, and it comes out shaky enough that she would like to file a formal complaint with her nervous system. “Because you…” The thought keeps slipping. She can see it, vaguely, but reaching for it makes her head pulse harder. “You didn’t sign up for this. I should’ve gotten Lucy or Monique. Or stayed with Maria, or– I don’t know.”

“No.” Garrett shakes his head once, and then stops himself, like maybe he’s remembered that head movement isn’t anyone’s friend right now. His hand comes to the side of her face, careful of the bruising, thumb brushing just below her temple where the skin is untouched. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re apologising for coming here.”

Her throat tightens. She looks at his shoulder because his face is too close and too much and still not close enough. “I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to.”

“Had to what?”

“Look after me.”

For a second, he only stares at her. Then he exhales through his nose, rough and almost disbelieving, and his fingers slide into her hair at the side of her head, holding it back from her face like the gesture can stand in for all the things he’s trying not to say too fast or wrong. “You think I’m sitting here because I feel obligated?”

She has the very strong, very pathetic urge to cry, which is inconvenient because crying would involve her face. “I don’t know.”

“Baby.”

She closes her eyes.

“Hey.” His thumb moves once. “Look at me.”

She does, reluctantly, because Garrett’s voice has gone into that low place that usually gets him what he wants and because her resistance is currently running on fumes.

His face is steadier now. Still pale underneath the warm lamplight, still tight around the edges, but steady in the places he’s offering to her. “I want you here.”

Her breath catches around something that hurts in a completely separate way from her nose. “Are we…” She stops, partly because the sentence is embarrassing and partly because she loses the middle of it for a second. The fog rolls in, cottony and irritating. She blinks, and Garrett waits. He doesn’t hurry her. Doesn’t fill the gap with a joke. Just keeps his hand at her face until she finds the rest. “Are we okay?”

His expression breaks so gently it makes her chest ache. “Course we are.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He brushes her hair back again, knuckles barely grazing the side of her neck. “We’re okay.”

She nods carefully. A tiny movement. “Good.”

Garrett’s mouth lifts at one corner, soft and sad and warm all at once. “Good?”

“Yeah.” Her fingers curl in his shirt again. This time, she doesn’t pull. “Because I really…” She swallows. Her throat is dry. Her head is thick. The truth comes out before she can dress it up in something safer. “I just wanted you.”

Something in him goes still. A held breath somewhere in the centre of him, then he nods, and the smile that comes with it is small enough that it feels private, even with the door half open and the boys downstairs and the whole house softly rearranged around her injury. “I know the feeling.”

She sniffs, because her body is committed to making the worst possible choices, and pain snaps up through her nose so sharply her eyes water. “Ow. Fuck.” She presses two fingers near the side of her face. “You do?”

Garrett’s smile shifts. “You want me to say it again while you look like you’re about to sneeze blood?”

“Maybe.”

“I know the feeling,” he says, and this time he doesn’t look away. “Because who better to nurse me back to health than you, huh?”

The laugh that escapes her is tiny and breathless and immediately followed by a wince, but it’s real. “I’m not even good at it today.”

“That’s okay.” He leans in and kisses the top of her head, nowhere near the bruising, lips warm against her hair. “I’ll cover this one.”

He gets up slowly this time, one hand staying in hers until the last possible second, then moves to his dresser. She watches him pull open drawers. 

He finds a pair of grey sweatpants first, soft and old and definitely his, then a zip-up hoodie because it will not need to go over her head. She can see the moment he chooses it for that reason. The little pause, the glance back at her shoulder, the jaw tight enough to tell on him.

When he comes back, the clothes folded over his arm, he crouches in front of her again. “Alright. We’ll do this slow, okay?”

She nods, then corrects it into a verbal answer before her head can punish her. “Okay.”

“Pants first.”

“Romantic.”

His mouth twitches. “I’m known for it.”

He helps her stand only as much as she needs, one hand at her good elbow, the other at her waist. The room sways faintly when she gets upright, unpleasantly loose at the edges, and Garrett’s hand firms at once. “Dizzy?”

“Little bit.”

“Sit?”

“No, I’m good. Just…” She looks down at the drawstring of her scrub pants, then at him. “This is a very low dignity moment for me.”

Garrett’s gaze flicks up, and there it is again, the smallest spark of him through the worry. “Baby, you’ve fallen asleep drooling on my chest after telling me I had slutty veins.”

She frowns. “I said that?”

“You did.”

“That does sound like me,” she accepts. 

“Exactly. Dignity’s been dead.”

She huffs, almost laughing, and he helps ease the scrub pants down her legs without making a production of it. Nothing in his face changes in the way that would make her feel watched, despite the fact that he’s, technically, undressing her in his bedroom. 

His touch stays practical, warm, almost painfully respectful. He holds the sweatpants open for her one leg at a time, keeps a hand at her hip while she steps in, then draws them up slowly over her thighs.

They’re too big, of course. They sit low on her hips and pool at her ankles in a way that would be funny if everything didn’t hurt. Garrett ties the drawstring in a loose knot and pats it once.

“There,” he says. “Very fashionable.”

“Shut up. I’m concussed.”

“I know. That’s why I’m letting you get away with that tone.”

Her mouth threatens a smile, so she bites it back and looks down at herself instead. The hoodie is next. Garrett reaches for the zipper, then stops. “Where’s the top?”

She blinks at him. “What?”

“Your scrub top.” His voice stays even, but not naturally. 

Her mind searches the department and comes back with torn fabric, scissors, someone’s gloved hands. “Um.” She rubs her fingers against the seam of his sweatpants, trying to make the thought stay still long enough to look at it. “Um. Bag. Maybe. They had to cut it off, I think.”

Garrett’s jaw tenses. It’s quick. A muscle jumping once, his mouth going flat, his eyes dropping away from her face for half a second like he needs to put the reaction somewhere she can’t see it. But she sees it anyway. She’s concussed, not blind.

When he looks back up, he’s forced something lighter onto his face. It’s not quite convincing, but the attempt is so Garrett it makes her ache.

“Damn,” he says. “Liked that pair.”

She stares at him. “Pair?”

“Set. Outfit. Whatever.” He lifts one shoulder, careful to keep his voice mild. “Made your ass look great.”

The giggle escapes before she can stop it. Immediately, pain blooms across her lip and nose, and she presses her fingers to her mouth with a muffled, “Ow. Don’t flirt with the concussed.”

Garrett’s smile is barely there, but warmer this time. “Can’t help it.”

“You should try.”

“I’ve been trying for months. Terrible at it.”

That one sits in the room longer than it should. Her eyes lift to his, and for a second, neither of them moves. Then Garrett clears his throat softly and reaches for the zipper of her hoodie.

“This one’s gonna suck,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

That’s somehow worse than if he had lied. “Okay.”

He unzips the bloodstained hoodie slowly, easing one side down her good arm first. That part is fine, or close enough. The bad shoulder is different. Even with the zip-up, even with him going painfully slowly, the fabric drags over the sore joint and catches near her elbow, and the strain of lifting even a fraction sends pain snapping hot and deep through her shoulder and up the side of her neck.

She makes a sound she hates. Small and broken enough that Garrett’s whole face changes.

“Stop, stop, stop,” he murmurs immediately. His hands freeze, one holding the fabric, the other at her waist. “I’ve got it. You’re okay. Don’t move.”

Her eyes burn fast. Too fast. The pain isn’t even the worst she has felt tonight, which somehow makes crying more insulting, like her body has chosen this as the point to become unreasonable. A few tears slip out anyway, hot and humiliating over her swollen cheeks.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

Garrett’s eyes flash. “Do not.”

“I know. I know, I’m just–” Her breath catches in that horrible little pre-sob way, and her face hurts too much to do anything with it. “It hurts.”

“I know.” His voice drops, low and steady. He shifts closer, bracing her gently with his own body while he works the sleeve down by tiny increments. “I know. I’m sorry. Almost done. There you go. Good girl. That’s it.”

The praise lands somewhere stupid and warm under all the pain, and she would make fun of him for weaponising it if she were not currently trying not to cry into his shirt. The hoodie finally comes free, and Garrett gets his zip-up around her without making her lift her arm higher than necessary, guiding the sore side in first, then the other, then drawing the soft fabric closed around her body. It smells like him immediately. Clean laundry, cold rink air, skin.

The relief of being out of the hospital clothes hits harder than she expects. She folds forward into him.

Garrett catches her like he has been waiting for it, one arm firm around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head before she can tip into the wrong angle. “There we go,” he murmurs into her hair. “Got you.”

She nods against him, but it’s barely a movement. “Hurts.”

“I know, baby.”

“I’m being a baby.”

“No.” His hand spreads over her back, broad and warm through the hoodie. “You’re being concussed with a fucked-up shoulder.”

She breathes against him for another minute, letting the warmth of him settle over the sharper edges. His heart is steady under her cheek. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe that’s just what she needs it to be. Either way, his arms stay around her until her breathing evens out, until the tears stop sliding hot under her eyes, until she can pull back without feeling like she might tip sideways into the nightstand.

Garrett helps her lie down against his pillows. He has her on her back at first, then adjusts when she makes a face, turning her slightly onto her good side with slow hands and a pillow tucked near her shoulder so it isn’t pulling strangely. He moves like he’s learning her injury as he goes, like the map of her pain matters enough to memorise. It makes something soft and sore press up behind her ribs.

When he climbs in beside her, he doesn’t pull her in immediately. He waits, lying on his side facing her, one arm bent under his head, the other resting near the blanket between them. Giving her space to decide how much contact feels possible. Which is very considerate of him and also deeply annoying because she has no interest in space.

She curls into him as best she can, awkwardly, her bad shoulder protected between them, her forehead carefully finding the safe hollow below his collarbone. Garrett lets out a breath that sounds like he has been holding it since the front door.

“There,” he says softly. “That okay?”

“Mhm.”

His hand comes to her hair again. Fingers sliding slowly from her temple back over her scalp, loosening what the clip and the shift and the panic left behind. The motion sends a dull, pleasant ache through her, somewhere under the headache, a different kind of heaviness.

She sighs before she can stop herself. “Feels nice.”

Garrett’s thumb moves near her hairline. “I’ll keep doing it then.”

She lets her eyes close.

For a while, the room stays still around them. The lamp glows behind her eyelids. The house below makes small, careful sounds, a cabinet closing softly, footsteps pausing in the hallway and then retreating, the quiet evidence of three hockey players trying very hard to be normal about the girl in Garrett’s bed with a concussion. 

Her head throbs anyway, steady and deep. Her lip pulses. Her shoulder aches in its own miserable rhythm. But Garrett’s hand keeps moving through her hair, slow enough that her breathing starts to follow it.

She’s almost asleep, or something near it, when Garrett speaks. “What happened?”

His voice is quiet. He asks like he’s been holding the question in both hands for too long and needs to set it somewhere.

She opens her eyes to the dark cotton of his shirt. Her brain takes a few seconds to come back online. She breathes out slowly through her mouth because her nose is still a disaster. 

The memory is there at once, too close and too bright around the edges, and her body reacts to it before the words arrive. Fingers curling lightly in the front of his shirt. Shoulder tightening, then complaining. The ghost of the rail coming up fast.

Garrett’s hand pauses in her hair. “You don’t have to.”

“No.” Her voice is quiet. “It’s okay.”

He starts moving his hand again, slower now.

“It was a psych patient,” she says. “He was really agitated. Not like… violent, at first. Just scared, I think. Curled in on himself, wouldn’t really let anyone near him. Maria was with me. We were trying to keep the room calm, but the ED was so busy and loud and everyone was stretched thin, and he just…” She stops, trying to find the order of it. Everything feels slippery when she looks too directly. “He lashed out. His elbow got me in the face. Accidentally, I think.”

Garrett’s chest goes very still under her cheek.

“And I cried out,” she continues. “I don’t know. It just hurt and it surprised me, and I think that freaked him out more. Or the noise did. Or maybe he just didn’t know what was happening.” She swallows. Her throat feels raw. “He grabbed my scrub top before I could move back. Pulled me forward. My nose hit the bed rail. Or my mouth did. I’m not sure. It happened really fast.”

Garrett’s arm tightens around her, then loosens immediately like he’s afraid of hurting her. His hand remains in her hair, but the fingers have gone still.

“Security came in,” she says. “Another nurse pulled me back. Steph, I think. Or maybe Maria. Both, maybe. I don’t know. I remember Maria saying my name a lot.” She looks down between them, though there is nothing to see but the dark fold of his shirt and the edge of his hoodie on her body. “He didn’t mean it.”

Garrett is quiet for long enough that she starts to wonder if he has stopped breathing.

Then he says, “You keep saying that.”

“He didn’t.”

“I know.” His voice is rough, scraped thin at the edges. “I know he didn’t, baby. I just…” He takes a breath. It moves carefully through his chest. “You got hurt anyway.”

The words land with the same awful simplicity as Maria’s had in the car. That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt. She closes her eyes, because everyone has decided to be kind in the exact way she cannot defend against.

“I know,” she whispers.

Garrett’s hand finally moves again, fingers sliding over her scalp, then down to the nape of her neck where he can touch without brushing bruised skin. “Is this how you feel?”

She opens her eyes. “What?”

“When I come home after a game all bruised and shit.” He shifts just enough that she can feel him looking down at her, though she doesn’t lift her head to meet it yet. “Is this what it feels like?”

A tiny breath leaves her. Not quite a laugh. More tired than that. “You mean do I also go weird and silent and look like I might throw up?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yeah.” Her fingers smooth over the fabric of his shirt because she needs something small to do. “Kind of, I guess.”

Garrett doesn’t answer.

She turns her face slightly, enough to look at the line of his jaw in the low light. He’s staring at the wall beyond her head, mouth set, brows drawn, hair falling messily over his forehead. He looks angry and young and helpless, which is such a strange combination on him that it makes her chest ache.

“It’s different,” she says softly. “You’re playing a game you love. You know the risks. I know that. And you guys are all… insane about pain, which I’ve accepted against my will.”

His mouth twitches without humour.

“But I don’t enjoy seeing you hurt.” Her voice goes quieter around the admission. “Even when it’s normal hockey hurt. Even when you’re smug about it and standing in the kitchen telling me it’s fine while your ribs look like someone used you as a doorstop. It still makes my stomach feel weird.”

Garrett’s eyes come down to her then. She tries to hold the look for a second and manages maybe half. His attention is too raw tonight. Too stripped of the things he usually wears over it.

“I know you’re tough,” she says, looking at his collar instead. “I know you can take it. I know half the time you think me worrying is funny or hot or both, because you have a very damaged sense of romance.”

“That’s fair.”

“But I still…” She frowns slightly, the thought losing shape, then finding it again. “I still hate it. Not because I think you’re weak. Because you’re not. Obviously. It’s just your body, you know? And I like your body.”

Garrett’s eyebrows lift faintly.

She narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to become insufferable.”

“Maybe a little.”

“I have a concussion. Be kind.”

His face softens again, the almost-tease folding back into something warmer. “I’m being so kind.”

“You’re doing okay.”

“Glowing review.”

She breathes out through her mouth, and for a moment the room feels almost normal. Almost. Garrett’s hand in her hair. His chest under her cheek. The two of them managing to find the familiar shape of each other even through the bruising and the blood and the fear still sitting somewhere near the foot of the bed.

Then Garrett’s thumb brushes the side of her head again, light and careful, and his voice drops. “I hated seeing you like that.”

She looks at him this time.

He doesn’t look away. His eyes are dark in the low light, all the usual teasing stripped out of them. “At the door,” he says. “I hated it.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” His mouth tightens, then releases. “You were standing there with blood on your face and Maria next to you and you looked at me like you were sorry. Like I was gonna be upset that you came here.”

Her throat works. “I didn’t want to be too much.”

Garrett makes a sound under his breath, small and rough. “You got hurt.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re allowed to be too much.”

The sentence is so simple it feels dangerous. Her eyes sting again, and she presses her face carefully into his chest before the tears can do anything stupid to her already stupid face.

Garrett’s arm comes around her, careful of her shoulder, his hand settling between her shoulder blades where he can hold without hurting. “Especially here,” he murmurs into her hair. “Especially with me.”

She doesn’t answer. She can’t, really. Not without crying, and crying hurts, and she’s tired of things hurting. So she only curls her fingers more tightly in his shirt and lets him keep his hand in her hair.

After a while, she says, very quietly, “I’m really tired.”

“I know.” Garrett kisses the top of her head. “You can sleep.”

“Logan set alarms.”

“Of course Logan set alarms.”

She manages the faintest smile. “He looked very serious.”

“He loves a protocol.”

“He does have the head injury experience.”

Garrett huffs a soft laugh against her hair, the sound loosening something in the dark. “Unfortunately.”

She lets her eyes close again. The headache is still there. The bruising is still swelling around her nose, hot and heavy. Her shoulder still aches beneath his hoodie. None of it has gone away.

But Garrett’s fingers keep moving through her hair, and his body is warm where hers has gone cold and wrung out, and downstairs the boys are quiet in a way that makes the whole house feel like it is holding its breath around her.

“Garrett?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“If I say something weird, it’s the concussion.”

His hand pauses for half a second. “Okay.”

“And if I say something nice.”

His mouth brushes her hair. “Also concussion?”

“Probably.”

“Got it.”

She’s quiet long enough that he likely thinks she’s drifted off. Maybe she has, a little. The edge of sleep is soft and close, pulling at the corners of the room, blurring the pain into something thick and manageable. Then she murmurs, “You’re good at this.”

Garrett’s chest rises slowly beneath her cheek. “At what?”

“Looking after me.”

His fingers resume their movement through her hair, slower than before. “Yeah?”

“Mm.”

His voice, when it comes, is barely more than warmth in the dark. “Only because you taught me how.”

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Scratch. Scratch.

You pull back, eyes widening slightly. “Oh no.”

Michael groans, dropping his head back against the pillow. “We locked him out.”

“We had to,” you say, already laughing. “He kept trying to climb on the bed.”

The scratching grows more insistent, nails clicking rhythmically against the door like he’s keeping time.

Michael rolls onto his side, still holding you, and presses a kiss to your temple. “He’s never going to forgive us.”

“Neither am I,” you say solemnly, then ruin it by laughing again.

The dog lets out a very put-upon huff from the other side of the door.

“Okay,” Michael calls, voice warm with affection. “We’re coming.”

You both sit up reluctantly, the cold air immediately unwelcome against your skin. You fumble for clothes, tugging on leggings and a hoodie, still grinning as Michael pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a shirt.

He opens the door and the dog barrels in like he’s been personally betrayed, circling the bed before skidding to a stop in front of you.

“Good morning to you too,” you say, scratching behind his ears. His tail thumps violently against the mattress.

Michael watches you for a second, something soft crossing his face. “You walk him today?”

You nod. “Your turn was yesterday.”

“Fair,” he says easily. “I’ll make breakfast.”

You perk up. “Eggs?”

“Eggs,” he confirms. “And coffee. Strong.”

You kiss him again, quick and affectionate, already reaching for the leash by the door. “You’re perfect.”

He snorts. “Don’t tell anyone.”

You step out into the hallway with the dog, keys in hand, phone sliding into your pocket out of habit. Behind you, the apartment fills with familiar sounds—cabinet doors, the kettle, Michael humming under his breath.

It feels like a promise.

The morning outside is cool and quiet, the sky still undecided. You let the dog lead, already thinking about coffee, about coming back inside, about how ordinary and good everything feels.

——

You settle the AirPods into your ears as soon as you clear the building.

They click into place with a familiar little chime, sealing you off just enough from the morning. You don’t even look at your phone when you hit play—whatever you were listening to last night picks up where it left off, loud and immediate, filling the space behind your eyes.

The dog tugs forward, eager now that you’ve committed to the walk. You adjust the leash around your wrist, zip your hoodie a little higher, and fall into step with him.

The beat is steady. Comforting. Something you know by heart.

You pass the first row of houses, curtains still drawn, porches dark. The music drowns out everything else—the distant hum of traffic, the soft scrape of your own footsteps, the world reduced to rhythm and breath and the gentle pull of the leash.

Your thoughts drift easily. To Michael in the kitchen. To the smell of coffee that’s probably already filling the apartment. To nothing in particular.

The dog stops to sniff. You slow automatically, scrolling absently on your phone while you wait, not really reading anything. A song change slips in without you noticing. Louder. Faster. You smile faintly, tucking the phone away again.

“Okay,” you say aloud, though you can’t hear your own voice. You give the leash a small tug and start walking again.

The sidewalk narrows ahead, the familiar stretch where the trees grow closer together. You angle slightly toward the street without thinking about it, making room where you always do. The music swells in your ears, bass vibrating lightly against your skull.

You make it half a block before the song changes.

The new one is fine—familiar enough—but it isn’t right. You slow a little, letting the dog drift ahead while you pull your phone back out of your pocket.

You scroll without really looking, thumb moving on muscle memory. Past songs you’ve overplayed. Past things that don’t fit the mood. Then you see it.

A song you haven’t heard in years.

You pause.

“Oh,” you murmur, a soft smile tugging at your mouth. You’d forgotten about this one. Forgotten how much you used to love it, how it used to live in your bones during a completely different version of your life.

You tap it.

The first few notes bloom in your ears, warm and immediate, and something in your chest loosens. The dog stops, distracted by a smell, and you don’t rush him. You stand there for a second longer than usual, letting the song settle in, letting the memory wash through you.

Michael would hate this one, you think fondly. Too slow. Too sentimental.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket and start walking again, the music swelling just a little louder as you do. The world narrows the way it always does when you’re really listening—beat, breath, leash in your hand.

You don’t hear footsteps behind you.

You don’t hear the change in pace, the subtle closing of distance. The song is doing its job too well, filling every corner of your attention.

There’s no warning.

No voice.

No shout.

No chance to turn around fully.

Just the sudden presence of someone too close—space collapsing in a way that doesn’t make sense—and then something presses hard over your mouth and nose.

The smell hits you first. Sharp. Foreign. Wrong.

Your body reacts before your thoughts do. You gasp instinctively, the sound muffled immediately, panic flaring hot and bright in your chest. Your free hand flies up, fingers clawing at fabric, at air, at anything.

Your phone slips from your pocket as you twist, clattering against the sidewalk near the curb. The screen lights briefly, the song still playing, bright and oblivious.

The leash jerks as the dog senses the sudden tension, startled by the change. He pulls forward hard, confused, trying to keep moving the way he always does.

Your feet stumble. Your balance goes. The song in your ears becomes too loud, too close, pounding against your skull as your thoughts scatter instead of lining up.

You try to breathe.

You can’t.

Your grip on the leash loosens as your body betrays you, strength draining too fast, limbs turning heavy and uncooperative. The world blurs at the edges, streetlights smearing into color.

The leash slides free.

The dog bolts, nails scraping as he takes off down the street, the sudden absence of his weight almost louder than the music still blasting in your ears.

Your vision tunnels. The pressure at your face doesn’t let up. Everything tilts, slips out of sequence, fragments breaking away before you can hold onto them.

You catch one last clear image before it all dissolves—

your phone on the pavement, face down, the song you’d almost forgotten still playing to no one—

and then the morning disappears completely.

——

The dog scratches at the door first.

Michael barely looks up. He’s flipping an egg in the pan, coffee already brewing, the apartment warm in that early-morning way that feels earned. He checks the clock on the stove out of habit.

Too fast.

“That was quick,” he calls, distracted. “You cut it short?”

The scratching turns frantic.

Michael frowns and sets the spatula down. He wipes his hands on a towel as he crosses the kitchen, already pulling the door open—

—and the dog barrels inside alone.

Leash dragging. Breathing hard. Eyes wide and unfocused.

Michael stops short.

“Hey,” he says automatically, scanning the hallway, the kitchen, the bedroom beyond. “Where is she?”

The dog spins once, nails skittering on the floor, then bolts back toward the door like he expects it to open again if he tries hard enough.

Michael’s stomach tightens.

He crouches and grabs the leash. It’s twisted, scuffed near the handle, cold like it’s been outside longer than it should have been.

“She probably ran into someone,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

He grabs his phone and calls you as he steps outside, barefoot on the cold concrete.

It rings.

Voicemail.

He doesn’t stop moving.

Michael starts down the block, following the route you always take—past the houses with the porch lights still on, past the corner where you always slow because the dog pulls. He keeps the phone to his ear, calling again before the first call has even fully ended.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “Pick up.”

Nothing.

His pace quickens, eyes scanning the sidewalk automatically. He tells himself a story as he walks: maybe you dropped your phone. Maybe it died. Maybe you took a call and set it down without thinking.

Then he sees it.

Your phone is lying near the curb, face down, right where the sidewalk narrows.

Michael’s heart jumps, sharp and sudden—but not panic yet. Just surprise. Relief, even.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Okay.”

He bends and picks it up, already thinking about how you’re going to be annoyed you have to come back for it.

His thumb hovers over the glass. He flips it over, checks the case. There’s a fresh scrape along the edge. Small. Easy to miss. Not there yesterday.

He looks up.

The street is empty.

No open doors.

No people at the windows.

No movement except the dog pulling anxiously at the leash, whining low in his throat.

He turns in a slow circle, scanning harder now, eyes sharp, heart starting to pound. “Hey!” he calls, louder. Your name echoes down the block and comes back to him unchanged.

Nothing answers.

Michael pulls his phone back out with hands that are no longer steady. He doesn’t pace. He doesn’t run. He stands exactly where he is, staring at the empty stretch of sidewalk ahead like it might correct itself if he waits long enough.

It doesn’t.

He dials three numbers without looking.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“My—” His voice breaks on the first word. He swallows hard and tries again. “My girlfriend is missing. She was walking our dog this morning. The dog came home alone, and I just found her phone on the sidewalk.”

There’s a pause. The operator’s voice stays calm.

“Sir, can you tell me your address?”

Michael gives it automatically, eyes still locked on the road you always take, the leash wrapped too tight around his wrist.

“Yes,” he says, breath shaking now. “Yes. She—she wouldn’t leave her phone. She wouldn’t do this.”

The dog whines again, tugging forward like he wants to keep going.

Michael doesn’t move.

He stands there, phone pressed to his ear, staring at the quiet street, already knowing—without having language for it yet—that something is very, very wrong.

——

The first patrol car arrives fast.

Lights, but no siren. It pulls up slow at the curb like it doesn’t want to startle anything that might still be nearby. Michael doesn’t remember stepping back onto the sidewalk, only that suddenly there are two officers in front of him and the dog is tangled anxiously around his legs.

They ask his name.

They ask hers.

They ask what she was wearing.

Michael answers automatically, voice steadier than he feels. He hands over her phone when they ask for it, watches one of them turn it over in his hands, thumb hovering just like Michael’s had.

Unlocked.

The look they exchange is brief, professional. Controlled.

One of them radios something in. Another starts walking the block slowly, eyes on the ground, scanning the curb, the street, the spaces between parked cars.

“Has she ever left before?” one of them asks gently.

“No,” Michael says immediately. “Never.”

They nod. Write it down.

They ask about the route. Michael walks it with them, pointing without thinking—here, this corner, this stretch where the sidewalk narrows. The dog pulls ahead, insistent, confused, like he’s trying to finish something that didn’t get finished.

They find very little.

No witnesses.

No cameras that catch anything useful.

No answers that stick.

By the time more units arrive, the morning has fully woken up around them. Neighbors come out onto porches. Someone offers Michael a jacket. He doesn’t remember taking it.

They tell him they’ll keep searching. They tell him they’ll be in touch. They tell him what they can without saying what they can’t.

No one says dead.

They say missing.

——

The first night is the worst because there’s nowhere to put the waiting.

Michael doesn’t sleep. He sits on the edge of the bed with his back against the headboard, the dog curled tight against his thigh like he’s guarding something. Every sound outside makes his head lift. Every car door. Every voice in the hallway. He keeps his phone in his hand, screen dimmed but on, battery draining slowly because he won’t let it die.

He tells himself he’s just staying alert.

At midnight, he gets up and checks the lock.

At one, he checks again.

At two, he realizes the porch light is still on and leaves it that way.

Her side of the bed is cold.

He doesn’t move her pillow. He presses his palm into the empty space where her shoulder should be and keeps it there longer than makes sense.

Around three, he stands in the kitchen staring at the whiteboard on the fridge.

back soon.

He doesn’t erase it.

⸻

Morning comes anyway.

The dog wakes him by licking his hand, tail wagging cautiously, hopeful. Michael startles awake like he’s been dropped into the room from somewhere else. For half a second, his brain insists that you’re in the bathroom, that this is all delayed, that he just has to wait a moment longer.

Then the quiet settles back in.

He pours coffee and forgets to drink it. He pours another and leaves it on the counter where yours always goes. The dog sits by the door, leash in his mouth, eyes bright.

Michael swallows hard and clips it on.

He walks the route slowly. Painfully. Every step feels like trespassing on something that isn’t his anymore. People pass him and don’t look twice. The world keeps its schedule.

When he gets home, there’s a voicemail from a detective. Neutral. Polite. Nothing new.

He deletes it by accident and panics for a full minute before realizing he remembers every word anyway.

⸻

His first shift without her feels wrong before he even gets there.

He stands in the locker room longer than usual, staring at his badge like it might have changed overnight. Langdon finds him there, leaning against the lockers, arms crossed.

“You don’t have to be here,” Langdon says.

Michael shakes his head. “I do.”

They don’t talk about it again.

In the ED, muscle memory takes over. Charts. Vitals. Orders. He functions because he has to. He keeps expecting his phone to buzz in his pocket with a message that starts with they found her.

It doesn’t.

Dana hands him a coffee halfway through the shift without a word. He almost thanks her and stops himself when his voice doesn’t come out right.

A patient asks him if he’s okay.

He lies without thinking.

⸻

At home, the nights stretch.

He leaves the TV on for noise. For company. He flips past shows you watched together and can’t stop his hand fast enough. He eats standing up because sitting at the table feels like admitting something.

The dog sleeps on your side of the bed now.

Michael lets him.

⸻

A week passes. Then another.

The café down the street still remembers his order. They still ask, “Two today?” and then wince when they see his face. Eventually, they stop asking. They leave the extra mug on the shelf behind the counter like they’re saving it for later.

Michael keeps sitting at the same table. The one by the window. He watches the door open and close until he can predict the rhythm of it.

⸻

The first time your favorite show comes on without you, he doesn’t realize what day it is until the theme song starts.

He’s halfway through folding laundry when he hears it from the living room. The sound freezes him in place. He stands there holding one of your t-shirts, fingers digging into the fabric like it might anchor him.

You were excited for this season. You’d talked about it for weeks. You made him promise not to watch it without you.

Michael turns the TV off.

He sits on the couch in the dark with the dog’s head on his knee and stares at the blank screen until the episode would have ended.

He doesn’t turn it back on.

⸻

The cops call less often.

When they do, their language shifts in small ways Michael pretends not to notice. Still looking. No new leads. We’ll keep you updated.

Dana never asks if he’s holding up. She just keeps his schedule light and his coffee full.

Langdon snaps at anyone who uses the past tense.

The dog keeps waiting by the door.

⸻

Two months pass like this.

Not in a straight line. In fragments. In habits that refuse to die. In mornings where Michael wakes up reaching for someone who isn’t there and nights where he doesn’t bother turning the lights off anymore.

He doesn’t stop believing.

He just gets quieter about it.

And then, on an ordinary afternoon in the ED, The radio crackles while Dana is mid-sentence.

“Inbound trauma—Jane Doe—ETA three.”

Dana’s hand stills on the desk. She doesn’t look surprised. She never does.

“Say again,” she says, already turning.

“Adult female. Found roadside. Altered mental status. Severe dehydration and malnutrition. Multiple contusions. Hypotensive and tachycardic.”

Dana nods once. “Copy.”

She’s already moving—calling it without ceremony. “Trauma One. Clear it. Warm fluids. Rapid infuser ready. Lab, respiratory, ICU page now.”

She turns and finds Dr. Robby right where she expects him to be—too close, too still, listening too hard.

“This is ugly,” she says, low. “You want in?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Dana replies. 

The gurney clears the ambulance bay doors and everything clicks into place at once.

Dana is at the foot of the bed. Dr. Robby is right beside her. They both see the same thing at the same time.

It doesn’t take a second look.

Even bruised. Even swollen. Even hollowed out.

It’s Y/N.

Dana doesn’t say it out loud. She doesn’t need to. The recognition moves through the room like a current—silent, immediate, undeniable. Hands don’t stop moving. Voices don’t rise. The trauma doesn’t pause.

Dana turns on her heel.

“Dr. Robby—off the case.”

No explanation. No softening. Just protocol.

Robby doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t step away either.

Dr. Langdon is already moving, sliding into place like this was rehearsed. He takes the position without comment, voice steady, eyes sharp.

“I’ve got it,” Langdon says. Not to Robby. To the room.

The attending nods once and keeps going.

“Airway?”

“Patent,” respiratory answers immediately. “Protecting, but sluggish.”

“Oxygen stays. Monitor closely.”

Dana is back in motion, snapping orders like muscle memory. “Trauma One continues. Two large-bore IVs. Warm fluids. Bair Hugger. Labs now.”

Robby is still standing where he was.

“Robby,” Dana says again—firmer this time. “Step back.”

“I’m not leaving,” he says quietly. Not defiant. Not emotional. Just factual.

The room tightens—but it doesn’t fracture.

Langdon steps between them just enough to block Robby from the bed without making it a scene. “Corner,” he says low. “You stay. You don’t touch. You don’t speak unless spoken to.”

A beat.

Robby exhales through his nose and moves to the corner of the room, back to the wall, hands clenched at his sides.

The trauma keeps moving.

⸻

“BP?” Langdon asks.

“Seventy-six systolic,” a nurse answers. “Heart rate one-thirty-eight.”

“Hypovolemic,” Langdon says. “Warm LR, wide open. Don’t start pressors yet—give volume first.”

“Veins are flat,” another nurse says, tourniquet snapping loose.

“Ultrasound,” Langdon replies instantly. “Don’t fish.”

Gel. Probe. A vessel ghosts onto the screen.

“Needle in… flash,” the nurse says, relief sharp. “We’re in.”

“Tubes,” Dana calls. “CBC, CMP, lactate, CK, coags, mag, phos, ABG. Type and cross.”

Blood fills the vials slowly—dark, viscous.

“Glucose?”

“Fifty-eight.”

“D50 now,” Langdon orders. “Then D5 infusion. She’s starving.”

Blankets go on. The Bair Hugger hums to life. Warmed fluids run fast.

As clothing is cut away—carefully, efficiently—the extent of it becomes unavoidable.

Cachectic.

Dry mucous membranes.

Bruising in multiple stages.

A split brow.

Raw wrists.

Hands scraped down to the knuckles.

No one comments.

They document.

“FAST exam,” a resident says, already scanning. “RUQ negative. LUQ negative. Pelvis clear.”

“Good,” Langdon replies. “Foley.”

“Minimal output,” the nurse reports moments later. “Dark.”

“Pre-renal AKI until proven otherwise,” Langdon says. “Watch creatinine. Watch CK. She’s at risk for rhabdo.”

“Temp thirty-five point one,” respiratory adds.

“Keep warming.”

Robby watches every number from the corner, jaw locked so tight it aches.

⸻

Her eyes flutter open.

Not awake. Not oriented. Just enough.

Her breathing spikes instantly—sharp, panicked, shallow. Heart rate jumps.

Before anyone can redirect her, her gaze finds him.

“Michael,” she whispers. Hoarse. Fractured. “Michael—”

The room stills for half a breath.

Robby takes one step forward and stops himself.

“I’m here,” he says, voice low and steady because it has to be. “I’ve got you.”

Her breathing stutters. Slows—just a little.

“BP eighty-four systolic,” a nurse calls.

“She’s responding,” Langdon says. “Low-dose anxiolytic. Gentle. Don’t drop her pressure.”

Medication is given carefully. Precisely.

Her eyes close again, lashes wet.

“She’s not stable for recall,” Langdon adds. “We don’t push questions.”

Dana nods. “SANE is here.”

The SANE nurse stands back, calm, unobtrusive. “We’ll document injuries. Evidence collection waits for consent.”

“Pregnancy test?” Langdon asks.

“Sent.”

“Baseline STI labs?”

“Sent,” Dana confirms.

“CT head and C-spine as soon as she can tolerate transport,” Langdon orders. “Then ICU.”

Robby doesn’t move from the corner.

He watches her chest rise and fall.

Alive.

And that is enough—for now.

——

They don’t move her until her pressure holds.

Not perfect—just enough.

“BP ninety-two systolic,” the nurse calls after the second fluid bolus finishes. “Heart rate one-twenty-eight.”

“Good enough to travel,” Langdon says. “Barely. Respiratory, you’re with us. Dana, I want eyes on the monitor the whole time.”

Robby stays in the corner as they prep her for transport. He watches them secure lines, double-check tubing, tuck blankets back around her like they’re afraid of losing heat if they blink.

She doesn’t wake again.

The CT hallway is quieter than the trauma bay, the chaos replaced with a low mechanical hum. The scanner waits like a mouth held open.

“Head and C-spine only,” Langdon reminds the team. “We don’t pan-scan unless she crashes.”

They slide her over carefully. The table moves. The machine whirs to life.

Robby stands just outside the room, arms folded tight across his chest, eyes never leaving the window. He watches the images scroll across the monitor in gray slices that don’t mean anything to him unless someone tells him they do.

The radiology tech’s voice is calm. Routine. “Hold still. You’re doing great.”

She doesn’t respond.

The scans finish quickly.

Langdon leans in to review the images as they load.

“CT head negative for acute bleed,” he says after a moment. “No midline shift. No skull fracture.”

Robby’s breath leaves him in a rush he can’t control.

“C-spine?” Dana asks.

“Alignment intact. No acute fracture. We’ll keep the collar until she’s more awake, but this looks clean.”

They move her back onto the gurney.

“Okay,” Langdon says. “Back to the bay. ICU’s ready.”

⸻

The labs start coming back as they roll.

Dana reads them off the screen, voice steady but clipped.

“Lactate four point two.”

Langdon grimaces. “Consistent with hypovolemia.”

“Creatinine one point nine,” Dana continues. “Baseline unknown.”

“AKI,” Langdon says. “Pre-renal. We hydrate.”

“CK eighteen hundred.”

Robby closes his eyes for half a second.

“Rhabdo risk,” Langdon says. “Keep fluids running. Watch urine output.”

“Glucose now eighty-nine after D50.”

“Good. Keep the D5 going.”

“Magnesium one point four.”

“Low. Replace.”

“Phosphorus two point zero.”

Langdon nods slowly. “Refeeding risk confirmed. Thiamine on board before we give her anything substantial.”

“Coags normal,” Dana adds. “CBC shows mild anemia. White count slightly elevated.”

“Stress response,” Langdon says. “No signs of infection yet, but we watch.”

They wheel her toward the ICU elevator.

The doors open.

Robby hesitates.

Dana looks at him once. “You’re allowed upstairs.”

He nods, mute.

⸻

The ICU is colder. Quieter. Every sound feels amplified.

They transfer her into the bed with practiced care, hooking her back up to monitors that beep softer here—less frantic, but no less watchful.

The ICU attending listens to Langdon’s handoff without interruption.

“Adult female, prolonged starvation and dehydration, hypovolemic shock,” Langdon summarizes. “AKI, rhabdo risk, hypoglycemia corrected, hypothermia improving. Head CT negative. High risk for refeeding syndrome. She’s also a staff member.”

The ICU attending nods once. “Got it.”

Orders flow smoothly:

• Continuous cardiac monitoring

• Strict I&Os

• Electrolytes q6h

• Thiamine daily

• Slow nutrition initiation when appropriate

• Psych consult when medically stable

Robby stands at the foot of the bed, hands shoved into his pockets because he doesn’t trust them not to shake.

“She can have one visitor,” the attending says, glancing at him. “If she tolerates it.”

Robby doesn’t answer. He just moves closer, stopping at the bedside like he’s afraid to cross an invisible line.

⸻

She wakes hours later.

Not all at once.

First her fingers twitch—subtle, almost imperceptible. Then her brow furrows, confusion knitting across her face before her eyes open.

The ceiling isn’t the one she expects.

Her breath catches instantly.

Her heart rate jumps on the monitor.

“Hey,” Robby says softly, leaning in before anyone can stop him. “Hey. It’s okay.”

Her eyes dart wildly—lights, machines, unfamiliar walls—panic climbing fast.

“No,” she whispers, voice barely there. “No, no—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know. Just look at me.”

Her gaze snaps to his face.

For a second, she just stares at him like he might disappear if she blinks.

“Michael,” she breathes.

He nods, tears spilling freely now. “Yeah. I’m here.”

Her chest heaves. Her hands shake weakly against the sheets.

“He—” she starts, then breaks off, shaking her head hard like she’s trying to dislodge something. “I can’t— I can’t—”

“I know,” Robby says again. “You don’t have to tell me anything. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital. I’ve got you.”

She swallows hard, eyes shining. “I thought—” Her voice fractures. “I thought you stopped looking.”

Robby’s chest caves in.

“I never stopped,” he says. “Not for a second.”

Her breathing slows—not normal, but steadier.

A nurse watches the monitor closely. “Heart rate’s coming down.”

Robby reaches out, hesitates, then looks to the nurse.

She nods once.

He takes her hand gently, like she might shatter if he grips too hard.

She squeezes back with what little strength she has.

“Don’t leave,” she whispers.

“I won’t,” he promises, voice thick. “I’m right here.”

Her eyes close again—not from medication this time, but exhaustion finally overtaking panic.

Robby stays where he is, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles into the back of her hand, counting her breaths with his own.

She’s alive.

She’s here.

And now—finally—the hard part begins.

——

The first few days home feel almost manageable, in the way things do when you’re running on adrenaline you don’t know is borrowed.

Michael stays with you constantly. He sleeps light, wakes at every sound, keeps his phone face-up on the table like he’s waiting for a call that never comes. You follow instructions because following instructions is familiar. You take the meds when he hands them to you. You eat when he sits across from you and doesn’t look away until you do. You let him sit in the bathroom while you shower, the door cracked open, the curtain never fully closed.

You tell yourself this is temporary.

You even correct him once, automatically, when he misreads a label on a bottle. The words come out before you can stop them, clinical and precise, and for a split second something like relief flickers across your chest.

See? You’re still here.

The nights are bad, but survivable. You wake gasping, heart racing, sheets tangled around your legs, and Michael is there every time—already moving, already grounding you. He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t say too much. He just anchors you until your breathing slows enough to count again.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper afterward, every time.

He always shakes his head. “You don’t have to be.”

You almost believe him.

⸻

By the end of the first week, the pattern settles in.

The panic attacks stop needing a reason.

Sometimes it’s the shower—water hitting tile too loud, too close, your chest tightening until you’re crouched on the floor with your arms wrapped around yourself, breath coming in sharp, useless bursts. Sometimes it’s the dark. Sometimes it’s nothing at all.

You’ll be standing in the kitchen and suddenly the room feels wrong. Too far away. Too sharp. Your hands go numb. Your vision tunnels.

Michael learns the signs before you do.

He’ll be beside you before you realize you’ve stopped breathing properly. “Hey,” he says, low and steady. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. I’ve got you.”

Sometimes it works.

Sometimes you end up on the floor anyway, shaking so hard your teeth chatter, staring at the same spot on the wall because it’s the only thing that feels solid.

You hate that he sees this version of you.

You hate that you need him to.

The nights get worse. You fall asleep for minutes at a time, then jolt awake convinced you’re not alone. Your heart slams so hard it hurts. Sweat soaks the sheets. You cling to Michael’s shirt like he might vanish if you let go.

He never complains.

He just gets quieter.

⸻

Around day eight, something shifts.

It isn’t dramatic. Nothing explodes.

Michael gets an email while he’s making coffee. You don’t see the screen, but you see his shoulders tense, just slightly. He turns his phone face down when he notices you watching.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says immediately. Too immediately. “Just work stuff.”

Later, you hear him on the phone in the bedroom, voice low. You’re not trying to listen, but your brain catches words anyway.

“Extended leave… yeah… no, I understand… reassess later.”

Reassess.

The word sticks.

That afternoon, you try to read a medical article. Just one. Something familiar. You make it three paragraphs in before your chest tightens and the words start blurring together. Your heart rate spikes for no reason you can name, and suddenly you can’t remember what you just read.

You close the tab.

Your hands are shaking.

Michael comes home early that day. He doesn’t say why. He doesn’t have to. You see it in the way he moves—slower, heavier, like gravity’s been turned up.

That night, you sit on the couch while he showers and realize you can’t remember the last time you felt competent.

Not calm. Not safe.

Competent.

The thought lands quietly and doesn’t leave.

I will never be a doctor again.

It isn’t hysterical. It isn’t loud.

It feels factual.

⸻

After that, everything reframes itself around the loss.

You watch Michael get dressed for work and feel something twist in your chest—not jealousy exactly, but grief. He has a place to go. A role that still fits. A version of himself that still makes sense.

You stay on the couch.

You start apologizing more.

“I’m sorry,” when he cancels plans.

“I’m sorry,” when he reheats dinner because you couldn’t eat it the first time.

“I’m sorry,” when you wake him from another nightmare.

He tells you to stop.

You can’t.

One night, you wake up and find him asleep sitting upright, head tipped back against the couch, phone still in his hand. You stare at him for a long time before gently taking it from his fingers and setting it on the table.

He looks exhausted.

Not resentful. Not angry.

Just tired in a way that scares you.

Something settles in your chest then, heavy and unmoving.

I am what’s wrong now.

You don’t say it out loud. You don’t cry.

You just carry it.

⸻

The night it becomes too much is quiet.

No nightmare. No argument. No obvious trigger.

Michael falls asleep on the couch beside you, one arm draped loosely over your legs. The apartment hums softly around you—the fridge, the heater, the distant sound of traffic.

Your heart starts racing anyway.

You press your palm to your chest, try to ground yourself the way you’ve been taught. Name five things you can see. Four things you can touch.

It doesn’t work.

Your thoughts don’t spiral. They flatten.

This isn’t recovery.

This is just existing forever.

He deserves better than this.

You stare at the wall until it feels unreal.

Slowly, carefully, you ease yourself out from under Michael’s arm so you don’t wake him. He shifts but doesn’t open his eyes.

You stand there for a moment, steadying yourself.

Then you walk down the hall.

——

The bathroom light hums faintly overhead.

It’s too bright. Too quiet.

You sit on the closed toilet lid with your elbows on your knees, staring at your hands like they belong to someone else. They’re shaking—not violently, just enough to notice. Enough to make you press them together, fingers lacing tight.

Your thoughts are still calm.

That’s the part that scares you.

There’s no panic. No racing heart. Just a deep, bone-heavy certainty settling into place.

I will never be a doctor again.

I will never be me again.

It doesn’t feel like grief anymore. It feels like a conclusion.

You stand slowly, careful not to make noise, and turn toward the sink. The mirror catches you by accident—too thin, too pale, eyes too large for your face. You look like someone who survived something, but not like someone who gets to keep living afterward.

Your gaze drops.

The blade is already there.

You don’t remember when you brought it in. You don’t remember deciding. You just know your fingers close around it, metal cool against your skin, grounding in a way nothing else has been lately.

Your breathing stays shallow. Measured.

I don’t want to die, you think distantly.

I just can’t live like this.

You raise your hand.

Just a little.

That’s when the quiet breaks.

“Hey.”

Michael’s voice is soft, but it lands like a shock through your entire body.

Your arm jerks back instinctively, the blade clattering against the sink as you spin toward the doorway. Your breath rips out of you in a sharp gasp, heart slamming violently now, panic flooding in too late.

He’s standing there barefoot, eyes locked on you—not angry, not loud, just utterly terrified.

For a second, neither of you move.

Then his gaze drops.

To your wrist.

To the blade.

“Oh my god,” he breathes.

Your knees buckle.

You slide down the wall before you can stop yourself, sob tearing out of your chest as everything you’ve been holding together finally collapses. Michael crosses the room in two strides, dropping to the floor in front of you, one hand gently but firmly closing around your wrist—not restraining, just anchoring.

“Hey,” he says again, voice breaking now. “Hey, look at me.”

“I didn’t—” You can’t get the words out. You shake your head hard, tears blurring everything. “I wasn’t— I just—”

“I know,” he says immediately. “I know.”

He carefully takes the blade from your slack fingers and sets it out of reach without a word, without making it a thing. Then his arms are around you, solid and warm and real, pulling you into his chest as you break completely.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you sob into his shoulder. “I can’t sleep, I can’t work, I can’t be alone—I’m never going to be me again.”

Michael’s grip tightens just enough for you to feel it. “You don’t have to be her right now,” he says, voice rough. “You just have to be here.”

“I’m ruining your life,” you choke. “You’re exhausted. You’re giving up everything for me.”

He presses his forehead into your hair, breath shuddering. “You are not ruining anything. You’re alive. And I want you alive—even like this. Especially like this.”

You cling to him like a lifeline, body shaking uncontrollably as the reality of what almost happened crashes over you. Michael rocks you gently, murmuring your name over and over until your breathing slows enough to count again.

“I don’t want to die,” you whisper finally, voice small and broken. “I just don’t want to live like this.”

“I know,” he says softly. “And we won’t do it alone. Not tonight. Not ever.”

You stay there on the bathroom floor, wrapped up in him, tears soaking his shirt, the world narrowed down to the sound of his heartbeat and the fact that you’re still breathing.

You let the silence stretch for a second, comfortable and full. The candle between you flickers, reflected in his eyes.

“You were such an ass at first,” you say fondly.

He pretends to look wounded. “I was reserved.”

“You were emotionally unavailable.”

“I was cautious.”

“You ghosted me for three days.”

“I was busy.”

“You were scared.”

That one lands.

He doesn’t deny it. Just smiles a little, softer now.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I was.”

You reach across the table without thinking, fingers brushing his. He lets you take his hand, thumb pressing gently against your knuckles.

“I’m glad you didn’t run,” you say.

“Me too,” he says, quietly. “I don’t think I would’ve forgiven myself if I had.”

You laugh lightly, shaking your head. “You would’ve survived.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I wouldn’t have you.”

That still hits, even three years in.

You talk about everything after that — your favorite memories, the moments that feel small until you say them out loud.

The night you stayed up until four in the morning talking about nothing and everything.

The first time he fell asleep on your couch.

The way he always pretends he doesn’t care which movie you pick but absolutely does.

The way you hum without realizing it when you’re focused.

“I love that you do that,” he says at one point, smiling.

“Do what?”

“That thing,” he says. “When you’re concentrating. You hum. Like you’re tuning yourself.”

You wrinkle your nose. “I do not.”

“You do.”

“You’re lying.”

He laughs. “I swear. It’s my favorite thing.”

You shake your head, embarrassed but pleased, warmth blooming in your chest. “I love that you notice dumb stuff like that.”

“It’s not dumb,” he says. “It’s you.”

The waiter comes by at some point — you barely notice — refilling water, asking if you want dessert later. Michael says yes without looking at you, already knowing the answer.

Eventually, conversation drifts the way it always does when you’ve run through the past and lingered there long enough.

Michael leans back slightly, studying you.

“So,” he says, casual again. “Hawaii.”

Your face lights up immediately. “Oh my god.”

“We keep saying we’re going to do it,” he continues. “I feel like if we don’t actually plan it, it’s just gonna stay hypothetical forever.”

You nod enthusiastically. “Okay, yes. Agreed.”

He smiles. “So when?”

You don’t even hesitate.

“Okay, so if we go in October instead of September—”

The words come easily at first. Familiar. Comfortable. You’re leaning forward now, elbows on the table, hands moving as you talk.

“—it’s still warm, but not like… unbearable. And it’s less crowded. Plus flights are cheaper.”

Michael watches you the way he always does when you get excited — fond, amused, completely present.

“Because then we’d have more—”

You pause, just barely.

“—more—”

Your mouth stutters on the word.

You don’t stop.

“Oh jeez,” you mutter under your breath, waving it off, already pushing forward. “Anyway—”

Michael’s smile flickers, almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t interrupt.

You keep going.

“We could stay near the—uh—the place with the—”

You gesture vaguely, fingers circling as if the word might appear if you coax it hard enough.

“And then we could do, like… the whole island thing from there.”

You laugh lightly, automatically, the way you always do when a thought slips away.

Michael nods, but his eyes don’t leave your face.

“Yeah,” he says. “That makes sense.”

Encouraged, you continue — because talking has never been something you’ve had to think about before.

“And if we do it when the—”

You stop.

It’s subtle. Just a hitch. But it’s there.

“If we do it when the…”

The sentence doesn’t finish.

You blink, frown slightly, then try again.

“We could, um—if the—if we go when the—”

Your brow furrows. You shake your head once, like the thought is right there and you just can’t quite grab it.

Michael leans forward a little.

“You good?” he asks, gently.

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just—”

The word catches.

“—I’m just—”

You trail off, laugh softly, a little breathless. “Sorry. My brain’s just jumping ahead.”

You take a sip of your drink, buying yourself a second, then set it down and try again.

“The flying—no—the car—when we—”

The words come out wrong.

You stop mid-sentence.

This time, you don’t laugh.

You open your mouth again, determined — and what comes out doesn’t sound like what you meant at all.

Michael’s chair shifts quietly as he moves closer, concern sharpening behind his eyes.

“Hey,” he says.

You look at him, relief flickering through you, and try to answer.

Your voice betrays you.

And somewhere deep in your chest, something cold begins to spread.

Michael doesn’t panic. Not outwardly. He leans in instead, forearms resting on the table now, his voice dropping until it feels like it’s meant only for you.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Hey. Look at me for a second.”

You do. Of course you do.

“Can you squeeze my hands for me?”

You blink at him.

There’s a flicker of irritation, instinctive and sharp, cutting through the fear. This feels like too much. Like he’s being dramatic. Like he’s slipping into work when you need him to just be him.

“C’mon,” you say — or you try to. It comes out mostly right. Close enough. “Really?”

You give him a look, half exasperated, half pleading. Not now.

Michael doesn’t smile. Doesn’t argue.

“Squeeze them,” he says, quiet but firm.

Something in his tone makes you do it.

You reach across the table and curl your fingers around his hands. His skin is warm. Solid. Familiar.

You squeeze.

You don’t notice anything wrong.

Michael does.

His thumb presses gently into your knuckles, like he’s confirming something he already knows. His face doesn’t change, but his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Okay,” he says, keeping his voice even. “Good.”

That alone makes your stomach twist.

He lifts his gaze back to your face.

“Smile for me?”

You just stare at him.

Flat. Unamused.

He gives you a look — not annoyed, not panicked. Just steady. Waiting.

You sigh, a sharp breath through your nose, and humor him.

You smile.

Only one side of your face moves.

You feel it immediately.

The wrongness of it. The pull that isn’t there. The way your cheek doesn’t answer the command the way it always has.

Your smile drops.

Your breath stutters.

You try again — smaller this time, tentative.

Still wrong.

Your hand tightens around his, fingers trembling now.

“Oh—” you try to say.

Nothing coherent comes out.

Your chest tightens, panic slamming into you all at once, hot and suffocating. Tears spring to your eyes as you shake your head, like you can physically undo whatever is happening if you just try hard enough.

Michael is already moving.

He reaches for your wrist, grounding, firm but gentle, thumb pressing into your pulse.

“Hey,” he says immediately. “Look at me.”

You do. Desperately.

“It’s okay,” he continues, slow and controlled. “I’ve got you. Don’t try to talk.”

You try anyway. Instinctively. Fearfully.

It only makes it worse.

Your breathing turns shallow. Fast. Your vision blurs.

Michael squeezes your hand once — a promise, not a test this time.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I know.”

He lifts his head just long enough to catch someone nearby — a waiter, a stranger, you don’t know.

“Can someone call an ambulance,” he says, calm and unmistakably serious. “Now.”

Then his attention is right back on you.

“Stay with me,” he says softly. “Just stay with me.”

Michael’s hand is still on your wrist when the room begins to rearrange itself around you.

Chairs scrape back. Someone’s voice rises, sharp with urgency, then another, quieter, trying to soothe. The candle on your table wobbles as the surface vibrates with movement, the flame guttering but refusing to go out.

You’re aware of everything and nothing at the same time.

Michael keeps his body angled toward you, like a shield, his thumb pressing steady into your skin — a rhythm. A tether.

“Look at me,” he says again, low, deliberate. “Just me.”

You try to nod. You’re not sure if it works.

Your mouth opens. Something broken spills out.

Tears blur your vision.

“It’s okay,” he says, immediately. “You don’t need to talk. You’re doing great.”

The sirens arrive before you realize someone actually called. Distant at first, then too loud, then suddenly right there — red light bleeding through the restaurant windows in uneven pulses. The noise slices through the haze in your head, sharp and wrong.

Michael squeezes your hand once.

“They’re here,” he says. “You’re okay.”

Two paramedics move in quickly, efficient, already assessing before they even speak. One crouches beside you, eyes kind but focused. The other looks to Michael.

“What’s going on?”

Michael doesn’t hesitate.

“Twenty-seven-year-old female,” he says, voice steady despite the way his jaw tightens. “Acute onset aphasia. Started with stuttering, progressed to word-finding difficulty, then nonsensical speech. Right-sided facial droop. Right hand weakness.”

You hear yourself described like a case. Like a chart.

You want to interrupt. To say you’re right here. That you can hear them. That you’re scared.

Nothing usable comes out.

“No known allergies,” Michael continues. “No prior medical history. No history of strokes. Only known family history is maternal grandfather — single ischemic event in his seventies.”

The paramedic nods, already slipping a blood pressure cuff around your arm.

“When did symptoms start?”

Michael glances at his watch. “Approximately fifteen minutes ago.”

You feel the squeeze on your arm, the tightness, the pressure. Numbers are exchanged above your head. A pulse oximeter clips onto your finger. Someone shines a light in your eyes.

You flinch.

“It’s okay,” Michael murmurs. “I’m here.”

They lift you gently, carefully, onto the stretcher. The movement makes the room tilt again, nausea rolling through you, panic spiking as the floor pulls away.

You grab at Michael’s sleeve.

He’s right there. Always.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. “I’m coming with you.”

The ambulance doors close with a final, hollow thud.

Inside, everything is brighter. Louder. Cold.

The siren starts again, vibrating through your bones as the vehicle lurches forward. One of the paramedics is talking to you now — asking simple questions, voice exaggeratedly calm.

“Can you tell me your name?”

You try.

The sound that comes out is wrong.

The paramedic glances at Michael. He nods once.

“It’s okay,” the paramedic says gently. “Just relax.”

An IV goes into your arm. You barely feel it. Your body feels distant, like it belongs to someone else.

Blood sugar check. Oxygen. Repeated questions. The words float past you, impossible to catch.

Michael stays close, hand never leaving you, eyes tracking every movement, every intervention.

“Any headache?” the paramedic asks.

Michael answers. “No reported headache.”

“Vision changes?”

“None noted.”

“Seizure activity?”

“No.”

You want to scream that you’re still here. That you’re not unconscious. That you understand them.

Your tongue won’t cooperate.

The ambulance slows. Turns.

“ETA two minutes,” someone says.

Michael exhales sharply, just once.

The doors open.

The night air hits you like a slap.

You’re rushed through automatic doors, fluorescent lights flooding your vision as the world shifts again — this time into a place Michael knows too well.

Voices layer over each other. Footsteps echo. Someone calls out vitals.

As they wheel you in, Michael’s gaze lifts — and lands on a familiar face.

Dana.

She’s mid-step, clipboard tucked under her arm, expression neutral until she sees you.

Until she sees him.

Michael doesn’t think. Doesn’t plan.

“Dana,” he says, and his voice finally cracks. “Dana… help.”

Her eyes sharpen instantly. Clipboard forgotten. She’s moving before the stretcher even stops.

“What happened?”

“Stroke,” Michael says. “I think she’s having a stroke.”

Dana’s hand is already on the rail, walking alongside you, eyes scanning your face, your chart, the paramedic relaying information rapid-fire.

“Twenty-seven-year-old female, acute aphasia, right-sided weakness—”

“Get CT ready,” Dana says, already turning. “Stroke alert. Now.”

You’re moving again. Faster this time.

Michael keeps pace, one hand still locked around yours, knuckles white.

“I’m here,” he says, close to your ear. “I’m right here.”

The doors ahead swing open.

Part One: I’m Sorry

You wake up to the feeling of your husband kissing your shoulder and neck softly, no urgency or pressure on his lips. He’s whispering sweet nothings into your skin – I love you, you’re beautiful, you’re everything to me – and the soft scratch of his overgrown beard tickles your skin. He hasn’t been trying to wake you, but you don’t mind. It’s perfect compared to the alarm that’s going to blare within the next hour, based on the sunrise beginning to threaten the winter horizon.

“Mmm. Morning, baby.” You stretch your arms above your head and Robby responds by wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you tight against his body. Realizing you’ve actually gotten a full night’s sleep, you lace your voice with gratitude, roll your ass against his morning wood, and purr, “You did the overnight all by yourself? That’s hot.”

“Ain’t my first rodeo,” he teases against your ear. Robby tugs down your sleep shorts and massages his way over your hips and ass, his hand greedy but still lazy and sweet. He slips his fingers between your thighs, toying with your pubic hair, and murmurs, “I know there’s no better way to earn morning sex than to take care of the baby while you get your beauty sleep.”

“You’re a very smart man, Dr. Robinavitch,” you praise as you shift your hips back to give him better access. Your eyes flutter closed as he slowly circles your clit, knowing just how to touch you after so long together. It’s not long before your body warms up and you let out a breathy moan, keeping your volume low.

Robby feels your pussy getting slick and coos, “Fuck, I’ve missed this pussy so goddamn much.”

“Since when?” You roll your eyes even as you encourage his every touch. “We had sex before bed.”

He kisses the curve of your shoulder and murmurs as he pushes his first two fingers slowly inside of you, “I can’t miss my favorite girl overnight? She’s so wet for me. Clearly missed me, too.”

You start to melt as he curls his fingers against your walls, methodical and steady. “Can’t argue with you there.”

Then the sound of your two older daughters hissing at each other down the hall interrupts your happy floaty thoughts. 

You groan in defeat, “Why are they up so early?”

“It’s already six,” Robby whispers back, not wanting to alert the girls that the two of you are awake lest they try to involve you in their fight. He reluctantly removes his fingers from your pussy, licks them clean, and tentatively begins, “Should we go and…?”

“It doesn’t sound too bad yet,” you reply, flipping over to snuggle into his chest, where he immediately wraps you up in a familiar embrace. “I wanna be with you a few more minutes before your double.”

He kisses the top of your head and sighs contentedly, “You’re such a sap.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

You manage to steal away three full, blissful minutes of cuddling with your husband before the teenage tornado in the hall picks up to lethal speed, threatening all structures in close proximity. Two high-pitched screeches pierce the relative quiet in tandem, both wielding the one word they think can rain terror on their opponent: “Mom!” 

You lean your head back and sigh heavily, “Do I have to go out there?”

“On the plus side, we made it to-” Robby checks the alarm clock “-6:07 before the start of today’s war.”

“Better than last week.” Groggily sitting up and grabbing your discarded pajamas off the floor while the girls’ argument grows in volume, you gripe, “Do you think it’s too late to put them up for adoption?”

Robby sighs and laughs as he tugs on his sweats. “I’m sure there are orphanages that take 16-year-olds somewhere. Might even give us a tax benefit or something if we throw in the 14-year-old, too.”

“But then who would we embarrass in public? Each other?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“Me neither. I’ll take the baby, you take the teens?”

Faux-exasperated, he pouts, “I have to take the teens just because you have the breastmilk?”

You pat his chest affectionately and give him a quick kiss, perching on your tiptoes. “That’s just how the cookie crumbles, daddy. We can ask our lactation consultant about switching roles if you want; you’d be amazed how far science has come.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Robby heads through the bedroom doors in his sweats and you follow just behind him, ducking into the nursery instead of down the hall to the teens’ shared bathroom where the first front of WWIII is playing out.

Seeing their dad instead of you, the girls shut their mouths and look at their feet.

Robby speaks low and gently, “I’m not gonna suggest peace, but can we at least keep it down out here when we fight? Your little sisters don’t have to be up for school for another hour and your mom pushed out a human person twelve weeks ago, so she should get to sleep in, but now the baby’s up because of the yelling.” They both mutter something close to an apology to him, still glaring at each other. Arms crossed over his chest, Robby puts on his best Serious Doctor Robinavitch face and asks, “So what’s going on here?”

Tanner clenches her jaw and gestures dramatically to Maggie. “Kind of obvious, isn’t it?”

He looks at her flatly. “Humor me.”

“Her clothes.”

Robby inspects them carefully and realizes both teenagers are wearing jeans, a white tee, and a black silky camisole layered over it. He remembers you wearing similar outfits back in the naughty aughties. He’s not crazy about the inch of midriff exposed on Tanner, but you’ve put in a lot of time convincing him that it’s developmentally appropriate clothing and it’s not her fault she had to inherit his height, so he bites his tongue on that front. Slowly, after a minute of consideration, he offers, “You…match.”

“Exactly!” Tanner groans, “She saw me in this and immediately put on that.”

“And?”

“Dad, seriously? I know you’re fashion blind, but I can’t go to school wearing the exact same thing as my freshman baby sister.”

Robby sighs, “So go change.”

Tanner scoffs again; Robby’s wondering when her sounds of exasperation started sounding so much like his. “Why should I change? She’s the one who copied me in the first place.”

“How about you both change?”

Maggie crosses her arms over her chest and bites back, “I’m not changing. I like this outfit. I look better in it than you anyway.”

Before Tanner can freak out at that one, Robby raises his voice and both his sands slights. “Woah, there, let’s not launch the nukes at this hour.”

You emerge from the nursery with Daisy sleeping against your chest, her mouth open and her expression totally content. Both the teens love the baby, so they soften slightly. Relief washes over Robby; this isn’t really his area.

Unable to resist and seeing a clear path to resolution, you smile at your eldest daughters and say, “You two look adorable. I remember when we used to put you in matching outfits all the time. Aw, maybe we should pick something like that out for Daisy and take pictures before school!”

Maggie shrieks defiantly, shoves into her bedroom, and slams the door.

Tanner crosses her arms over her chest, glares, shakes her head, and then ducks back into the bathroom.

Robby loops his arm around your lower back, plants a kiss on the top of Daisy’s head, and chuckles, “That was a diabolical move, hon.”

“They’ll both change,” you reason with a shrug.

The closest bedroom to you creaks open slowly, a tiny figure emerging from the dark that’s interrupted only by her nightlight. Rubbing sleep from her eyes as she clutches her tattered baby blanket, seven-year-old Susanna pushes open her door and asks, soft and sleepy, “Why are they mad today?”

Robby sighs and tells her, “They’re teenagers. They’re made of being mad.”

She nods her head and reaches up for her dad’s arms. Robby’s getting too old for it, but he still pulls her up onto his hip. She leans on his shoulder and mutters, “I’m never gonna be a teenager.”

Robby kisses the top of her head. “Good plan, mouse.”

You give him a look and then tell Susanna, “Yeah, you will be. You’ll fight with Evie over stupid stuff the same way Maggie and Tanner fight, but then you’ll hug and make up and be best friends again by the end of the day because we’re family. And what does that mean to us?”

She yawns and mumbles, “Hope-oh-no-no.”

Robby laughs but smiles tenderly, correcting, “Ho’oponopono. What’s that mean, princess?”

She snuggles into his chest, props her thumb in her mouth (a habit you’ve been unsuccessfully trying to get her to kick for the better part of five years), and mutters around it, “I’m sowwy. I wove you.”

After another yawn, her voice drifts off into nothing and her breathing gets heavy again. Robby’s always had a magical ability to get anyone to fall asleep in his arms. He takes a deep breath of her feathery dark hair, cherishing the few remaining moments he’ll have of picking her up, and then takes her back into her bedroom, tucking her in for another hour of sleep.

Tanner emerges from the bathroom with her hair sleekly parted, sharp eyeliner and glossy lip applied. She’s always been much cooler and more stylish than you ever were at her age; Robby worries about her becoming conceited, but you see the artistry and skill behind her interest in fashion and makeup. As she stuffs her backpack right in the entryway to her bedroom, you walk up behind her and muse, “Maggie just thinks you look cool, T.”

“Because I do,” she huffs back. “But that doesn’t mean she can copy me; she should grow her own personality.”

“She’s trying to. Right now, she’s looking around at everyone else trying on little pieces of their personalities to see what fits. Remember when you were her age and you wanted to wear my perfume and my shoes all the time?”

“Well, yeah, I thought you were the prettiest woman in the world.”

You narrow your eyes teasingly. “Thought?”

Tanner snorts. “I think you’re the prettiest woman in the world, mom, and I wanted to be like you.”

“So what do you think that means about your sister copying you?”

Tanner purses her lips rolls her eyes — but then she crosses the call, knocks on Maggie’s door, and calls gently, “Hey, Mags, I’m sorry, alright? You looked really cute. You want me to help you pick out something to wear? You can borrow one of my shirts.”

After a minute of shuffling around, Maggie reappears with shiny eyes and red cheeks. Swallowing hard as she pretends to still be mad, she offers, “Fine.”

An hour later, with the older girls ready to go out the door and the younger two just waking up, you’re a whirlwind. You set the table for the whole family, make lunches, and half-supervise Susanna and Evie’s morning routine. They’re generally speaking old enough now to pick out their own clothes, but you still check in to make sure they don’t grab anything that would lead to a call from a teacher. Robby has the baby strapped to his chest, looking far too hunky in his black scrubs as he scrambles eggs for seven, while you make sure all the girls have what they need for the day in their backpacks. It’s routine now, practiced, but you’re still methodical about each step.

As the girls pile into the kitchen, Robby plates up eggs and hasbrowns and fruit for each of them, handing over your plate first. One thing he’s always insisted on is eating breakfast as a family since it’s the only time of day you’re all reliably at home. Once everyone’s sitting down and relatively quiet, you give the day’s marching orders: “Dad’s working a double, so I’m on chauffeur duty tonight. Tanner has yearbook club after school, so Maggie, you’ll have to find some way to entertain yourself before I can pick you up after.”

Maggie grumbles some sort of annoyed approval; they all know the drill when Robby has long, unavoidable shifts.

You go on, “Evie’s school has a half day today, so-”

“What?!” Susanna’s mouth falls open from the injustice of it all. She’s adorable and cute when she’s all sleepy, but once she’s had a hit of orange juice, her personality is the size of a semi truck. “How is that fair? I have to go to school all day and then still go to my soccer game? That’s bullshit!”

Robby chokes on his juice, trying not to laugh. “I told you to stop saying that, kiddo.”

“Uncle Jack says it all the time!”

“Uncle Jack is a grown-up.”

“Uncle Jack says that-”

You clear you throat and say, “Uncle Jack isn’t your father. You’ll get in trouble at school if you talk like that, and if you get in trouble you can’t do soccer.”

She pouts but nods. You haven’t yet explained to her that Evie goes to a different school because she’d been bullied at the public school for being autistic. It’s not an easy thing to explain to a bubbly, protective seven-year-old who thinks her nine-year-old sister is the coolest person alive because she can name every type of bug native to Pennsylvania.

You take a deep breath and continue with morning announcements, “Like she said, Susanna has a soccer game tonight and we will all be going, so we’re-”

Tanner scoffs and protests, “I have plans with Luke and-”

“And you should’ve checked the family calendar before you decided on that,” you interrupt, pointing to the whiteboard covered in sticky notes that rules everyone’s lives. “We’re all going to your photography showcase this weekend, so you’re going to Susanna’s soccer game. We show up for each other here. I’m even gonna take everyone to dinner beforehand, so it’s not the end of the world.”

Mischief flickers in Tanner’s eyes. A bargaining chip. She asks, “If I have to flake on my friends, can I at least drive us to the game?”

You glance over at Robby; he’s the one who’s always hesitant to let her log practice hours now that she has her permit. He gives a reluctant, tight-lipped grimace with his nod. “Sure, it’s not far.”

“Hell yeah.”

Robby narrows his eyes. “Tanner.”

“Heck yeah,” she amends with a cheeky smile.

Susanna gives her oldest sister a punch on the arm and a gap-toothed smile. “I’ll even score a goal for you.”

Maggie snickers, “Your team’s actually gonna score a goal for once?”

Susanna’s next punch to her other sister’s arm is much less friendly. She furrows her brows, looking way too much like Robby, and screams, “That’s such bullshit!”

You pinch the bridge of your nose as Daisy starts to squirm against Robby’s chest. He just looks at you and smiles softly while they start arguing back and forth. Next to you, Evie tugs on your tee’s sleeve and asks quietly, “Can I take my breakfast and go watch Bluey?”

Knowing she just needs some peace and quiet, you brush some butter from her cheek and sigh gently, “Yeah, sweetheart, go ahead.”

The other three don’t even notice her making a silent escape to the living room, too wrapped up in complaining at one another. It’s amazing how Susanna can match wits and volume with the girls who are twice her age. It only ends when Robby’s watch beeps. He starts collecting empty plates as he announces, “Alright, Team High School, get your butts in the Audi. I won’t be participating in any arguments about who gets shotgun. You have two minutes before I drive to the hospital without you.”

Tanner and Maggie both launch out of their chairs and toward the door, already definitely arguing about who gets the heated seat, which comes with control of the radio. The ability to turn off Robby’s favorite station that mainly plays Rush and Eagles is a huge privilege.

As their voices receded into the garage, Robby places the dishes in the washer and then turns to you. He touches the top of Susanna’s head and offers, “Wanna hold your sister for a minute, Suz?”

Susanna wrinkles her nose. “So you can kiss Mommy?”

Robby raises up his hands like he’s been caught. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, buy only because she’s being cute right now.”

“Same rules I follow,” you chuckle while Robby relocates Daisy from his chest to her big sister’s arms. He’s careful to remind Susanna how to support her head and neck, always protective and anxious as a dad even when they’re sitting perfectly still. When he stands up straight, you lean up on your toes and link your arms behind the back of his neck. “My turn?”

“Your turn,” he laughs, bending down to kiss you fondly. “Love you. Be safe today.”

“Yeah, sure,” you reply with an eye roll, “I’ll be safe on the couch with my baby while you deal with gunshot wounds and scalpels for twelve hours straight.” You cut off his response with another kiss and then poke him sternly in the chest. “Eat a full lunch and a full dinner. Snacks every other hour. Actually take bathroom breaks and your fifteens.”

He sighs at your sweetness, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “I know, I know, gotta take care of myself so I can take care of everyone else.”

“That’s right. See you tomorrow, Dr. Robby.”

Part Two: Please Forgive Me

Jack Abbot shoves into the Pitt an hour before he’s scheduled with panicky eyes that expertly scan the entire area. He jogs up to the nurse’s station where Dana’s about to question him when he demands, “Is Robby here? Did he leave early or something?”

Dana touches his forearm and searches his face. “Dr. Abbot, are you alright?”

Jack rambles out, still looking over her shoulders in case his best friend walks by, “I couldn’t sleep and I had the scanner on and I heard about a multi-vehicle with a light blue Lexus TX.”

“Yeah, EMS called it in. Sounds like it’s gonna be gnarly. Multiple casualties in the field. A handful of ambulances are a couple minutes out, but we’re fully staffed and- What? What’s that face about? What’s going on?”

“That’s just- that’s what Robby drives.” Jack lets out a deep breath as he sees Robby’s lumbering form cresting around a corner, snapping off exam gloves and beelining for the closest vending machine. “Just a coincidence, I guess.”

Dana snorts as she goes back to charting. “Robby drives a Lexus?”

“Yeah, and I thought- I was worried that- You know how I get.” He shakes his head dismissively and Robby walks toward him with a curious look in his eyes. Jack pulls him into an unexpected hug, clapping him on the back and muttering, “Jesus, brother. Anxiety had me thinking you got in a car crash; sorry about the hug.”

“I’ll never say no to a free Jack Abbot hug,” Robby jokes. Pulling back, he offers Jack a cup of coffee and presses,  “I heard there’s a crash coming in; why’d you think I’d be out driving when you know I’m scheduled today?”

Jack shrugs, takes the cup, and tells him, “Crash has a light blue TX in it; I know yours is a custom wrap, so I figured the odds there’s more than one here are-”

Deathly quiet, Robby interrupts, “I didn’t drive the TX today; I took the pickup. Tanner has the Lexus. Tanner has the Lexus.” As that settles hard on Jack’s shoulders, Robby grips him by the arms, fingers digging in, and asks, “Did they say the plate on the scanner?”

Jack’s stomach turns as he whispers back, “JKA-”

The blood drains from Robby’s face as he turns around, jogging out of earshot before Abbot can even finish. Dana looks curiously at Jack and clarifies, “Someone’s borrowing Robby’s car and crashed it? Who’s Tanner?”

“Tanner’s his oldest daughter,” Jack explains, barely able to move himself. His first goddaughter, who he helped deliver in the middle of a snowstorm during med school. “Robby’s wife always- She makes all of them go to Susanna’s soccer games and sometimes they let Tanner drive. I should- I should go out there and get ready. He’ll want me to take care of them if he can’t.”

Dana’s mind reels as two of her senior attendings run off.

Robby has always been incredibly private. Says it makes it easier for him to be the boss if nobody knows what’s going on at home or in his head. But, like everyone else at the hospital, she’d assumed he was a single hermit from the…everything about him. No wedding ring, no leaving early for parent-teacher conferences, nothing to make anyone believe he has a very, very full life at home. It’s surprisingly easy to keep things incredibly vague in an environment full of chaos and constant teaching, brushing off questions and never revealing anything. He wasn’t legally required to explain that his vacation time is for anniversaries, that his sabbaticals are paternity leave, that his strict adherence to leaving on time is to make it home for family dinners and helping the girls with math homework. So he didn’t. The one time he’d made a comment about kids – saying Jake was the son he never had – it made everyone think he didn’t have a family instead of the reality that, in fact, he was just drowning in daughters.

The transponder crackles again on her deck, repeating the message for the entire ED to prepare.

Multiple casualties in the field. Ambulances en route.

Dana yanks Shen to the nurse’s station as he’s strolling by, sipping his third coffee of the night. “John, you’re going to have to run point tonight, okay?”

“Is Robby-”

“His wife and daughters were in the crash, apparently. Don’t know if he’ll be working.” She takes a long breath and scans the shift board, mentally filling in gaps and making decisions. “We’re going to have to keep our shit together no matter what.”

Robby’s been in the ambulance bay with Jack for a count of 78 when the first two ambulances wail to a stop at the far end of the concrete, leaving plenty of room for the coming onslaught. He tries to process the scene in front of him. His brain seems to have shifted out of doctor mode. None of it makes sense. The EMTs are moving fast, too fast, for him to follow. The sirens and noises take over his mind. His heart slams over and over and it’s louder than anything else.

Seeing her dad before she sees him, Tanner launches out of the first ambulance. As the EMT tries and fails to grab her, she sprints toward the Pitt’s doors and tumbles into Robby’s arms, practically knocking the wind out of him with the force of her body. She's already babbling as he blinks hard to recognize her presence, “I’m so sorry, dad, I- I don’t know what happened and- and now the car is totally wrecked. I swear I used my blinker and checked my blind spot and-”

“Honey, hey, it’s alright.” He kisses the top of her head over and over, clutching her hair like he’s waiting for her to slip through his fingers. She’s the first thing that’s felt real since he heard about the incoming crash. Unable to release her, he assures, “None of that matters right now. We’ve got insurance; it’s just a hunk of metal. Now where are your sisters? Where’s your mom?”

She collapses into tears again and Robby holds her tight, heart slamming against his ribs as he scans the incoming ambulances while they stop and unload. The EMT gives Robby a pointed look and he nods, pulling back from Tanner and meeting her eyes. “You need to go back to the ambulance so they can check you out some more and decide what the hospital needs to do, okay?”

“What? No!” She clutches Robby’s sleeve in a stubborn hand and says, “I’m fine; I need to help you find everyone and make sure they’re okay.”

Robby’s stomach drops to his feet when she confirms what he’d feared; the accident had been on the way back from Susanna’s soccer game, all the Robinavitch girls in the stands cheering her on.

Which means you were in the car.

You were all in the car.

His whole world in that $90,000 pile of crumpled metal he’d bought for you because it was the safest SUV on the market last year.

Robby takes one slow, deep breath. It’s time for him to be brave for his girls, no matter how impossible that feels. He cups Tanner’s cheek and insists again, “Sweetheart, you need to go with the EMT now. So many invisible things can happen during accidents and- and I need to know you’re safe. I need to know where you are. Everyone else is going to be coming right here, okay? You don’t have to look for them; you just have to listen to the doctors and do what they say.” He presses a soft kiss to her forehead and urges,  “Please, T. I promise I’ll come find you as soon as I know anything. I love you.”

Tanner nods slowly and sniffles back her unending tears. “I love you, too, Dad.”

She hasn’t said that in a long time – too ‘grown up’ and easily embarrassed – and Robby’s heart splinters even more. His brave girl, his first baby, who’s always tackled the world head-on, is scared and small and searching for his strength. He gives her one more hug before sending her away while another set of ambulances arrives.

Then pieces of his world start to roll by on gurneys. Everything moves in slow motion while Robby stands there in the bay, useless, not a doctor right now. Evie goes by first, her eyes open and frantic but her head held down with a strap across her bloody forehead. Suspected concussion. She makes eye contact with Robby but doesn’t speak, rolled by too fast for either of them to process. Then it’s three strangers in various states of distress and injury. And then Susanna, tiny and frail in her green soccer uniform when she’s usually larger than life. She’s not conscious as far as Robby can tell and that’s what brings him back to the present.

Robby unfreezes and follows the gurneys even though his legs feel like lead. Suddenly Jack’s by his side again and he’s talking rapid-fire and Robby isn’t hearing anything as the EMTs start telling him what’s going on. All he can see is the unnatural angle of Susanna’s shin, cracked and bleeding, and something sharp sticking out of her abdomen. The lack of expression on her face. He can’t stop picturing Daisy, so small despite being overdue, and her ‘baby on board’ sticker on the back bumper that wouldn’t do anything but let them find her body faster than-

No.

No, don’t go there.

He hasn’t even realized he’s stopped moving, Evie’s gurney going through the floppy doors toward the imaging wing. He’s still floating in space, lost and out of orbit with his family flung on different paths. Where’s Maggie? She probably would’ve been in the front seat, always fighting over getting to sit there. Multiple casualties in the field. Robby can’t breathe. Where are you? Where’s Daisy? Multiple casualties in the field. There are too many people here and it’s too loud and too bright. And he sees Susanna on the other side of the ED, conscious now but wailing in pain and covered in blood and surrounded by Robby’s students. The sound of her pain alone is enough to strangle him. 

Jack’s hand crashes across Robby’s face.

Hard.

Ears ringing, skin burning.

Jack’s eyes are serious and dark and urgent. “Stay with me, brother. We need you right now. Your girls need you.”

Robby can barely form a coherent sentence and he feels his knees starting to give. He’s only seen half his family alive so far. And he can’t think about anything else. His voice sounds foreign, far away, aching.  “Where’s Maggie and where’s- where’s-”

Jack guides him to the ground instead of trying to keep him on his feet. “Breathe, Michael. Breathe.” His pager is going off non-stop; he’s needed for another trauma, another body, another family falling apart. He shoves his water bottle into Robby’s arms and says, “We’ll send someone with an update about everyone as soon as we can. I know this is a fucking nightmare right now, but I swear I’ll-”

“Dr. Robinavitch?”

It’s Mohan, who looks even more scared and unsure than Robby, holding six clipboards stacked on top of each other.

Six.

Six charts.

Six people.

Robby’s chest finally begins to loosen. Six charts means six living patients. No matter what, you’re all here. You’re all in his hospital being cared for by his people.

Mohan goes on, “I’m so sorry, but we need you to sign some consents so that we can-”

Robby takes the clipboards and pen from her hand. He swallows hard and manages to find Dr. Robinavitch somewhere inside the shrapnel of his gut. “Walk me through it, kid.”

Jack gives one more squeeze to Robby’s bicep and then jogs back across the ED to wherever he’s needed next as Mohan joins Robby on the floor instead of asking him to stand up. She could use the moment of rest, too. “I’m really sorry it’s me talking to you instead of someone more senior, but they’re all busy with-”

“Walk me through it,” he repeats, “like any other family member, alright?”

She whispers, “You’re not any other family member.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll critique your bedside manner after.”

“That might help,” she admits with a nervous laugh. “Okay. We’ll go from most to least urgent.”

“Good. Take the consents from me as you get them; never waste time.”

Mohan swallows and nods. “The car was hit squarely on the passenger side. Margaret-”

“Maggie.”

“Her, ah, her school ID says Margaret. Maggie was sitting in the area of highest impact, and her injuries correspond with that. She’ll need multiple casts, but, ah, but the big thing is that we need to start a craniotomy right away. She has a brain bleed known as an intracerebral hemorrhage; we need to drain the bleed and repair the vessels.”

Robby goes white and sweaty. His brain switches into autopilot because he can’t dare process how serious that is. What it could mean. How, in a few hours, he may not have five daughters anymore. “We can’t do a stereotactic aspiration?”

“Unfortunately, the size and location of the bleed rule out less invasive treatment methods. We need to be aggressive in treating this.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Your delivery. Good.” He scribbles his signature across five pages on Maggie’s chart. Samira runs it to central and the machine of the hospital takes over. “Next.”

Mohan continues on, fatigue thick in her voice, “When it comes to Evelyn-”

“Evie.”

Mohan gives a sad sort of smile. “Right. Evie. She was sitting directly behind Maggie, so she got the next most impact. There’s still lots of imaging to do, but we’re looking at a myriad of fractures, mostly minor, but she does have a break in one of her forearm growth plates that could impact long-term development of the limb.”

“A little stiff, Samira,” Robby tells her. “Try again.”

“One of Evie’s breaks could lead to her arm growing abnormally, so we’ll need to monitor that closely over the next year. Most growth plate fractures do heal normally, though.”

“Better. Other breaks?”

“On the right side of her body, she has different levels of fractures from her shoulder down to her hip, essentially. We’ve located four fractured ribs, a break in her collarbone, and several through her wrist and forearm. One of the consents is for an ortho specialist to come down and fit her for a custom cast; she’s going to have to be out of school for a while.”

Robby sighs and rubs his hands over his face. Exhaustion weighs his features down, but there’s nothing he can do except go through. He signs.

It feels never-ending as Mohan continues, “Susanna is conscious, responsive, and generally in good condition, but she’s going to need surgery to remove multiple foreign bodies and to set the bones in a complex tibial fracture.”

The part of his brain that wants to teach is keeping him occupied from the horror of it all, stabilizing his voice and increasing his focus. Dr. Robby asks absently, scratching away at each form, “What are the foreign bodies? You should usually just say the object if it isn’t privileged or, y’know, embarrassing.”

“It’s mainly glass pieces. The largest is a few inches, but there are a lot of smaller shards. It’s going to be an intricate debridement.”

“Which means?”

“It’s going to be a lengthy, very precise surgical process to ensure we successfully remove all pieces,” she corrects, letting out a relieved breath when Robby nods his approval. “We’re very lucky that there don’t seem to be punctures to any of her organs, but we won’t know for sure about some of the larger pieces until we have a sterile field.”

Robby looks up at Mohan for the first time since she started. “How’d she get punctured by so much glass from the backseat?”

“The sunroof fell inward under the weight of another vehicle,” she explains quietly. Mohan stills Robby’s shaking hand and tells him, gentle and human, “The EMT told me that she was in the lowest impact part of the car. Her injuries were sustained after the crash.”

Robby’s brow furrows. For the first time, he actually doesn’t follow. “What does that mean?”

Mohan touches his shoulder, comforting and sure, as she explains, “Susanna maneuvered herself however she could over the baby’s car seat when she saw part of the car about to collapse. She knew her leg would get crushed and that she was going to get covered in glass. But she moved to save the baby’s life.” Wiping a quick, unexpected tear from her cheek, Mohan murmurs, “You should get her an ice cream or something for that.”

Robby gets choked up. When did he start crying? The sob is aching. How could he have raised someone so brave she would do that? So brave she would put her life on the line? Scared and hurt and seven years old and already saving lives. When Mohan gives the next chart to Robby, he steadies himself with a few deep breaths.

“For the other three, I just need some basic forms signed.”

“Thank god,” Robby mutters, flipping through the pages and signing haphazardly. He always cringes when family members don’t take the time to look at their consents, but now all he cares about is getting this done. Getting to his family.

“Tanner mainly has soft tissue injuries – bruises, some sprains – and she needed stitches on a few cuts. Otherwise, she was incredibly lucky. My main concern for her is psychological; it’s incredibly difficult for such a new driver to feel safe again after something like this. She’s going to be dealing with a lot of guilt. Make sure she gets the help she needs as soon as possible.”

“That’s a good thing to say, kid. Really good. A lot of doctors would skip that.” Robby makes a mental note to ask his therapist for recommendations for an adolescent specialist. Then he asks, softer than Samira’s ever heard her boss, “My wife? The baby?”

“Daisy was in the low-impact zone as well, thankfully, and clearly your wife’s a pro mom because she was properly secured to protect her head and neck. We only suspect a concussion, which is really the best possible outcome for an infant so young in an accident this serious. We have her in a private room for observation.” At last, Samira smiles, just happy to have a little good news to share. “And your wife is over there with her. We took some imaging and bloodwork to be safe, but for now the worst seems to be a few minor lacerations from helping the girls.”

Robby sighs, gratitude and grief in equal measure through his body. “Can I head up there and see them now?”

“Of course, Dr. Robby. Room six,” she tells him, trying to seem sure. “Keep your pager on; we’ll keep you updated on everyone’s treatment.”

“Thanks, Samira. Good job.”

Before she can say anything else, he’s jogging across the ED floor, dodging gurneys and triage stations and questions. The pediatric rooms have never felt so far away, but his legs manage to keep carrying him even as every step shakes.

The hospital is quieter with each foot away from the chaos of the emergency room. The moment he pulls open the door to pediatric six, that eerie quiet is replaced by the most wonderful sound he’s ever heard. Singing.

It’s you.

It’s you and you’re holding his kicking and screaming and beautifully alive baby in your tired arms.

Sitting on the loveseat that overlooks the infant-sized vitals setup Daisy's been removed from to nurse, you gaze up at him with so much emotion in your expression. Relief, he realizes. Relief that he’s here with you. You’ve been crying and so has he, all your eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He surges forward as you whimper, “Michael.”

Your breathless voice is a mitzvah in and of itself. Robby falls to his knees in front of you and presses his head into your thighs and feels the realness and the life of you. Daisy is screaming her little head off and it’s pure music, the melody of her lungs working and her heart beating. Robby envelops you both on the loveseat, taking the baby’s weight from you, and weeps.

And weeps.

Late that night, you try to sleep with your head on Michael’s shoulder on the couch in Maggie’s and Evie’s shared hospital room. Susanna’s fast asleep, her head in your lap, neon green leg cast propped up, mouth lolling open. Daisy is in a hospital bassinet with Jack watching over her. Visiting hours are over, but it turns out some people are willing to look the other way for the chief attending and his family.

Tanner hasn’t left Maggie’s side since she came out of surgery. The doctor had spoken too fast to you and Robby out in the hallway, leaving Tanner straining to hear even snippets. Brain bleed. Surgery as successful as possible given the extent and severity. No timeline on when she’ll wake up. If she’ll wake up.

If.

It’s the worst word Tanner’s ever heard.

You’re the only one awake to hear what Tanner’s whispering, over and over, to her little sister: “I’m sorry, Mags. I’m so sorry. Please wake up. Please, please forgive me.”

Part Three: Thank You

You’ve been home for five days now with Daisy and Susanna, doing almost nothing but sleeping, eating, pumping, and crying. Jack’s been staying over, too, helping out with making the house accessible for Susanna and for Evie when she’s able to come home.

In the evening, you hear the garage open and close.

You look up at Robby with broken hope in your eyes. Did Maggie wake up?

He shakes his head.

You tilt your head to the side. Is Tanner with you?

He shakes his head again and crawls onto the couch next to you, taking Daisy onto his chest and breathing slowly until he can speak. His fingers twine with yours as he tells you, “Evie can come home tomorrow if we’re ready.”

“We’re ready,” you reply, somehow still sounding eager in your constant exhaustion. “Jack and I finished with her new bedroom setup downstairs today.”

“Good. That’s good.” Robby kisses the side of your head and murmurs, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything and then some,” he replies softly. Daisy grips his beard with her grabby hands and he lets her, smiling sleepily at her wide eyes. He brushes some of her wispy dark curls and adds, “Thank you for this perfect baby. Thank you for our family. Thank you for-”

“I already spent the whole day crying, Michael,” you cut him off, wiping your wet cheeks. “I love you. You know that, right?”

“Never doubted it for a second.” His warm brown eyes flick over to you before returning to Daisy’s, a mirror of his own. “I love you so much. All of you.”

Jack appears in the living room archway, silhouetted by the hall light. “Susanna’s out after four grueling rounds of Slow Mo The Soccer Sloth. Now give me that baby and go to bed.”

Robby frowns. “I just got her. Wait your turn.”

“Nuh uh,” Jack protests, stretching out his arms for his tiny niece. “You have access to cute baby time whenever you want; this is my vacation. You need to rest with your wife. The kid and I will enjoy Goodnight Moon on our own, thank you very much.”

Robby nods and hands off Daisy, who immediately yanks Jack’s earlobe. Bless him for not minding or complaining.

As Robby helps you to your feet, you start to tell Jack for the hundredth time, “There’s fresh breastmilk in-”

But Jack raises his hand to cut you off. “I’m a pro, mama, don’t worry. You two get as much sleep as you can; I’ve got breakfast set, too.”

“You’re an angel,” you sigh sweetly, giving both Daisy and Jack a kiss on the cheek. “You should think about switching careers.”

He smiles as Daisy gives him a wide-eyed, wondrous giggle. “If I could make six figures entertaining this munchkin, I’d consider it.”

Robby clasps his shoulder and says, voice deep and true, “Thank you, Jack. You know how grateful I am for you?”

Jack nods slowly and then gives Robby a one-armed hug. “Yeah, I do. Get some sleep, brother.”

As Jack takes the baby to the kitchen to warm up her next bottle, Robby walks just behind you up the stairs. Even though you’ve felt totally fine since day three, Robby continues to be protective, keeping a hand low on your back to stabilize you. He helps you get ready for bed and you let him dote and spoil, savoring his adoration and tenderness.

While Robby works lotion into your back, sitting behind you in bed, you ask him, “Did Tanner say anything today?”

“Not to me,” he replies softly. “Dana told me that she took a shower and ate all the food the nurses brought her, so that’s good.”

“Still talking Maggie’s ear off?”

“About everything and anything,” he confirms. “If I were in a coma, listening to Tanner talk about Luke’s cute butt when he plays lacrosse would definitely wake me up so I could puke.”

You let out a barking laugh and slap his thigh hard. “Michael!”

Pressing his forehead to the curve of your shoulder, he mutters, “If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.”

“I know,” you sigh. “Me too. How long do we let her stay at the hospital?”

“Until Maggie wakes up.”

“What if-”

He shakes his head and snakes his arms around your stomach, insisting, “Until she wakes up.”

“Okay. Until she wakes up.” You turn around, adjusting so you’re in his lap instead of between his legs, and time your breaths with his. “She’s a good sister.”

“Yeah, she is. They’re all so good. Like their mother.” He kisses your forehead and then holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You ready to go to bed?”

With a slightly pained look, you sigh and nod.

Robby sees right through you, of course. Twenty years together will do that. “What is it?”

You sigh and admit, “My boobs are swollen and my haakaa is downstairs and my baby is having a bottle in her nursery.”

Robby chews on that for a second and then smirks a bit. His cheeks going red, he rubs your back and says,  “It’s funny; I feel like it would be weird to offer to suck on your nipples like I haven’t done it a million times before.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m not sure,” he replies. As you lift your tee up and toss it to the side, baring your naked breasts to him for the first time since the accident, he mutters, “Something about it being wrong to think about your boobs while our kids are-”

You shut him up with a kiss, warm and firm and begging. “My therapist told me this morning that it’s more important than ever to focus on our relationship.” As Robby groans, throwing his head back so you can kiss up his neck, you breathe out, “She said that couples who prioritize intimacy during stress and tragedy have significantly reduced rates of divorce.”

He almost laughs. “Were you worried about us getting divorced?”

“No, obviously,” you huff as Robby tugs his own shirt off and begins kissing across your chest, staying a few inches away from where you need most. “I just missed you. I need you. We need each other.”

Gripping your hips and grinding up against your ass, he teases, “So this ‘swollen breasts’ thing was just a ruse to get me to pay attention to you?”

You give him a conspiratorial smile and suggest, “How about you start sucking and find out?”

Amid your teasing and gasping and knowing, Robby finds a perfect escape in worshipping every healing inch of your body. The intimacy is a lifeline, an anchor, a need. It lets him sleep. Lets him rest.

You wake with a start to the sound of Robby’s phone. His hand shoots out to stop the piercing sound as you groggily flip to your side. He mutters, speech thick and slurred with sleep, “It’s the hospital.”

He turns on speaker phone and a woman’s clear voice comes through: “Dr. Robby?”

With the phone on his chest, Robby rubs his hands over his face and sighs as you snuggle up against his arm, “Mohan? What is it?”

“Maggie’s awake.” Without saying a word, Robby launches out of bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and starts snatching clothes for both of you from the closet. While he’s shimmying on sweats and brushing his teeth, Samira asks, “Robby? You still there?”

You pick up the phone with teary eyes as Robby pelts a cozy sweatshirt at you. “Yeah, he’s- he’s getting ready to go. We’ll be there soon. Is she scared?”

“No, actually.” You hear the tentative smile in her voice. “I think Tanner’s got that covered.”

That makes your heart so warm it might burst. “Thank you, Dr. Mohan.”

While tugging on shoes, Robby asks, “Is there anything we need to know about her condition before we get there?”

“She wants to see her sisters,” Samira replies tenderly. Then, she adds, “And she’s asking for pancakes.”

Dressed now, you ask her, “Can we have those ordered to the hospital?

“I think we can make that happen, Mrs. Robinavitch.”

An hour later, you’re all hugged and cried out while Maggie examines herself in the handheld mirror Samira offered her. Robby’s next to her, unable to stop touching her arm or her back to prove to himself she’s awake and alert. You’re at the end of the bed with Daisy knocked out on your chest and Susanna’s between Maggie’s legs, half-asleep but smiling. They even helped Evie transfer to her new transport chair so she could hold Maggie’s hand.

With a teary pout, Maggie observes, “They shaved half my head.”

“You had a pretty serious surgery,” Robby sighs, rubbing her back and once again checking over the intense line of staples holding her scalp together. “You’ve got battle scars now.”

“It looks badass,” Tanner tells her, expression serious and full of a kind of agony Robby had hoped he could protect her from forever. Then she pulls her dark hair up and reveals the undercut she’d given herself in the hospital bathroom four days earlier, claiming she knew it would help. It’s choppy and you know you’re going to have to clean it up with her dad’s electric clippers, but the way Maggie stares at it does wonders. “Look, I did mine, too.”

Maggie breaks into a small smile as she reexamines her hair in a new light, this time envisioning herself being the girl with the undercut and survival story. “Badass.”

After a few moments of silence, she sets the mirror down, chews on her words for a second, and then tells Tanner, “One of the last things I remember is fighting with you. I don’t ever wanna fight like that again. Not if- not if it’s the last thing we might get to talk about.”

Tanner shakes her head vehemently and replies, “I’ve been thinking about that too, Mags. And I- I wanted to say thank you for being so annoying. Thank you for fighting with me.” Tanner laughs through tears, brushing Maggie’s hair out with careful fingers to avoid tugging her scalp staples, absently braiding it just to be with her sister. “I get now that you bug me because you want my attention and that you want my attention because you think I’m-” her voice breaks but she keeps smiling through it “-you think I’m worth something. So thank you.”

Maggie winces as she pulls Tanner into a tight hug. “Let’s keep fighting forever, then, okay?” Then she turns to Susanna and Evie and points to them like a Disney villain. “And don’t think the two of you are getting out of that, either.”

You and Robby make knowing eye contact over your daughters’ heads. Ten thousand more quiet mornings interrupted with screaming matches.

You can’t imagine anything better.

Part Four: I Love You

The next morning, Robby’s going over a mountain of discharge paperwork with Dana as she finally scoffs and shakes her head. “Five daughters, huh, cap?”

He just smiles and shakes his head, expression fond. “Yup.”

“A 16-year-old and a three-month-old?” She looks down the bridge over her nose, over her glasses. “At the same time?”

“Yup.”

“How many of them did you plan?”

Robby cuts her an amused, almost conspiratorial glance. “Two.”

“So did you need someone to explain how condoms work? We’ve got that sexual health presentation series coming up for the local middle schoolers; it’s a popular show, but I bet I could swing you a ticket.”

“Alright, alright.” Robby crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the nurse’s station. “Look, we had Tanner way too young. I wasn’t even out of med school, but we decided to figure it out. Thought we were done after Maggie, but sometimes you take your wife on a trip for your ten-year anniversary and the timezones make her forget the pill and, y’know, Evie happened. We thought she should have a sibling closer to her own age.”

“And the new baby almost a decade later at, what, 45? Another accident?”

Robby shrugs and tells her, “I thought we were way too old for another baby, too, but…Well, look at her. Look at them.”  He gestures affectionately at you across in the waiting room, nursing Daisy while Susanna sleeps with her head on your shoulder. Tanner’s pushing Evie around until she laughs and Maggie’s giving the directions. All his girls getting antsy, ready to go home. You catch his gaze and give him a wink. Robby squeezes Dana’s shoulder and explains, “You find a woman like that and there’s no such thing as an accident. There’s only love that keeps growing.”

The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.

On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.

You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.

He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?

You didn’t answer.

You don’t plan to.

The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.

Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”

Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”

His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”

“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”

As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”

Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”

She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”

Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”

“Whatever you say, cap.”

The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.

In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”

She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”

He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”

The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.

—

It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.

You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”

“No worries, gorgeous.”

Your focus snaps.

Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”

Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”

You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”

He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”

You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”

“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”

“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”

Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”

You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”

Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”

Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.

“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”

Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.

Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”

“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”

He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”

“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”

Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”

You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”

It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.

He sends you texts. You don’t reply.

He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.

After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”

“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”

Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”

Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”

“But I’m not your girlfriend.”

“And thank god for that.”

“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”

“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”

“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”

“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”

“And you repaid her by leaving.”

Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”

“But she did.”

“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”

“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”

“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”

“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”

“Flatterer.”

“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”

Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”

“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”

At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.

When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”

His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”

Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”

“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”

“Not hostile, just professional.”

“You were definitely hostile.”

Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”

She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”

Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”

“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”

“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”

“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”

Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”

Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”

“At the door.”

Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”

Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”

“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”

Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”

“It’s ten thousand dollars.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”

Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”

You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”

“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”

“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my baby daddy drama.”

“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.

Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”

Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”

Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”

“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”

“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.

She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”

“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”

“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”

“And you’re not forgiving enough.”

You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”

“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”

Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”

“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”

With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.

I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life. That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice. But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that. So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that. It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please. I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more. And I promise I love you. Both of you. I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it. Love, Sincerely, Yours, M.

All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.

Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”

Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”

Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”

You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”

Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”

Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”

You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.

In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.

In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.

I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.

Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should let him grovel.”

Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”

“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your baby daddy. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”

“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”

“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”

“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”

You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”

“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”

“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”

“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”

“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”

Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”

“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”

You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”

And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.

Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.

Then.

After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”

“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”

“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”

Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”

Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”

Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”

“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”

The world tilts slightly.

Robby’s breath catches in his throat. 

Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?

You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.

You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.

“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”

“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”

You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”

Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”

You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”

His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”

Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”

“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”

“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”

“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”

Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”

“I’ll pick you up at ten.”

You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”

With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”

“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”

Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”

You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.

“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”

You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”

“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”

“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”

‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.

After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”

One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”

You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”

“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”

You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”

His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”

“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”

Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”

You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”

He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m 100% confident.”

“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”

That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”

“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”

Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”

“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”

Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”

“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”

He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”

Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.

Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.

With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.

Noted. Thanks for the tip.

Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.

I’m rooting for you.

If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.

Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.

Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.

“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”

“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”

With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”

Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”

“Kids. Plural.”

He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”

You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”

Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”

You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”

“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”

“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”

“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”

Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”

“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”

Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”

You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”

“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”

“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.

“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”

You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”

He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”

“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”

“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”

You tease, “Sounds horrible.”

“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”

Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”

“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”

“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”

Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.

…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…

After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”

Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”

Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”

“You were just talking to her.”

He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”

She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”

Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”

You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”

He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”

Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”

“I think I can manage that.”

Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.

“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”

You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”

“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”

“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”

“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”

“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”

He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”

“Michael!”

“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”

“I will not hesitate to splash you.”

Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”

Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”

“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”

After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”

His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”

You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”

He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”

And you want to kiss him.

You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”

He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”

You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.

As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”

You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”

Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”

You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”

“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”

You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”

He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”

You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as he confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.

Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”

Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”

Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”

Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”

“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”

Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.

Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.

You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting.  Deferent.

For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.

So you decide.

Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”

His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”

“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”

“What would it be, then?”

He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”

You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.

When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-

Woah, asshole.

Calm down.

He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.

All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”

When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint flutter aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes. 

To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”

Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”

Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.

He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”

“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”

Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”

“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”

“You do?”

There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”

With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”

“See you soon, Michael.”

“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”

When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.

Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.

Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”

He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”

You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”

You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.

As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”

“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”

You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”

When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”

You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”

“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”

“God forbid.”

“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”

“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.

“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”

“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”

Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”

“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”

Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”

You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”

“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Good. As he should.”

Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”

“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”

Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”

“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.

Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”

Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”

You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”

You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”

He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”

The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”

And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.

Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”

You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”

“What? You don’t want a shower?”

“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”

Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”

“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.

Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.

She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”

“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”

“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”

Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”

“We’ll see.”

You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”

“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”

Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”

You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”

Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”

You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”

Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”

You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”

Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”

When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”

He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”

You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”

So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”

Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”

Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.

You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”

Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”

He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.

Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.

From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.

That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.

Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”

Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”

Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”

Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”

He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”

Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”

“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”

“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”

As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”

“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my ‘baby daddy’ or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”

Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”

“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”

“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”

A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”

“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”

“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”

“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”

“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”

Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.

“Rest of your life, huh?”

“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”

You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”

“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.

Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”

Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.

Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”

Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”

You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”

Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”

You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”

“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”

Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”

As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”

“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”

He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”

“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”

You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t play dirty with me.”

“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”

He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”

“Now who’s playing dirty?”

“I would never.”

Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.

God.

God.

Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.

Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”

“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”

“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”

You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?” 

Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”

He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”

The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.

Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.

And you kiss him.

It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”

Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”

You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”

“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”

You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”

“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”

Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”

“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”

He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”

You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”

Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”

“I want a hot tub.”

“Okay.”

“And a soaking tub.”

“Okay.”

“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”

“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”

Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”

Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”

Nico Hischier is methodically putting the finishing touches on his Belle costume. The golden ball gown is surprisingly well-fitted. He adjusts a stray curl of his brown wig with a seriousness usually reserved for a power play strategy meeting. “Remember the plan. We go in, we pass out the gift bags, we spend time in the common room, and then we visit the individual rooms for the kids who can’t be moved. Low and slow. No scaring anyone.”

“I think Timo as Snow White is gonna scare people regardless,” Luke mutters, finally looking up to film Timo’s struggle for his Instagram story.

Jack stands slightly apart from the mayhem, staring at his own reflection. He’s Cinderella. Not the pre-fairy godmother version, but the full-on, ball-ready, bibbidi-bobbidi-boo Cinderella. The powder-blue gown is a masterpiece of satin and chiffon. A delicate black choker circles his neck, and a matching blue headband holds back a surprisingly flattering blonde updo. The only things that betray the illusion are his sharp jawline, the light scruff he didn’t bother to shave, and the unmistakable confidence of a first-overall draft pick.

“You’re quiet,” Luke says, pointing the phone at his brother. “Feeling pretty, princess?”

Jack smooths down the front of the gown. “Just mentally preparing,” he says, his voice dry. “It’s a big day. Got a ball to get to. Gotta be home by midnight or my chariot turns back into a Honda.”

“It’s a pumpkin,” Nico corrects without turning around.

“Whatever, Nico. Don’t ruin the fantasy.” Jack catches Luke’s eye in the mirror. “You know, for someone making fun of me, you look way too comfortable in that dress.”

“It’s because I’m letting it go,” Luke deadpans, wiggling his fingers like he’s shooting ice from them. “Get it?”

“We all get it,” Timo groans, finally managing a lopsided bow. “You’ve made the joke seventeen times.”

Jack turns, the gown swishing dramatically around his ankles. The sheer absurdity of it all hits him, and a genuine smile breaks across his face. He feels ridiculous. He also feels a strange sense of purpose. It’s Halloween. They’re about to walk into St. Joseph’s Children’s Hospital, and for a few hours, they won’t be hockey players. They’ll be whatever these kids need them to be. Even if it’s a six-foot-tall Cinderella.

“Alright,” Jack says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s go charm some kids. Try not to trip, Timo. You’ll cause a seismic event.”

***

The hospital hallway is a symphony of quiet beeps and the soft squeak of nurses’ shoes. It’s a sterile, unnervingly calm environment, a world away from the roaring energy of the Prudential Center. The four of them walk in a tight pack, their gowns rustling, drawing stares from staff and passing family members. The stares aren't mocking, they’re filled with a sort of delighted disbelief.

The common room is a burst of activity. Kids in various states of health, some in wheelchairs, some tethered to IV poles, look up as they enter. A collective gasp ripples through the room, followed by a wave of giggles.

For the next hour, they are fully in character. Luke signs a kid’s cast as ‘Elsa,’ Nico waltzes with a little girl who can’t stop staring at his golden gown, and Timo, despite his earlier complaints, proves to be a natural Snow White, his gentle giant persona winning over even the shyest toddlers.

Jack finds himself sitting cross-legged on the floor, his massive blue skirt creating a protective circle around a group of small children. He’s deep in a debate about the best Disney sidekick with a seven-year-old girl named Emmy who is passionately arguing for Pascal from Tangled.

“But Gus Gus is a classic,” Jack argues, trying to sound regal. “He’s loyal. He helps make the dress.”

“Pascal can change colors!” Emmy insists, her eyes wide. “And he’s funny. Gus Gus just eats.”

Jack is about to offer a rebuttal when a nurse with a kind, tired face approaches him. “Cinderella? There’s a boy in room 308, Caleb, who wasn’t able to come down. He’s a huge fan. Of you, I mean. The Devils. Not … well, maybe Cinderella, too. Would you mind paying him a visit?”

“For sure,” Jack says, gathering the yards of satin to stand up. “Lead the way.”

He follows the nurse down a quieter corridor, the gown whispering against the linoleum. The door to room 308 is slightly ajar. A sticker of Captain America’s shield is stuck to the wood.

The nurse pushes it open gently. “Caleb? You have a visitor.”

The room is small, dominated by a hospital bed and a host of humming, blinking machines. A boy is sitting up in the bed, thin and pale, with a soft beanie covering his head. He can’t be more than nine or ten. He’s focused intently on a Nintendo Switch in his hands, and he doesn’t look up immediately.

“Don’t want a visitor,” he says, his voice soft but firm.

“Even if it’s royalty?” Jack asks, stepping into the room.

The boy’s eyes finally flick up from his screen. They travel from the hem of the blue dress, up past the bodice, to Jack’s face and the blonde wig. His expression doesn’t change. There’s no awe, no giggle. Just a flat, analytical stare.

“You’re Jack Hughes,” he says. It’s not a question.

Jack blinks, surprised. “Yeah. I am. But today you can call me Cinderella.”

The boy, Caleb, gives a tiny, unimpressed shrug. “Why are you in a dress?”

“It’s for Halloween. We’re visiting all the kids.” Jack walks closer to the bed, carefully maneuvering his gown around an IV stand. “What are you playing?”

“NHL 24,” Caleb says, his thumbs still moving over the controls. “I’m playing as you. You just missed the net on a breakaway. It was pretty embarrassing.”

Jack laughs, a real, genuine laugh that echoes in the quiet room. “Yeah, that happens sometimes. Let me see.”

He leans over, and the sweet, cloying scent of the wig’s hairspray fills the space. On the small screen, his own digital avatar is skating back to the bench. “Who are you playing against?”

“The Rangers. Obviously.”

“Good man.” Jack pulls a visitor’s chair closer to the bed, the dress making the simple action a complicated logistical maneuver. He sits, his knees bumping up against the plastic frame. “So, you’re a fan?”

“My sister is,” Caleb says, finally pausing his game and setting the Switch down on his lap. “She got me into it. She says you have silky hands.”

Jack feels a slight blush creep up his neck. “She’s got a good eye for the game, then.”

“She’s okay.” Caleb picks at a loose thread on his blanket. His eyes, a deep, startling green, are full of a weariness that doesn’t belong on a child’s face. “Today’s a bad day.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, with such finality, that it stills the air in the room.

“Oh,” Jack says softly. “I’m sorry, man. Is there … is there anything I can do?”

Caleb shakes his head. “Nah. My sister went to get me something. From the cafeteria. They have this mac and cheese that’s the only thing that doesn’t taste like … hospital.” He looks around the room, at the machines that are his constant companions. “She always knows. When it’s a bad day.”

There’s a universe of love and history in those simple words. Jack feels a pang in his chest, a strange mix of sadness for this boy and awe at the bond he shares with his sister.

“She sounds like a good sister,” Jack says.

“She’s the best,” Caleb says, his voice suddenly thick. He blinks hard, looking away from Jack and toward the window, where the late afternoon sun is casting long shadows. “It’s just us. So we gotta … you know. Be the best for each other.”

The unspoken weight of that sentence hangs between them. Jack doesn’t know what to say. All the easy charm, all the practiced media training, it all evaporates in the face of this small boy’s reality.

So he just sits there. He doesn’t offer platitudes or false cheer. He just sits, a hockey star in a princess gown, and keeps a little boy company.

They talk for a few more minutes about the team, about the upcoming season, about Caleb’s favorite players (besides him, apparently it’s Dougie Hamilton). Caleb’s voice gets stronger, his posture a little less slumped. He’s smiling a little.

The door swings open, and you walk in.

And Jack’s world tilts on its axis.

You’re holding a small styrofoam container, and your face is a study in exhaustion. There are faint purple smudges under your eyes, and your hair is pulled back into a messy bun that has long since given up trying. You’re wearing a worn-out university sweatshirt and leggings, and you look like you haven’t had a full night’s sleep in a decade.

But when your eyes land on Caleb, your entire being softens. A smile, real and radiant, transforms your face. It’s the most beautiful thing Jack has ever seen.

“I have acquired the goods,” you announce, your voice warm and tired and lovely. “They tried to give me Jell-O as well, but I told them you were a sophisticated man with a refined palate, and that palate demanded only the finest cheesy noodles …”

Your voice trails off as you finally notice him. Sitting there. In all his Cinderella glory.

Your eyes widen. You stop dead in your tracks, one hand still holding the mac and cheese aloft. You blink once, then twice, as if trying to recalibrate your vision. Your gaze travels from the poufy shoulders of the gown down to the scuffed sneakers peeking out from under the hem, then back up to the blonde wig and Jack’s face.

A slow, bewildered smile spreads across your lips. “Oh,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Wow. Okay. That’s … new.”

Caleb grins, a full, proper grin this time. “This is Cinderella,” he says, his tone grand. “But he told me his name is Jack.”

You take a hesitant step into the room, your eyes locked on Jack’s. He feels suddenly, intensely self-conscious. He’s acutely aware of the glitter on his eyelids and the tightness of the corset. He stands up, a gesture of politeness that feels absurd under the circumstances. The gown rustles around him.

“Hi,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. “Jack Hughes.”

Your smile widens. You look from him to Caleb and back again. “Of course it is,” you say, and there’s a note of gentle humor in your voice that makes his stomach do a weird little flip. “My brother has been summoning you with his mind for months. I guess it finally worked.”

You walk over to the bed and hand the container to Caleb. You brush a hand over his beanie, a simple, loving gesture. “Eat up, bug. It’s still hot.”

Then you turn your full attention back to Jack. He feels like he’s under a spotlight. Your eyes are intelligent and direct.

“Thank you for visiting him,” you say, your tone shifting from amused to genuinely grateful. “It’s … this is the most he’s smiled all day.”

“It’s no problem. At all,” Jack says, stumbling over the words. “He was just telling me about your taste in hockey players. Very discerning.”

A faint blush colors your cheeks. “Oh, God. What did he say?” You shoot a playful glare at Caleb, who is now happily shoveling mac and cheese into his mouth.

“He said you have good taste,” Caleb mumbles around a mouthful of pasta.

“He told me you said I have silky hands,” Jack clarifies, a smirk playing on his lips.

You groan and cover your face with your hands for a second. “Caleb! You are a traitor to this family.” You drop your hands and look at Jack, your expression a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. “In my defense, it’s an objective, analytical assessment of your puck-handling skills.”

“Of course,” Jack says, his smirk growing wider. “Purely academic.”

“Strictly,” you confirm, your eyes sparkling.

The room falls into a comfortable silence for a moment, punctuated only by the scrape of Caleb’s fork against the styrofoam. The beeping of the machines seems to fade into the background. There’s an energy in the room now that wasn’t there before you arrived. A warmth. A lightness.

“So,” you say, gesturing vaguely at his entire ensemble. “Cinderella. Did you lose a bet?”

“No, it was a team decision,” Jack says. “Community outreach. Halloween cheer, you know?”

“And you drew the Cinderella straw?”

“I volunteered,” he admits. “Go big or go home, right?”

“Bold choice,” you say, a genuine smile gracing your lips again. “It’s working for you, surprisingly. The color brings out your eyes.”

Jack has had thousands of people compliment him. On his skill, his speed, his vision on the ice. But the simple, teasing compliment from you, the tired girl in the worn-out sweatshirt, makes his heart beat a little faster.

“Thanks,” he says, feeling ridiculously pleased. “I was going for a look.”

“You achieved it.”

Luke appears in the doorway, a majestic, glittering Elsa. “Jack, Nico is trying to … oh.” He stops, taking in the scene. He looks at you, then at Jack, then at Caleb, who gives him a cheesy wave. Luke’s eyes light up with mischief.

“Hey,” Luke says, striding into the room with a confident swish of his sequined train. “I’m Elsa.”

You just stare at him, your mouth slightly agape. “Right. Of course you are.”

“Is this Cinderella bothering you?” Luke asks you, completely ignoring his brother. He leans in conspiratorially. “He can be a real diva before the ball.”

“Luke, shut up,” Jack says, but there’s no heat in it.

You laugh, a full, throaty sound that is the best thing Jack has heard all day. “I think I can handle him. It’s an honor to meet you both. Seriously. Thank you for doing this.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Luke says, all charm. He winks at Caleb. “Get better soon, man. We need you cheering for us.”

“I’ll try,” Caleb says seriously.

Nico and Timo appear in the doorway behind Luke, a vision in gold and primary colors. The small hospital room is suddenly very crowded with Disney princesses.

Nico smiles warmly. “We have to go, Jack. Visiting hours are almost over.”

“Right,” Jack says, feeling a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment. He doesn’t want to leave. He looks at you, at the way you’re standing guard by your brother’s bed, a protective and weary guardian.

“It was really nice to meet you, Caleb,” Jack says, turning his attention to the boy. “Stay strong, okay?”

“You too,” Caleb says. “Tell Dougie his beard is awesome.”

“Will do.” Jack’s eyes meet yours one last time. He wants to say something else, something more than just ‘goodbye.’ He wants to ask for your name. He wants to ask how you’re doing, how you’re really doing. He wants to know if he’ll ever see you again.

But the words get stuck in his throat. He’s surrounded by his teammates, by the beeping machines, by the weight of the moment.

“It was nice to meet you,” he says to you, his voice softer than he intends.

“You too, Cinderella,” you reply, your smile a little sad around the edges.

As he follows his teammates out of the room, he can feel your eyes on his back. He risks a glance over his shoulder. You’re watching him go, a thoughtful, unreadable expression on your face. You give him a small, almost imperceptible wave.

He waves back, and then he’s gone, the swish of his gown the only sound left behind.

***

The ride back to the arena is loud. Luke is recapping the entire visit for his social media followers, Timo is complaining that his wig is itchy, and Nico is quietly scrolling through photos on his phone, a small smile on his face.

Jack is silent. He stares out the window, the ridiculous blonde updo tickling his ear. The city lights blur past, but he’s not seeing them. He’s seeing a small hospital room. He’s seeing a brave little boy with green eyes. He’s seeing a tired, beautiful girl with a smile that could light up the darkest of rooms.

He doesn’t even know your name.

The thought is a stone in his stomach. How could he have walked out of there without asking for your name?

“You were in there a while,” Luke says, finally putting his phone down. He nudges Jack’s satin-covered shoulder. “The kid’s room. What happened?”

Jack shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. “Just talking to the kid. He was cool.”

“Uh-huh,” Luke says, his eyes narrowing. He’s known Jack his whole life, he can read him like a book. “There was a girl in there when we came to get you. She was … she was there.”

“It was his sister,” Jack says quietly.

“Right. His sister.” Luke grins, a slow, dawning realization spreading across his face. “Ohhhhhh. His sister. Was she the one who said you have silky hands?”

Jack’s head snaps toward him. “How did you … Caleb. That little snitch.”

Luke howls with laughter. “No way!” He leans back, looking immensely pleased with himself. “So? What’s her name?”

The stone in Jack’s stomach gets heavier. “I don’t know.”

Luke’s laughter cuts off. He stares at his brother. “What? Are you kidding me? Jack. You were in there for like twenty minutes, dressed as a Disney princess, bonding with her sick brother, and you didn’t get her name? Or her number?”

“It didn’t feel right,” Jack says, his voice defensive. “It’s a hospital. Her brother … he’s really sick, Luke. It wasn’t the time to be like, ‘Hey, sorry your life is falling apart, can I get your digits?’”

Luke’s teasing expression softens into something more understanding. “Yeah, okay. I get that. But still, man. The universe doesn’t just hand you meet-cutes like that. A damsel in distress, and you’re literally dressed as a fairy-tale character. That’s primo rom-com material.”

“My life isn’t a rom-com,” Jack mutters, but even as he says it, it feels like a lie. The whole encounter felt … significant. Like a scene from a movie. The way you walked in, the way your eyes met his, the easy, instant chemistry that crackled in the sterile air.

“You’ve gotta find her,” Luke insists. “You can’t just let that go.”

“How? Am I supposed to call the hospital and ask for the hot, tired sister of the kid with cancer in room 308? That’s a great look.”

“No, you …” Luke trails off, thinking. “We could … we could send something to the room. From the team. A jersey or something. And you could put a note in it.”

Jack considers it. It feels a little high-school, but it’s better than nothing. It’s a lifeline. “Maybe.”

The rest of the way, he’s lost in thought. He replays the entire conversation in his head. The way you called Caleb ‘bug.’ The way you defended your ‘silky hands’ comment. The way you looked at him, not like he was a hockey superstar, but just like a guy in a really, really ridiculous dress.

When they get back to the locker room, the spell is broken. They change back into their normal clothes, the gowns discarded in heaps of satin and glitter on the floor. Jack scrubs the makeup off his face, but he can’t scrub the image of you from his mind.

He picks up his phone. He has a hundred notifications. Texts, social media mentions, emails. None of them matter. He opens his reminder app and types a sentence.

Ask someone from community relations to find out the name of the boy in room 308 at St. Joseph’s.

He stares at the words. It feels clinical. Invasive. He deletes it.

He can’t do it. It feels wrong to use his position to track you down. If it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen. He has to believe that. It’s a flimsy hope, but it’s all he has.

**^

Two days pass. Two agonizingly long days. The Devils have a practice, a team meeting, a video session. Jack goes through the motions, his body on the ice but his mind miles away in a hospital room. He keeps thinking he hears your laugh in the crowd, or sees your eyes in a stranger’s face. He’s going crazy.

Luke keeps giving him knowing looks across the locker room, raising his eyebrows in silent question. Jack just shakes his head.

On the third day, his phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. He almost ignores it, assuming it’s another group chat someone added him to. But something makes him open it.

Unknown Number: Hey, it’s Y/N. Caleb’s sister. From the hospital. I hope this is okay, one of the nurses is a huge fan and gave me your number from the community relations list. She said you wouldn’t mind. Please tell me if this is weird.

Jack’s heart stops. And then it starts again, hammering against his ribs like a drum solo.

Your name. It’s Y/N. It’s a beautiful name.

He reads the text again. And again. He can’t believe it. The universe, it seems, isn’t done with its rom-com plot.

He drops onto the bench in the locker room, ignoring the curious looks from his teammates. His fingers feel clumsy as he tries to type a reply. What does he say? ‘Hey’? ‘Hi’? ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about you’?

He settles for something simple. Something cool.

Jack: Hey Y/N. Not weird at all. I was hoping you’d text. How’s Caleb doing?

He hits send before he can overthink it. The three little dots appear almost instantly, and he holds his breath.

Y/N: He’s doing okay. Better. I think meeting Cinderella and Elsa might be a better medicine than chemo. He hasn’t stopped talking about it. He’s currently explaining to me in great detail why your power play is so effective.

Jack smiles, a wide, genuine smile that reaches his eyes.

Jack: He’s a smart kid. How are YOU doing?

He emphasizes the ‘you.’ It’s a deliberate choice. He wants you to know he sees you, not just as Caleb’s sister, but as a person.

The dots appear and disappear for a full minute. He watches them, his stomach in knots.

Y/N: I’m okay. Tired. But okay. Thank you for asking. It really meant a lot to both of us, what you guys did.

Jack: It was our pleasure. Honestly, meeting you guys was the best part.

He cringes slightly after sending it. Too forward? Too much?

Y/N: Meeting a six-foot Cinderella was definitely a highlight of my week 😉

The winky-face emoji sends a jolt through him. It’s playful. It’s an invitation.

Jack: I’m glad I could provide that for you. For the record, I look much better without the wig.

Y/N: I find that hard to believe. You wore that blonde updo with such confidence.

Jack: Confidence is key in this line of work. Both on the ice and as a princess.

The banter is easy, effortless. It feels as natural as it did in the hospital room. They text for the rest of the afternoon, in between his training and your hospital vigil. You tell him about Caleb’s diagnosis, about taking a semester off from college to be with him. You talk about your life in snippets, a mosaic of sacrifice and fierce, unwavering love for your brother.

He tells you about the pressures of the game, about living up to expectations, about how much he misses just being a normal twenty-something sometimes. He finds himself telling you things he doesn’t usually share, the vulnerability of the conversation in the hospital room bleeding into their texts.

Finally, he decides to take a leap.

Jack: I have a day off tomorrow. I was wondering if you’d let me take you away from the hospital for an hour or two. For coffee? Or dinner? Or whatever. Just to give you a break.

He stares at the sent message, his thumb hovering over the ‘unsend’ button. It’s bold. Maybe too bold.

The reply comes back almost instantly.

Y/N: I’d like that. I’d really, really like that.

***

He picks you up the next evening. You’d insisted on meeting him somewhere, but he was adamant. He pulls up to your apartment building, his heart pounding a nervous rhythm against his ribs.

You get in the car, and you look … stunning. You’re not wearing a worn-out sweatshirt. You’re in a simple black dress, and your hair is down, falling in soft waves around your shoulders. You’re wearing a little bit of makeup, and the exhaustion is still there in the back of your eyes, but tonight, it’s overshadowed by a nervous, hopeful energy.

“Hi,” you say, your voice a little breathless.

“Hi,” he says back, his voice equally unsteady. “You look … wow.”

You blush, a lovely shade of pink that spreads across your cheeks. “Thanks. You clean up nice, too. No ball gown tonight?”

“It’s at the dry cleaners,” he jokes, and the familiar ease settles between you.

He drives to a quiet, low-key Italian place he knows on the outskirts of town. It’s the kind of place with checkered tablecloths and candles stuck in wine bottles. It’s private. It’s perfect.

The conversation flows even more easily in person. You laugh at his stories about his brothers, and he listens, completely captivated, as you talk about your passion for architecture, the career you put on hold.

“It’s just for a while,” you say, twisting a piece of pasta around your fork. “Caleb comes first. Always.”

“I get that,” he says, and he does. He understands the loyalty of family, the unspoken pacts you make to protect each other. “But you have to take care of yourself, too, Y/N.”

You look up at him, your fork paused mid-air. Your green eyes are impossibly deep in the candlelight. “That’s what this is, isn’t it?” You say softly. “A break.”

“I hope it’s a little more than that,” he says, the words coming out before he can stop them. His heart is in his throat.

Your expression softens. You put your fork down. “Me too.”

He reaches across the table and takes your hand. Your fingers are cold, and he wraps his own around them, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels monumental. A current passes between you, warm and electric.

After dinner, he drives you home. He parks the car but doesn’t turn off the engine. Neither of you wants the night to end.

“I had a really good time tonight, Jack,” you say, turning in your seat to face him.

“Me too,” he says. “The best.”

He searches your face in the dim light of the dashboard. He sees the worry, the exhaustion, but he also sees the strength, the humor, the incredible warmth that drew him in from the moment you walked into that hospital room.

He leans in, slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You don’t. Instead, you meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative. It’s a question. And then, as you lean into him, your hand coming up to cup his jaw, it deepens. It’s not a kiss of frantic passion, but something far more profound. It’s a kiss of recognition, of relief. It tastes of hope and red wine and the promise of something real.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed.

“Wow,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” you breathe back.

He opens his eyes, looking into yours. “I’m not letting you go, you know.”

A real, beautiful smile spreads across your face. “Good,” you say. “Because I don’t think I could handle another six-foot princess sweeping me off my feet.”

He laughs, a happy, carefree sound. In the quiet of the car, with you beside him, he feels more like himself than he has in a very long time. Not Jack Hughes the hockey player, not Cinderella the princess, but just Jack. And he has a feeling that’s exactly who you see.

***

The first few months are a whirlwind painted in the muted colors of hospital waiting rooms and the brilliant white of the ice rink. Your life finds a new, strange rhythm, a delicate dance between two vastly different worlds. There are days spent under the hum of fluorescent lights, memorizing the cadence of beeping machines, your hand clasped in Caleb’s. Then there are evenings spent in the quiet luxury of Jack’s apartment, the glittering skyline of Jersey City laid out before you, his arm a warm, solid weight around your shoulders.

He fits into the cracks of your life so seamlessly it scares you sometimes. He learns the names of Caleb’s nurses. He knows which days are for chemo and which are for blood work. He never flinches when you have to cancel a date at the last minute because Caleb spiked a fever, simply texting back, Okay. I’ll bring dinner to you. What does the bug want?

He becomes a fixture. A constant. He’ll show up at the hospital after practice, still in his sweats, his hair damp, and spend an hour getting annihilated by Caleb in NHL 24. They have an easy, familiar rapport now, the initial hero-worship on Caleb’s part having evolved into a genuine friendship filled with brotherly jabs.

“You’re holding the controller wrong,” Caleb says, not looking up from the screen. It’s a Thursday afternoon in late January, and you’re all crammed into Caleb’s hospital room. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and the pizza Jack had delivered.

“I’m not holding it wrong,” Jack retorts, his brow furrowed in concentration. His digital avatar has just been unceremoniously flattened against the boards. “This is my signature grip.”

“Your signature grip sucks,” Caleb says matter-of-factly. “You’re lucky you’re better on actual ice.”

You’re curled in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair, a book open on your lap that you haven’t looked at in over an hour. You’re just watching them, a small, secret smile playing on your lips. Seeing Jack with Caleb, seeing the way he makes your brother forget, just for a little while, where he is and what he’s going through … it’s a feeling so potent it makes your chest ache.

“Hey, turn up the TV,” Caleb says, pointing his chin towards the small screen mounted on the wall. A real NHL game is playing on mute. “It’s the pre-game show for the Boston game tomorrow.”

You grab the remote, and the tinny sound of sports commentators fills the room. They’re showing B-roll footage of the Prudential Center, sweeping shots of the packed stands, the sea of red jerseys, the electric, tangible energy of the crowd.

Caleb puts his controller down, his eyes glued to the television. He’s completely captivated.

“It’s so loud there,” he says, his voice soft, almost reverent. “You can, like, feel it through the screen.” He looks at Jack, his green eyes wide and wistful. “Man, I wish I wasn’t sick. I’d love to see you play for real. Just once.”

The words, so innocent and full of longing, land like a punch to your gut. It’s a sharp, familiar pain. The crushing weight of all the things this disease has stolen from him, from you. It’s not just the hockey games. It’s school plays, birthday parties, sleepovers, the simple, sacred rites of being a kid.

You force a bright smile onto your face, a practiced mask of maternal cheerfulness. “Maybe one day, bug. When you kick this thing’s butt, we’ll get season tickets.”

“Really?” His face lights up.

“Absolutely,” you lie, and the word tastes like ash in your mouth.

Season tickets. The thought is laughable. Every spare dollar, every penny you’ve scraped together from your part-time remote job, is funneled into a gaping black hole of medical bills. Your student loan deferments are a ticking time bomb. Even if Caleb were perfectly healthy, a single ticket to a Devils game would be an indulgence you couldn’t afford. Telling him that feels like a cruelty beyond measure.

Jack is quiet. He’s watching you. He sees the smile you’re giving your brother, but he also sees the flicker of raw pain in your eyes, the subtle tightening of your jaw. He sees the lie, and he sees the love that powers it. He doesn’t say anything. He just picks up his controller and bumps Caleb’s shoulder with his own.

“Come on,” he says, his voice gentle. “My guy is getting cold on the bench. Let’s finish this.”

He pulls Caleb’s attention back to the video game, but his eyes find yours over the top of the screen. He gives you a look. It’s not pity. It’s something else. It’s a look that says, I see you. I’ve got you.

And in that moment, you almost believe him.

***

“I have to do something.”

Jack is pacing his living room, his phone pressed to his ear. The city lights twinkle outside his floor-to-ceiling windows, but he’s oblivious to the view.

“Do something about what?” Luke’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Did one of the rookies try to cook again?”

“No, man. It’s about Caleb.” Jack stops pacing and runs a hand through his hair. “He said he wanted to come to a game. And Y/N … man, the look on her face. She tried to hide it, but it was like … it was like he’d asked for the moon.”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “That’s rough,” Luke says, his usual teasing tone gone, replaced by genuine sympathy. “So, what are you gonna do? You can’t exactly sneak him into the lower bowl.”

“No,” Jack says, his mind already racing, piecing together a wild, audacious plan. “Not the lower bowl. A suite.”

“A suite? Jack, those things are clean, but they’re not hospital sterile. The air ducts, the people walking by …”

“I know,” Jack cuts him off, his voice gaining momentum. “That’s the other part. I’m going to hire a company. A real one, like, a medical cleaning service. The kind they use for operating rooms. They’ll go in beforehand, scrub the whole place down, put in air purifiers. Whatever it takes. I want that suite to be the safest, cleanest place in the entire state of New Jersey.”

Luke is quiet for a second. “That’s … that’s gonna cost a fortune, man.”

“I don’t care,” Jack says instantly, and the certainty in his voice surprises even himself. “I don’t care what it costs.”

The next morning, Jack’s plan becomes a flurry of phone calls. His first is to his agent.

“Pat, I need you to do something for me. I need the best suite at the Rock for the Islanders game on Saturday … No, not for sponsors. It’s personal … Yeah, I’ll pay for it, just book it under a private name … And I need it empty the entire day before.”

His second call is to the arena’s head of operations, a man named Dave who has known him since he was a rookie.

“Dave, it’s Jack Hughes … I’m good, man, thanks. Listen, I have a weird request … I have a guest coming on Saturday, he’s immunocompromised. Severely … Yeah. So I’m having an outside team come in on Friday to do a full medical-grade sterilization of the suite … No, I know it’s against policy, but you’ve gotta make an exception for me on this. It’s important.”

His final call is to a company he found after an hour of intensive research, a firm that specializes in biocontamination and cleanroom services.

“Yes, hello. I need to book a Level 3 terminal clean for a luxury suite at the Prudential Center … That’s correct, like you would for an ICU or a surgical theater. I want HEPA filters, air scrubbers, full surface disinfection with hospital-grade virucides … Yes, the whole nine yards. Cost is not an issue. I just need it to be perfect.”

By the time he hangs up the phone, it’s done. The pieces are in motion for the most elaborate, expensive, and meaningful gesture he has ever conceived. Now, for the hardest part. Telling you.

He shows up at your apartment that evening, his heart thumping a nervous rhythm against his ribs. You open the door, your face lighting up when you see him.

“Hey! I was just about to start dinner.”

“Smells good,” he says, stepping inside and kissing you. It’s a deeper kiss than usual, freighted with the news he’s about to deliver.

“Everything okay?” You ask, sensing the tension in him.

“Yeah. Perfect.” He takes a deep breath. “So, what are you and Caleb doing on Saturday night?”

You give him a confused look as you head into the tiny kitchen. “Saturday? Probably the same thing we do every night. Watching a movie, you’ll come over after your game, you’ll beat Caleb at Chel, and he’ll accuse you of cheating.”

“Well, I was thinking of a change of scenery,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “For all of us.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, turning around from the stove. “Like what? Your place?”

“Like the Prudential Center,” he says, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Your smile falters. Your eyes cloud over with that same pained expression from the hospital room. “Jack,” you say softly, your voice laced with gentle exasperation. “We talked about this. We can’t. You know we can’t.”

“Why not?” He asks, pushing the conversation forward.

“Why not?” You laugh, a short, humorless sound. “For one, he’s a walking petri dish. His oncologist would have a heart attack if I even suggested taking him into a crowd of 17,000 people. And for two,” your voice drops, the shame creeping in, “tickets cost money, Jack. Money that I don’t have.”

He walks over to you, taking the spatula from your hand and setting it on the counter. He takes both of your hands in his.

“Okay. Objection one,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I got a suite. It’s completely private. And on Friday, a specialized medical team is going in to sanitize it to full hospital standards. They’re bringing in industrial air scrubbers and filters. I spoke to Caleb’s oncologist this afternoon — I got her number from the head nurse — and I explained the whole protocol. She signed off on it. She said it would be safer than this apartment.”

You stare at him, your mouth slightly open. You try to process the words. The sheer, stunning thoughtfulness of it takes your breath away.

“And objection two,” he continues, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “It’s all taken care of. You don’t have to worry about the cost. You don’t have to worry about anything. I just want you two to come, to have a good time. I want Caleb to see a game. And I want to see you smile. A real smile. Not the one you use when you’re trying to be brave.”

The dam breaks.

Tears well up in your eyes and spill over, tracking silent paths down your cheeks. It’s not a cry of sadness. It’s a cry of overwhelming relief. It’s the release of months of pent-up fear and stress and the crushing weight of being the sole protector of your brother’s world. For someone to see that burden, to understand it so completely, and to step in and lift it, even for one night … it’s too much.

“Hey, hey,” he says softly, pulling you into his chest. You bury your face in his shirt, your shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He just holds you, his hand stroking your hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

You cling to him, the smell of his cologne and the solid feel of his heart beating against your ear anchoring you. “You … you didn’t have to do all that,” you manage to choke out.

“Yeah, I did,” he whispers into your hair. “I really, really did.”

***

Saturday night feels like Christmas morning and a moon landing rolled into one. Caleb is practically vibrating with an energy you haven’t seen in him since before the diagnosis. He’s wearing a brand-new Devils jersey that Jack had delivered, with HUGHES and the number 86 stitched on the back. A specialized N99 respirator mask, approved by his doctor, covers the lower half of his face, but it can’t hide the ecstatic sparkle in his eyes.

Your own anxiety is a low hum beneath the surface, but seeing Caleb’s unadulterated joy keeps it at bay. You’ve checked and re-checked the bag with his emergency medications, hand sanitizer, and extra masks. You’re a nervous wreck, but you’re a hopeful one.

Jack arranges for a private car service. When you arrive at the arena, you don’t go through the main entrance. A security guard meets you at a discreet side door and escorts you to a private elevator. The corridors are empty, silent. It feels like you’re entering a secret world.

The guard stops in front of a door marked Suite 218 and unlocks it. “Enjoy the game,” he says with a nod, and then he’s gone.

You push the door open, and Caleb walks in first. He stops dead, and a small, muffled “whoa” escapes from behind his mask.

The suite is beautiful. It’s spacious, with plush couches, a high-top table, and a private restroom. A counter is filled with food — all of Caleb’s favorites, pre-approved by his doctor, sealed and safe. On the main coffee table, two more jerseys are laid out: one for you, also with Hughes on the back, and another one, signed by the entire team, for Caleb.

But none of that is what captures his attention. He walks, almost in a trance, toward the wall of glass that overlooks the ice.

The view is breathtaking. You’re right above the center line. The ice below is a pristine, glowing sheet. The arena is still mostly empty as fans file in, but the sheer scale of it, the thousands of red seats, the massive scoreboard hanging from the ceiling … it’s awe-inspiring.

Caleb presses both hands against the cool glass, his breath fogging a small patch in front of his mask.

“It’s so … bright,” he whispers, his voice filled with wonder. He looks at the ice, at the crisp blue and red lines. “And the ice is so … white.”

You come to stand beside him, placing a hand on his small shoulder. He’s right. On TV, it all looks flat. But in person, it’s a living, breathing thing. The colors are more vibrant, the space more immense.

“It’s amazing, isn’t it, bug?” You say, your voice thick.

He just nods, his eyes darting everywhere, trying to take it all in at once. He’s not a patient anymore. He’s not the boy in room 308. He’s just a kid at his first hockey game.

And that’s when you start to cry.

They’re quiet tears this time. They slip from your eyes without a sound. It’s the purest form of gratitude you have ever felt. You’re watching your brother experience a moment of absolute, untainted happiness, a memory that you know will sustain both of you through the dark days that are surely still to come. And it’s all because of Jack.

“Mommy, are you crying?” Caleb asks, his voice muffled by the mask. He’s started calling you that sometimes, a slip of the tongue, and it always makes your heart clench.

“They’re happy tears, bug,” you whisper, quickly wiping them away. “The happiest tears.”

He seems to accept this, turning his attention back to the ice as the players begin to stream out for warmups. He spots Jack immediately.

“There he is! There he is!” He shouts, his voice echoing in the suite. He pounds on the glass, even though he knows Jack can’t hear him. “That’s my sister’s boyfriend!”

You laugh through your tears, a wet, hiccupping sound.

The warmups are a blur of motion and grace. Caleb provides a running commentary, identifying every player, analyzing their shots, his knowledge of the game encyclopedic. When the lights go down for the pre-game introductions, and the roar of the crowd finally fills the arena, Caleb grabs your hand, his small fingers squeezing yours tightly. The sound isn't just something you hear, it's a physical force, a vibration that runs through the glass, through the floor, and up into your bones. It’s magnificent.

The game begins, a dizzying display of speed and skill. From your protected bubble, you watch the battle unfold on the ice below. Caleb is on the edge of his seat the entire time, shouting encouragement, groaning at missed chances. He’s completely absorbed.

The first period is scoreless, a tense, back-and-forth affair. In the second period, the Islanders score first. A collective groan rises from the crowd, and Caleb slumps in his chair.

“It’s okay,” you say, rubbing his back. “There’s still plenty of time.”

A few minutes later, the Devils go on a power play. Caleb sits up, his focus absolute. “This is it,” he mutters. “Jack’s on the ice. He’s best on the power play.”

You watch number 86. Jack looks different from up here. More powerful. More intense. He moves with a fluid, predatory grace, the puck seeming to be tethered to his stick by an invisible string.

He gets the puck at the top of the circle. He fakes a pass, drawing a defender out of position. In the split second of open ice he’s created, he moves toward the net. He fakes a shot, making the goalie commit, and then, with a flick of his wrists so quick you almost miss it, he pulls the puck to his backhand and slides it into the open side of the net.

The red light flashes. The goal horn blares. The arena erupts.

Caleb leaps to his feet, screaming with joy behind his mask. You’re screaming too, jumping up and down with him. They’d tied the game.

The players on the ice converge on Jack, a chaotic celebration of head pats and glove taps. But Jack skates away from the huddle. He circles towards the center of the ice, his head up, scanning the stands.

His eyes search, moving along the rows of luxury boxes. And then he finds you.

He looks directly at your suite. He looks right at Caleb. Time seems to slow down. He lifts his gloved hand, taps it twice over the Devils crest on his chest — over his heart — and then points, a single, definitive finger, right up at the glass, right at your brother.

The world narrows to a single, invisible line connecting the superstar on the ice and the little boy in the box. It’s a silent, secret message, broadcast to a stadium of 17,000 people, but meant for an audience of one. This was for you.

Caleb freezes. His shouting cuts off. His hand, which had been banging on the glass, falls to his side.

“Did you see that?” He whispers, his voice trembling with disbelief. “Did you see that? He pointed. At me. He pointed at me.”

You can’t speak. You just pull him into a hug, burying your face in his hair as a fresh wave of happy tears overwhelms you. It wasn’t just a goal. It was a declaration. A promise. It was Jack, in his own language, on his biggest stage, telling your brother and the entire world that he was seen. That he mattered.

That he was loved.

***

The rest of the game passes in a joyful haze. The Devils score again in the third period and hold on to win. The final buzzer sounds, and Caleb is beside himself with happiness, cheering until his throat is hoarse.

About twenty minutes after the crowd has cleared out, there’s a soft knock on the suite door. You open it, and it’s Jack. He’s still in his under-gear and hockey pants, his face flushed and damp with sweat, his hair a mess. He looks exhausted and exhilarated and more handsome than you’ve ever seen him.

“Hey, Cinderella,” you say, your voice soft.

Before he can reply, Caleb launches himself at him. “That was the best goal I’ve ever seen!” He yells, wrapping his arms around Jack’s waist. “You looked right at me! Everybody saw it! My friend George is never gonna believe me!”

Jack laughs, a deep, rumbling sound, and hugs him back. “I’m glad you liked it, buddy. I had a little extra motivation tonight.” He ruffles Caleb’s hair. “You’re my good luck charm. You’ll have to come to every game now.”

He looks up at you over Caleb’s head, his eyes shining. All the words you’ve been trying to formulate, all the ways you wanted to thank him, they all feel inadequate.

Later, after Caleb has re-lived the goal with Jack frame by frame and is now happily occupied with a victory sundae, you pull Jack over to the far side of the room, near the glass.

“Jack,” you start, but your voice fails you. “I just … I don’t even know what to say. Thank you isn’t big enough.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says, taking your hand. “Seeing his face … that was it. That’s all I needed.” He looks down at your intertwined fingers. “I love seeing you happy, Y/N. I love it more than anything.”

“I am happy,” you say, and you realize with a jolt that it’s the absolute truth. In this moment, in this bubble of safety and joy he created, you are completely, incandescently happy. “You did this. You gave us this.”

“We did it together,” he says, lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

The ride home is quiet. Caleb, totally spent, falls asleep in the back seat, his new signed jersey clutched in his hands. You’re in the front, sitting beside Jack, who insisted on driving you home himself. You reach over and take his hand, lacing your fingers through his on the center console.

He brings your hand up to his lips again, kissing it softly without taking his eyes off the road. “Best game of my life,” he says quietly.

“Mine too,” you reply.

When you get back to your apartment, he helps you carry a sleeping Caleb inside and tuck him into bed. You gently remove the precious jersey, folding it and placing it on his nightstand. You pull his blanket up to his chin and kiss his forehead. He doesn’t stir.

You walk Jack to the door. In the soft light of the hallway, you can finally see the exhaustion catching up to him.

“You should go sleep,” you whisper. “You have practice in the morning.”

“In a minute,” he says. He frames your face with his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones. “Today … seeing you with him … it was everything.”

“I love you,” you say, and the words come out so easily, so naturally, that you realize you’ve been holding them in for months. They were there in the hospital room, in the candlelight of your first date, and they were there tonight, in every cheer and every happy tear.

A slow, beautiful smile spreads across his tired face. “I love you, too,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “So much.”

He leans down and kisses you. It’s a kiss full of the day’s overwhelming joy and the quiet promise of a thousand more days to come. It’s a kiss that says I see you. I’ve got you. It’s a kiss that feels like coming home.

***

The next nineteen months are a landscape of contradictions. They are the longest, most grueling days of your life, and yet, they are punctuated by moments of such ordinary beauty that they take your breath away. Time becomes a strange, elastic thing, measured not in weeks or months, but in blood counts, chemo cycles, and the fluctuating energy levels of a growing boy.

Jack is not a visitor in this landscape. He lives there with you.

He’s there on the bad days. The days when the nausea is relentless and Caleb is too weak to even lift his head. Jack doesn’t try to fix it. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes. He just shows up. He sits on the floor of the hospital room, reading aloud from a Percy Jackson book in a low, steady voice until Caleb falls into a fitful sleep. He’ll look up at you, sitting in your usual chair, the exhaustion a physical weight on your shoulders, and he’ll just hold your gaze from across the room, a silent, unshakeable promise of solidarity. I’m here. You’re not alone.

He’s there for the endless, soul-crushing waits. In waiting rooms that all smell the same — a sterile mix of bleach and fear — he learns the art of silent companionship. He’ll sit beside you for hours, his knee pressed against yours, a warm, grounding point of contact in a world that feels like it’s spinning off its axis. He’ll watch as you methodically tear a paper coffee cup into a hundred tiny pieces, your nervous energy made manifest, and he’ll just gently take your hand, stilling the motion, and lace his fingers through yours.

“What are you thinking about?” He’ll ask softly.

“Everything,” you’ll whisper back, and he’ll nod, because he gets it. He doesn’t need you to elaborate.

But he’s also there for the good days. The fleeting, miraculous days when the treatment is working and the universe grants you a reprieve. On those days, your tiny apartment becomes the center of the world. The three of you will spend an entire Saturday on the living room floor, meticulously constructing a 5,000-piece Lego Hogwarts castle.

“No, the grey piece goes here,” Caleb insists, pointing a commanding finger at the instruction booklet. He’s the foreman on this project, you and Jack are merely his highly-paid, under-skilled laborers. “You’re messing up the structural integrity of the Owlery, Jack.”

“I’m a professional athlete, Caleb, not an architect,” Jack says, squinting at the tiny plastic bricks. “Give me a break. This is harder than a triple-overtime playoff game.”

“That’s embarrassing for you,” Caleb says without missing a beat.

You laugh, a real, belly-deep laugh, and the sound of it makes both of them look up and smile. In these moments, you’re not a caregiver and a patient. You’re just a family, bickering over Legos, the afternoon sun streaming through the window, and for a little while, everything feels okay.

The seasons turn. The Devils have a good season, then a great one. Jack’s star continues to rise. You and Caleb watch every game from the hospital bed or your couch, becoming a two-person commentary team. You learn the nuances of the game, the names of the prospects, the intricacies of a well-executed zone entry.

Y/N: That was a terrible line change. They left the whole weak side open.

You text him during the second intermission of a game against the Flyers.

Jack ❤️: I know. Coach is ripping us a new one. Did you see that pass I tried to force through the middle? Stupid.

Y/N: It was ambitious. But you’ll get the next one. Go get ‘em, Hughes.

Jack ❤️: Yes, Coach 😘

Your life together is not a fairy tale. It’s real. It’s hard. There are arguments, born of exhaustion and frayed nerves. There’s a night you snap at him for leaving a wet towel on the floor, and the fight isn’t about the towel at all. It’s about the fear, the unending stress, the feeling of being twenty-three and carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.

You end up sitting on the edge of your bed, your face in your hands. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m just so tired.”

He sits down behind you, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles into the tense muscles. “Don’t apologize,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You don’t have to be strong for me, Y/N. You can be tired. You can be angry. You can fall apart. I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that moment, you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your bones, that you are going to marry this man.

Then, one Monday in May, a day that starts like any other SCAN day, the world changes.

You’re all in Dr. Miller’s office. The same small, beige room where you first heard the word ‘leukemia.’ The air is thick with a familiar, terrifying silence as she looks over the file in front of her. Caleb is swinging his legs, trying to act nonchalant, but you can see him chewing on the inside of his cheek. Jack is sitting beside you, his hand resting on your knee, a silent, solid anchor.

Dr. Miller looks up. She takes off her glasses, a slow, deliberate motion. A small smile plays on her lips.

“Well, Caleb,” she says, her voice soft. “I have looked at these results from every possible angle. I’ve had my colleagues look at them. And we’ve all come to the same, frankly wonderful, conclusion.”

She leans forward, her eyes, kind and tired, finding Caleb’s.

“There is no evidence of disease. Anywhere. You’re in complete and total remission.”

The words hang in the air for a second, shimmering. You don’t understand them at first. They’re a foreign language. You look at Jack, whose eyes are wide, and then at Caleb, who is looking at you, his expression a mixture of confusion and dawning hope.

“For real?” Caleb whispers, his voice small.

“For real,” Dr. Miller says, her smile widening. “You did it, kiddo. You’re done.”

A sound escapes your throat, a choked, guttural sob that comes from a place deeper than your lungs. It’s the sound of two years of terror, of sleepless nights, of whispered prayers in dark hospital rooms, all being released at once. You lunge forward, grabbing Caleb and pulling him into a hug so tight it’s a wonder he can breathe. You bury your face in his hair, which is finally growing back, soft and downy, and you just weep.

Jack’s arms come around both of you, enveloping you in a circle of warmth and relief. His own body is shaking slightly, and you can feel his tears soaking the shoulder of your shirt. You are a tangled mess of limbs and tears and shuddering breaths, and it is the most beautiful moment of your life.

A little while later, you are walking down the main corridor of the oncology ward. It’s a walk you’ve made a thousand times, but this time, it’s different. Nurses and staff are poking their heads out of rooms, smiling, applauding. Patients, kids you’ve come to know, are giving Caleb thumbs-ups from their doorways. It’s a hero’s procession.

At the end of the hall is the bell. A simple, brass bell mounted on a wooden plaque. A symbol of victory. A beacon of hope for everyone on this floor.

Caleb approaches it with a reverence that makes your heart ache. He looks at you, his green eyes, clear and bright, asking for permission. You just nod, your throat too tight to speak.

He reaches up and takes the rope. And he rings it.

The sound is loud. Clear. Triumphant. It echoes through the hallway, a joyous, defiant peal that shatters the sterile quiet. He rings it again, and again, and again, a wide, incredulous grin spreading across his face. Each clang is a declaration. I’m alive. I survived. I won.

Jack is standing just behind you, his hand resting on the small of your back. He lets you and Caleb have the spotlight, but his presence is the foundation you’re both standing on. You catch his eye, and he’s smiling, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears. He gives you a small, private nod that says everything. We made it.

That night, back at your apartment, the air is quiet, almost reverent. The emotional hangover from the day is immense. Caleb is curled up on the couch, watching a movie, looking smaller and more peaceful than he has in years.

“I brought something,” Jack says, coming in from the kitchen. He’s holding a huge, grease-stained cardboard box.

He sets it on the coffee table and opens it. Inside are two dozen donuts from the legendary local shop that always has a line around the block. They’re a mishmash of colors and sprinkles and fillings.

“I figured we were all done with hospital Jell-O for a while,” he says with a soft smile.

You look at the donuts, then at him, and you start to laugh. It’s a watery, wobbly laugh, but it’s real. It’s the most normal, wonderful, thoughtful thing anyone has ever done.

“I love you,” you say, your voice thick.

“I love you, too,” he says. “Now, are you going for the Boston cream or the maple bacon?”

***

Halloween comes around again five months later, painting the world in shades of orange and black. But this year, the season feels different. It’s not a harbinger of cold and sickness, but a celebration of life. Caleb has his six-month checkup, and the scans are still perfectly clear. He’s back in school. He’s growing like a weed. The shadows under his eyes have been replaced by the flush of a healthy, active eleven-year-old.

You are re-applying to colleges, revisiting the architectural dreams you had put on hold. The future, once a terrifying, formless void, is now a bright, open road.

It’s Caleb who brings it up one evening, as the three of you are carving pumpkins on newspapers spread across the kitchen floor.

“For Halloween this year,” he says, scooping out a fistful of pumpkin guts, “I have an idea.”

“Oh yeah?” Jack asks, concentrating on drawing a crooked smile on his own pumpkin. “You gonna go as a hockey player? I can get you a custom jersey.”

“Nope,” Caleb says, looking from you to Jack with a mischievous glint in his eye. “It’s a group costume.”

You stop carving, intrigued. “Okay, bug. Lay it on us.”

“So,” Caleb begins, wiping his slimy hands on a paper towel. “Jack, you have to be Cinderella again.”

Jack looks up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You know, I was wondering when I’d get to break that dress out of storage. It’s a classic. I’m in.”

“And you,” Caleb says, pointing a pumpkin-seed-covered finger at you. “You have to be Prince Charming.”

You feel a blush creep up your neck. “Me? Prince Charming?”

“Duh,” Caleb says. “You’re the one who saved everybody.” The simple, honest way he says it makes your heart swell.

“Okay,” you agree, your voice a little shaky. “I can do that. So … who are you going to be?”

Caleb’s grin is triumphant. “I’m the Fairy Godmother,” he declares. “Because you can’t have a happily ever after without a little magic.”

And so, on Halloween night, the vision comes to life. Jack, with a practiced ease, slips back into the powder-blue ball gown. He complains less about the wig this time, and you notice he seems to stand a little taller in it, as if he’s finally grown into the ridiculous, wonderful role he played in your story.

You are decked out in a surprisingly dashing Prince Charming costume you found online, complete with white leggings, a royal blue tunic, and a cape that you keep tripping over.

And Caleb. Caleb is a magnificent Fairy Godmother. He’s wearing a sparkly pink cloak, a pointy hat, and he’s brandishing a silver wand with a star on the end. He looks happy. He looks healthy. He looks free.

For the first time in three years, he gets to go trick-or-treating. He runs from house to house, his cape flying behind him, shouting “Trick or Treat!” with a lung capacity that brings tears to your eyes. You and Jack follow a few paces behind, hand in hand, watching him.

“Look at him,” you say quietly, your voice thick with emotion.

“He’s a kid,” Jack says, squeezing your hand. “Just a kid.”

Later that night, back at the apartment, Caleb dumps his pillowcase full of candy onto the living room floor. It creates a mountain of chocolate, taffy, and lollipops. He sits in the middle of it like a dragon on its hoard and begins to feast.

“Should we … maybe implement some portion control?” Jack asks, watching Caleb unwrap his fifth miniature Snickers bar.

You look at your brother, at the smudge of chocolate on his cheek and the pure, unadulterated bliss on his face. He is making up for lost time, for all the Halloweens he spent in a hospital bed.

“No,” you say, a definitive peace settling over you. You are no longer his full-time nurse, his vigilant guardian against every potential threat. You can just be his sister. “Let him. He’s earned every last cavity.”

An hour later, Caleb is fast asleep on the floor, his head pillowed on a pile of Starburst wrappers, one hand still clutching a half-eaten lollipop. A true sugar coma.

You and Jack stand over him, smiling. Jack gently scoops him up, candy wrappers raining from his lap, and carries him to his bed. You follow and tuck him in.

In the quiet of the hallway, Jack pulls you close, his hand resting on the ridiculous epaulet of your Prince Charming costume. “Happy Halloween, Your Highness,” he whispers.

“Happy Halloween, Cinderella,” you whisper back, and you kiss him, the lingering taste of chocolate and the sweet, undeniable feeling of ‘happily ever after’ all around you.

***

The following year is a cascade of new beginnings. You get accepted into the architecture program at NYU, your dream school. The logistics are daunting, but Jack just waves them away.

“So, we’ll move,” he says one night, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

“We? You can’t just move to New York, Jack. Your whole life, your job, is in Jersey.”

“So we’ll find something in the middle,” he says with a shrug. “I can handle the commute. We’re not living in different states. End of discussion.”

And it is.

Moving day is a beautiful, chaotic mess. You, Jack, and a now-twelve-year-old Caleb, who has shot up six inches and has the gangly limbs of a baby giraffe, pack up your tiny apartment. It’s a bittersweet process, packing away the life you built within those four walls. But the future is waiting in a bright, airy brownstone in Hoboken that Jack found, a place with enough room for all of them and a small backyard.

They build their new home together. Jack hangs pictures, you assemble IKEA furniture with a proficiency that terrifies him, and Caleb directs traffic, still the undisputed foreman of their lives.

Two months after you move in, on a sunny Saturday in October, you decide the home is missing one final piece.

You end up at a local animal shelter. You walk past cages of barking dogs until Caleb stops dead in front of one. Curled in the corner is a small, scruffy-looking mutt with floppy ears and sad, soulful eyes. He’s not a puppy, and he’s not a purebred. He’s just a dog who looks like he’s had a rough go of it.

When you approach the cage, he lifts his head, and his tail gives a single, hopeful thump against the concrete floor.

Caleb kneels down, pressing his face close to the chain-link. “Hey, boy,” he whispers.

The dog gets up, walks to the front of the cage, and licks Caleb’s fingers.

“Well,” you say, looking at Jack. “I think that’s that.”

“What’s his name?” Jack asks the shelter volunteer.

“We’re not sure,” she says. “He came in as a stray. We’ve just been calling him Buddy.”

Caleb looks up from the dog, his eyes shining. “His name isn’t Buddy,” he says with absolute certainty. “He looks like a Gus Gus.”

You feel a laugh bubble up in your chest. It’s perfect. A final, perfect piece of the story.

That night, you are all curled up on the massive new couch in your new living room. A random pre-season game is on the TV, the volume low. Caleb is stretched out, fast asleep, his head in your lap. Gus Gus, who has settled into his new life as if he’s been there forever, is curled on Caleb’s stomach, a furry, breathing hot water bottle.

Jack’s arm is around you, his fingers idly playing with a strand of your hair. The house is quiet, filled with the soft sounds of sleep and the gentle murmur of the television. You lean your head against his shoulder, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of him.

This is it. This is the life you fought for. It’s not a fairy tale. It’s better. It’s real. It’s messy and complicated and built not on magic, but on a foundation of stubborn, relentless, unconditional love.

“Happy?” Jack whispers, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

You look at your brother, sleeping soundly and safely beside you. You look at the sweet, scruffy dog who has completed your family. You look at the man who walked into your life in a ridiculous blue dress and became your entire world.

“More than you know,” you whisper back.

part 1 - your husband works in the er on christmas night. you show up injured, and he's too busy to care for you. when his intern orders a psych eval for you, he refuses to acknowledge the stress you're under because of him.

part 2 - jack's guilt from the christmas incident brings him back to therapy. when his therapist suggests a couple's session to work on your dynamic, things don't go as planned.

part 3 - robby finds out that jack denied your psych eval. jack finds out that robby is in love with you.

part 4 - santos spots you at the new year's party and spends her night trying to figure out who your husband is. when she confronts you, you're forced to face the harsh reality of your marriage to jack.

part 5 - robby takes you to go see jack at the hospital. what you don't expect is the confession he makes to you that flips your friendship upside down. then, the confession jack makes that may just upend your marriage altogether.

You both blink at each other—you hadn’t been expecting him, and somehow, he looks surprised to see you on the other side of the door.

“Dr Robby,” you breathe. You feel incredibly dressed down, even though you’ve never once been dressed up while in the Pitt. Varying levels of barefaced, tired, and hair up. It’s different when you’re lounging in your ratty loungewear than your scrubs, you think.

“Hi. And it’s just Robby,” he says, a little breathless. You live on the third floor to an at least 70 year old apartment building—there are no elevators. But it was cheap, and the landlord treated the apartment like dead weight; happy to unload it onto some unsuspecting tenant.

“Uh—come in.” You shuffle back, inviting him into your place. “Oh, um, shoes off, please.”

“Sure.” He toes off his shoes while you nudge some spare guest house slippers towards him.

It feels awkward, the strange song and dance of work colleagues outside of work. He’s known you for a little longer than six months now. Through work, he feels somewhat he’s well acquainted with you, yet somehow, knows very little about you.

“How are you?” Robby asks.

You head over to the kitchen, filling up the kettle to boil. “Bored, mostly. Feels like I’ve been given all the time off in the world, and I’m just… bored.”

Robby grins, following you. “Sometimes I think our brains aren’t wired for not working. Too much adrenaline.”

You chuckle. “You want tea?”

“Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

“Probably chamomile.” You take out the box of tea bags you’ve stashed in your cupboard. “It’s supposed to help you sleep.”

Robby pauses, studying your face. “Is it working?”

You duck your head. “Not really.” Brain too preoccupied with resurgent fears to sleep. And when you do manage to welcome the unconsciousness, it’s fitful. You’re never able to remember the nightmare that’s startled you awake. Only the dreadful feeling that you can’t outrun anything.

The only sound is the kettle boiling.

“You change your bandage yet?” he asks, after a moment.

“I am also a doctor, Dr Robby.” You’re more than capable of the aftercare of stitches and bandages. Have sent patients home with the list of care instructions multiple times in a day, across the week.

“It’s just Robby,” he says again. It feels weird to upkeep the titles when he’s not in the hospital, even though he’s worked relentlessly for it. “Can I see?”

“Just—give me a second.” When the kettle’s done, you pour out two mugs, dunking the tea bags in. You let them steep. Shuffling towards your first aid kit, then to the stool that he’s parked in, sitting in the one next to him.

“Have at it,” you say.

“Thank you,” Robby says, maybe a little too earnestly. Not seeing you at work after waking up from a hazy dream that reminded him that your heart had stopped—despite the knowledge that he saved you—brought upon a sense of impending doom. He needed to see you, needed to make sure that you still alive under his hands. He hasn’t told you that you died. It’s not something that he wants to relive.

It’s quiet as he works, like he’s back in the ED. This time, without all the bright lights and the machines and the bustle of nurses and doctors.

His thumb is a gentle thing, digit gliding over smooth skin under the wound.

You shiver.

“Does it hurt?” Robby asks.

“No,” you manage to utter out, barely breathing. Head angled up so he can work. Examining every inch of his face while his attention is on your neck.

“You sure?” There’s a furrow between his brows, moulded by worry from the tremble to your frame. He looks down to meet your gaze.

You feel frozen. Staring, drawn into those expressive brown eyes that carry the world within them.

You rise and he falls.

Lips almost touching.

Robby’s thumb absentmindedly strokes back and forth over your pulse.

Your mind is filled with buzzing static; white noise. Hovering closer to him. Your breath hitches.

The sound disrupts the moment.

He remembers himself. Clearing his throat as he rights his posture. Avoiding eye contact as he busies himself, rifling through the first aid kit. “You’ll have to come in to get the stitches out.” He takes a bandage, sticking it over the sutures.

“I know,” you say, impossibly small and quiet. You’re not sure he even hears it.

Harried motions, a whirlwind that takes him towards the front door. Guest slippers off, his own shoes on. “I’ll—I’ll see you. Around. At work.”

You don’t move from the kitchen, watching him flee like this is—like you are—something terrifying. “Yes, sir.”

Robby opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but closes it. Nods. “Okay. See you.” Door opens, stepping out. Then, softly, “I’m glad you’re okay.” Attention drifting back onto you. Lingering.

The door closes.

You sigh, turning back to the kitchen counter to pack away the first aid kit.

You empty out one of the mugs of chamomile tea, keeping the other for yourself.

Your first day back is accompanied by a message from Dr Ellis. You send off an hours late response and pocket your phone, coming in from the stairwell to head into the ED. You’re at least 30 minutes early.

“Nuh uh, I get first hug.” Ellis bodily shoves Shen as soon as she sees you, wrapping you into a hug.

“What the fuck?” Shen demands, mouth parting in a betrayed expression.

“She messaged me as soon as midnight hit,” you explain, arms awkwardly wrapped around Ellis. Your bags swing—your usual tote bag, and your care packages of extra food to make up for the fact that you weren’t in. They’re filled with an increased amount of tupperware and thermos.

“Some of us were busy working at midnight,” Shen scoffs.

“You snooze, you lose, loser,” Ellis says.

Shen, at least, has the decency to wait until Ellis detaches herself before he also latches on.

“I missed my boba buddy,” Shen says.

“You couldn’t get it yourself?” you ask.

He stretches back, lifting you.

You don’t want to admit it, but you’re sure you’ve let out some kind of undignified sound. Your feet don’t touch the ground for a solid three seconds.

“It’s not the same, pookie.” He lets you back on your feet, taking your tote bag from you.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” He’s rifling through your belongings like a raccoon.

“You’re a grown ass man.”

Shen makes a victorious sound, grabbing the boba. “I knew it.”

“Uh uh, and who said that was yours?” Ellis asks.

He turns to you, smug. “Is it?”

You sigh loudly. “I hate proving you right.”

Shen cackles, poking the straw into his drink. Who else would want matcha flavoured boba half an hour before their shift ends, despite the fact that they have yet to sleep all night?

“Still distracting my doctors, I see.” Dr Abbot, again. He looks a little more amused, entertained by the antics of his doctors. And it’s good to see you back—everyday that you weren’t in was a reminder that the PTMC almost lost one of their own.

He saw you briefly when you came in during his night shift, needing your stitches out. He can’t remember exactly, but he’s sure that Dr King had been the one that had taken them out. If he found it weird that you hadn’t come in during the day shift, he didn’t say anything.

“Yeah, well. You know me,” you say.

Abbot’s hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing. “It’s good to have you back, kiddo. Tweedledee and Tweedledum over here wouldn’t shut up about missing you.”

“Is that so?”

“Dibs on being Tweedledee,” Ellis says.

“I can’t be dumb,” Shen gapes, crestfallen.

You grin, shaking your head. Part of you wishes you could transfer into night shift just to keep up with their tomfoolery. Alas, replacing Dr Langdon means sticking to his day shift schedule. “Dr Abbot, before you go—” you pipe up, just as the older attending turns to leave, “I have dumpling soup for you.”

“What the fuck?” Shen asks. He stares at you.

“For me?” Abbot asks at the same time.

With Shen still holding onto your bag, you grab one of the insulated food jars to pass over to Abbot.

“Seriously?” He gingerly takes it from you, disbelieving.

“This one’s for you, specifically. And the lovely Dr Ellis gets—” You take out another food jar.

Ellis opens up the container, mouth dropping open in delight. “Stir fry noodles. Hell fucking yes, dude.”

“This is a hate crime,” Shen sighs dramatically, shaking his head.

“I’m two seconds away from showing you a real hate crime,” you tell him, staving off a large grin.

He makes a face at you, because he’s five years old.

“Go stick to your boba, kid,” Abbot laughs. He holds the food jar to his chest, like it’s something precious.

You spy Dr Robby over Abbot’s shoulder, watching from a distance. You think he seems tickled by whatever the hell is happening, but he’s better at hiding it. He starts towards the direction of the break room.

“Um—give me a second to put everything away,” you say. You’re early, but you have food that would fare better in the fridge. You quicken your pace to fall next to Robby. “Dr Robby.”

He greets you as you do him. “It’s good to have you back,” he says. Even he has to admit that the atmosphere in the Pitt has been different when you’re not here. In six short months, you had made everyone value your presence.

When you enter the break room, he beelines towards the coffee machine, and you to the fridge.

You take out the large tupperware container. “I made fried rice for everyone on day shift. If you don’t have any dietary requirements.” You briefly hold it up when he looks your way before tucking it into the fridge.

“I’ll be sure to let everyone know.”

“It’s for you too, Dr Robby.” You stick in your other containers. With your bag mostly empty, you close the fridge door.

Robby’s watching you, leaning against the counter.

You idle by the fridge, unexpectedly feeling insecure under his analytical gaze. Especially when it flickers to the side of your neck. You shift, tugging the collar of your shirt up like it can hide it. If you could have gotten away with a turtleneck underneath your scrubs, you would have. Alas, the weather’s too warm for that.

“I should—um, go. Lockers,” you manage out.

“Okay,” Robby murmurs. You can’t parse out the expression that he has on his face. Pinched, maybe.

You pass by, and he straightens from the counter. His hand on your shoulder, burning. His proximity reminds you of the two of you in your kitchen, some nights ago.

Your mouth dries at the memory.

“Just—” Robby starts. Licks his lips; your eyes inexplicably drawn to the movement. His thumb strokes against the bone of your shoulder. Even though it’s over the layers of your clothes, you’re certain you feel it scorching against your skin. “Ask if you need help, okay? A second opinion, diagnoses, extra pair of hands, more eyes. Anything. Please.”

You blink, nodding. “Yeah. Yes, sir.”

His fingers flex against your shoulder, before he lets go. “See you out there. Thank you for the food.”

“Yeah. Yes, I’ll… see you.” You’re not sure if you exit the break room before or after the end of that sentence. Fuck, you’re so awkward.

Lockers—your belongings stashed away, stethoscope around your neck. Then into the ED, where Robby is now conferring with Abbot.

You hear your name called.

Then Javadi is propelling towards you. “Hi!”

“Hi—oof.” You manage to catch her before she bowls you over. You rub her back. “It’s good to see you, Dr Javadi.”

“I’m so glad you’re back.”

“It’s good to be back.”

Dr Santos and Dr Whitaker get in at the same time. When they see you, they head towards you. They hover—close, but not going in for a hug. “Thank fuck you’re back,” Santos says, her arms crossed over her chest.

“That bad?” you ask.

“Yes,” Javadi agonises, where she’s still attached to your side.

“It’s only been ten days,” you say.

“Ten days too long,” Whitaker says.

“They didn’t get an acting senior resident in,” Santos says, pitching her voice lower. Eyes skate towards Robby and Abbot.

“Dr Ellis pulled a few doubles. Same with Dr Yeo.”

“Good thing you like Dr Ellis,” you note, grinning as you fix your gaze on Santos.

Santos rolls her eyes as Whitaker chuckles into his fist. “She’s a good doctor.” Santos elbows her roommate.

“She is.”

“I’m missing something, here,” Javadi mutters, low enough that only you can hear.

You rub her back again.

“No love for the old gal, huh?” Dana’s voice from somewhere to the side.

“Dana! Come join the hug,” you say.

Dana squeezes into your other side.

“Is Dr Collins in today?” you ask.

“Yeah. You’re still at least 20 minutes early. She’ll probably be another five.”

Santos and Whitaker take that as their cue to head towards the lockers.

You’ve give yourself time to settle in.

Robby hears you first, before he sees you.

“What?” You blink, a furrow between your brows as you mingle with Dr Santos at the desk near south.

Robby has the belated thought of wanting to smooth it away, thumb against the grooves on your skin.

“Dude, your heart fucking stopped,” Santos explains. “It was so weird seeing you like that—”

Robby interrupts both of you, calling both your names. “If you have time to chat, you have time to check on your patients.” He looks at Santos—an easier target to face.

Santos salutes him, making herself scarce. She knows the disapproving dismissal when she hears it.

You, on the other hand, feel like you’re reeling. You were dead. Sure, you knew you had been injured. You knew you lost consciousness. But they never mentioned anything about losing your pulse. Robby never mentioned anything about it.

Your gaze gravitates towards him, to find that he’s already looking at you. “Robby, I—”

“Don’t,” he says. Pleads, really. “I can’t have this conversation.” As much as he is expounds upon fated timing on the mortal coil when he reassures his students that they’ve done all they can after losing a patient, he can’t broach this with you.

With God given hands, he would have pillaged the afterlife to bring you back.

And he did.

And for some reason, he doesn’t want you to know.

Your lips part like you want to say something, disagree, maybe. Demand your right to know what happened to you.

“Please,” he whispers.

Your mouth shuts, teeth sinking into the plush of your lower lip. Face creasing. “Okay.” With a nod, you make your rounds down to the rooms in south.

In the down time after a few more traumas, you head back up to the nurses’ station in north, using their computers to look at your chart. Robby is less likely to hang out up here—more inclined to busy himself in near central.

“You sure you want to do that?” Kim’s voice. Her hand over yours, stopping you from moving the mouse any further.

“Kim,” you sigh. You tilt your head, turning to her instead of the computer monitor in front of you.

There’s a frown on her face. “What are you trying to find out? You survived. That’s all you need to know.”

“I died.”

“Yeah. And it sucked. For everyone. Like—really, really sucked.”

You turn away, staring at the keyboard instead. Kim’s hand is still over yours. “I don’t—I just wanted to know.” And you’re not even sure why.

“Talk to Dr Robby,” Kim suggests.

You snort. “I’ve tried. He shut me down.”

“Because it sucked for him too.”

You dip your head into a nod. If Kim isn’t willing to let you take a peek into your file of what happened that day, you’re sure the other nurses have already been tasked to keep an eye on you. “Sure,” you agree, even though you have no intention of talking to Robby about this, specifically. He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to, and you don’t want to push him into it.

Kim pats your back, taking your hand to lead you away from the desk. “Back out there, Doctor.”

In another attempt, you find Dr Collins by the central desk. She’s typing notes on the computer.

You inch over.

“Yes, Doctor?” Collins asks, when you’re close enough to her. She’s been watching you not so surreptitiously try to vie for her attention.

“You were there,” you say. Not quite posed as a question. “When I… when I got hurt.”

Her face softens, less guarded. Eyes flicker down to the side of your neck, where you know she observes the raised scarring. It’s been a point of focus—subjected to unspoken looks by other staff, questioned by patients that think there’s a cool story involved. “Yeah, I was,” Collins says, despite the non-query.

“I died. Right?”

Collins draws in a breath. “I shouldn’t really—”

“Because of Robby?”

Lips press into a line. She sighs, a slow nod in response.

“Tell me. Please. Kim wouldn’t let me check my file. And Robby’s probably scared all the other students from telling me.” You know Collins would be exempt from that. “I want to know.” You don’t quite know why. Some kind of morbid curiosity, a sick fascination with the knowledge that you escaped death. Maybe something deeper, needing the secure knowledge of your survival.

“You were gone three minutes,” she says, eventually. “Robby did compressions.”

You swallow.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” A quick response.

“Does it hurt?” She gestures her chin towards your neck.

Your fingers are running over the healing scar. You didn’t even notice; your hand drops. “No. No, nothing hurts. I’m okay. Alive.”

Collins looks sceptical, but doesn’t probe any further. “You know,” she starts, “you’ve got the whole hospital to talk to if you need anything,” she says.

“Thank you,” you say. Earnest.

By the end of the work day, Robby finds you before he leaves. You know he has a tendency to disappear after a shift. You don’t quite know where he runs off to, and you haven’t yet explored the hospital of all of its hiding spaces.

“Can we talk?” Robby asks, leaning against the locker next to yours as you shove your things into your bag. His own backpack is already strung across his back.

“Depends. What about?” You click the locker shut, making your way to the break room.

He falls in place next to you, matching your strides. “You wanted to talk. Before. About… when you were—hurt.” His words are almost gritted out, like it pains him to acknowledge what happened to you.

You take the empty containers from the fridge, leaving behind the larger tupperware of fried rice. Surprisingly, day shift hadn’t finished it. “You didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to force you.”

“Kim told me you tried to look at your file.”

You close the fridge door, harder than necessary. You let out a sigh. “And?” You’re already suspecting that Collins told him as well.

“And Collins told me you talked to her, too.”

Great. It’s not a fair judgement to make, but you feel a little miffed at her loyalty to Robby. It makes sense—you’ve only known these people for a little over six months now. They’ve been working with each other for years without you.

“Why do you want to know so badly?” Robby asks. His arms are crossed, peering down at you. Scrutinising.

“I… I don’t know.” You suck in a breath, casting your gaze elsewhere. “Would you believe me if I said I want to know how much time he took from me?”

Robby’s attention still remains on you, despite the fact that you refuse to look at him. “Is that the truth?”

You shrug, shouldering your other bag. “Maybe.”

The door opens—Mateo comes in, failing to fight a yawn. “Oh—hey.”

Robby waves, hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey,” you say. “There’s still food in the fridge if you still want some.”

“If I want some? Of course I do.” Considerably more energetic, he heads for the fridge.

You and Robby step away from it, heading for the door.

“You’re literally an angel,” Mateo says.

“Please make sure it gets finished,” you add.

“That would be my absolute pleasure.”

You grin, calling out a farewell before you exit the break room. Again, Robby follows as you make the parade of goodbyes with your coworkers. It’s silent between you two as you head to the underground staff parking lot.

“I moved because of him,” you finally say. You’re idling at your car, next to the driver’s door, car keys in hand. It chirps as you unlock it. You hadn’t realise he’s been walking you to your car.

“You said,” Robby says, voice low. There’s that pinched look on his face again.

“I uprooted my whole life—left everything I knew. Everyone. Because I was… scared,” you admit. “And I don’t know—maybe knowing that he took three more minutes of my life means nothing—”

“17 seconds,” Robby interrupts.

“What?”

“It was three minutes and 17 seconds,” Robby says.

You swallow past a viscous thing in your throat. “You counted,” you realise. Down to the last second.

Robby gives an exhausted twitch of his lips. “Of course I did.” He would have counted to the last millisecond, if he could. Noted it down, internalised those moments.

“Robby,” you breathe.

“I…” He doesn’t know if it’s a conscious decision to move closer, but he does so, fingers pressed against your pulse point. “I can’t stand the thought of losing you,” he murmurs.

You wonder if he knows the racing of your carotid is because of him. “I’m still here.” Your voice comes out equally soft.

“Yeah.” Stepping further into your space, fingers shifting. Palm splayed against your cheek, thumb brushing against warmed skin.

You let out a shuddering breath, leaning into his hand.

His eyes flicker between yours, gaze diving down to your lips.

Oh, you want him to kiss you. So, so badly.

Impossibly close.

You hear the click of the car door opening behind you.

Lips brush against your forehead before Robby steps back. “Get home safe,” he says, quiet.

You look at him, more than an arms length away. You can’t help feel the disappointment clog your throat. You’re sure it reflects on your countenance—you’ve never been much for poker faces. Instead, you nod, lips pursing. “Yes, sir.” You get into your car.

He doesn’t move until you drive away.

You’re about a third into your fourth shift back when Gloria arrives in the ED.

At first, everyone assumes she’s there for Robby. Her presence in the ED always means some kind of discussion or review with an attending. Shen talked to her once in his newly established role as an attending, and she now actively avoids him. Robby kind of wants to know what Shen did.

“Dr Robby,” she says, finding her stride beside him.

Robby tries not to sigh too loudly. “What can I do for you, Gloria?” He’s eyeing the rooms, the trauma bays, trying to find someone that needs an extra pair of hands. Anything to get him away from the impending conversation, really.

“I need to borrow one of your doctors.”

Robby frowns. “Who?”

When she says your name, Robby pauses, pivoting to look at her. “What for?”

She stops, raising an eyebrow. “You know I can’t tell you that, Dr Robby.”

Robby sighs, looking up at the board. “Central 14,” he says after seeing your name attached to the patient. He leads the way, where you’re talking to a young child on the bed, her mother sitting to the side.

Robby knocks on the opened door, drawing your attention.

“Dr Robby,” you say. Your expectant gaze wavers when you see the chief medical officer accompanying him. “Gloria.”

“Gloria wants to talk to you,” Robby says.

You feel like a student being called up to the principal’s office, with no knowledge of what you’ve done wrong.

Robby looks just as confused about the request.

“Sure. Let me…” You turn back to your patient. “Lily, I have to go, but I’m going to leave you with Dr Robby, okay?” You stand from the stool, but Lily snags your hand, something fearful crossing her face.

“Don’t…” she whispers, horrified.

“It’s okay,” you promise, voice soft, sinking back into your stool. You smile at her. “Listen, I’ll come back, but I have to go. Dr Robby looks grumpy but I promise, he’s just a soft little teddy bear inside. He’ll take really good care of you, okay?”

Lily looks over your shoulder, no doubt scrutinising him. Her dark brown eyes turn back to you. “You’ll come back?” she asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Promise?”

You hold out your pinky to her. “Pinky promise.”

She wraps her respective digit around yours. “Okay,” she says, still sullen, but willing to let you go.

You stand from the stool, and Lily’s mother, Mrs Tran, stands with you.

“Thank you,” she says in Vietnamese. She shakes your hand. “Really, thank you.”

“It’s not a problem,” you assure, responding in the same language. “It was really nice to meet you, Mrs Tran. Please, take a seat.” You usher her back into her chair.

At the door, you press the chart into Robby’s hands. “Lily Tran, six years old. Came in for severe abdomen pain.” You go through your differential diagnoses. Then you nod towards her mother. “And Huong Tran, Lily’s mom. I’ve been calling her Mrs Tran. She can understand you more than she can speak. Slow down, use less complex words.”

“Got it. Thank you, Doctor.” There’s something soft in his eyes as he regards you.

You feel yourself falter at it. The whole—whatever it is—has been confusing. Moments where you’re close, moments where you think he might finally make the first move, and yet. Nothing. Professional camaraderie maintained at work, whilst he gets close and personal in between. Walking you to your car; brief moments in the break room when you stock up the fridge, ensuring no one else is in there.

You walk with Gloria. “Am I in the doghouse?” you ask.

“No. You haven’t done anything wrong.” She leads you to the elevator. Presses the button that takes you up to admin and records, where her office resides.

You see Princess eyeing you as she passes by. You make a face at her. Send help.

Princess’ look says, You’re on your own.

The door slides closed.

You feel blank, weighed down by nothing and everything all at once. Staring at Gloria from where you’re perched on the opposite side of her desk. The office chair creaks as you shift.

“We’re doing what we can to increase the security team around here. More staff. More roaming,” Gloria says.

“But you can’t do anything about him.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t. We’ve looked at our avenues while you were away. Your best option is pressing charges against him. Under Pennsylvanian law, it’s a felony to assault a healthcare worker. We’d be with you, every step of the way.”

It’s a step, you know. Reports, court, lawyers—a long process. And then what? The maximum he’d get is 10 years, or a fine, depending on how his lawyer argued the case. Based on how shit transpired in LA, there’s no evidence to prove this was targeted. Texts, notes, phone calls—none of it meant anything to the police when there was no way of proving his identity behind it all.

This would be tried as a random attack.

“I’ll think about it,” you finally say.

Gloria slides over a card. “This is our legal’s team contact information. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you.”

You pocket it without looking. “Thank you, Gloria.”

“I wish there was more we could do,” she adds, apologetic.

You smile, wry. “We both know men like him don’t face legal consequences. Not really.”

Something aged and pained settles in Gloria’s eyes. She’s seen it all—vulnerable people slipping through the cracks while men like Matthew remain untouched by a system that protects their own. “I’m sorry,” she offers.

You haven’t interacted with her much outside of the hiring process, and you’ve heard everyone bemoan her presence in the ED. An easy target to aim ill will towards. But right now, seeing her commiserate with you, you think she seems just as human as you. Worn down, tired of a society that protects only those that look like them. Everyone else cast aside. You and her, regardless of your contribution or hierarchy.

“It’s not… it’s not on you, Gloria.” You know it’s the truth, even though you both wish more could be done. The hospital could ban Matthew Williams from accessing their other services and flag his name, but if he came through the doors of the PTMC as an emergency patient, everyone would have no choice but to attend to him. The most they could do is ensure you and him never crossed paths while he was present.

“Let me know what else we can do for you. Whatever your choice is.”

“Even if…” You pause. “I left?” It’s not something you’re heavily considering, but you know it’s a choice. A backup plan. Running, again. Another state. Another country. Across the sea.

“Even then,” Gloria promises. “Recommendation letters, references—you name it. You have our support.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s head back down.”

Robby notices that you’re gone for almost the whole hour.

He finds Princess and Perlah by the desk near the elevator that you had taken up with Gloria. “You heard anything?”

Princess looks up at Robby, sharing a look with Perlah. “Nothing yet,” she says.

“Probably talking about important stuff,” Perlah adds.

And that’s concerning to him. He’s worried, yes, but he also needs you back on the floor. They didn’t expect to suddenly be down a senior resident in the middle of their shift.

He doesn’t know when you come down with the elevator, but you and Gloria round the corner. You head to the bathroom. Gloria hovers by the door.

Perlah narrows her eyes, studying.

Princess nudges Robby towards Gloria, intentions clear. “Go,” she hisses.

“What’s going on?” Robby asks as he shuffles forward.

“Just give it a minute,” Gloria says.

“I can’t have you going around upsetting my doctors, Gloria.”

“I am not—” Gloria pauses to take in a breath. Like she’s centreing herself. “I cannot tell you anything.” But if you want to tell Robby yourself, then that’s your prerogative, she ends up relaying.

You come out of the bathroom, a little surprised to see Robby outside as well.

He frowns. “Are you—”

“Robby!” Dana calls, across the north nurse station. “Two traumas incoming!” She’s got a phone in hand.

“Alright! Get set up! Let’s go, people.” The ED comes alive. He looks back at you, still with that furrow between his brows.

“Put me in, coach,” you say. There’s no way in Hell you’re sitting this one out.

Robby hesitates. Then, “Trauma 2. Take Dr Santos with you.”

“Yes, sir.” You take a second to meet Gloria’s questioning gaze, nodding. Then you’re off, snagging Santos from central.

You’re okay. You’re going to press charges against Matthew Williams. Even if it takes a year from now, you’re going to push.

“You know,” you say, grabbing your containers from the fridge. Every end of shift, a routine. You taking your tupperware home, Robby accompanying you to the walk to your car. “Gloria told me you volunteered to walk with me.”

What you don’t say, is that you felt stupid after she told you. The pieces clicked into place. Robby wasn’t walking with you every night because he realised his feelings after almost losing you, or whatever dumb fantasy you were entertaining. It was because this was a safety plan that the hospital enacted after realising you had an active stalker.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say. “She said they’re upping the security guards. They can walk me.”

Robby shoots you a look, like he’s offended by the mere suggestion. “I can walk you.”

“That’s not your job.”

“It’s not,” Robby agrees. “But I want to.”

And—seriously. What the Hell are you meant to say to that? “Oh. Yeah, sure.” The conversation ends awkwardly, and again, you make your rounds to say goodbye to everyone before taking the elevator down to the parking garage. Sub-basement level—swipe card access only.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Robby starts, “but you can talk to me. About anything.”

You nod. “I’m… pressing charges,” you say, once you reach your car. “Against Matthew Williams.” You might need Robby on the stand, you realise. A doctor’s opinion on what happened during the attack. On the severity of the injury that was inflicted onto you.

“Yeah?” Robby keeps his face impassive. “That’s good, right?”

“It’s—” you chuckle, humourless. “It’s for violence against an on-duty healthcare worker.”

Almost imperceptible, a frown on his face. Corners of his lips tugging down. “And nothing else?”

“Nothing else,” you confirm. “Nothing else will stick in court. Not against men like him.”

“What do you mean?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t act like that. You’re a smart man, Dr Robby.”

Robby relents. Quiet settles. Outside the parking garage, cars beep and roar among traffic. “What now?”

“It takes however long it takes,” you say. “Months. A year. Maybe longer. They might bury it. They might not. I—I don’t know.”

Disillusionment at its finest. He wishes he could provide more hope in his wizened years. But no. “I’m sorry,” he says instead.

You shake your head, a tired movement. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“Let me know if there is?” Robby asks, and it sounds like you’d be doing him a favour instead of the other way around.

“Okay,” you say. It’s not sure thing, though. Even you don’t know what you need to commence the case.

“Thank you,” he says. His hands shoved into his pockets, standing aside.

You’re left staring at each other for the still moments that pass between. You feel embolden, maybe. You’re not sure what possesses you to take the two steps to get into his space.

You hear him inhale sharply.

You rise up, lips against his cheek. His beard scrapes against your skin. “Good night, Robby.” Back down, taking a step back.

“Uh,” he says, aptly. “Good—good night.”

You get into your car. Holy shit. You did that. You kissed him on the cheek. It’s a juvenile thing to be freaking out over, but you are.

He watches you get into the car, watches you wave through the window and drive off before his brain even rewires.

Weeks pass. You meet up with the PTMC’s team of lawyers and settle on a hearing in the meantime.

“Mr Williams made a generous donation to the PTMC last night,” Gloria says.

A few times a week, before the start of your shift, you’re up in her office with the lawyers assigned to your case. Annalise Keating and Wes Gibbins of K & G Law Firm—an adoptive mother-son duo that you have a feeling owe Gloria a few favours.

You think the proverb about the fury of a scorned woman describes Annalise. She’s extremely competent, and Annalise is as tenacious as Wes is empathetic. As long as you tell them everything they needs to know, they can protect you, she had said. Of course, you folded, telling her about your experience with Matthew Williams.

“He’s trying to bury this,” you realise.

“We’re not saying that,” Annalise is quick to correct.

“Officially,” Wes adds. “But unofficially…”

Your lips purse. Even if they won’t verbally admit it, you know you’re right.

“Based on records we have access to, he’s also made several donations to LA General,” Annalise continues.

“How long ago?” you ask.

Wes rifles through a document folder. “They stopped six months ago. But he had regular payments spanning June to September this year.”

You feel your heart stutter. “That’s how long he was…” Texting and calling your phone with private numbers. Leaving unmarked notes at the hospital. Escalating to letters dropped off in your mailbox. Not to mention your parents—you ran as soon as your mother had called, asking about a strange man that showed up to their front door, asking about you.

Four years into your emergency residency, and it felt like the stars aligned when the PTMC were willing to take you in after losing their R4.

Four years worth of connections you made in the hospital, gone; your whole life upturned. You sold your car, trekked to Pittsburgh on your savings and spare cash your dad stashed into your suitcase after he accepted he couldn’t change your mind. When your mother concluded that the police really weren’t going to do anything to protect you.

You’re too scared to even text your parents, despite changing your number. The constant what if ringing in your mind. What if he somehow knew how to track their phones? What if he was still tracking them?

But he’s in Pittsburgh now. With you. Even though the thought terrifies you, you’re comforted by the fact that he isn’t in the same city as your parents anymore.

“We’ll do what we can,” Annalise says, as they shuffle their papers, getting ready to leave. Whatever favour they owe Gloria must be mountainous, since they get here earlier than your 7 AM start.

“Thank you,” you tell them, following them both. It’s nearing the start of your shift. “Really. I know you’re doing a lot for me. This isn’t an easy case.”

“There are no easy cases,” Wes remarks, grinning at you. The elevator dings. You all enter.

“That’s the fun of it.” Annalise adds. Her smile turns kind when she faces you. “You’re a tough one, Doctor. You’ll get through this too.”

You wish you could believe her words. You smile in response, anyway. “I appreciate it,” you say.

No one bats an eye when you walk out with them. Gloria had made her rounds on their first appearance, letting everyone know exactly who they were, and if any staff saw them wandering the hospital floors, they should be redirected to her office, no appointments necessary.

This is what Robby tries to keep in mind when he sees you. Annalise walks ahead towards the ambulance entrance, Wes lingers where you are, halfway between central desks and the doors that lead outside.

“Maybe when this is all over, we can get a drink,” Wes says.

Robby looks up from the computer he’s standing in front of.

You blink. Oh. Wes is cute, you have to admit. But you never considered him as anything other than your lawyer. “Isn’t this case supposed to take a while?”

“Lucky me, then,” he say, the corners to his lips tilted upwards. “Either way, I get to see you.”

You can’t help the responding grin that stretches across your face. He’s got a boyish charm to him. And sue you—you haven’t felt this kind of attention in a while. Open. Someone that’s directly asking you out. Not trying to woo you in the darkness, and treat you like a coworker in front of everyone else. “You’re still my lawyer,” you remind.

“My mom is your lawyer. Officially.”

“Pretty sure the G and K & G is for you, Counselor.”

He smirks. Leans in close, lips next to your ear. “Maybe it has something to do with that old guy that’s staring at me like he wants to bury me six feet under?”

Do not look. Do not even entertain turning around to see if he means Robby. You’re pretty sure it is. “Um,” you say, head ducking a little, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “Maybe. Sorry. It’s—complicated.”

Wes shrugs, easy. “Well, if you ever get sick of complicated, you do have my number.” He steps back, winking. “See you, Doctor.” Then he walks away.

You watch him leave. Shit.

Out of nowhere, Perlah sidles up to you. “So,” she says.

“Do not,” you say. You make the mistake of looking at her face—she looks exactly like a cat that has the cream. Like you’ve made her entire day.

“I’m not saying anything.” Perlah has her hands up. “But that smile on your face is definitely telling me something.”

“Nope. Goodbye, Perlah.” A quick turn of your heels, fleeing to the break room. From the corner of your eye, you definitely spy Robby at central. He had to have been listening. If Perlah knew what was going on, Robby would have too.

You don’t think you can survive his crabby mood on top of everything you’re dealing with.

The end of your shift, like routine, brings Robby walking alongside you. Lingering outside your car.

Robby reaches out like he’s going to cup your face again. Like so many instances before, of soft moments between you, stolen when no one else can bear witness to it. Days of this, weeks of this. Quiet and unknown.

You move away before he can make contact.

His lips thin out, fingers twitching.

“What is this?” you ask, soft and unsure and—tired, you think. Tired of the confusion. You’re running yourself ragged between work and meeting up with Annalise and Wes. Not sleeping well, forgoing attempts at sleep by pretending that you can live vicariously through the food you’re making to feed everyone else in the ED.

Convinced something has to give, floating in limbo. A forever lurch in your stomach in the downward trajectory of the rollercoaster. People treating you like you’re not able to take care of yourself—not able to walk to your Goddamn car on your own. You don’t want more uncertainty piled on. You’re exhausted. You feel it heavy within the hollow matrix of your bones. Weighted.

And this time, you’re the one that’s reached the tipping point.

“We don’t have to do this—” Robby starts.

“What is this, Robby? There is no this. What are we even doing here? What are you hoping for?”

He furrows his brows, like this is inconveniencing him. “I’m not trying to push anything—”

“Then figure it out!” Your raised voice echoes in the parking lot. You take a steadying breath. You’re usually not prone to outbursts; confrontation makes you cry—you tend to avoid authority figures. Somehow, Robby is incredibly adept at bringing it out in you.

You rub at your eyes, stemming the tears. “I’m tired, Robby. I’m not sleeping; I’ve got shit to deal with. I got asked out by someone that made it clear that he actually liked me, but somehow, I’m hung up on you, and I can’t even tell if you want—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

His lips are on yours.

Robby.

In your space, pressing you against the side of your car.

Finally. Fucking finally.

His weight and warmth enveloping you. One hand on your waist, the other slotted to the side of your face, like it belongs there. Like it always belonged there, and you were only denying him his right.

The rough scrape of his beard, his teeth tugging your bottom lip.

Your breath hitches.

He shifts his leg between yours.

You sigh out a moan, thighs bracketing his knee.

“I,” Robby says, and his voice is hoarse. “Want. You.” Kissing, stealing your air. He had envisioned waiting for the right moment, whenever that was. Some kind of softness in your shared first kiss. Asking you out first, maybe.

Instead, you have a way of pushing his buttons, nudging him to the edge of his patience. Even now. Even here, like this. He really shouldn’t have expected anything less from you. Reminding him that that punk lawyer of yours asked you out? Yeah, of course he’s seething.

“Robby,” you utter out.

His hand drifting under your shirt. Across the skin of your belly. Hand roughened and warm. “You drive me insane, you know that?” Fingers dipping under the elastic waist.

You gasp, hand wrapping around the wrist of his straying attention. “Robby,” you say. Chasing air. Breathing heavily.

“What?” And by the darkening of his eyes, you have a feeling that he would have no qualms about having you right here and now, up against your car. In an echoing parking lot that any staff member could enter. Anyone could come in and out for shift change.

Lips attached to your neck, tongue wet and heated against your skin.

“Not here,” you pant. “Not—fuck, mmm, Robby—take me home.”

“Mine or yours?”

“Fuck. I don’t—I don’t care.”

He laughs, soft and proud of himself for reducing you, usually so smart and capable, into a mess that stutters through your thoughts. “Mine, then.”

You can’t get into your car fast enough.

You end up in his bed. Legs apart, his face buried between your thighs. “Robby,” you moan, fingers curling into his hair.

He groans, a noise that vibrates through you. Tone low and deliciously spent. Even though he’s the one enacting pleasure on you, he’s the one that feels on the edge.

“Fuck.”

His tongue doesn’t stop, alternating between rings around your clit, up and down, side to side. And his fingers, bigger and longer than yours, buried inside. Digits angled, massaging against that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

“You’re going to make me come—” Thighs squeezing, grinding up into his face. The sudden release of that feeling in your stomach that he’s been making you chase for the past 20 or so minutes. Moaning aloud, nothing bashful in the sounds you emit. You’ve seen his house—gated. Standing alone. You could be as loud as you wanted and his neighbours would be none the wiser.

“God, Robby, fuck, fuck fuck, you’re—” Bitten off moans.

He’s still going. Fingers sliding out. Mouth lapping at your entrance, tongue pushing into the sticky mess. Tasting you. He groans aloud. His thumb nestles against your clit, rubbing circles.

He’s going to kill you.

“Robby,” you huff. Bending your leg, foot against his shoulder. Pushing. “Robby, get up here and—mm, fuck—fuck me.”

Robby relents. Getting up from the bed, taking off his shirt. Cock straining under fabric. “Who knew the Pitt’s sweetheart had such a dirty mouth?” By the smug lilt to his question, you have a feeling he knew. Hoped, at least.

You can’t help but roll your eyes at the nickname. You’ve definitely heard it floated around, and yes, you’re very aware that it arose from you bringing food in for everyone. But what else were you meant to do when all everyone cared about was comparing you to their precious Dr Langdon?

You crawl towards where Robby’s kneeling on the bed. Help him with his pants. You look up at him, pushing your tongue to the inside of your cheek. “You want to see what else I can do with it?”

Robby’s hand bunching in your hair, groaning. “Fuck, you drive me insane.” Tugging you up to kiss you again. Nudges you back onto the bed, his body laid atop yours. “As much as I would like to, not tonight.”

“Not going to last, old man?” you ask.

He laughs, something rough in his throat. “Definitely not.” Lips grazing, soft and almost reverent against the line at your throat, above your carotid. Gentle kisses against the scar on your neck.

You gasp, fingers digging into his hair. Flexing.

He hovers. “That okay?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Definitely.”

Kisses it again, once. Twice. Then detaches himself from you, reaching for the bedside drawers where he keeps his condoms. Rolls it on, returning himself to you. With one hand, he guides himself to your entrance. Rubs the tip of him against you.

“Robby,” you say. Voice bordering on a whine. Becoming desperate for it—for him.

“Yeah, I know.” He sounds so fucking smug. Pushes the fat head of his cock into you. His other palm flat next to your head, against the bed, leaning above you.

Your breath stutters. “Oh, God.” You grip his forearm, something keening in your throat. “Oh my God, Robby.” He’s fucking big. You feel him stretching your entrance.

“You’re—fucking Hell, you’re so tight.” He moves the arm you don’t have in a death grip, thumb circling your clit. “Relax, honey. I got you.”

Your hips buck up, taking another half inch of him inside you. You’re both moaning around it.

“Fuck me,” he breathes. He pulls back a centimetre, then pushes himself in, slowly. Torturously.

You’re groaning. “Robby,” you huff. “Fuck, you’re—you’re too—”

“You can take it,” he hushes, confident. Lands a kiss to the side of your neck, under the scar. Rolls his hips in again, then out.

“It’s been a while,” you confess, feeling your face flood with heat. It’s embarrassing to admit it, but you certainly hadn’t been too keen on trying your hand with dating since those messages started appearing on your phone. When you got to Pittsburgh, you did nothing but work.

Lips finding yours. Reassuring. His thumb still pressed to your clit. Unhurried, despite the desire that permeates, that heaves his chest with short bursts of air. “Been so long you forgot how to take good dick, huh?” he asks. Fucks his cock in further.

You moan—at his words, at the feeling of him stretching you out. “Robby.”

“You’ll learn. One of my best fucking residents for a reason.”

Fuck.

Robby grunts, his hips jerking forward on its own accord. You cry out; he stills, huffing. “Fuck, you liked that one, didn’t you?” Panting. Lips on yours again.

You feel like you’re going to combust, fire pooling under your skin. Exposed for Robby to see, to know everything about you like this.

“Need you,” you say in between kisses.

“I know,” he says. Slow thrusts, and then—finally. Cock fully sheathed inside. He groans lowly.

Squeezing his arm, hand on his chest. “Wait—just, hah, wait. Wait—mmh.”

He tries to pull out, but you’re grabbing hold of his waist.

“Wait. Stay,” you murmur. “Just give me a second.”

Robby lets out a ragged breath, forehead against your chest. The hand previously on your clit trails to the side of your thigh, rubbing up and down the length of your flesh. Patient. Waiting, just as you asked.

Your walls fluttering around him, accommodating the feeling of him inside you. “Jesus Christ, you’re big, Robby. I can feel you.”

He grips your thigh, nails indented into skin. “You gotta stop talking like that if you want me to wait.”

“But you are—”

Silencing you by claiming your lips. Pushing his tongue into your mouth. Exchanging air and spit. Robby trembles with the effort it takes to not fuck into you like this. Underneath him, sounding so pretty while you struggle with the size of him.

You grind your hips up into him, stuttering through a breath.

Robby makes an audible sound, half groan, half growl. “Jesus.” Control dwindling by the second.

“Okay okay, move, Robby, fuck me.”

You barely finish the sentence before he’s thrusting into your tight heat. One of your legs hooked around his back. It’s sloppy, not at all graceful or coordinated. His thumb circling your clit again. Your walls convulsing around him.

“Wanna feel,” he huffs, “how tight you get when you come around me.”

And that rising wave in your stomach again. Crashing tides, falling, lapping. “Coming, coming coming.” Breathy and drawn out. Robby keeps fucking into you until he grunts, low and strung out. You feel his dick twitch inside you, and then he groans something fierce, falling over the edge of his own release.

Bowed over you, forehead against your collarbone. “Fuck,” he murmurs.

“Robby.”

“Mhm?”

“Kiss me. Please—”

His lips are on yours again. Head lifted, pressing into you. Your hand against his cheek, fingers rubbing against his beard. “Stay,” he whispers, when you part for air. “Please.”

So you do.

The next morning, you’re up earlier than your usual time.

“You don’t want to head in together?” Robby asks, voice rough with sleep.

“I have food in my fridge for everyone,” you say. You’re putting your scrubs on, from where they’ve been discarded haphazardly around the room last night. You’ll need to shower as well.

Robby chuckles, sitting up to watch you drift around his space. “Always taking care of everyone.”

“Someone’s got to.” You draw closer to the bed, intending on giving him a parting kiss.

He pulls you on top of him, into his lap. Fingers pushing inside your still wet warmth. Thumb against your clit. And makes you come again. Shaking apart on top of him, grinding into his hand.

“There we go,” Robby murmurs into your ear. Fingers still pumping in and out of you. “Told you you’d learn how to take it. Gotta teach you how to be used like this.”

You’re shuddering, gasping, your hips rolling down. “Robby,” you moan.

“My best fucking resident.” Robby mouths a line down your neck, focusing on the scar again. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Side of your head pressed to a broad shoulder. Catching your breath.

“You should head out,” he says, after you’ve ridden through the aftershocks. “Don’t want to be late.”

“Fuck you,” you wheeze out, barely coherent enough to gather your thoughts.

“Tomorrow.” You don’t even have to see his face to see that smug grin across his lips.

You snort. Grab his wrist to stop the movement of his fingers, lifting yourself off of him. Kiss him again. “See you in there.”

You don’t do anything that strays from your usual routine—you come in at a different time than Robby, after ensuring you showered and brought along food. Disperse among the night shift to hand them their goods.

And yet. Abbot narrows his eyes at Robby during handoffs. Looks at where you’re talking to Shen and Ellis at central. Then back to Robby. “Good for you, brother.”

“What?” Robby asks, blinking guilelessly.

Abbot just snorts, shaking his head. Continues with the handoff. If Robby won’t say anything, he won’t either.

The rest of the PTMC clock it within two days.

On the third day, during shift change, Ellis takes your elbow as soon as your arrive and drags you into the break room.

“Dr Ellis,” you say, surprised. You use the abrupt opportunity to place your containers of food in the fridge.

“You know I like you, right?” she asks, phrased as a question, but not.

“We’re friends,” you hedge. Outside of the food that you leave for her, you like to think that you’re actually friends. Have finally built a rapport outside of coworkers and co-residents.

“Exactly,” she says. “So, as your friend, I want to say this as a means of looking out for you.”

You frown. “Say what?”

“Dr Robby,” she says. Eyes moving between yours to ensure she has your attention. It feels like something she’s picked up from Abbot. “How much do you—?”

The door opens.

“There you are,” Shen says. He’s boba-less—Ellis had grabbed you before you could give him the drink.

“Get in. Close the door,” Ellis hisses.

“Oh, is it intervention time?” He does as asked, door shutting. He pulls out one of the chairs around the table.

“What intervention?” you ask.

“Dr Robby,” Shen says, somehow wisely and cryptically at the same time.

You’re so sure you look bewildered. Clasping your hands together, looking between them. “One of you guys need to start making sense. Right now, please.” You settle on Ellis, usually the rational, logical one to Shen’s antics.

She sighs. “We,” she says, giving Shen pointed look, “just want you to be careful with him.”

You blink, mouth falling open. Turn to look at Shen. Then back towards Ellis. “Are you giving me the shovel talk right now?”

“No!” Ellis says. “Fuck, no. Look, he’s just… got a bit of a reputation. And we want you to be careful.”

Your mouth closes, lips pressed into a line. Trying not to laugh.

“What’s with that face?” Shen asks.

“You know,” you start, trying so so hard not to laugh in their faces. You don’t want to besmirch their good intentions, and whatnot. They’re so sweet. “Dana had this talk with me after my first three weeks here.”

“Oh, thank God,” Ellis breathes out, relieved. The burden lifted from her shoulders. This is not a talk she wants to be having about her colleagues.

“Thank fuck for Dana,” Shen says.

You end up laughing, shaking your head. “Aww, I knew you guys liked me.”

“I just want my boba.” Shen stands from the chair. His low effort intervention deed now done.

You take it from your tote bag, tossing it at him. He catches it before it hits him in the head. Then you pull them both into a hug. “I’m never letting you guys live this down.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ellis huffs. Her arm wrapped around you.

“Fuck off,” Shen says, but he accepts the hug.

You don’t bother trying to hide the grin that overtakes your face. Planting grandma-level of obnoxious kisses on their cheeks, despite their half-hearted complaints.

The door opens.

Robby pokes his head in to call out, “We’re doing rounds,” then stops. Taking in the scene with a questioning raised brow. “Everything okay?”

“Yep,” Shen is quick to answer.

“Totally.” Ellis, a beat later. Not suspiciously at all.

You cackle as you leave the break room. Robby shoots you a bemused look. You shake your head, grinning. “I’ll tell you later.”

Later ends up being at your apartment, where he insists on doing your dishes after the low effort dinner of leftovers.

“Are we casual?” you ask.

Robby looks over his shoulder from the sink. “No?”

“Wow. Are you asking or telling me?”

“I don’t know why you’re asking me.”

“I don’t do casual,” you say. It’s something you’ve learned about yourself, when you were in your college years, attempting casual hookups for the first time. You always got woefully attached, no matter how hard you tried to distance yourself. Your ego always telling you you were the exception, not the rule. “I realised I never really… clarified before—you know.”

“We’re not.” Clean dishes on the rack, drying his hands with the designated hand towel hanging on the cupboard below the sink. Robby folds his arms, leaning against the sink, hands cupping his elbows. “Where is this coming from?”

You shake your head, biting back a smile at the memory of Ellis and Shen from the morning. Idiots, you think, fond.

Head tilted, eyes narrowed, corners of his lips twitching. “This have anything to do with what happened in the break room?” Amusedly curious, not accusing.

You laugh out loud. “No,” you lie, poorly.

“Uh huh.” Stepping towards you, standing right in front of you. Looking down while you look up. His hand against your jaw. “Are my doctors feeding you bad intel about mean, old Dr Robby?”

You grin, kissing his palm. “Well. Depends what you consider bad.”

Robby snorts. “Yeah. I’m sure there’s a bunch of rumours and bets floating around.”

“They’ve been floating around for a while, Robby.”

He frowns. “Really?”

“Dana wouldn’t have talked to me about your seven weeks thing, otherwise.”

Robby blinks. “She—what?”

You’re not sure what prompted her to, but three weeks after starting at the PTMC, she told you to be mindful of Dr Robby. That he was a great doctor, and a good man, but he had a thing with relationships only lasting seven weeks, after Dr Adamson passed away. And you knew about Adamson, heard other nurses talk about him, saw his portrait in the hallway.

“You have a habit of seven weeks,” you relay.

“Is that why you were so weird with me? Before—all of this?” he asks. Tipping your face up, pad of his thumb grazing the scar again. Proof of life. Again and again and again. As long as he needs the reminder.

“No,” you say, but all of a sudden, the room feels too hot. Too thick with something other than the banter. All you can think of is him in front of you, the rough skin as he thumbs the raised line.

“Robby,” you manage.

“Yeah?” Distracted. Eyes roaming around your face, taking in the sight of you south of him while he stands. He can’t really be blamed for his thoughts straying.

“I mean it,” you whisper, clearing your throat. “I can’t do casual with you.”

“We’re not,” he promises, soft. His hand moves to the back of your nape, fingers curling around the width of it. “Come here.” Gentle urge as he tugs you up.

And you go. Willing and soft, pressed against him.

His lips on yours. His kisses feel heavy. “Nothing about how I feel is casual,” he says.

You nod, eyes darting between his. Look at him like you’re begging him—the universe—for it to be true. Creases between your brows.

“You.” Lips to your forehead, on the grooves of furrowed skin. “Drive me insane.”

“They’re going to talk about us.”

“They already are. I don’t care. Even if Gloria made up some bullshit about how we shouldn’t be together—I’d choose you.”

You feel prickling behind your eyes, sweet words you want to believe. “Robby,” you sniffle.

“It’s true,” he murmurs. Delicate, like he wants for nothing else than for you to trust him, to find yourself worthy of this.

“Take me to bed.”

You’re leaving Trauma 1, Javadi on your heels.

“And I thought it was a date,” her voice settles somewhere in the breathless and high range. “I got there and he had all these people there, and I had no idea who any of them were, and I think I freaked out and tried to run away and—”

“Baby girl,” you say, resting your hands on both her shoulders. Wait for her eyes to meet yours. “You gotta stop.”

“Stop?” She blinks, wide-eyed and endearing.

“Everything that you’re telling me right now, is telling me that he’s not interested.”

“But—”

“Girl. Victoria,” you deadpan. “That man wanted someone to come cook while he hosted his friends. And you did that. For two whole hours.”

“Whoa, what’s this?” Santos asks, sidling up to the two of you. She’s leaning against the desk, interest piqued by drama.

“A date,” Javadi manages.

“A failed one,” you add.

“Ugh,” Santos says. “Men.”

“You,” you say, attention back on Javadi, “are not allowed to do any more swiping or meeting up without my say so.”

“Seriously?” Javadi asks.

“Yes, seriously. You just played mommy to some fuck ass who didn’t know how to use his grill. Ask more questions. Get more answers. Don’t be afraid to say no if his idea of a first date is to come over so you can just ‘chill’.”

“But what if I don’t get another date?”

“There will be plenty,” you say.

“Start dating girls,” Santos says.

“Not helpful, Dr Santos,” you add.

“Oh, come on. Wouldn’t it be easier if we only dated women and left the men to fend for themselves?”

“Right. Was it easier for you when you moved in together after a month of dating, and then was left with a two bedroom apartment that you could barely pay the rent for?”

Santos’ mouth drops open. “I’m going to kill him. That’s not his business to spread.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault your roomie loves talking to me,” you say.

“Fuck you. You have a Pitt-wide bet about your current relationship, so the only actual long-term man in your life followed you from LA. The same one you’re pressing charges against because he almost fucking killed you!”

“Whoa!” Javadi exclaims, gobsmacked by the audacity. Her eyes are rounded, darting between the two of you.

You maintain the stunned silence for all of two seconds before you break. “Holy shit,” you wheeze out in between laughter.

“Whatever,” Santos says, turning her attention up to the board.

“Fuck, you really got my ass, huh?” You hold out a fist towards her.

She’s bites her lip, refraining from grinning as she fist bumps you. “Don’t ever come for me again.”

“Yeah, you got it, Dr Santos.”

“I’m still killing Huckleberry,” she says.

“Yep, totally. Have at it. We will not be missing him.” You would, but honourable sacrifices need to be made. You are not crossing Santos again.

“Doctors,” Dana says, slipping into the small huddle you’ve created under the board. By the grin on her face, she’s definitely heard what you guys were discussing.

“Hi, Dana,” you say.

“You guys parked in underground today?”

“Yeah,” you and Santos say.

“I—got a ride,” Javadi says. “My mom,” she adds at the look you shoot her. At least it wasn’t from her shitty date.

Dana peers down her glasses to read the registration scribbled on a sticky note, alongside the manufacturer and colour.

“That’s mine,” you say, frowning.

“Shit,” Dana huffs. “Someone busted your windows in, kiddo.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Dana nods towards Ahmad, who has been following Dana at a distance. “Ahmad was patrolling.”

“Fuck,” you say.

“I’ll come with you,” Ahmad says. He relays something into his radio.

“Thank you,” you tell him. Then, to Santos, “I’ve got a patient in Trauma 1. Get Dr Robby if it gets worse, okay?”

“Got it.”

“Dr Santos.”

“I got it. Get Dr Robby. Don’t do shit on my own.” She salutes you mockingly.

“Thank you,” you call out, following Ahmad down to the sub-basement parking lot.

“Any other cars get smashed up?” you ask as he leads the way.

“No. Yours is closest to the outside, though. Alarm could’ve scared them off. You have anything important in your car?” Ahmad ask.

“Just registration,” you say. Spare shoes, spare clothes. Nothing vitally important, outside of your car registration details.

Glass crunches under your shoes. Your car, just as you left it this morning, sans windows. Broken, shattered pieces scattered on concrete ground.

“Can I take a look?” you ask.

“Depends. If you want to press charges, it’d probably be better to leave it alone.” He gestures towards the roof. “We’ve got cameras. I’m sure police can run it back and see who did this.”

A random burglary in the PTMC staff parking lot registers as unusual to you. It doesn’t click until it’s too late. You’d think after being on edge for so long in LA, after fleeing to Pittsburgh and living in paranoia, you’d be a little faster, a little more conclusive, even if it’s not always correct.

But.

“Wait—” you say, pivoting on your feet to turn to Ahmad.

You hear the unmistakable click of a gun safety being pulled.

“Step away.”

“Get back.” Ahmad’s voice. Tight.

And Matthew Williams, with a gun pointed straight at Ahmad. “Don’t move,” he says, when he sees Ahmad going for the weapon on the side of his belt.

Fuck. The windows were a diversion tactic and you fell for it. It had been so peaceful, even with the meetings with Annalise and Wes. They were so sure, so confident that they’d be able to get something to stick on him.

“Hi, again,” Matthew says, grinning. His gun still aimed at Ahmad, but his attention on you.

You’re frozen, eyes flickering between him and the gun. Unsure where to look. You feel helpless with a weapon brandished in your proximity. You lick your lips, shuddering out a breath. “Matthew,” you say.

“I wanted to see you.”

“I’m right here,” you say. Your neck throbs, you feel sweat seeping through your pores. You remember Javadi calling for security, forcing his hand to act early. You can’t let that happen. Not when Matthew’s finger remains on the trigger. Reactive. “You want to talk, right? With me?”

Matthew’s face flexes, like he hadn’t been expected you to understand him. “Yeah. I do.”

“So let’s talk.”

“Don’t—” Ahmad starts.

“Shut up!” Matthew’s slowly flagging arm, straightened, pointed at Ahmad again.

“No!” Instinctual, reckless steps bringing you closer to them.

The gun aimed at you, now. Matthew’s nostrils flaring. Chest rising and falling faster. He’s getting agitated.

“Listen to me, if you want to talk to me, just put down the gun and we can talk,” you say. Hands up and out. “Please. I promise I’ll listen to you. You just need to put down the gun and let him go.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Matthew says.

“I’m not,” you say, shaking your head. You can feel your heart thudding away in your chest. The tears that burn your eyes.

You can tell Matthew’s wavering. Your gaze remains resolute on him. You don’t dare look anywhere else. “Please.”

The gun falters. His hand lowering.

You see a blur of the blue security uniform.

Ahmad.

A loud bang.

Echoing in the parking lot.

“Shit.”

“Ahmad!”

You’re on him, hands pressed against his upper right chest. Pressure. Ahmad groans under you. Blood, warm and viscous seeping beneath your palms. Blooming.

“Let me see your back. Ahmad, let me see.”

Ahmad lets out a concerted grunt as he rolls to his side with your guidance.

“No exit wound. Bullet’s still inside. Okay, back down.” And your hands are pressed against the wound again.

“Get off of him,” Matthew says, somewhere behind you. His voice is beginning to sound frantic.

“No.”

Footsteps stepping around. Matthew in front of you, gun pointed at you, now. “Stop that.”

“Come on, Ahmad, I’m going to get us some help.” One hand still on the bullet wound, the other unfastening his radio.

“Stop!”

Ignoring him. Maybe it’s a stupid gamble to take, but you don’t think Matthew would shoot you. Scare you, definitely, just as he is now. But not shoot you. He’d have done so already.

Blood coated fingers slipping against the black surface. You press the button. You know it goes to the small hospital dispatch room and to the radios the other security guards have. True to Gloria’s words, there were more guards in the hospital now.

“Mayday, mayday, hospital staff in distress. Gunman in sub-basement parking level 2, east side.”

“Stop that!”

“Shots fired. Security down. I repeat, Ahmad is down—”

“Stop touching him!” The gun shoved in your face.

You flinch. But you don’t budge. You can’t. If you do, Ahmad dies. He bleeds out. You cannot let that happen.

The radio crackles. “We’re coming to you.”

Radio discarded, both hands on top of Ahmad again. “Just hang in there. We’re getting you help.”

“Get off of him!”

“No!” Face upturned, glaring. Chest heaving. Tears, angry and bright. Tracking from your eyes. “You’ll have to shoot me too,” you say, staring down the barrel of the gun. He won’t do it, you think. As twisted as it is, you don’t think he ever intended to hurt you. Your neck feels raw.

Ahmad makes a protesting noise.

Matthew’s jaw tightens. He aims behind him.

Another loud bang.

You flinch at the noise, hunching over Ahmad.

The muzzle of the gun, fiery hot.

Jammed against your cheek.

You cry out.

Heated metal pushed into flesh. Twisting.

Dermal layer burning.

Yelling.

Do not move. Hands on the wound.

Ahmad reaching, swatting weakly at Matthew’s ankle. It does nothing.

Matthew moves away, pacing. “Look what you’re making me do,” he says, frenetic. “I just wanted to talk.”

You’re sobbing. Tears clouding your vision, stinging your cheek. Second degree burn, maybe. Hard to tell the severity. It stings. Your whole cheek feels like it’s on fire. Heaving breaths. Trapped.

“Drop the case,” Matthew begs. “I just wanted you to drop the court case.”

You shake your head. You can’t see if Ahmad eyes are opened or closed. “Ahmad, come on, stay with me. They’ll be here soon.”

“Look at me!”

“You need to go!” Gaze turned up again. Glaring. “If you’re not planning on getting caught right now, you need to leave.”

If security comes up with more guns, you know Matthew will start shooting. You can’t let that happen. No one else needs to get hurt.

The elevator dings. Doors sliding open.

A gunshot, again.

Shouting.

You flinch once more, body lowering over Ahmad’s. Protecting. Ears ringing. Hands on the wound. You cannot move.

“Hey, hey hey, let me see. Let me see.”

Hands on you.

“No!” Recoiling away.

“Hey, it’s just me. It’s me. Look at me.”

Unfocused eyes. Landing. Then, “Robby.”

“We’ve got him.” Mohan across from you. Replacing your hands on top of Ahmad. Gauze packed onto the entry wound.

Falling back on your haunches, heaving out breaths.

“Jesus, honey, what happened?” Robby’s hands inspecting your cheek. Crouching before you.

McKay, Mohan, Jesse, Donnie and Olsen hauling Ahmad onto the gurney.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. Dislodging Robby’s hand.

“It’s okay, I just need to look—”

“Robby. Ahmad. You need—I need you on Ahmad. Please. He can’t—he can’t die.” Robby had saved you. Before. When it was you that had gotten hurt. He has to save Ahmad, too. You can’t be responsible for Ahmad dying here.

“I—”

“Robby. Please. I need you to. Please.”

Robby’s jaw clenches. Nodding. “McKay, swap out.”

“Got it.” McKay’s by your side.

All of you into the elevator.

In the ED, Ahmad gets rushed into Trauma 2. McKay ushers you into an empty room. You don’t register which one.

You sit on the bed, numb. Empty. Staring at your hands, slick with Ahmad’s blood.

Robby knocks on the opened door but you don’t pay him any attention. Lost in your thoughts, probably. You had been conscious but mostly unresponsive when McKay fixed you up. Treated your third degree burn, used wipes to clean Ahmad’s blood off of you.

Dana’s already taken your name off the board and today’s roster. Disseminated your patients throughout the other staff. Scheduled days off with Gloria.

He’s in front of you. “Hey,” he says, softly.

You blink. See him. Then register what it means. “Ahmad—” Your voice is hoarse with disuse.

“He’s alive,” Robby says. “We got the bullet out. No organs were hit. He’s fine.”

Relief floods you with tears. You crumple forward, into yourself.

“Can I…”

You nod, and Robby’s in your space, arms wrapped around you. Your arms just as tight around him.

“Fuck,” he huffs. “You scared me. I heard your voice on the radio and I… Jesus. I was so scared.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

You have plenty to be sorry for, you think. “Is… is Ahmad awake?”

“Yeah. You want to go see him?”

You’re nodding before he can finish the sentence. “Please?”

“Yeah, honey.” Robby shuffles back, helping you up from the bed, even though you don’t need it. Only your cheek is hurt. “We moved him into South 17.” He guides you to the room.

Ahmad looks worse for wear, but alive. Alive. “There you are,” he says.

You try not to cry as you smile at him. Busy yourself with checking his vitals. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I just got shot,” he says.

You snort, shaking your head. Feel tears loosen from the movement. “I’m sorry.” Sinking into the stool that one of the doctors probably used. Take his hand.

He squeezes back. “Not your fault, Doc.”

You give him a look that expresses how much you disagree with his opinion.

“You’re doing the right thing. Don’t drop the case.”

“What?” Robby asks.

You look over to where he’s by the door, frowning.

Oh. Outside of you and Ahmad, they don’t know. You had said a gunman on the radio. Never specified who it was. The last shot he fired probably gave himself the chance to run before they could see his face. “Matthew Williams,” you say.

Robby stills.

Then pushes himself off where he’d been leaning against the doorjamb. Face stony. Jaw clenching. “This was him?” Eyes flicker down to the bandage on your cheek. “He did this to you? Both of you?” Gaze slicing towards Ahmad on the bed.

You nod. “My windows.”

Robby furrows his brows, confused.

“Dana said there was a car that had its windows smashed in. It was mine. Ahmad took me down to see. And then we—he—um, he had a gun.”

“Jesus Christ.” The gut sinking knowledge that this wasn’t some random attack. It never had been. Everything had been premeditated. You were targeted specifically. “Fucking Hell.” Robby hovers behind you, close. A hand on your shoulder like he’s reminding himself. Alive. Here. Wants to never let you out of his sight. To keep you safe from whatever the fuck is going on out there.

There’s a knock on the door.

Gloria says both yours and Robby’s names. “If you have a moment,” she says to you, after Robby steps to the side. “The police would like to take a statement.”

You look at Ahmad.

“You need to,” he says. “Hell, I’ll make one too.”

You nod before you can second guess yourself. Proof. At least there are cameras in the parking lot. “Okay.” You get off the stool, bumping your fist against Ahmad’s offered one.

Robby remains a steady presence beside you.

“They need you down here,” you tell him.

Robby shakes his head. “Jack’s already here.”

You blink. You check the time on the clock on the wall. It’s still an hour until night shift starts.

“Police scanner,” Robby says, in lieu of explanation.

“Oh.”

“He doesn’t know how to rest.”

“Probably why he’s so grumpy.”

“I’m telling him you said that.”

You shake your head, exhausted grin on your face.

Robby smiles back, soft and worried.

You take his hand, giving it a squeeze, and head out with Gloria. There are two police officers stationed outside the room, waiting for you. The ED bustles like usual. You spot Abbot breezing past.

“Is this something we need to fill paperwork on?” Gloria asks, gesturing between the two of you.

“I have a feeling you’re going to make us sign something anyway,” Robby says.

“At least you’re smart enough to know that.”

He’s your attending. Chain of command dictates that you report to him. There’s bound to be some kind of power imbalance that HR needs to get ahead of. It’s worth it, he thinks. Promises made in your kitchen—he’d choose you.

“I can’t go home,” you say. Your fingers digging into your thigh, breathing through your nose. Agitation in your movements. Shifting. Leg bouncing where you’re sitting.

All the symptoms of a panic attack, but you’re not slowing down. Not giving yourself a moment to breath.

“He could be there,” you continue.

It shatters something inside of Robby. Noticing. Wanting to reach out. But you’ve already sunken into the furthest corner of your chair, refusing any contact. It’s clear—do not touch.

“We don’t know that,” one of the officers say.

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter. I have no idea where he is. And I know he can find out this kind of information. He knew about my car. If he took my registration from there… he’ll have my address.”

“We’ve taken your car into evidence. We’ll see if anything’s been taken.”

You nod. “Can you—if I give you the name of a detective in LA, can you organise a check-in on my parents? I just—I need to know he hasn’t been near them again.”

Again. He wonders how long you’ve suffered this alone. It’s not happening to him, but it’s terrifying, feeling helpless. He can’t do anything to keep you safe.

“You can’t call them?” the officer asks.

“I can’t risk it.”

Robby’s fingers curl into fists to stop himself from reaching out.

“We’ll see what we can do.”

Your hand reaches for the scar on your neck. Scratching. Pinching the skin. “Whatever evidence you get, can we inform my lawyers too?”

“Of course,” Gloria says.

“Okay. Thank you.” It’s a quick goodbye, stumbling out. Opening a random door into a dark room.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re having a panic attack—”

“I know. I just—I just need a minute.” Heaving breaths, collapsing into the corner of the room. Facing the wall. Making yourself as small as possible.

He inches close. A hand on your back.

You shrug him off. “Don’t. Please—don’t touch—”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll be back here.” Robby’s chest aches for you. He wonders how many times you’ve been alone like this, in your apartment. Too scared to call your friends and family back home. Too new to make connections with everyone here.

He lowers himself to the ground, back against the wall. Waiting. He’s been here before, in the Pedes room during PittFest. Wonders what went through Whitaker’s mind when the student saw him like this.

Eventually your breathing slows to your regular pace. You shift from the corner. “Sorry,” you whisper, ragged.

Robby only shakes his head. Lifts an arm. And you slot yourself next to him. Head on his shoulder. “Don’t be.” He knows exactly what it feels like; the lack of ability for control when that composure finally fractures. It’s been a long day, for you especially.

“Ready to go home?” he asks, instead.

“I can’t go back to mine,” you remind him. Tired.

“Come home with me.”

You give him a sidelong glance. It feels different, somehow. This isn’t born from cavernous exhaustion but still wanting to see each other after a shift. From staying the night because you had dinner together, and it’s already getting late, so there would be no point of going back home after.

Creases between Robby’s brows. A silent plea etched between lines.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Robby nods. Groans as he stands, then holds a hand out for you.

Taking it, you let him haul you up. His thumbs brushing across your cheeks, careful of the bandage. Swiping through the tear tracks. Lips to your forehead, like he’s trying to impart all the care and gentleness he can.

“Home, first,” he says.

Home. Somehow, that included Robby, too.

You refused to take more than a week off of work. Even though some part of you froze at the idea of seeing the PTMC again, you hated the idea of not being there even more. You couldn’t let Matthew Williams take anything else from you.

Your first day back is met with less fanfare. A quick “Good to see you” from Ellis just as a trauma bursts through the ambulance bay.

It’s a change of pace you welcome.

Ahmad comes back to work a week after you. Gloria meets you in the break room with Annalise and Wes. Usually it’d be up in her office, but they didn’t want to pull Ahmad too far from the ED.

Wes eyes the scar on your face, something saddened in his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Depends what kind of news you’re here to give us,” you tell him. Half joking, half not.

The expression Wes makes lets you know it’s nothing good.