Free Palestine

Oceanside California felt foreign to Pope Cody when he stepped out from behind the gated prison walls of Folsom. He hadn’t told anyone he was getting out; there was no one waiting for him as the gate doors closed behind him. No open arms for him to run into or noisy brothers clapping him on the back.

As much as a part of him missed the familiarity of his old room, he didn’t return home right away. He wanted some free time to himself before Smurf got her filthy hands on him again—before she tainted what little chance of starting over Pope clung on to. Before she made him into the dangerous guard dog she so carefully convinced him he was.

He found himself wandering the streets alone instead, shoulders and jaw stiff and tense; like any moment he’d wake up or a guard would appear and drag him back into the grey walls that haunted his nightmares when he was actually able to sleep.

Pope’s memory spun as he took in familiar buildings—places that had been there practically his entire life. The beach air still wafted through the breeze, still smelled the same. Still dusted his skin with the pricklings of ocean salt. If his hair hadn’t been shaved down in a shitty prison cut; his curls would’ve picked it up too. He longed to feel the salty breeze float through his hair again; lull him into a calmness.

His brow furrowed a little at all the new shops and businesses that had popped up since he’d been gone, ones that definitely weren’t there before he went in. Random places like mini grocery stores and self-employed insurance companies. A new book store that he pushed to the back of his mind to visit later.

That’s how he found you; at the new little diner on the corner with bright red letters on the sign. At first glance it looked like a cozy surfer hut or beach shop. Blue and white striped canopy over the door, stickers on the windows. A few tables outside with blue chairs on either side. A couple plants that caught the sun. He stood outside it longer than he probably should’ve, feet weighed down like cement. His fists opened and closed at his sides before he finally forced himself to go inside. The bell on the door rung above him, the smell of fried food wafted around him with the air conditioning. He welcomed the coolness with an exhale from his nose; much more comfortable than the scorching heat outside.

He didn’t realize that you had noticed him as soon as he walked in from your spot near the order window—passing a paper order back to one of the cooks. He was someone new that you hadn’t seen before. Handsome with his hazel-brown eyes and sharp features. His short buzzed hair making his ears stick out all cute. He looked a little awkward, scanning the entirety of the inside; from corner to corner in front of him. Immediately—you already wanted to know more about him; heartbeat picking up as you watched him take in his surroundings.

Pope’s eyes drifted around, clocking all the exits and the people around him. A few of the booths and tables were occupied—along with a couple of the stools at the counter. The inside wasn’t decorated in a decade specific theme like he expected it to be; like most of the diners he’d been to in his life. Rather it was more…homey. More bright and airy inside; pale yellow walls that looked almost white and light blue leather seats. A few framed music posters hanging from the walls, a surfboard or two on the other. Two big monstera plants on either side of the front door. It felt like walking into someone’s home with a mother cooking in the kitchen.

There were pies on plates under glass displays on the counter, a large white board with specials and prices on it. The floor was clean, making Pope’s shoulders relax a little. The patterned tile almost matched the leather seats. He wiped his feet on the mat by the door—jaw ticking as his mind reeled and took everything in. His hands clenched and unclenched again at his sides.

Finally, he chose the booth in the furthest corner; tucked away from the center of the room and all the buzzing of conversation. He clung to the quiet he’d almost definitely lose once he returned to Smurf’s.

The leather made a soft noise under him when he sat down, a menu was already lying on the table in front of him. Shakers filled with sugar, salt and pepper sat up against the window—ketchup and packets of coffee creamer tucked up next to them. Utensils sat neatly against the white table; wrapped up in napkins.

Pope found himself drumming his fingers lightly on the table before reaching carefully for the menu. It wasn’t sticky like some diners he’d been too; much more clean and carefully typed out and laminated to be easily read. Decorated with blue designs in the corners.

He scanned the menu, not really reading it or taking in anything it said; just breathing in the air around him and letting himself exist in a place that wasn’t controlled by guards or a boring grey. Someplace he didn’t have to worry about being tortured or made a spectacle at the entertainment of guards. Somewhere he could just sit and enjoy the quiet; where he could just for the first time in three years—be Andrew.

He didn’t notice you approach him at first, too caught up in his thoughts and pretending to read the menu to realize you were now standing next to his table. He hadn’t seen you when he walked in—just the older lady working behind the counter and a few bus boys cleaning tables.

He only looked up when you finally spoke.

“Hi!”, You said cheerfully, bright smile on your face.

Pope froze. Eyes drifting up to your face, shoulders a little guarded at being spoken to.

His demeanor softened when his eyes landed on you.

Soft lashes and cheeks, soft hair that was pulled back with a few strands framing your face. Bright eyes that pulled him in. He glances at your name-tag, eyes flicking back to your face and deciding that it suits you. He found himself appreciative that you had a real uniform; shorts and a tee shirt with the diner’s name on it rather than some skimpy skirt and hat the themed diners always made the waitresses wear. He found that in poor taste; companies forcing women to show off their bodies in hopes to make a bigger income.

Pope didn’t say anything at first, just watched you look down at him. Your smile didn’t waver as you shifted on your feet, pulling your notepad and pen up closer to your chest.

“Can I get you started with something?”, You asked.

Pope found himself at a loss for words, he hadn’t expected someone so…beautiful and lively to be standing next to him now. He still hadn’t read the menu, wasn’t that hungry. He shifted a little again on the seat, leather crinkling under him.

“What do you recommend?”, He finally asked.

Your eyes lit up at the question, making Pope’s heart hammer harder in his chest.

“Oh! Goodness…well it depends how hungry you are”, You start, a small laugh escaping your lips; “The breakfast platter is really good if you want breakfast! Club sandwiches if you’re in more of a lunch type of mood. The coffee here is really good! I always make it with cinnamon, makes it taste better.”

Pope finds himself scanning your face as you ramble—blood rushing through his veins in a way that makes his cheeks hot. He notices the way your nose scrunches when you smile, how expressive your face is. He wonders if you do that for everyone or just certain people.

He sets his menu down, fingers drumming again.

“Uh, the coffee”, He says; “Just the coffee…black.”

He watches you scribble it down on your little pad before pocketing it and offering him another bright smile.

“Great! I’ll have that right out for you.”

Your ponytail sways behind you as you walk away, sneakers squeaking lightly on the floor. Pope commits it all to memory, much like he does with most people he meets. But this felt different—you were being nice to him.

Pope finds himself gazing out the window next to him while he waits. A few people walk by walking their dogs, a few families. There’s a business owner across the street taking trash out to the dumpster. The parking lot across the street is mostly empty except for a few cars—people opting to walk or bike in the nice weather. His fingers twitch once in anticipation, a longing to get back to the beach tugging at him; back to the private spot he found years ago—away from tourists and practically empty of people.

He’s pulled out of his daydream by a mug sliding softly across the table in front of him. He looks up, finding you smiling down at him again.

“Here you go, one coffee”, You say.

Pope nods once in acknowledgment, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic. The heat seeps into his hands immediately—just hot enough that it’s not quite burning. He expects you to leave, to walk away again and leave silence behind. But he soon realizes; you’re still looking at him.

He shifts a little in his seat, eyes flicking awkwardly around the room before they find your face again.

“Sorry”, You say with a breath; “I just…I’ve never seen you in here before. Are you new in town?”

Pope blinks; “Lived here my whole life. Just uh…been away for a while.”

You nod; “Just missed home enough to come back, huh?”

“Something like that”, Pope says, fingers flexing against warm ceramic.

If he’s being truly honest; he’s not really sure what really being home feels like.

Silence falls between you for a moment before you speak again; “I like it here too.”

Pope almost lets himself smile at that; lips twitching at the corner. But he holds himself back—still staying quiet.

You brush a stray hair out of your face, shifting on your feet as you pull out your notepad—another customer waving you down.

“Well, enjoy your coffee”, You say with another smile; “Let me know if you need anything!”

You turn on your heels at that, making your way to the customer in a booth towards the front of the diner. Pope watches you go, eyes flicking carefully over your frame.

With a sigh, he finally brings the mug to his lips and takes a sip.

The flavor washes over him immediately—still black coffee, but something warmer rests beneath it. Almost what he thinks Christmas smells like; all spice and comfort. A vision of his first few memories of the holiday washing over him—before things were complicated. He feels again like he’s sitting in a house with someone’s mother or grandmother in the kitchen. He decides right then and there; that he’ll never take his coffee any other way again.

Pope stays for a while, longer than he initially intended to. But something about you and the atmosphere around him pulls him in deep. Keeps him tethered to his spot in the booth. He drinks his coffee slowly, savoring the flavor. Each sip ignites something in his chest. He can see the horizon starting to turn pink outside, fewer people roaming the streets.

He doesn’t know what time it is, really he could look at the clock on the wall if it mattered that much; but for once he doesn’t seem to care. The diner around him lulls before it starts filling up with the dinner crowd. But Pope stays in his spot in the booth in the furthest corner. Orders another coffee when he finishes the first one.

He’s been there almost two hours when he finally decides to leave, placing a few more bills than necessary down on the table.

You’re rushing around in front of him, talking to a few customers as you move; not completely looking where you’re going. It doesn’t take long for you to come in contact with a chair that hadn’t been fully pushed in, a small sound leaving your lips as you stumble over the legs. The menus in your hands go flying; scattering across the floor with a small smack sound.

Pope’s feet move before he realizes they are, kneeling down next to you as he starts collecting the fallen menus. You’re quick to kneel down with him, but he beats you to most of them—leaving you with only two in your hands.

He hands them back to you softly without a word once he’s stood fully again, silently checking you over for any injuries; which he thankfully finds none.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!”, You rush out; “God, I’m so clumsy.”

Pope doesn’t say anything, instead bending down to pick up your notepad that you’d somehow dropped in the process; holding it back out to you.

“Oh!”, You say; “Thank you…”

You trail off, only then realizing that you still don’t know his name.

“Andrew”, Pope says, hands clasped at his sides.

You offer another smile to him again; this one somehow warmer than all the others.

“See you around, Andrew”, You say.

Pope’s heart flutters at the sound of his name leaving your lips. He tries to push the heat taking over his face back down; but he knows he’s failing miserably. His breath quick and eyes a little wider than usual.

He watches you walk away, going to head to the front door himself when you pause and look back at him.

“Don’t be a stranger”, You say, face heating to match his own before you turn away again.

Pope freezes by the door—bell chiming above him again—finally letting a small smile take over his lips; you want him to come back.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

It didn’t take long after Pope’s first visit for you to figure out who he was. People talk, the cook and other coworkers had told you that night during closing. About all the stories and rumors surrounding the Cody family. But you didn’t care, you liked Andrew. Were intrigued by him—you could make your own decisions about things; and he was one of them.

As the next few weeks went by, Pope found himself frequenting the diner more and more. Every other week, he’d step through the front door with the sound of the bell chiming above him. Wiping his feet on the mat below him, the same way he had the first time he walked in.

You greeted him with a smile every time.

Every other week became every week, then slowly turned into a few days a week—until he was sitting in his corner booth almost every day.

Sometimes he wouldn’t even come inside, he’d find himself sitting in his truck in the parking lot across the street; keeping an eye on things. He’d pretty much learned your schedule, which car was yours—always parked in the same spot unless you’d walked to work.

Pope didn’t like when you did that. He knew how people could be, had dealt with enough bad people in his life to know what could happen. But he didn’t go as far to do anything about it. He didn’t want to scare you away—even if he had become good at watching and following people discreetly over time.

He found himself automatically driving to the parking lot if he’d had a stressful day. If Smurf had been on him, or a rough job. Just to get a glimpse at you. He’d sit there, tucked away under the tree in the corner—shaded and out of view. He could see perfectly through the big windows of the diner, where you often stood behind the counter.

He’d watch you work, the smile on your face as you talked to customers sitting at the counter. The way you laughed. It settled something inside him. Something he didn’t know was still there.

You knew when it was him coming through the front door after only a few weeks; you no longer had to look up. His heavy footsteps and pause in the doorway gave him away. No matter how many times he’d been inside; he still scanned the place and checked all the exits.

No matter what you were doing, you’d stop and offer him a big soft smile and greet him; “Hey, Andrew.”

Pope loved the way his name sounded coming from you. Nobody ever called him Andrew unless he was in trouble or he was being threatened by his mother. But with you? He didn’t mind it.

A few months in, you’d find yourself standing next to him again as he sat in his booth—just like the first time he’d come in. Your break had started a few minutes before and something in you told you to go for it.

So you stood next to him, your own coffee in your hand and a plate of fries.

“Mind if I join you?”, You’d asked, catching Pope’s attention and pointing to the empty spot across from him.

Pope looked up at you, cheeks flushed red until the rosy hue reached his ears; “No. Go ahead.”

You slid in across from him, smile never wavering as you started in on your fries. Reaching for the ketchup as you looked him up and down; half-drank coffee sitting on the table in front of him.

“So Andrew”, You start, popping a fry into your mouth; “What do you like to do for fun?”

Pope froze, taken aback by your question. Nobody had ever cared enough about him to ask. He couldn’t really remember the last time he had real fun—if he wanted to do that he’d have to sneak away from his family to do it.

He liked to sneak away to small beaches only a few people knew about, where the waves were mostly non-existent and the water was always warm. To the small skate park that was largely unoccupied; especially in the middle of the night when he tended to frequent it. On the nights he couldn’t sleep no matter how hard he tried. When he couldn’t stand to sit in his new empty apartment a second longer.

Smurf had sold his place while he was locked up. Took it away from him like it wasn’t one of the places he was most comfortable. He was still trying to get used to where he was at now. Barely decorated with only a bed and a folding chair by the window.

“Skate”, Pope says, voice a little quiet; “Surf, too.”

Your eyes light up; “Surfing is cool! I’ve always wanted to try but…well as you’ve seen i’m a bit clumsy. I’d probably fall off the board and drown.”

Pope’s lips quirk at the corners.

“Bet you know some pretty good beach spots then, huh?”, You ask.

Pope shifts in his seat; “A few.”

“Maybe you could show me one sometime.”

The twitch of Pope’s lips turn into a real, small smile.

“I could do that, yeah”, He says.

As you start talking about something else, rambling on as you eat your fries—hands waving in the air—Pope barely hears a word you’re saying. His heart’s beating too fast in his ears. The idea of seeing you outside of the diner thrumming under his ribs.

It becomes almost normal after that. Pope coming in and sitting in his usual spot. You sliding in across from him on your breaks, rambling about something new each time. Your hands never stop waving in the air, you always bring food with you—offer him a bite. Sometimes you sneak a dessert or two. You learn he likes the cinnamon rolls and apple pie the best. Pope suddenly finds solace there; sitting across from you with warmth in his chest. He likes listening to you talk—commits things you tell him to memory.

Your favorite song and color, where you lived before moving to Oceanside. How you drench your fries in vinegar and ketchup. The way your nose scrunches when you get excited; the sparkle in your eyes when you talk about something you’re passionate about. He files everything he learns away safely.

Soon enough, going to the diner is the first thing on Pope’s mind every morning. He blows off going to Smurf’s house or a meeting about a job. He just nestles into his booth, a cup of coffee already on its way over the second you saw him walk in. He starts to feel like you know him, and that he knows you. Even if you really don’t.

Pope’s answers are always short, only a word or two or a grunt in response. He still doesn’t talk much. But you like that about him. How shy he is. His hair’s grown out over time; soft auburn curls swirling around his ears. You like him like this even more—he looks a little softer. Still stiff and awkward; still holding himself with tight shoulders and impossibly straight posture. But the sun hits him perfectly in his booth, turning the side of his face golden; bringing out every shade of red in his curls.

Still, you did learn a few things from what little bit you got out of him. He had two brothers, a niece who he often took care of. He’s the oldest, and likes to work on fixing things or build them. But for the most part—he was quiet.

He’d sit in the golden light and listen, hands grasped around the ceramic mug in front of him. Sometimes lying curled into loose fists on the table top. Twitching to reach out for you. To know how soft your hair is, feel your smaller hand in his. Would his heart beat faster? Would yours? Would you let him hold your hand?

Your laugh breaks him from his thoughts, eyes crinkled in a smile from whatever story you were telling him. His jaw ticks a little, not angry—just controlled. Forcing himself not to scare you away like he thinks he would. But you’d never be scared away, not by him.

He listens as you tell him about a few new menu items.

“Oh! We also have chocolate chip pancakes now, I finally got it on the menu”, You tell him.

“My niece likes them like that”, He says, tracing the outside of his coffee mug.

“What? You don’t like chocolate chips?”, You ask, brow quirked.

A soft sound that almost sounds like a laugh leaves his mouth. Eyes unblinking, lips twitching at the corners; “No I do.”

You laugh across from him, soft and filled with enjoyment at getting him to smile again.

“I’m just messing with you”, You say.

Pope’s small smile doesn’t waver across from you, fingers tapping against the table as you start listing other items that are new. He settles into himself again, too caught up in you to really hear what you’re saying.

Overtime, as Pope continued to frequent the diner—something shifted between you.

Andrew slowly became Andy.

The sound of the bell chiming above the door hits your ears the same time the sound of his heavy boots do. You smile to yourself before looking up. Your breath catches in your throat when you see him.

His hair is damp from a fresh shower, black jeans still tight over his thighs. A dark grey t-shirt clings to his wide frame in place of his usual button ups. He’s bigger than you thought. Sure, you always knew he was strong under those neat shirts—but seeing him in a t-shirt brings it out in a whole new way.

Your face softens at the sight of him, watching his eyes search the exits before they land on you. He walks up to the counter this time, hands hesitantly resting against the top of it—the metal edge cool against his skin.

“Hey, Andy”, You breathe.

He looks you up and down, fingers twitching the same time his lips do. Drawing towards one side of his face in the way that you love so much. His version of a small smile, you’ve learned.

“Want your usual?”, You ask him.

Underneath the small quirk of his lips; his eyes look a little nervous—hesitant maybe.

Still he nods slowly.

“Yeah”, He says softly, and then; “Can I get it to go today?”

You furrow your brow as you pivot from his usual ceramic mug to the paper to go cups. The idea of him not staying sitting heavy on your chest.

“‘Course”, You say, turning towards the coffee machine.

You watch him as he waits; eyes flicking around more than usual. Checking his watch and phone a few times. His fingers drumming quicker against the counter top. He’s anxious, you think—obviously in a hurry.

You pop the lid on top of his to-go cup, sliding it across the counter towards him.

“One coffee to go”, You smile.

He offers the same sideways quirk back, digging into his back pocket for his wallet.

“That’s ok”, You tell him; “It’s on me today.”

Pope freezes, eyes flicking over your face to check if you’re sure—like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

“You sure?”, He asks.

“Yeah”, your bottom lip slides between your teeth; “All good.”

His shoulders relax a fraction as he reaches for the cup in front of him, his lips parting to say something—but the sound of his phone buzzing cuts him off.

You don’t miss the way his brow furrows as he checks the caller ID, tension setting heavy between them. He looks back up at you, phone still in hand as he turns to leave.

“Thanks”, He says, voice still soft; “For the coffee.”

You nod in acknowledgment, lip still between your teeth as you watch him head towards the door, hand already grasping around the metal bar to push it open.

“See you soon, Andy”, You say.

His lips quirk again, a soft nod coming in return as he pushes the door open fully. A bit of hesitance in his movements; like he doesn’t want to leave but knows he has to. Then he’s gone, stepping all the way out of the diner and onto the sidewalk in front of it. The Oceanside heat engulfing him, salty wind messing his curls around.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

A week had gone by after that with no sign of him. No heavy boots against the welcome mat. No rustle of the leather seat in his corner booth. No sideways quirk of his lips. No sight of his auburn curls or warm cologne. No Andrew.

You didn’t realize how much you had looked forward to seeing him every day until he stopped coming. A hole had developed in your chest, aching to be filled by his presence. Your shifts seemed to drag on longer without him, you weren’t as cheerful—and others noticed.

A few of your regulars asked if you were ok, your boss pulled you aside to check in on you. Your coworkers asked about him. You reassured them you were fine, but inside you realized you weren’t being completely honest with yourself; you missed Andrew.

You didn’t know why this person who randomly showed up in your place of work one day meant so much to you. He was nice to you, kind with his soft hazel eyes that stared into your soul. The red curls on his head made your heart flutter—and when he smiled at you? It had you weak in the knees.

This soft spoken, shy and slightly awkward man had found himself a place in your heart in only a few months. Nestled somewhere close under your ribs. You wanted to take away whatever pain was hiding behind those tense shoulders—you wanted to be someone that would never hurt him; someone he could count on.

It hit you all at once. Never in a million years did you think you’d feel this way when you watched him walk through the front door all those months ago. You cared about Andrew, you wanted him around, felt lost when he wasn’t. The realization washed over you without warning—you had feelings for Andrew.

The sound of the bell above the door chiming pulled you out of your thoughts. The familiar sound of heavy steps filled your ears—but something about them was off. There were two other mismatched sets of heavy steps along with them. Two louder voices filled the room, both deep as they stepped further inside the door.

A man with short blonde hair caught your eye first; short beard and slightly furrowed brows as he gestured with his hands in his jacket pockets. The other man next to him had dark long hair pulled back into a bun, slightly longer facial hair that matched. They were both tall, definitely strong; but in a more lean way.

“Craig, it’s never gonna happen man. She wasn’t even looking at you”, The blonde man says.

“You don’t know that! I got Nicky—“, The other man—Craig—starts.

“You got lucky, man. She still left you for J.”

Craig rolls his eyes; “Shut up, Deran.”

Beside them, the heavy footsteps you knew all too well stepped fully inside. Your eyes flicked away from the other two men, heart hammering against your ribs as they finally landed on the one person you’d been looking for all week—Andrew.

There he was, shoulders a little tense as he stepped under the diner lighting. A new bronze tint to his skin—maybe he’d been able to frequent the beach more often lately—you hoped he had. A pair of dark wash jeans sat snug on his hips, his signature button up was back; nestled under a jacket similar to the blonde man—Deran’s. Andrew’s hair was somehow a little longer than the last time you’d seen him, tousled from the salty breeze with a few curls sticking out at his nape and around his ears.

You’d grabbed your notepad and pen before they fully even sat down. Andrew’s eyes landing on you as he did his routine of scanning all the exits; the serious look on his face softening when you lock eyes. The furrowed crease between his brows easing along with it.

He slid into the booth next to Craig; Deran sitting across from them. Not his usual booth in the corner, something tells you he wouldn’t share that with just anyone. He still sat impossibly straight, completely tuning out whatever the other two men were talking about; his eyes staying on you as you approached the table.

Relief washed over you the second you stood in front of him, a wide smile etching across your face that you wouldn’t care to try and suppress even if you could.

“Andy, hey”, You breathed, like you’d been holding your breath since the last time you’d said it.

Both men furrowed their brows.

“‘Andy?—‘”, Craig teased, tilting his head to look at Pope with a smirk on his lips.

He was cut off by Pope’s foot hitting his shin under the table; hard.

“OW!—“, He shot Pope a glare; “What the fuck man?”

“Craig”, Deran said; “Shut up.”

But you didn’t even register the interaction, you were completely entranced in Andrew.

“Hi”, Pope says, voice soft.

You swear he sounds just as relieved as you do.

Silence settles at the table, Pope’s eyes raking over you before settling on your face—you doing the same to him. The time he’d been away had settled heavy in his shoulders, dragging along with him as he worked through multiple jobs that he would’ve rather skipped out on. Being pulled back in by Smurf and the evil grip she grabbed at him with; using him for her dirty work.

But seeing you now, the weight on Pope’s shoulders released a bit. His back grew less tense, posture a little more natural than being rigidly and painfully straight. Still impossibly straight the way he always was—but not as forced.

Deran cleared his throat beside you.

“Uh…can we get some coffee?”, He asked.

You blinked a few times, realization washing over you as you jumped a little on your feet; turning more towards the blonde man.

“Oh! Yes of course! Sorry!”, You rushed out, holding your pad and pencil up in front of you; “What can I get you?”

As you scribbled down orders, you could feel Pope’s eyes still on you. Boring into the side of your head in a way that most people would find uncomfortable. But you weren’t most people to him. It made a heat climb up your neck, shifting on your feet to try and pay as much attention as you can to the orders being spoken to you. But all you can focus on is Andrew.

Andrew who hasn’t moved his eyes from you since the moment he walked through that door a few minutes ago. Andrew who hadn’t realized how important you were to him until he was forced to be away from you. Andrew who found himself entirely lovesick without truly knowing that’s what he was feeling deep in his chest—fluttering behind his ribcage. Andrew who’s cheeks were dusted with a heat similar to yours, the tips of his ears burning pink as he fought back a twitch of his lips.

“Alright! I’ll have that right out for you”, You chirp, turning towards Pope; “Andy, your usual?”

Pope froze. Stilled by your sudden direction at him, like he’d been caught staring. But truthfully—he didn’t really care.

He nodded back, a soft look on his face as you smiled at him—turning on your feet and walking back behind the front counter to put their order’s in. He ignored his brother’s gazes and the looks they were sending his way. The exchange of their eyes, the way their brows quirked with every mention of his name from your lips. All he could focus on was you.

Behind the counter, you passed back their order slip; finding your coworkers’ eyes on you.

“What?”, You asked, hands on your hips.

The older woman next to you shook her head knowingly; “You know what.”

You felt the heat on your face; “He’s just a friend.”

The woman gave you a look; “Could’ve fooled me.”

You bit your bottom lip, eyes flicking towards the table you’d just come from. Finding Pope’s eyes already on you.

Beside him, Craig pushed at his shoulder.

“Earth to Pope??”, Craig smirked, rather enjoying the glare he earned from his brother.

Pope grunted in annoyance, forcing himself to look away from you.

“Seriously Pope”, Deran tried, a little nicer than his brother’s approach; “What’s gotten into you, man?”

Pope’s jaw ticked, chin jutting out a little bit. Maybe he’d actually answer Deran truthfully—if they were alone. But not with Craig sitting next to him with the attitude of a teenage girl listening in for the good gossip.

“Nothin’”, Pope mutters, hoping it’ll get them to drop the topic.

Craig opens his mouth to say something, cut off by you approaching the table. You set the drinks down with ease, passing a few extra creamers out across the table before standing up straight again—notepad out in front of you.

“Can I get you guys something to eat?”, You ask, feeling Pope’s eyes on you.

“Yeah, can I get a cheeseburger with fries?”, Craig says, passing the menu back towards the end of the table.

You nod, writing down his order and turning towards Deran.

“Anything for you?”

Deran ponders for a moment, before passing his menu back as well; “I’ll have the same.”

He offers you a small smile as you put his menu under your arm—only turning back to Pope after a second.

“Anything for you, Andy?”, You ask, voice softer.

You watch him think it over, brows scrunched and lips slightly pursed before he finally speaks.

“Apple pie?”, He says softly, almost as if he’s asking if you still have it.

You nod, writing his order down; “‘Course, saved you the last slice.”

Taking Pope’s menu, you turn on your heels to put the orders back to the kitchen; before being called over by another customer.

Pope watches you talk to them, laughing and smiling like you’ve known them forever. A confident pep of excitement in your step. You were like that with all customers, always friendly, always talkative. But you never sat down with them—not like you did with him.

“Jesus Pope, you’re gonna burn a hole through her”, Craig scoffs, following his gaze.

Pope grunts something in response, not turning back to look at his brother; jaw ticking once.

“She seems nice”, Deran says, trying to ease the tension.

Pope’s eyes flick towards him, jaw relaxing just a bit; “She is.”

Deran drops the topic after that, sending a warning glare Craig’s way and discreetly filling them in about a possible job. Pope forces himself to listen, letting his eyes wander around the diner every so often. They always somehow end up landing back on you.

The older lady behind the counter brings their food out while you’re still bustling around to your other tables. Pope finds himself a little disappointed. The customers smiles around you never waver. Your laughter drifts to his ears every few minutes. He likes seeing you like that. Likes hearing it. Happy, content.

Deran and Craig talk next to him between bites of hamburger and mouthfuls of fries. Craig downs half his diet coke in one sip, a low rumbling burp leaving him that has Deran rolling his eyes.

Pope ignores it all, quietly eating his apple pie and pretending like he’s listening. The warm cinnamon of his coffee settling into his bones. His body sinks a little further into the cushions, and he finds himself thinking if he closes his eyes; maybe he could picture himself just sitting here with you. No noisy brothers, no other customers calling your name. Just the two of you.

Eventually you return with the bill, placing it gently on the end of the table.

Pope’s digging in his pocket before either of his brothers can move. Even if Deran really would be the only other one to offer to pay. Craig shifts beside him, sitting up straighter.

“So how do you know Pope?”, He asks.

Blunt. Straight to the point. Pope clenches his jaw next to him, freezing over his wallet as he looks up at you.

But you just smile, ignoring the nickname; eyes sparkling a little.

“Oh! He comes in a lot. Probably my best customer”, You chirp.

“Best customer, huh Popey?”, Craig rumbles, nudging his brother’s shoulder; “He didn’t tell us that.”

Pope stays quiet as he sets a fifty down on the table before shoving his wallet back into his pocket—taking the last swig of his coffee.

He blinks at Deran once—who seems to understand what he means without saying it—rising to his feet along with him.

“Keep the change…and thank you for the pie”, Pope says, gentle with a little bit of urgency in it.

You don’t falter as the two men follow behind him towards the door, expression the same as Pope pauses to look back at you.

He offers you that same crooked smile, weakening your knees as you wave at him; “See you soon, Andy.”

You watch as the door swings shut behind them, Craig smacking a large hand across Pope’s shoulders and shaking him a little. Deran standing as far away as he can without stepping off the sidewalk in case one of them decides to swing. Pope doesn’t look at either of them, watching his feet as he digs for his keys.

The excitement of seeing him doesn’t waver. You just hope this time soon means sooner than last time.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

Later that night you find yourself standing alone in the empty diner, scrubbing at the counter. The last customers had long gone home, the cook and other waitresses had cleared out. All you had to do was finish cleaning and lock up.

The sound of the front door bell ringing echoes through the quiet space. Even though you swore you locked it.

“We’re closed”, You call, not looking over your shoulder.

“I know”, A familiar voice says back.

His footsteps hit you right after his words, making you turn abruptly on your feet. You freeze when you see him standing there, just inside the front door. Fists opening and closing at his sides, eyes still scanning all the exits.

“Andy”, You breathe; “W-What’re you doing here?”

“Needed to see you”, He says, voice low.

He takes a few steps forward; “I can go if you want me to—“

“No!”, You blurt; “It’s-it’s ok.”

The streetlight from outside casts through the windows, panning over his face. Only then do you realize he’s hurt.

A nasty gash along his cheekbone, bruising under his eye and along the opposite side of his jaw. He looks tired; exhausted. Barely standing on his feet.

“Andrew”, You breathe, breaths ragged as you step up in front of him.

Your hands hover over his arms, then his face, not wanting to hurt him further but afraid he’ll slip away; “You’re hurt.”

Pope adjusts his weight, feet shifting below him before he’s reaching out for a chair next to him to steady himself. Your hands jut out quickly, bracing on either side of him to keep him steady. He grunts once, gripping at his side—but he doesn’t push you away.

“Oh my god, Andy!”, The words leave your lips quickly; “Come on, let me help you.”

You guide him to the counter, forcing him to sit down on one of the stools before hurrying towards the back. He looks around the empty diner, peaceful and quiet. The smell of your perfume lingering around him. If he wasn’t hurt it would be exactly like the way he imagined it earlier.

You return a few moments later, opening a first-aid kit on the counter. Something sterile in your hands as they hover over the cut on his cheek.

“This might sting a bit”, You warn him.

He hisses a little when the cold alcohol touches him, eyes pinching shut for a moment.

“Hey, keep looking at me”, You tell him, trying to get him to focus on something else.

Pope doesn’t hesitate, hazel eyes opening and wandering over your face. Wide and slightly blown with adrenaline and something else you couldn’t quite place.

“There you go”, You say softly, dabbing the alcohol gently against his cheek.

You pull back, searching for a bandage in the kit.

“What happened?” You ask, rummaging around a little quicker than you’d like.

“Just work”, He mumbles, eyes not leaving you.

You don’t have to ask to know what that means. You just keep searching until you find a butterfly bandage, peeling it open and gently placing it over the wound; touch gentle against his skin.

“Your friends seem nice”, You offer, trying to start up a conversation to keep him distracted.

“My brothers”, Pope says; “They’re ok.”

You chuckle softly, eyes flicking over his face; “Ah, makes more sense…They seem to care about you.”

Pope doesn’t answer, shifting a little in his seat.

Grabbing a new cloth, you move to dabbing gently underneath his nose; cleaning the dried blood there. Pope doesn’t wince this time, just watches you.

“I don’t think it’s broken”, You say, putting the cloth down; “Probably gonna be sore for a while.”

“S’okay”, Pope mumbles.

You furrow your eyebrows, hand coming up to rest against his jaw, thumb hovering over the dark purple bruise forming there.

“Does it hurt?”, You ask softly.

Pope leans into your touch, eyes flicking over your face before they flutter shut. Lashes brushing gently against the top of his cheeks.

“…A little”, Pope breathes, eyes slowly opening again.

You frown, moving closer until your face is close to his.

“Can I?”, You whisper.

Pope’s breath catches in his throat, but still; he nods softly.

So you press a soft kiss to his jaw, careful not to put too much pressure on the bruise. When he doesn’t back away, you move to his cheek; pressing a soft kiss just below the bandage. You can hear him breathing now, watching intently as you move again; pressing another soft kiss to the bridge of his nose.

Pope sits straight, impossibly rigid with restraint. Forcing his hands to stay at his sides, to not reach out for your waist and pull you closer.

When you pull back, it’s only a few inches. Enough to look in his eyes. The sound of his rapid heartbeat fills your ears. Consistent and thrumming. Matching the way his chest rises and falls. Your breath fans across his face, intermingling with his own.

His eyes are fully blown now; almost no glimpse of the whiskey hue left. Clearly wanting the same thing you do. But he holds himself back. His lips part a little, a soft breath escaping him.

“Y-You don’t want this”, He says softly; “I’m not good for you…my family—me, I’ve done bad things.”

You cup both sides of his face, thumbs smoothing across the smile lines by his eyes. You don’t move away.

“You think I don’t know who you are?”, You ask, making him furrow his brows; “People talk in Oceanside. I was told about the Cody’s a long time ago.”

He frowns a little, trying to wrap his mind around it; “So this whole time you’ve?—“

“Been getting to know you?”, You stop him before he can spiral, stepping a fraction closer; “It doesn’t scare me. I care about you, Andy. Not your last name.”

Something flashes behind his eyes, making them go soft. Still dark and full of want, but something else lingers there with it.

He finally lets go of his restraint, reaching out to settle his hands on your hips; pulling you closer. His nose bumps yours, breath hot on your skin as he desperately searches your face for any sign he should stop. But all he finds is you mirroring him.

He leans in with an intense ferocity, encapsulating your lips with his; pressing every feeling that had been growing in his chest the past few months into it. You startle for a moment, letting your brain catch up before kissing back with the same intensity. Pushing yourself closer and closer to him like nothing would ever be enough.

He opens his knees, letting you slot in between them; caging you in with his thighs—hands traveling up towards your ribs. Your hands find home in his curls; finally feeling the softness of them under your touch. You tug gently on the curls at his nape; a soft sound leaving his throat. You open your lips, breathing it in and letting his tongue in to dance with yours.

It’s breathless, your lungs burn. But all you can feel are his hands and lips against your skin. Burning from anticipation in finally breaking through whatever invisible walls had been set between you. Never to be seen again.

When you finally pull back to catch your breath, you find him staring back at you. Eyelashes fluttering open; lips pink and swollen and kiss-bitten.

He looks beautiful. Perfect. Like Andrew.

Freckles illuminated by the remaining diner lights, shadow sculpting his features. He brushes his nose against yours again, resting your foreheads together as he catches his breath.

“Been wanting to do that”, He breathes; “For so long.”

You smile; “Yeah?”

He nods in return, letting a crooked upturn take over his lips.

“I’m glad you finally did”, You say, fingers flexing in the curls on the back of his head.

You bite your bottom lip, looking up at him with wide eyes matching his own—blown out and wandering.

“So how about you show me that beach spot now?”, You say, nuzzling against him.

Pope laughs softly, hands settling around your waist and against your back.

“I can do that”, He says quietly, tongue poking out to lick his lips once.

Then they’re on yours again soft and heated, something so uniquely him underneath it all. Tongue swiping against yours, pulling you into his lap; your hands careful of his injured side.

You’re not sure how much time passes, how long you stay there in Pope’s embrace. Lips against each other’s like you’ve done it forever.

Pope leans into it, finally relaxing completely and letting himself be completely free. Completely himself with you. In the low light of the empty diner, he finds himself content where he’s at. Feeling like home. No jobs, no Smurf, no noisy brothers. Just you and him, like he’d been longing for since day one.

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You spend another night in the hospital, and the next morning, 31 hours after the birth, you’re about to be released from the hospital.

As you slowly pack the last of your things up, Jack gets Birdie settled in her car seat. She squirms and whimpers, but he whispers soft reassurances as he buckles her in.

“I know the car seat’s not as warm as Mommy and Daddy are, Birdie girl. I know, but you’ll be okay,” he coos. “The car ride’s only gonna be about ten minutes. Ten minutes, then Mommy’ll hold you again. You might even get the boob.”

From your spot on the foot of the bed, you let out a soft snort.

“All ready?” Jack asks once he’s got Birdie settled.

You nod and stand to step closer to peek in the car seat.

“Aw, she looks even smaller in there,” you mutter as you reach out to adjust her onesie.

“Tiny but mighty,” Jack says, placing a comforting, possessive hand on your hip.

You look from Birdie to him and find him pulling the ‘#1 Dad’ cap on.

“Wow,” you laugh softly.

Jack furrows his brow. “Hey, Jerry got it for me, so I’m gonna wear it with pride.”

Yesterday afternoon, your mom and stepdad, Jerry, came to the hospital with lunch to check in on you and meet the baby. Jerry handed the baseball cap to Jack with about as much pride as you can imagine.

“Okay, babe.” You smile and reach out to adjust the cap. “You actually do look hot in it.” 

Jack grins, and you kiss his cheek, then a nurse comes in with a wheelchair.

“Ready to go home?” she asks, smiling cheerfully.

Jack dropped all the bags off in the car when he pulled it around, so the only thing left for him to grab is the car seat where Birdie is now sleeping soundly. 

On the way out, he walks ahead of you in jeans that hug his ass a little too well and a t-shirt that is fighting with his broad shoulders and his grays peeking out of the cap’s strap.

His forearm is flexed as he carries the car seat, and you’re positive this moment in time is going to live in your mind forever.

When you make it to the car, you peer over Jack’s shoulder as he secures the car seat. It’s not that you don’t trust him to do it properly; it’s just that you’d like to watch over your baby.

He steps back, accidentally bumping into you, then turns around and puts his hands on your hips.

“Hi,” he chirps, happy to see you there. “Wanna ride in the back with her?”

You cover his hands with yours and lean in to peck his lips. “Hi. And, yes, I do.”

Jack takes a step back and keeps his hands hovering near you as you settle into the backseat.

“Comfortable?” he asks as your brow furrows.

Your face relaxes, and you nod. He reaches over and lovingly squeezes your knee before he shuts the door.

The entire drive home, Jack maintains exactly the speed limit on every road. He gets passed at every chance, but he’s got precious cargo in the back, so who really cares if he’s driving like his 97-year-old grandma?

When you get home, he helps you out of the car, then pulls Birdie from her car seat and hands her to you before guiding you up the porch. He unlocks the front door and holds it open for you.

“This is your house, Birdie,” you coo down at the baby in your arms. “This is where you’re gonna live with Mommy and Daddy until we find a different house.”

“Should we give her the tour?” Jack suggests.

You nod at him, then look back at Birdie. By the time you complete the brief tour of the house, she starts to fuss.

“Okay, last room, Birdie girl,” you mutter to the baby as she starts rooting for milk. “It’s your room. Your daddy and Uncle Robby–-who you’ll meet when he gets back from sabbatical–painted the room for you.” You go to sit in the glider chair and start pulling your shirt up and undoing the nursing bra. “And Mommy sat right here while Daddy built the crib.”

Jack crouches down and smooths a hand over Birdie’s soft hair.

“Need anything?” he asks as you get the baby latched.

“Not really,” you say softly, smiling contentedly.

He nods and straightens up. “I’ll bring the stuff inside from the car.”

Then it’s just you and the baby in the nursery, the only sound being her soft suckling.

“We’ve got all kinds of stuff to do,” you say, speaking softly, but not exactly baby-talking. “Gotta make your baby wellness appointment, get you on the insurance, give you a bath. All real exciting, huh, baby girl?”

For a few minutes, you just rock in the glider and watch Birdie’s jaw move.

Jack comes back in and crouches in front of the glider again.

“You gonna want lunch soon?” he asks, slipping his finger in Birdie’s grasp.

“Yeah. I think there’s sandwich fixings and chips. Will you put extra turkey on mine?” you ask, reaching a hand out to caress his shoulder.

Jack nods and leans down to kiss Birdie’s head, then pecks your lips before he heads to the kitchen.

“Your daddy’s love language is physical touch. That’s how he shows us he loves us,” you say, one hand gently stroking Birdie’s hair. “He also loves words of affirmation. I think those two are tied. He also loves doing acts of service. Your daddy’s very talkative and passionate.”

You sigh and stay quiet for a few minutes, eyes just fixed on all her squirming and swallowing and blinking and clenching and unclenching of her fists. Eventually, she unlatches, and you reposition her to nurse from your other breast.

“You know, you’re a very good-looking baby, Birdie. You look like Mommy, except for your chin. I guess sperm donor 18645 gave you that. It’s not bad. And, hey, maybe it gets him all the ladies.” You slip a finger into Birdie’s grasp. “You’re an Abbot, no matter whose DNA mixed with mine to make you. It’s no one’s business, anyway, but just so you know, Daddy and I are going to do everything we can to make sure you don’t feel insecure about that. We don’t ever want you to feel like you don’t belong.”

//

The rest of the day is spent on the couch with just the three of you. You and Jack take turns holding the baby, shirts and Birdie’s onesie long forgotten in the interest of skin-to-skin bonding. She’s relatively quiet outside of the cries that tell you she’s hungry or needs a diaper change. 

When it feels like bedtime, Jack feeds her a bottle with the milk you pumped earlier while you take a shower.

You come out half an hour later–because Jack was adamant that you take all the time you need in there–wearing only a nursing bra and your postpartum diaper. You feel your most unattractive, yet Jack looks at you with awe when you emerge from the shower. 

This body carried his baby and labored for hours to birth her. So, maybe you feel funny about the current state of your stomach, but Jack feels lucky to get to witness it.

“You look so pretty and happy,” he says softly as he burps Birdie, the bottle completely finished on the nightstand.

You smile and lean down to kiss Birdie’s head.

“You’re a good-looking dad, baby,” you say as you sit down next to Jack on the bed.

Jack wraps an arm around your shoulders, the two of you staring down at Birdie in the crook of his elbow, her tiny mouth slightly agape as she sleeps.

“She took the bottle well,” he says softly. “A whole ounce and a half, like a champ.”

“Mm. You like giving her the bottle?”

“Yeah, I did. Good father-daughter bonding.” He turns his head toward you. 

“You’re tired,” you mutter softly, gently cupping his jaw. 

“So are you.”

You huff a soft laugh through your nose. “Go shower. I got her.”

Carefully, Jack transfers Birdie into your arms, then heads to the bathroom. When the door shuts, you pad over to your side of the bed where the bedside bassinet that Jack put together today is all set up.

“Okay, Birdie girl,” you sigh, gently lowering her inside. “This bassinet only has three full walls, so you can still see me if you turn your head to the right. I’ll be right here, and when you wake up hungry, I’ll put you right on the boob. If it’s a diaper situation, you’ll have to go to Daddy, though. He’s a good man, won’t let me do the stinky stuff.”

Birdie settles immediately, not disturbed by the transfer at all. You press a kiss to her chubby cheek, then get in bed and pull the covers over your body. 

A few minutes later, Jack emerges from the bathroom, and before crawling into bed, he stops by your side of the bed to kiss Birdie good night and whisper that he loves her. When he’s in bed beside you, he kisses you and whispers the same thing.

He holds onto you a little tighter tonight than he usually does. You don’t say anything. He presses another kiss to your cheek before he finally settles.

//

The next day, Birdie has her well-baby checkup in the early afternoon. 

Thanks to one of the copious matching sets you bought for postpartum, you feel put together enough to leave the house confidently. You hand Jack the ‘#1 Dad’ hat on the way out the door.

Jack’s a little quieter today. You can’t tell if he’s just tired or if something else is weighing on him. He has therapy today, though. 4:00, you’re pretty sure. Maybe at 5:00. It doesn’t really matter since it’s virtual. 

He pushes the stroller, walking a little slower than he would if a freshly postpartum woman wasn’t walking next to him, through the pediatrician’s office. He only talks when you get situated in the waiting room chair, asking if you’re comfortable. Still, in his quietness, he keeps one hand on the handle of the stroller and the other on your knee, ever protective of his girls.

Birdie’s name is called, and Jack follows behind you and the nurse with the stroller. Once you’re all inside the room, the nurse instructs you to strip Birdie down to be weighed.

She fusses as Jack undoes her onesie but settles when he wraps a blanket around her and cradles her in his arms while the nurse sets up.

“Alright, Dad,” the nurse sighs. “You can set her down.”

Birdie continues to fuss when the warmth is taken away again, but she gets through it.

The nurse declares that Birdie’s weight is in a good place, then measures her head and says those measurements are normal too. After all that, the nurse tells you the doctor will be in for the head-to-toe exam, then slips out.

Jack gathers Birdie in his arms, careful to make sure her whole body is covered by the blanket.

“Babe, are you okay?” you ask softly, leaning against the exam table, your head against his shoulder. “You’re pretty quiet today.”

He turns his head toward you. He shrugs and leans his head down to kiss your temple.

“Just tired. Guess all the adrenaline is finally gone,” he says softly.

You kiss his shoulder. “Hopefully therapy helps today.”

Then the doctor knocks at the door. She’s nice and performs the exam very well, in Jack’s opinion. 

Soft spots of the skull are good, no signs of hip dysplasia, collarbones didn’t break during delivery, femoral pulse is strong, no irregularities anywhere.

“Possibly the most perfect baby ever,” the doctor jokes.

You ask a few questions that you came up with on the drive over. The doctor explains your concerns away, and when you look at Jack, he seems to be in agreement with the pediatrician that everything is normal.  

“Alright,” the doctor says as Jack puts Birdie’s onesie back on. “That’s it for Birdie for today. Cute nickname, by the way. Remember to also take care of yourselves. You guys are a team, so lean on each other and help each other out.”

“Yeah, we haven’t crashed and burned yet,” you joke. “Thank you so much, doctor.”

The doctor smiles and shuts the door behind her.

“Wanna get lunch on the way home?” you suggest as Jack goes to open the door.

“Yeah, sounds good,” he says, following you out while you push the stroller.

//

When you get home, the three of you take a nap after you nurse Birdie. Jack sets an alarm so he doesn’t miss therapy.

By the time the alarm does go off, you’re still sleeping. As Jack puts his prosthesis back on, Birdie starts fussing. He glances at his phone and decides she probably needs a bottle after he checks her diaper.

He scoops Birdie up and sniffs her bottom. Nothing, but he checks more carefully while her bottle warms up. A peek tells him she’s all dry. Just hungry.

“You wanna sit in on therapy with me, Birdie?” he mutters to the baby as he grabs her bottle. “Yeah? Gonna do your best to be quiet?”

Birdie just stares up at Jack with her big, bright eyes, waiting for a bottle or a breast.

Once he’s signed into the virtual waiting room, sitting in your home office, he brings the bottle to Birdie’s mouth. For something so tiny, she sure is a greedy eater.

His therapist, Leo, joins the call, surprised to see Birdie in Jack’s arms. 

“I see we have a guest,” he remarks, smiling.

“This is Birdie. Her mom’s sleeping, and she needed a bottle. Figured she doesn’t understand anything besides milk, so she could sit in today, if that’s okay,” Jack explains.

Leo smiles, eyes clearly fixed on the tiny baby rather than Jack as he talks. “Yeah, of course, as long as you’re fine with it. Wow, the baby’s finally here. How’re you feeling?”

Jack shrugs. “She was born on the sixth, early in the morning. We got home yesterday, took her to the doctor earlier. I feel… I feel good.” He looks down at Birdie, checking in to make sure she’s still taking the bottle okay. “She’s amazing, looks just like her mom except for the chin. I guess that’s from the sperm donor.”

There’s a pause, so Leo takes advantage.

“How do you feel about that? Your daughter having biological ties to another man?” Leo asks, blunt as always.

Jack swallows roughly. “I knew what I was getting myself into when I got involved with my wife. I always knew that Birdie wouldn’t look like me. I actually was kind of expecting her to look exactly like the sperm donor, but she’s really more of her mom’s twin, so I guess that makes me feel better.”

“Would it be possible for you to feel insecure about it if your daughter didn’t look like her mother?”

Jack doesn’t like that question; Leo can tell. Maybe that’s what makes it an important one to ask.

“Guess it could be possible,” Jack says softly, eyes fixed on the door rather than Leo on the screen or Birdie in his arms. “I wouldn’t… She’s my kid, blood or not, so I… I don’t know. I don’t want to sound like an asshole.”

Leo shakes his head. “It’s perfectly natural to want your children to look like you. With Birdie, that’s impossible, but you were there when she was born, Jack. You were friends with her mother in the early stages of pregnancy, and along the way became her romantic partner. Birdie doesn’t know that you didn’t contribute to her DNA, and she doesn’t care. You’re the man holding her right now. Nobody else is. She’ll give you gifts on Father’s Day, and her first word will probably be ‘Dada’, and even though that’s more of a phonics and developmental thing, she’ll be looking at you when she says it.”

Jack sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, holding Birdie and the bottle with one hand for a moment.

“I caught her,” Jack says softly. “When she started crowning, I moved down between my wife’s legs, and I was there to catch my daughter when she was born.”

Leo smiles softly. “You’ve delivered babies before. I assume this one was different.”

“Yeah.” Jack nods and looks down at Birdie, still suckling. “This one… I took this one home. I signed her birth certificate. She’s got my last name. I had to hold back tears when I got my hands on her head. She’s mine.” He swallows roughly again. “I never thought I’d have this.”

“Right.” Leo sighs. “Have you expressed your past feelings about children to your wife?”

Jack sighs now and lets out a sniffle. “No, I didn’t really see the point, honestly. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea and start thinking I’m not happy with how things have turned out.”

Leo nods. “It’s not uncommon to go from being neutral on an idea to being 100% on board. You fell in love with your wife, and the baby came with her.”

“It’s not just that,” Jack says. “Helene didn’t want kids. I thought it was better for me to maybe regret not having kids than her regretting having a child. Now that Birdie’s here, I can’t imagine there ever being a reality where I’m not her dad.”

His phone buzzes just then, the distinctive ringtone he set for your texts filling the room. He glances at the phone and reads the message: I know you’re in therapy, but if you want, I can pop in real quick and grab Birdie.

“It’s my wife,” he says as he sends a message back: That’d be nice. Thx

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s coming in to grab the baby.”

Then there’s a knock at the door, and Jack tells you to come in.

Eyes a little puffy from sleep, hair slightly mussed, still in the matching pink sweatshirt and shorts set, and the world’s softest and prettiest smile on your face. 

His beautiful wife, mother of his perfect daughter.

Still on the bottle, Jack carefully transfers Birdie into your arms and whispers a soft thank you to you on your way out of the office.

Once the door shuts, Leo smiles. “It’s obvious your wife loves you, Jack. I’m sure she’d understand your feelings. Besides, now that Birdie’s here, how do you feel about her presence, your role in her life?”

Jack nods and swallows the lump in his throat. 

“I’m happy,” he says, his voice warbly. “I don’t… I feel like I can’t believe that there was a universe where I was going to miss out on this, on being a dad. But, y’know, I wouldn’t have this if I hadn’t lost Helene, so I feel kind of… I don’t know, maybe guilty? That I’m having this life that I wouldn’t be having otherwise and…really loving it.”

The adrenaline is finally wearing off, and Jack can finally stop and let his mind get consumed with the question of how he got so lucky with you and also how to rationalize his love for both Helene and you.

He always thought everything bad that happened to him–losing his leg, his and Helene’s infertility, Helene dying–was all punishment for every bad thing he did in his life, the things he did with the American flag on his shoulder that helped a younger Jack believe it was for the greater good.

That didn’t work for long.

“That’s a valid feeling,” Leo says. “It’s true that you wouldn’t have the life you do now if Helene was still here. Let me ask you this, Jack. Are you happy with where you are today?”

Jack sighs but doesn’t hesitate to nod his head.

“I am. I’m happy with my wife and with Birdie. I just… I look at Birdie…” He trails off, eyes squinting. He clears his throat, gaze fixed on a doodle you made on a sticky note next to the computer mouse. “I look at my daughter and wonder what I did that makes me worthy of her. It’s the same thing when I look at my wife, but Birdie… She’s two days old. She’s never done anything wrong in her entire life, and she’s so pure and loved, and I… I wonder if I deserve to be in their lives.”

Leo takes a moment to come up with a response. “Jack, from what you’ve told me, you’ve married a very intelligent and thoughtful woman. She gave up on men and was going to have Birdie on her own. Then she got to know you, and you’ve become her partner in all of this. If you’re feeling doubtful about your worthiness in your family, try thinking about your wife’s decision to involve you, how much you trust her.”

“Yeah,” Jack chokes. He clears his throat. “She’s great. Amazing woman, man, so fucking strong.” He can steer the conversation. “She didn’t get an epidural for about twelve hours. She managed to stay clear-headed the whole time. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Leo doesn’t miss the avoidance, but one thing is for sure: Jack will talk about it when he’s ready, when he doesn’t feel so raw.

//

When Jack steps out of your office, he doesn’t join you and Birdie on the couch. You’re not upset; he just spent the better part of an hour talking about who knows what. He’s entitled to some alone time. You’re fine to sit on the couch with Birdie at your breast, the remote, water bottle, and a snack nearby.

It’s when nearly an hour goes by that you send him a text asking if he’s okay.

Five minutes go by, and he doesn’t respond, so you pad into the bedroom with Birdie in your arms.

He’s on the bed, back to the door, prosthesis near his nightstand.

You round the bed to put Birdie in her bassinet on your side of the bed, then crawl in next to him, leaving him some space. For someone who didn’t answer your text, he doesn’t seem to want the space as he pulls you toward him. You let him pull your left leg up and rest it on his hip as you bring a hand to his cheek.

“I love you, Jack,” you whisper as he pulls your head toward him so your foreheads touch. “I’m sorry if you’re feeling overwhelmed today, baby.”

He pecks your lips and sighs. 

“Baby, are you okay?” you ask softly, brow furrowed in concern, thumb rubbing back and forth across his cheek.

He nods softly and kisses your lips again.

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind, is all,” he mumbles against your lips. “Let’s just stay here for a while until Birdie needs something. Yeah?”

He’s probably got his entire life story leading up to this point on his mind right now. If he wants to process things on his own before he talks to you about it, that’s okay. You won’t argue against letting him hold you in his arms.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “We’ll just chill for the rest of the day. Um, tomorrow, though, I wanted to take Birdie on a walk. I think it’d be good for all of us.”

“Sounds perfect, sweetheart,” he whispers softly before pressing another kiss to your lips.

//

As the next few days go by, Jack seems to relax a bit more, which makes you feel calmer, too. The two of you take Birdie on walks in the neighborhood with her fan attached to her stroller.

After the walks is when you shower since the girdle you wear during them creates a lot of sweat.

Today is day seven of being home, day eight since you’ve given birth. Jack has put Birdie down for a nap, so he watches you in the bathroom as you carefully remove the girdle.

“It’s not giving you trouble, is it?” he asks softly. “You feel okay when you wear it?”

You smile as you meet his eyes in the mirror. “I feel fine. It’s doing its job, making things a little easier.”

He nods along, his eyes flitting from your eyes to your still swollen middle.

“Okay, good.” He steps closer to you, his hip brushing your side. “Y’know you’re beautiful?”

You smile brighter, and you caress his cheek. “I do. Thanks for not letting me forget.”

He smiles softly, his gaze softening along with it. Pure would be a good word to describe the way he’s looking at you right now.

“I love you,” you say, rubbing your thumb back and forth across his cheekbone.

He kisses the juncture of your neck and shoulder. “I love you, too.”

He pulls back and you look him in his eyes. So full of love and adoration and peace. You wrap your arms around him, chest to chest, belly to belly.

“So much better without Birdie in the way,” you mutter, your voice muffled with your cheek against his chest.

Jack chuckles softly and kisses the top of your head before letting his arms fall.

When you get out of the shower, you find Jack on the bed with Birdie on his bare chest, a soft pink blanket over her back.

Skin-to-skin has become an addiction.

You walk to your dresser in just the postpartum diaper to put on a nursing bra before you join them on the bed. Jack holds an arm out to get you as close as possible. You sneak your left arm under his neck and cover his left bicep with your hand, your right hand going to Birdie’s fist. Jack’s right hand skates up and down your back, eyes fixed on Birdie like her lip occasionally twitching is the most bewitching thing he’s ever seen.

//

Jack has told you about his nightmares. He told you they didn’t happen very often anymore. You’re pretty sure the last one he told you about happened when you were 37 weeks pregnant, but he didn’t wake you up with his screams or his fingernails digging into your skin.

It’s almost 2:00 in the morning when you hear the sounds of Jack screaming. With the lack of sleep due to having a one-week-old baby in the house, you think it’s Birdie at first. Then you feel his nails dig into your thigh, and you know it’s him.

“Ow, fuck, Jack!” you whimper, whipping your head around in his direction to find his skin drenched in sweat, his left hand gripping your thigh like it’s personally offended him.

You vaguely remember a Google search telling you not to touch him or be too loud.

So you sit there in bed and start speaking in a calming voice.

“Jack, it’s okay,” you murmur. “Please wake up.”

Birdie starts crying in the bassinet to your left.

Your head turns back and forth between your daughter and your husband.

Birdie’s upset that she’s been woken up. Jack is fighting off metaphorical demons and taking it out on your thigh. Birdie’s going to have to cry it out for a second.

You lean your head down, your fists clenching as you fight the urge to caress Jack’s cheek.

“Baby, please wake up. You’re having a nightmare,” you say softly. “Jack, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

His eyes shoot open faster than you’ve ever seen. His grip on your thigh momentarily tightens, and you fight back your whimper while he shoots up in bed.

“Jack, it’s me. You’re safe. You’re in bed with me in our house,” you whisper, keeping your distance as you sit up.

As he comes to, all he can hear is his breathing and Birdie crying.

“I woke them up,” he mutters to himself. 

“Jack, it’s okay,” you say, but he barely hears it.

He finally looks at you, fear in his eyes. You’ve never seen him scared.

The hand he has on your thigh suddenly pulls back in toward himself as if he’s been burned.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his eyes glazing over.

You shake your head. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His eyes focus on the bassinet behind you.

“She’s crying,” he whispers, sounding as if the notion is bringing him physical pain. “Please, you gotta pick her up.”

You furrow your brow, unsure if you should keep your focus on Jack or rock Birdie back to sleep, but his intense gaze decides for you.

Birdie’s cries die down when you finally pick her up, your legs hanging off the bed, your back to Jack as you stare at the broken blood vessels on your thigh.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, finally getting his breathing under control. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I haven’t… I haven’t had one like that in years. I’m so sorry I woke you up.”

You carefully lower Birdie back in the bassinet and turn back around.

“Jack, it’s not your fault. Everyone’s okay,” you whisper. “Do you want to go to the kitchen and have some water?”

He swallows roughly and eventually nods.

You slip out of bed and grab his crutch for him. He takes it and follows you to the kitchen. When you hand him the cup, his eyes fall to your thigh, the dotting on your thigh telling him something hurt you.

“Was that me?” he asks softly, guilt already seeping into his voice.

You chew on the inside of your cheek as you debate lying.

You land on staying silent as you wrap your arms around him. He melts into you, which is relieving. It could’ve gone either way, given his current state.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he sobs into your neck. 

“I know,” you whisper.

“You just had our baby,” he whimpers.

“It’s okay, Jack. It’ll heal in a day or two.”

“But I hurt you,” he reiterates. “You’re fragile, and I hurt you.”

“You didn’t mean to, baby. It doesn’t even hurt, I promise. I’m okay.”

You press a soft kiss to his cheek and scratch your fingernails up and down his bare back.

“I love you,” you whisper as you pull back slightly. “I’m okay. We’re all safe. Birdie’s asleep in our room, and you and I are having some water. I love you, Jack. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He nods, taking in your words, eyes fluttering shut as he tries to take some deep breaths.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he breathes.

“We can sit out here in the living room and talk if you need,” you offer. “Or we can go back to bed. Whatever you need.”

Whatever he needs.

Fuck, you just had a baby. He’s supposed to be telling you that. He’s also amazed you feel safe enough to go back to bed with him after he just about detached your skin from your quads.

Slowly, he leans in to kiss you. You reciprocate immediately, your hands flexing against his back.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.

Flashbacks of the nightmare play in his head. Helene sits in the middle of the bathroom floor as blood pools beneath her. You clutch a lifeless Birdie as you bleed out. It makes his stomach churn.

“I love you, too, baby.”

Jack takes in a shuddering breath and pulls back to kiss your cheek now, your temple, your forehead, then pulls you closer with one arm while he balances on his crutch with the other.

Eventually, you go back to bed. Jack’s conflicted between wanting to keep a safe distance from you and wanting to hold you in his arms to lull himself to sleep like he usually does.

You decide for him, wrapping your arms around him in a way that makes his heart ache.

He feels a little better as you rest your head on his pillow, your nose brushing against his neck, your fingers gently stroking the top of his hair, your other arm secure around his middle.

His heart breaks a little when he feels your tears rub against his skin. Your hormones are still a little all over the place, and your brain is finally able to catch up to what just happened. Jack is your strong and tough husband, and seeing him crumble like he just did hasn’t made you believe that any less; it’s just made you sad over the fact that he’s feeling anything other than content. 

You shift a little closer and kiss the underside of his jaw and gently tighten your arm around his waist.

Jack begins gently scratching his fingernails up and down your back, and eventually, your stroking his hair and his scratching your back lulls both of you to sleep.

When you get things moving for the day around 10:00 AM, the sadness in both your and Jack’s eyes lessens just a bit as Birdie lies between her parents in their bed.

He grabs her tiny fist and kisses it while she looks at you like you’ve hung the moon. And after how you supported him last night, Jack would have to agree with his daughter.

*reminder that you get side eyed hard if you're on one of these taglists and don't reblog

All works taglist:  @person-005 @tearsweetenedtea @canonisoptional @xoxoloverb @saralovesjoelmiller @rach2602

All Shawn Hatosy characters taglist: @realwhoreforfictionalmen  @ezmina98 @hehehehahahohohuhu @janeety @rumoured-whispers @1dhoe93 @dopeasope @itzpixiebabe @lacy1986 @messyyhairr @abzidabzy

Jack Abbot: @staygoldsquatchling02 @thehockeynerd30 @nutbutterjellie

Songbird taglist: @itsmycorneroftheinternet @laughsandlivia 

The end of your shift couldn’t come soon enough. 

In the span of twelve hours, you’d been doused in bodily fluids twice, hit on by a creepy old drunk who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, passively dismissed by Robby after he deemed you “too slow” for a trauma (when in reality, the med student next to you was the one who wouldn’t hand you the damn tube), and had your lunch stolen when it clearly had your name written on it—four times might you add. 

To top the whole very bad day off, your husband hadn’t responded to the messages you had sent hours ago asking if he’d be back in time to pick you up because the forecast called for rain, and like all bad days had gone, your car basically gave up the ghost the moment you parked it in the employee lot. 

So, you were almost scrub-less, uncomfortable, embarrassed, and so starving you almost thought about paying an insane price for a small Uber-ed meal before you also realized that the app hadn’t saved your information and your card was currently sitting on the kitchen counter. 

Just what you needed. 

The groan, along with the rumbles of your stomach, caused many heads to turn. 

“Is there a stampede in here? Or is your stomach in the process of eating itself,” Dana asked, though her eyes didn’t leave the nurses’ board. 

Your head landed next to the keyboard with a loud thunk. “I think my stomach tried to eat itself a couple of hours ago before realizing that it was completely empty.”

“I saw you brought lunch. Where’d that go?” 

If glares could put someone six feet under, the one you were giving your computer should have imploded it. “Currently being digested in the stomach of a med student.” 

“Good Lord. You poor thing.” 

“Tell me about it. I’d been dreaming of those leftovers since last night!” 

Dana gave you a knowing look. “Did your husband cook it?” 

“Yep.” Your chair squeaked as you leaned back. “And I didn’t even get to enjoy it for the second time. He’s going to be pissed.” 

“Who’s going to be pissed?” Trinity asked, already leaning on the counter like getting closer to you would make the gossip flow over. “Cause if you’re talking about Dr. Robby, that ship sailed around 2:30.” 

You closed your eyes and ran a hand down your face. “Trust me; I already know he’s pissed off at the world. I’ve been on the receiving end of that way too much today.” 

She gave you a sympathetic wince. “I heard about that.” 

“Who hasn’t,” you muttered with a harsh snort. 

That was the other thing that had added to your humiliation. Robby hadn’t just quietly dismissed you or corrected you after the trauma, no, he rather loudly decided to spew his personal thoughts about your work ethic in front of not just your coworkers but also the patient’s family who were there for moral support. Blatant strangers had a front seat to watch your attending rip into you all while it hadn’t even been your fault. 

Just thinking about it brought another heated flush up your neck. 

“To answer your question, her husband’s the one who’s going to be pissed,” Dana filled her in while rewriting a name. “He’s very particular about who gets to eat his food.” 

Another groan rumbled your chest. “Med student didn’t even return the Tupperware. Now he’s going to be extra pissed at that.” 

For a small second, Trinity looked almost nervous. “Will you be okay?” 

Her concern made a small feeling of comfort and pride bloom in your chest. If there was one person you could count on other than your family and Dana, it was Trinity, never hesitating to step in if she even thought someone didn’t feel safe. You shot her a grateful smile. 

“Oh, I’ll be perfectly fine. He’ll be mad sure, but not at me. We’ll just pray that he won’t spot the student that did it.” 

“Amen to that,” Dana muttered. “He’s like your personal guard dog.” 

“Are we going to add that guy who tried to touch your ass earlier?” Trinity teased, and your eyes widened. 

“Definitely.” You nodded along. “Might as well add Robby to it too. My husband isn’t that fond of him already. I just wish he’d respond to my messages.” 

Dana gave you a knowing look. “He at work today?” 

“Yeah. There was a problem with one of the houses a few hours out, and he left before I was even out of bed. Said there was a contract breach, kissed me good morning, and drove off.” 

“That’s oddly sweet,” Trinity added. 

You couldn’t help the fond smile that grew on your face. “Even made my coffee for me. I found it with one of those little post-it notes stuck to it.” 

“Didn’t know he was into doing stuff like that,” Dana said with a small laugh. 

“You know how he is,” you replied. “The man’s love language is acts of service.” 

Trinity smiled. “What does he do for work?” 

Your fingers found the keyboard again while you answered. “He’s a relator and contractor. Usually, he works from home, but like today, he sometimes has to go out and inspect the houses or make sure the paperwork is in order.” 

“Sounds like you got yourself a stay-at-home husband.” 

You couldn’t help but snort. “Yeah. He actually really likes to do the house work. Plus, when I’m home, all I’m doing is sleeping.” Your eyes caught your wedding band. “He’s really good to me. Plus, he’s Jack’s—” 

“Ladies, if we have time to chat, we have time to work,” Robby’s voice interrupted the conversation, loud and on the very edge of condescending. “Especially you, Dr. Cody. Let’s focus on getting patients in and out instead of sitting around, yes?” 

You swallowed down an annoyed sigh, instead choosing to stand up without a word. Hating the way you felt under Robby’s glare almost made you want to put in a two-week notice and move departments. However, emergency medicine was your life; it was the sole reason you met the people who quickly became your family, the reason you met your husband. Your fingers quickly found your wedding band, specially made of the number of diamonds that symbolized how long you and your husband had been dating before he proposed. 

Grabbing another tablet quickly, you forced yourself to hold your head up high as you passed him. Robby wasn’t worth your fear or submission. Plus, it wasn’t like he never talked around; you’d caught him and the hospital’s case manager making small talk way too many times to count. The man was a hypocrite that couldn’t see past his own faults and projected them onto his employees.   

By the time you rounded the corner, and Robby had vacated the station, Trinity leaned in toward Dana a bit more. 

“Is there any way to contact her husband? She mentioned her car died, and it’s raining.” Trinity looked in the direction you had disappeared down. “If I were married and my boss talked to me like that, I’d want my partner to know.”  

Dana had already picked up her personal cell after Trinity’s first question. “Oh, I’ll make sure he knows.” 

_______________________

When you exited the patient’s room, you paused a few feet into the hallway, rubbed your eyes, and continued to stare at the nurses’ station. 

Dana being there with Trintiy and Dennis was nothing out of the ordinary. However, the added presence of Jack Abbot and your husband was. You hastily crossed the gap between you and the station, concern etching itself in your eyebrows and lips. 

“Andrew?” you called out. “What are you doing here?” 

At the sound of your voice, Andrew Cody turned his head so rapidly that it added another wave of worry that he might have pulled something. He stayed still, even when you stopped in front of him, as your hands gently ran up his arms and stopped at his face all while the small group watched on with small smiles (from Jack and Dana) and genuine curiosity (from Dennis and Trinity). 

“You’re supposed to be in Altoona right now. Did you get hurt?” you questioned when your eyes couldn’t find any visible injuries. 

He stayed silent while his hands quietly found yours, fingers threading between the gaps and holding you steady. 

“I’m fine,” he finally said, hazel eyes boring into yours. “Just missed you.” 

A relieved exhale escaped from your lips. “Thank goodness. I was worried there for a second.”  

His crooked teeth poked through a smile. “I could tell.” 

You softly pushed him before taking his hands again. “Shut up. You went hours without responding and just show up at the end of my shift. God forbid I’m concerned for my husband.” 

“See, man, I told you she’d do this,” Jack grumbled, patting Andrew slightly on the shoulder. 

“Um, not to interrupt, but did Dr. Cody marry someone who looks exactly like Dr. Abbot?” Dennis squeaked out a question, obviously trying not to step over a boundary. 

But like a sister, Trinity nudged him harshly with her elbow. “Use your brain, Huckleberry. It’s obvious they’re related somehow.” 

The two continued looking between the Pitt’s night shift attending and your husband who looked like Jack if he were ten years younger. 

“That’s what I was trying to tell you early, Trinity,” you said. “My husband is Jack’s cousin on their moms's side. Andrew, this is Dennis and Trinity.” 

Andrew didn’t reach out to give them a handshake, but the appreciated nod he gave them was somehow enough. “She talks about you two a lot.” 

Trinity looked smug by the news. “All good things I hope.” 

“Definitely,” he answered. “I can tell she likes working with you two.” 

“Which is more than he can say about Robby,” Dana muttered. 

The change in Andrew, just by mentioning Robby, was so visceral that Trinity and Dennis were both shocked. 

In the few moments, the two could see how soft this hunking-fridge-of-a-man was for you. They saw it in the way he was quick to hunch over slightly when you looked him over with worry. They noticed it in the way he held onto you when he reassured you that he was only there for her and not because he had gotten hurt. They noted the way his soft smile was only for you and not even for when his cousin jested with him. 

Dana’s words from earlier rang in Trinity’s mind as she watched Andrew’s muscles tense beneath his polo. 

He’s like your personal guard dog.

Andrew shifted his weight, shoulders now seemingly broader than they had been. “Did something happen today?” 

Your bottom lip caught between your teeth. “It was nothing. He’s just being Robby.” 

Surprisingly, Andrew’s eyes flitted over to Trinity like he knew she’d tell him exactly what he wanted to know. “What’d he do?” 

Trinity looked at you once, and when you looked toward the floor, she answered. “He blamed her for a med student’s slow pace. Practically yelled at and belittled her in front of the other doctors in the trauma room and the patient’s family.” 

Even Jack couldn’t hold back the wince splashing across his face at the news, mind already knowing that in five seconds, his cousin might be on a war path for his friend. However, all Andrew seemed to do was take in a deep breath and hold onto your hands like a tether. 

“All right,” he finally said, body still tense. “Okay. Anything else I should know?”

“Someone took her lunch,” Dana added, drawing your eyes from the floor to her, hues flooding with betrayal. 

Et tu, brute? 

“Dana,” you hissed. 

Andrew’s grip on your hands tightened. 

In an almost attempt to throw more gas onto an already raging fire, Trinity ended with, “And she had a patient try to grope her earlier this morning.” 

Andrew’s eyes closed slowly like he was bracing for a fit of rage to overtake his senses, his mind already racing with the fact that you probably hadn’t eaten, because when he stopped by the house to change, he saw your forgotten card. Add in you almost getting assaulted, and he was one wrongly pulled Jenga block from collapsing. 

You closed your eyes and braced for impact, already feeling the brunt of the day push down on you. They only fluttered open when Andrew didn’t move, his chest the only thing heaving in an out and in motion. Somehow, that didn’t ease the queasy feeling bubbling beneath your skin. And at that moment, Robby decided to round the corner. Like most men, you guessed that he hadn’t picked up on the tension cloud that was currently circling around the station and—more importantly—Andrew’s head. 

When Robby walked into his field of view, you swear you saw the lovely hazel of his eyes darken. It should have scared you how quickly Andrew could go from your sweet and doting husband to a very possessive animal, but instead, the change had you relaxing and relieved. If there was someone you could count on for anything no matter what, that person would always be Andrew. 

And maybe (finally) Robby sensed enough tension, because his body went stiff after he looked up from the tablet in his hands and met Andrew’s eyes. 

Trinity and Dennis really thought that your husband was going to stalk over there, throw a punch, menacingly bark curse words and insults at Robby (a man who had a few good inches to tower over Andrew), and walk back over like nothing happened. But when he stayed put, only giving a beady stare that never wavered, they realized that he didn’t even have to talk to Robby or punch him for his words to get across. 

They knew that Andrew was making Robby uncomfortable by the way Robby shifted, the way he broke eye contact first, and the way he left the station looking like a dog with a tail between its legs.  

Jack let out a low whistle. “Damn, that never gets old.” 

Dana smirked. “He ever use that on you?” 

“All the fucking time.” Jack scoffed. “Do you know how many family gatherings I spent trying to get away from those eyes.” 

“We have the same eyes, asshole,” Andrew grumbled. 

“But yours are scary as hell,” Jack shot back. “Might be a good time to say that my night shift needs another resident.” 

“Fuck no,” Trinity instantly said. “You can’t have her, or we’d be left with him.” 

Dennis nodded. “I’m in full agreement.” 

Jack looked over at you expectantly but visibly deflated at the apologetic look you were giving him. 

“Sorry, Jack, but I enjoy getting to spend my evenings at home.” You paused and smirked. “I know Samira’s been looking for a change of scenery if you want to ask her.” 

The small crowd couldn’t help but smile or chuckle at the now vivid flush across Jack’s face as he tried to sputter out an answer. 

“All right, get out of here kids before it looks like you’re staging a mutiny,” Dana said with a wave of her hands. 

“Aye, aye, captain,” Trinity responded with a salute of her own. 

Andrew grinned widely, finally showing the smile around more people than just you. “If we’re turning into pirates, Jack already has the missing-leg thing down.” 

“Hey!” 

You giggled loudly while Andrew wrapped an arm around your shoulders, bringing you into his side. Your hand gently rested against his chest as you hugged him back. He felt your body melt into his after he pressed a quick kiss to your temple. 

“Ready to go home?” he quietly muttered just loud enough for you to hear. “Dana already gave me your bag.” 

“Yeah,” you breathily sighed. “Let’s go before a trauma comes in, and I’m stuck in here until I wither away. 

Andrew hummed. “We can’t have that now, can we?” 

“Absolutely not. I still want to have leftovers at least one more time before I’m buried. And this time, I’m putting a padlock on the container.” 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Andy—” 

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

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

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

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

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

“But—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He closed his eyes. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Andrew’s chest heaved. “Yeah.” 

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

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

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

“Big. Safe. Warm.” 

“It sounds so nice.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Andrew? What was that?” 

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

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

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

_______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Deran?” you called out. 

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

“Where are you? Is Craig with you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighed heavily. “Yeah?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the tears also healed.  

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

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

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

_______________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” you mused. “Yes, she does.” 

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

40 weeks and two days. In other words, hell. That’s the state you’re currently in.

You just had to all but push Jack out the door to go to work, but he’s gone. Sure, you told him to go, but now you’re bored. You’ve watched all of Adam Sandler’s and Queen Latifah’s movies, so now you’re not even sure what to put on the TV.

Eventually, you decide to put on an episode of Shameless, and once you’ve got all your snacks and two drinks nearby, you’re ready to camp out on the couch for the foreseeable future.

//

At noon, Jack’s left hand can’t stop tapping against his leg while he fills out a chart on one of the computers in the hub. His mind can’t get off of you, and he was just a little uncharacteristically harsh on one of the residents. He prides himself on his stern but empathetic approach; he hasn’t snapped at anyone in years.

Al-Hashimi walks over, calmly, with no readable expression on her face. She leans over, elbows on the countertop.

“Whitaker will get over it,” she says softly. “So there’s no need for you to feel this bad about it.”

Jack looks up at Al-Hashimi through his lashes.

“You said your wife’s due date was September third, correct?” she asks.

Jack looks back at the computer and nods. “Yeah.”

“It’s the fifth.”

“I know,” he says, a little annoyed and snippy. He sighs and looks at her again. “Sorry.” 

Al-Hashimi sighs and considers her words for a moment. “My ex was the same way before I had my son. This isn’t an abnormal reaction to waiting for your baby to be born. The doctor tells you the due date, and even though we all know babies come on their own schedules, you expect them to come when they’re ‘supposed to.’”

Jack finally logs out of the computer and leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“Am I wrong to suspect your wife all but kicked you out today because you were maybe a little overbearing?” Al-Hashimi ventures.

Jack’s brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a passionate man, Abbot,” Al-Hashimi says, seemingly holding back a smile. “And while your wife definitely loves you, she’s uncomfortable, and at this point, overdue. The last thing she needs is a husband who won’t bend to her will because of his own anxiety.”

Jack frowns. 

“I bend,” he mutters under his breath.

Al-Hashimi grins. “I’m sure. I just mean to say, she needs you to be relaxed and amenable, not tense and rigid.”

Okay, maybe she’s got a point. He can’t imagine what it feels like to have an entire baby pushing his lungs out of the way and fuck with his center of gravity. You need him to be calm and willing to do what makes you happy and comfortable.

Jack nods and sighs. 

“You’re right. I need to relax more,” he says.

Al-Hashimi smiles softer now. “You’re going to be a great father. We’ll miss you on paternity leave.”

Jack perks up at that. “Eh, you’ll all manage. I might bring the baby by for you all to meet once she’s big enough.”

“We’d all love that.”

Just then, Dana calls Jack’s name.

“Abbot, I got your wife on the phone,” she calls out.

Without missing a beat, Jack’s out of his chair and heading over to Dana, who’s got the hospital landline in her hand.

“Sweetheart?” he speaks into the receiver.

“Hi, I didn’t want to take the chance of you missing the call on your personal phone.”

“That’s fine. Are you okay?”

You pause on the other line for a moment.

“Um,” you begin. “I think I’m in early labor. Contractions every eight minutes, 30 seconds long. I think I had the bloody show or whatever that stuff is.”

Jack’s heart is in his throat. When he tries to talk, he can’t. He clears his throat and sighs. 

“Okay,” he says. “How’s the pain?”

You sigh. “Uh, like day two period cramps, but I’ll live.”

Jack rubs his temple. “Okay. You want me home, I take it?”

“Yes,” you say quickly. “Please. As fast as you can, but don’t drive like a maniac; I’m okay so far.”

Jack nods even though you can’t see him. “Okay, I’ll leave now. You got this, sweetheart. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

When you hang up, Jack hands the phone back to Dana, his eyes wild.

“Whoa, is it baby time?” she asks him, one hand on his forearm to steady him.

He nods, his body gearing up to be your rock for the foreseeable future.

“Yeah,” he says, panting like he just ran ten laps around the E.D. “She’s in early labor. Eight minutes apart, thirty seconds long.”

“Okay,” Dana says calmly. “Al-Hashimi can handle things on her own down here until another attending gets here. And besides, we’ve got all our best residents today, so you’re leaving everyone in good hands, Abbot.”

“Right. Yeah, I know,” he breathes.

Dana pats his arm.

“I’ll call Dr. Rosen in. Good luck, Dad,” she says as she steps back over to her workstation.

Jack mumbles a ‘thanks’ as he starts moving on autopilot. He makes a beeline for the locker room to grab his bag and then heads straight for the parking lot.

He’s prepared for this moment in his last few therapy sessions. He just has to drive back home, ask you what you want from him, and do exactly that.

//

When he pulls into the driveway, he takes a minute to compose himself. As soon as he walks through the front door, he’ll be a rock, completely steady and dependable for you. His only priority is you and the baby.

After some deep breaths, he shuts the truck off and grabs his things before heading inside.

“Sweetheart?” he calls out as he locks the front door behind him.

“I’m in the kitchen,” you call out.

Jack drops his bag on the floor and pads into the kitchen to find you making sandwiches.

“Are you hungry?” you ask, looking up at him momentarily.

He smiles softly and walks up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks.

“Okay still,” you say as you cut both sandwiches diagonally. “I just had a contraction right before you walked in.”

Another kiss to your cheek. “Any progress?”

“No, it’s the same as when I called you.”

“Okay, um, do you want to sit at the table or on the couch?” he asks softly, stepping back to take both plates.

“Couch,” you decide.

He leads the way, setting both plates on the coffee table so he can help you get comfortable on the couch. Once you say you’re good, he hands you your plate and sits next to you.

After a minute of realizing what’s going on on the TV screen, Jack’s brows furrow.

“Wait, this fifteen-year-old is gay, and his hookup of choice is a 35-year-old?” he asks, looking from the screen to you.

You snort. “Yeah, but later in the show he gets with an age-appropriate guy, so it’s–” You sigh and clear your throat. “Fuck, that hurts. Anyways, this guy’s gonna be okay.”

Jack’s eyes go to his watch to time the contraction, his right hand offering itself to you, which you gladly take.

“I don’t even get to yell at you and tell you this is all your fault; I did this completely to myself,” you sigh as the contraction wanes.

Jack smiles sympathetically and brings your knuckles to his lips.

“Yell at me all you want,” he says softly. “You’re doing an incredible thing here for both of us, 

After lunch, Jack changes clothes and removes his prosthesis when he gets back to the couch. The two of you stay there for a couple of hours, softly talking over the TV as the contractions grow more intense.

“You’re doing good, sweetheart,” he mutters softly when another one comes. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you mutter softly, your grip easing up as the contraction lessens. “Can I sit on your lap?”

He’s a little surprised, but he nods anyway and scooches all the way back to the corner of the sectional, his legs straight in front of him. You lower yourself onto his lap, your back to the plush arm of the couch, one hand resting on Jack’s shoulder farthest from you, the other on your belly.

Jack joins hands with you on your belly and drapes his other arm around your shoulders.

“I’ve narrowed down my favorite names,” you say softly, head tucked under his chin.

“Let’s hear ‘em.”

“Vivian. Felicity. Colette. Amelie. And Charlotte has grown on me.”

“I’m happy with those,” he says softly. 

You press a soft kiss to Jack’s chest. “We’ll know when we see her.”

Jack hums in agreement and kisses the top of your head. 

//

Around 6:00 PM, things feel more intense. You’ve had contractions every 5 minutes, each lasting a minute, for the last half hour.

After asking what you want to do, Jack helps you to the car, triple-checking that the bags are in the trunk and that the baby’s car seat is in place. Before heading to the hospital, he goes through a Dairy Queen drive-thru, and the two of you eat dinner in your car. 

When you’re done, you start really making your way to the hospital. 

Triage goes well. Both you and the baby have good vital signs, contractions are consistent, and the cervical exam confirms that you are four and a half centimeters dilated. 

Check-in is easy, but it causes some anxiety. It’s all real. This is really happening. The baby you’ve wanted since you were a little girl playing with dolls is about to come into the world. You want her. You wanted her so badly, you made her all by yourself, and she’s about to come.

You’re about to get hooked up to monitors that tell you she’s really coming.

Jack holds your hand as the two of you are led to a room.

You hand the hospital gown back to the nurse in the interest of wearing the birthing gown you bought online after it was recommended to you by your cousin after she had her baby. The nurse, Rhiannon, hooks up the fetal monitor to your belly, though this one is sticky and allows for movement rather than the belts you’d seen on TV shows before.

“Okay, last thing is an IV, or what we can do is an IV port that isn’t connected to any tubes or wires until you decide that maybe you need an epidural or we end up needing to administer a different type of medication,” Rhiannon says as she readies her equipment. “Either way, I’ve gotta poke you.”

“Port sounds good.” You hand Rhiannon your arm with the best veins and turn your head toward Jack, who’s looking at you with the same awe he had in his eyes the first time he saw you naked and when you put his wedding ring on him in the courthouse.

As Rhiannon gets to work, she asks, “Do you know what you’re having?” in an easy voice, clearly confident in her ability to multitask.

“A girl,” you answer, smiling at Jack.

He reaches out a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear, his thumb caressing your cheekbone.

“Yay,” Rhiannon says, clearly smiling. “I love girls. I have two nieces. You guys are gonna love having a girl. Um, how long have the two of you been together?”

“Um,” both you and Jack say at the same time.

You laugh softly. “We got married about a month ago. We met, like, over three years ago when I moved in next door.”

“Neighbors to lovers, that’s so cute,” Rhiannon says as she finishes up. “Okay. I skimmed over your file before I walked in, but I think I remember seeing you wanted to wait on the epidural for freedom of movement, correct?”

You nod as you turn over to look at your nurse. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Rhiannon nods. “Okay, well, as soon as you do want it, if you end up wanting it, just press the call button, and I’ll come in, and we’ll find the anesthesiologist, okay? Perfect. Good luck, and I’ll check back in later.”

Then it’s just you and Jack, and a contraction hits almost as soon as the door shuts, and your fingernails dig into his skin.

He leans his forehead against yours, and with his free hand, he gently scratches your scalp.

Since you’ve stopped being able to talk through the contractions, he’s stopped talking to you during them. For one, you can’t answer, even if he is just praising you, and for two, he can only imagine how annoying the sound of his voice is going to get towards the end of this anyway, so he’ll keep his mouth shut as much as he can.

As the contraction wanes, you loosen your grip on Jack’s hand and let out a soft sigh.

“You okay?” he asks after a moment.

You nod and smile tiredly at him. “I love you.”

Jack smiles and pecks your lips. “I love you, too. I’m gonna dim the lights, okay? That sound good?”

You nod again.

He kisses your forehead before he stands and dims all the lights. It’s about 8:30 at night, so things are naturally winding down with the exception of your uterus and cervix.

When you’re satisfied with the lighting, you hold your hand out. Jack sits on the edge of the bed and takes your hand, putting his free hand on your belly.

“You’re doing really good, sweetheart,” he tells you, his expression one of sincerity and love. “You’re handling everything really well. I’m so proud of you.”

You smile and lean your forehead on his shoulder, sitting with your legs crisscross, your left knee brushing against his left thigh clad in soft sweatpants.

Jack tilts his head down to kiss your hair, his left hand gently brushing up and down your back.

“You wanna switch positions soon?” he asks softly.

You nod and look over at the birthing ball in the corner. He heads to the corner to bring the ball to the middle of the room, then helps you stand from the bed, a gentle hand at the small of your back as he leads you toward the ball. You take both his hands as you lower yourself onto the ball.

“Feel okay?” he asks softly, crouching in front of you, hands on your knees, fingertips brushing yours.

“Yeah,” you mutter softly.

You cup his jaw with both hands and lean in to kiss him. You can tell it surprises him at first, and you can’t really blame him, but after a few seconds, he starts reciprocating, his hands sliding up the length of your thighs to rest on your hips while you gently sway them on the ball.

When he hears you moan, out of pain and not pleasure, he pulls back, but you lean back in. 

Jack lets you take the lead. As soon as you pull him back in, he’s back to kissing you with all the love in his heart. His hands on your hips press in, hoping the counterpressure will help.

Once the contraction passes, you pull back, eyes glazed over as you look at him.

“The article I sent you a few weeks ago,” you say breathlessly. “On kissing and oxytocin and labor and stuff. Sorry, I thought you remembered.”

Realization hits him quickly.

“Oh,” he sighs, smiling softly. “Okay, I remember now. I’ll kiss you all you want.”

//

A few hours go by pretty peacefully. At around 9:15, Rhiannon comes in to do a cervical check and tells you you’re at six centimeters. She cracks a few jokes, keeping things light, and when she leaves, you tell Jack to make a reminder to nominate her for a DAISY award when you get home.

Around 11:30, the contractions pick up in intensity. In the middle of the room, you stand with your arms around Jack’s neck, face buried into his chest. He keeps his hands on your hips to deliver counterpressure during contractions, now two and a half minutes apart.

There’s a knock on the door, and the nurse who walks through isn’t Rhiannon.

“Hi,” she says. “Rhiannon is otherwise occupied at the moment, so I’ll be doing your cervical check. My name is Jane.”

She snaps some gloves on, and as you try to peel yourself off of Jack to greet the new nurse, another contraction hits. This one steals your breath and pulls an almost animalistic moan from your throat. You dig your fingernails into the back of Jack’s neck, but he doesn’t waver.

“Oh, honey, why don’t you just get the epidural already?” Jane asks. “There’s absolutely no reason for you to feel the need to cause all that ruckus and scratch up your husband’s neck. I’ll call the anesthesiologist.”

All this from your knockoff of Rhiannon before the contraction is even over, mind you. Jack doesn’t miss a beat.

“There’s absolutely no need for that,” he says immediately, hands still steady on your body. “If my wife wants an epidural, she’ll ask for one, and she certainly doesn’t need you to make decisions about her body without even giving her time to think. Now, if you don’t mind, she’ll opt out of the cervical check for now. We’re happy to wait for Rhiannon.”

Eventually, you hear the door open and close, and once the contraction is over, you look up at Jack.

What a man.

“Am I really scratching up your neck?” you ask with a soft and feeble voice. “Or being too loud?”

He shakes his head. “No, of course not, and don’t worry about it anymore.”

You sigh softly and press your cheek to his chest.

“Could you do the cervical check?” you ask. “I feel like I should be further along, and I don’t wanna wait to find out.”

It’s a little bit surprising to hear this request, but if he’s going to catch the baby in a few hours, he can definitely check to see how dilated you are. Hopefully you’re nearing the end, and he can inspire some motivation with the news.

He nods and kisses your forehead.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Let’s get you back on the bed for a second,” he says softly as he guides you back toward the bed.

Once he’s got you in a good position, he heads to the counter and takes some sterile gloves, then heads back to the bed where he takes a look, and for about a minute, he’s both your husband and a doctor.

“I do want an epidural,” you say breathily while Jack checks you. “I just want to be the one to ask for it. I’m asking for it, Jack. Unless you say I’m at a ten, I’m asking for a fucking epidural.”

Jack nods and looks up at you, simultaneously pulling the gloves off.

“You’re at a seven. Do you want me to step out and ask for you?” he asks.

If you press the call button, fucking Jane might come back in, and hers is the last face you want to see even if you didn’t get a good look at it.

You nod and reach for his hand, another contraction building. He lets you pull him in for a kiss, doing anything you can to minimize the pain before you get some real relief.

It’s somewhat strange, kissing you in this situation. It’s not doing anything for him in the way kisses this passionate usually do, but it’s causing another emotion entirely. 

You’re so in control, and he’ll do anything to make sure you keep that. He’ll kiss you through the pain, he’ll rub your hips, he’ll let you scratch up his skin, he’ll tell off a nurse for you. Anything you want. The admiration he has for you right now is unlike anything ever before.

You’re such an incredible woman; he already knew that. But witnessing you bring life into this world and stay so strong through it all is strengthening his feelings toward you. Not that they ever faltered.

When it’s over, you pull back, and Jack exits the room as quickly as possible. Thankfully, the first nurse he sees at the nurse’s station is one he knows.

“Hey, Abbot,” she greets as he approaches.

He smiles but gets right to the point. “My wife wants an epidural. Where’s the anesthesiologist?"

“Uh, she’s finishing up with a patient right now, but there’s no one else waiting. Do you know how many centimeters she was at the last cervical check?”

“Seven, just a few minutes ago.”

The nurse nods. “Okay, I’ll send her in in a few minutes.”

He quickly thanks the nurse and heads back to your room, making it just in time for your next contraction. 

Just as he walks through the door, you reach your hand out, whimpering softly. He grabs your hand and reaches around with his free one to rub your back.

This time, he kisses you, moaning softly against you every so often to get your mind literally anywhere else besides this room.

When it’s over, and you lean your forehead against his, he tells you that the epidural is on its way.

“You’re doing really good, sweetheart,” he says softly. “I’ve seen lots of labors and deliveries, but this… It’s incredible. You’re doing such a hard thing so amazingly.” He pauses and kisses your cheek. “I’m more in love with you, and I didn’t think that was possible. You’re gonna be such a good mom. I know it. Our baby girl’s so lucky to have you.”

A silent tear falls down your cheek, brow furrowed as you focus on his face, every wrinkle, every freckle, every short hair of his stubbly beard and the smooth and gravelly sound of his voice.

Jack doesn’t tell you not to cry. He just smiles softly and wordlessly wipes your tears with the back of his knuckle.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m so lucky to be here.”

You shake your head and reach out to cup his cheek. 

“It’s not luck, Jack,” you say softly, your voice thick with emotion. “I chose you. You chose me and this baby, and I chose you back.”

He leans in for another kiss. This one just because, not particularly for pain relief, even if that’s an added plus.

You breathe him in, and take his hand and guide it to the side of your bump. He feels your skin tighten underneath his palm with another contraction. He keeps his hand perfectly still, hoping not to overstimulate you, and keeps kissing you.

After it passes, you stand with Jack again, only this time with your back to his chest. He holds your belly up for you one last time, taking the weight off your back for you, his lips pressed to your hair as the two of you slowly sway. You rest your palms on his forearms and stare across the room at the baby warmer, empty for now.

Soon, the anesthesiologist comes in and sets up for the epidural. She lets Jack stay in the room for the procedure and instructs him to stand in front of you, hands in yours.

Once it’s administered, and you’re in a comfortable position on your side, and the room is cleared, Jack turns off almost all the lights. He brings one of the chairs up to your bedside and holds your hand.

Within a few minutes, the epidural kicks in, and your eyes start to droop.

“Feeling good?” he asks softly, bringing a hand to cup your belly over the blanket.

You nod, a happy smile on your face. “Yeah, I can finally sleep now.”

Jack pulls his phone out of his pocket and props it up against your water bottle on the side table to record a video.

You cover his hand on your bump and admire the sight of your wedding rings and hospital bracelets brushing against each other.

“What are you most excited about becoming a mom?” he asks softly.

You hum thoughtfully. 

“Shaping a person,” you say. “Showing her things and watching her form her own opinions on them.”

Jack smiles and nods along.

“What about you?” you ask.

Jack sighs and chews on the inside of his cheek. “Probably the same. Just getting to witness her and see her grow and learn and experience the world.”

You smile brightly at him, and he leans in to peck your lips.

“Okay, last chance for betting,” he says.

You giggle softly and shut your eyes as you think, then open them again.

“She’ll come after 6:00 AM, seven pounds and ten ounces, 19 inches long. That’s my guess,” you say. 

“My guess is before 6:00 AM, eight pounds and one ounce, 20 inches long.”

You smile. “Either way, I’m excited to meet her.”

“Me, too,” Jack says softly, reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear. “I already love her like crazy.”

Your smile widens, and you squeeze his hand. “I know. She’s gonna be perfect.”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Just like you.”

He leans in to peck your lips, and before he pulls away, you mumble out an “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Then he stops the video and puts his phone in his pocket. 

“You wanna get some rest?” he asks softly, his hand moving from your hair to your cheek, his thumb brushing back and forth against your skin.

You nod. “I love you, baby.”

Jack leans in for another kiss. “I love you, too, sweetheart. I’ll stay right here.”

“Take your prosthesis off,” you remind him.

He nods and leans back in his chair and pulls his pant leg up. Once it’s off, he places it out of the way but still in reach. By the time he looks back at you, your breathing is deeper. 

He smiles and leans down to kiss your bump for possibly the last time.

“I’ll see you soon, baby girl,” he whispers.

//

At almost 3:30 AM, Rhiannon comes back in for another cervical check.

Jack wakes first.

“Hi,” she says, speaking softly. “It’s time for another cervical check.” She snaps on some sterile gloves. “I find that it’s better for you to wake her up than me.”

Jack nods and gently rubs your shoulder to wake you. He presses a kiss to your cheek and whispers for you to wake up.

Your eyes flutter and land on Jack.

“Rhiannon’s back to check your dilation,” he says softly.

You nod, and Rhiannon helps you turn over on your back while Jack puts his prosthesis back on.

When she’s done checking you over, Rhiannon smiles.

“It’s baby time,” she says as she pulls the gloves off. “I saw in your chart that you wanted to use the squat bar, lower your epidural dose to push, and that if there were no complications that you wanted Jack to catch the baby. Still good with all that?”

You nod, yawning softly.

Rhiannon gets everything ready, and soon the bed is modified to accommodate the squat bar. Your OB-GYN, who was thankfully working the night shift, comes in, along with a second nurse, and suddenly, you’re just waiting for the next contraction so you can push.

You were a little nervous that pushing would take hours, but after only about 40 minutes of pushing and grunting and Jack whispering praise in your ear, your doctor smiles.

“Abbot, it’s your turn,” she says as she steps to the side.

You turn your face toward Jack, sweat dotting your hairline but the biggest sparkle of excitement in your eyes. You lean in for a peck, and Jack whispers, “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you, too,” you sniffle, smiling brightly.

Jack gets into position, your OB behind him, clearly monitoring the situation, but Jack’s delivered hundreds of babies, even just delivered one last week, so she’s not too worried about him biting off more than he can chew here.

Once he’s got sterile gloves on, he gets his hands into position.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he sighs, letting the doctor inside of him take over just a bit, though it’s clear the man in front of you is still your husband first and foremost. “On the next contraction, give me a big push.”

Rhiannon counts for you as you push. You white-knuckle the squat bar and breathe deeper than you ever have as you bear down.

“Good, good, good,” Jack mutters softly, his hands on the baby’s head, holding back tears by the grace of God. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”

With a soft whimper, you take a break from pushing.

“You’re doing great,” your doctor says from behind Jack. “Less than five pushes, I’d say.”

You nod and focus on your breathing.

“You wanna feel her hair?” Jack asks. “She’s got a lot.”

“Mhm,” you hum softly, the lack of sleep catching up to you.

Jack takes your hand and guides it between your legs.

“That’s not me?” you joke.

The entire room lets out a soft chuckle, with the exception of Rhiannon, who snorts softly into her shoulder.

“No,” Jack says, eyes crinkling as he smiles. “That’s our baby; she’s got a lotta hair.”

You smile and take a steadying breath as another contraction builds.

“Okay, sweetheart, you got this,” he says softly, growing serious again as he focuses on the baby.

That push delivers the head.

“Perfect,” Jack praises. “Just a couple more, sweetheart, let’s get the shoulders out.”

Two pushes later, the air is pierced by a sharp but oddly beautiful cry.

“She sounds kind of like a bird,” someone remarks. “So cute!”

You let out a sob of relief and hold your hands out as Jack places her on your chest.

Looking down at the squirming infant is all it takes to fall completely in love with her.

“Hi, baby girl,” you coo at her, holding your hands over her back so she doesn’t get cold. “Hi. Hi, sweetie. I’m your mama.”

At some point, Jack has moved from your legs and peeled his gloves off because now you feel his hand on your shoulder and hear him whispering in your ear, “You did so good.”

The baby continues to cry, but seems to begin to settle on your chest.

“Wow, you’re really here,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face uncontrollably. “I love you so much, beautiful baby girl.”

You look up at Jack on instinct, and tears are streaming down his face. He kisses your temple, then gently gives the baby his finger so she can wrap her first around it.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispers. “I’m your daddy.” He sniffs. “Wow, you look just like your mom, sweetie.”

At the sound of her daddy’s voice, the cries die down into softer whimpers, still mad about leaving her warm home, but obviously happy Mom and Dad are near.

You press your lips against her head, uncaring about all the gunk on her head.

“Oh, God, she’s amazing,” you sigh, eyes shutting for a moment as you soak it all in.

You look over at Jack, and he smooths your hair back.

“You did incredible,” he whispers, eyes red-rimmed as he lets his tears fall.

You smile and blink out your own tears. “I love you. Thank you for catching her.”

Jack smiles back and kisses your cheek, then you turn to kiss his lips.

After another moment, you feel the need to push again. You swear softly under your breath and gently push on instinct. After about a minute, you vaguely hear your doctor tell you the placenta’s out, and you sigh relieved again.

“You’re all done,” Jack tells you. “You both did amazing.”

Once the cord turns white, Jack cuts it, and a few minutes later, the second nurse takes the baby over to the warmer to do some testing.

You send Jack over after he takes his shirt off, excited to see him actually hold the baby for the first time.

Jack stands near the baby warmer, eyes following his daughter’s every move as the nurse weighs, measures, and does everything else.

“Okay,” the nurse sighs, smiling at the screen that says all the levels are good. “Baby Abbot is seven pounds and eight ounces and 19 inches long. Five-minute APGAR score of ten. Congratulations. Jack, you can hold her now.”

Excitedly but carefully, Jack reaches his hands around the baby’s body and brings her to his chest. The nurse helps him cover her with a blanket, then he walks over to the chair by your bed.

Once everything else is determined to be okay, everyone leaves the room with soft whisperings of congratulations.

Jack sighs and smiles at you with all the love in his heart.

“You’re both incredible,” he says. “I’m in awe of you.”

You smile tiredly and sigh contentedly. “I’m so fucking happy.”

Jack smiles again, then stands and hands the baby back to you.

Soon, a lactation consultant comes in and helps you and the baby figure out the latch. Once you get the hang of it, you’re left alone again.

“Charlotte,” you say softly, looking at the baby.

Jack nods, the back of his finger caressing her cheek. “Charlotte Vivian Abbot?”

He looks to you to gauge your reaction. You smile.

“I like that,” you mutter softly.

Charlotte Vivian Abbot. Seven pounds and eight ounces. 19 inches long. Born at 4:26 AM on September 6, 2026.

Perfection in a very small package.

//

You and Jack manage to sleep for close to an hour before the baby is restless. After nursing, you’re starving, but luckily, Rhiannon brings you some breakfast before her shift ends.

“It’s not the best food, so if you’ve got people coming, you should ask them to bring you some food. Though, you can get food delivered, too. Anyway, my shift is ending, but I wanted to tell the little birdie and her sweet parents goodbye,” she says.

You smile and look down at the baby. 

“Birdie,” you muse. “That’s cute.” Then you look back at Rhiannon. “You’ve been really incredible. I can’t thank you enough.”

Rhiannon smiles and shrugs. “I’m just happy things went well. You three make a very cute family. Okay, I’ve got a breakfast date, so I’ve gotta go. Bye, guys.”

Then she’s gone.

“Birdie,” you sigh, smiling at the baby. “I like that, it’s cute.”

Jack sends the birth announcement to his parents, your mom and stepdad, his sister, then Robby and Dana.

After that, he puts his phone on “Do Not Disturb” and puts his focus on you and Birdie. A little later, though, he notices a text from his mom asking if it’s okay to call at some point. You say it’s fine, and Jack steps out into the hall, leaving you alone with the baby.

You had put her into a pink onesie so she wouldn’t get cold once the hospital AC started blowing a little too hard for your liking. 

Your little pink baby is finally here. She’s tiny and perfect and yours.

You hold her up by her armpits for just a moment, still supporting her head. The two of you just look at each other for a moment. Her face is scrunched up, but she’s perfect.

It’s hard to put into words how you’re feeling right now. You wanted this baby enough to raise her on your own. Jack is outside the door, but there was once a very real reality where he wasn’t supposed to be. 

And looking at her right now, it’s so clear to you that it would absolutely be worth it to be her mom by yourself. Anything hard that would come with raising her on your own would have been worth it, because the look in your daughter’s eyes that you can’t name is telling you that it all would’ve been okay.

You’re incredibly fortunate to have Jack by your side, but you could handle Birdie alone, and so could he. She’s worth all the pain in the world that got you both to the place of being her parents.

You bring her back to your chest and soak in her snuggly body and soft baby noises. You kiss her downy hair and keep your hands secure on her back.

“One day, I’m gonna tell you all about how you got here,” you say softly. “Just know for now that it was all very special and very precious, just like you, little Birdie, and that Mommy and Daddy love you very much.”

end author's note: wow the baby is here and I feel like I gave birth myself bc this series is such a labor of love lol. original Doctor Google was meant to be a one-shot, so thank you to everyone who believed in this story's potential and politely asked for more <3 pls let me know what you want to see from this story! (requests are open for that) after hearing about when s3 of The Pitt is going to be set, it is safe to say I will probably never reference canon again (at least in a big way), so pretty much anything is possible over here. thank you guys so much for reading! I know I have no schedule for this series at all and that can be annoying, so anyone loyally reading along is a fucking G in my book. for anyone who ever feels like you're annoying leaving persistent comments, whether it's an emoji or a more thoughtful comment, I guarantee you that you are not annoying, and in fact are someone I look forward to getting notifications from. I'm crazy; I see everything. ily all and pls be well <3

p.s. for anyone who is curious: Birdie is a virgo sun, cancer moon, and leo rising

All works taglist:  @person-005 @madpanda75 @tearsweetenedtea @canonisoptional @xoxoloverb @saralovesjoelmiller @youknowiloveyou-so

All Shawn Hatosy works taglist: @realwhoreforfictionalmen  @ezmina98 @hehehehahahohohuhu @janeety @jennataurus @esmemia16 @rumoured-whispers @1dhoe93 @dopeasope

Jack Abbot taglist: @michasia24 @its--fandom--darling @staygoldsquatchling02 @starstruckl @overthyme24 @hoziersguitarr @thehockeynerd30 @louisbelongstome28

Doctor Google taglist: @itsmycorneroftheinternet @myhopefulcollectionqueenfan-blog @karleyyyjaeee @laughsandlivia @babyspiceeeeeeee @merlin-288 @cari87 @kidd3ath @saralovesjoelmiller @agamayayayaya @nyxmoretti @ubiquitous-corvids @bookluver14 @thehockeynerd30 @cafereads @sukunasnumberoneslut @imaginesnnerd @whatliesaheadmatters

And now they were here.

Black SUVs blocked every exit from Smurf's street. Unmarked sedans lined the curbs. SWAT vans idled at both ends of the block, their engines rumbling like predators waiting to pounce. Agents in tactical gear moved into position with military precision, some crouched behind vehicles, others positioned on neighboring rooftops with sniper rifles, all of them focused on the house at the center of the web.

The house where Smurf had built her empire. The house where everything was about to end.

Inside, Pope stood at the window and watched the vehicles arrive. His stomach dropped. His hands went cold. He turned to look at Craig, who was standing in the kitchen doorway with a beer halfway to his lips, frozen mid-drink.

“What the fuck?” Craig whispered.

Deran came running from the back of the house. “We've got company out back too. At least six vehicles. Maybe more.”

Smurf appeared at the top of the stairs. She was wearing a white silk blouse and dark jeans, her hair perfectly styled, her face calm. But her eyes, her eyes were sharp and calculating, already running through contingency plans, already looking for the exit that didn't exist.

“How many?” she asked.

“Too many,” Pope said flatly.

The bullhorn crackled to life outside.

“THIS IS THE FBI. THE HOUSE IS SURROUNDED. YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP. AFTER THAT, WE'RE COMING IN.”

The voice echoed through the neighborhood. Dogs started barking. Neighbors peered through windows. Someone screamed.

Smurf walked down the stairs slowly, her hand trailing along the banister. She looked almost serene. Almost. But Pope could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw was clenched, the fury building behind her eyes.

“Someone talked,” she said quietly.

“No shit,” Craig muttered.

“Who?” Smurf's voice was ice.

Pope's mind was racing. Who would've given them everything? Who had access to all their locations, all their operations, all their-

J.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. J had done this. J had burned them all.

Smurf was staring at him. “You know who it was.”

Pope didn't answer.

“POPE.”

“It doesn't matter now,” he said. “We need to get out.”

“There is no out,” Deran said. He was pacing, running his hands through his hair. “They've got us boxed in. Every exit is covered. Every escape route is blocked. They knew exactly where to position themselves.”

Because J had told them. J had given them the blueprints. J had handed them the keys to the kingdom.

Smurf walked to the window and looked out at the agents. At the guns. At the end of everything she'd built. Her face was expressionless, but Pope could see her mind working, calculating, searching for the angle that would save her.

“We're not surrendering,” she said.

Craig stared at her. “What?”

“I said we're not surrendering.”

“Smurf, there's no way-“

“I SAID WE'RE NOT SURRENDERING.”

Her voice cracked through the room like a whip. Craig flinched. Deran stopped pacing. Pope just looked at her, and for the first time in his life, he saw her clearly.

She was going to get them all killed. She'd rather die than lose. She'd rather take them all down with her than admit defeat.

“YOU HAVE FOUR MINUTES.”

Smurf turned away from the window. “Get the guns.”

“Smurf-“

“GET THE FUCKING GUNS.”

Pope looked at Craig. At Deran. They were trapped. There was no talking her down. No reasoning with her. She'd made her choice. And they were going to pay for it.

Craig moved first. He went to the safe in the living room and pulled out an AR-15. Checked the magazine. Loaded it. His hands were shaking. Deran grabbed a shotgun. Pope took a Glock and shoved it into his waistband, then grabbed another rifle.

This was insane.

This was suicide.

But what choice did they have?

“YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES.”

Smurf was loading her own weapon now. A small pistol. Elegant. Deadly. She looked at her sons with something that might've been pride or might've been madness.

“We fight,” she said. “We don't go down without a fight.”

Pope wanted to scream at her. Wanted to tell her this was her fault. Wanted to tell her that she'd destroyed them all with her need for control, her paranoia, her refusal to let them have anything that wasn't hers.

But he didn't. Because there was no time.

“YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES.”

They took positions throughout the house. Pope at the front window. Craig at the side. Deran covering the back. Smurf in the center, orchestrating, commanding, still playing queen even as her kingdom burned.

The seconds ticked by.

Pope's heart was hammering. His palms were sweating. He thought about you. About Lena. About the life he'd walked away from to protect you. And now he was going to die here.

In this house. With his mother. Fighting a battle they couldn't win.

“YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE.”

Craig looked at Pope across the room. His face was pale. His eyes were wide. He mouthed something that might've been I'm sorry or might've been I love you or might've been nothing at all.

Pope nodded. I know. Me too.

“YOUR TIME IS UP. WE'RE COMING IN.”

The first flashbang came through the front window. The explosion was deafening. Blinding white light filled the room. Pope's ears rang. He couldn't see. Couldn't hear. Couldn't think. He stumbled backward, trying to orient himself, trying to-

Another flashbang. Then another.

Smoke grenades followed, filling the house with thick gray smoke that burned his lungs and made his eyes water. He was coughing, choking, trying to breathe through the chaos.

The front door exploded inward.

Wood splintered. The frame buckled. SWAT poured through the opening like a flood, black-clad figures with rifles and shields, moving with practiced precision, shouting commands that overlapped into a wall of noise.

“GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!”

“HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”

Pope raised his rifle. Fired. He wasn't aiming. Couldn't see through the smoke. Just pulled the trigger and hoped-

Gunfire erupted from every direction.

The sound was apocalyptic. Bullets tore through walls, shattered windows, ripped through furniture. Plaster exploded in white clouds. Picture frames fell and shattered. The TV screen spiderwebbed and went dark. Pope dove behind the couch.

Bullets chewed through the cushions above his head, sending stuffing flying like snow. He could hear Craig screaming something from the other room. Could hear Deran's shotgun booming. Could hear Smurf's voice cutting through the chaos, still giving orders, still trying to control the uncontrollable.

An agent appeared through the smoke. Pope fired. The agent went down. Pope didn't know if he'd killed him or just wounded him or missed entirely. Didn't have time to think about it. Another agent was already there, and another, and another-

They were everywhere. The house was full of them. There was no escape.

No exit. No way out. Pope fired until his magazine was empty. Ejected it. Reached for another. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped it. Loaded it. Raised the rifle again, A bullet grazed his shoulder.

Pain exploded through his arm. Hot. Sharp. Immediate. He gasped and stumbled, nearly dropping the rifle. Blood soaked through his shirt. Not a direct hit. Just a graze. But it hurt like hell and his arm wasn't working right.

He could hear Craig in the next room, still firing. Could hear the distinctive boom of Deran's shotgun. Could hear Smurf's pistol cracking like a whip.

They were still fighting. Still trying. Still refusing to surrender. And they were going to die here. All of them.

Craig was behind the kitchen island. He'd been firing through the doorway, trying to keep the agents from advancing through the side entrance. His gun was hot in his hands. His ears were ringing from the constant barrage of gunfire. Smoke burned his lungs with every breath.

He ducked down to reload. That's when he saw the red dot. It appeared on his chest like a tiny star. Laser sight. Sniper. He had maybe half a second to process what it meant before-

The shot came from somewhere outside.

Through the kitchen window. The bullet punched through the glass with a sharp crack and hit Craig square in the chest. The impact lifted him off his feet. He flew backward and hit the floor hard, his gun clattering away across the tile. For a moment, he didn't feel anything. Just confusion. Just the sense that something had gone very, very wrong.

Then the pain hit. It was like being stabbed with a white-hot poker. Like his chest was caving in. Like his lungs were collapsing. He tried to breathe and couldn't. Tried to move and couldn't. Tried to scream and only managed a wet, choking gasp.

Blood. So much blood.

It was spreading across his chest, soaking through his shirt, pooling beneath him on the kitchen floor. Dark. Thick. Unstoppable. He could feel it pumping out with every heartbeat, could feel his life draining away with every pulse.

He looked down.

The wound was just left of center. Right where his heart was. The bullet had gone clean through, he could see the exit wound in his back when he tried to move, could see the blood spreading beneath him in a widening circle.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

He was going to die. He was going to die right here on the kitchen floor while agents swarmed the house and his family fought and died around him.

He tried to call for help. Tried to say Pope's name. But all that came out was blood.

It bubbled up from his mouth, hot and metallic, choking him. He coughed and more blood came. His vision was starting to blur. The edges were going dark. The pain was fading into a strange numbness that was somehow worse than the agony.

No. Not like this. Please not like this.

He could hear Pope shouting something from the other room. Could hear Deran's voice, high and panicked. Could hear footsteps running toward him.

Then Pope was there. Kneeling beside him. Hands pressing against the wound.

“CRAIG! CRAIG, STAY WITH ME!”

Craig tried to answer. Couldn't. More blood.

Pope's face was white. His eyes were wild. His hands were covered in Craig's blood, pressing down hard, trying to stop the bleeding. But there was too much. It was everywhere. Soaking through Pope's fingers, pooling on the floor, spreading and spreading and spreading.

“You're okay,” Pope was saying. “You're okay, you're gonna be okay, just stay with me-“

But Craig could see the truth in his brother's eyes. He wasn't okay. He was dying.

Deran appeared beside Pope. His face went gray when he saw the wound. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Pope, we need to-“

“HELP ME GET HIM UP!”

They grabbed Craig under the arms. Tried to lift him. Craig screamed, or tried to. The sound came out as a wet gurgle. Pain exploded through his chest. His vision went white. He could feel his body shutting down, could feel his heart struggling to pump blood that was no longer there.

“We have to move,” Pope was saying. “We have to get him out of here. NOW.”

Gunfire was still erupting around them. Bullets punched through the walls. Glass shattered. Someone was screaming. Craig couldn't tell if it was him or someone else or everyone all at once.

They dragged him toward the back door.

His feet scraped across the floor, leaving a trail of blood. His head lolled. His vision kept fading in and out. He could see Pope's face above him, could see the terror and determination and love, could see his brother refusing to let him go.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you.

He tried to say it. Couldn't. The darkness was closing in.

Pope and Deran dragged Craig through the back door and into the yard. Bullets chewed up the ground around them. Agents were shouting. Flashlights swept through the smoke. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood and burning wood.

Craig's body was dead weight between them. His head hung forward. Blood dripped from his mouth. His chest wasn't moving right, shallow, gasping breaths that sounded wet and wrong.

“Stay with me,” Pope kept saying. “Stay with me, Craig. Don't you fucking die on me.”

Deran was crying. Tears streaked through the dirt and ash on his face. “Where's the truck? Pope, where's the-“

“THERE!”

Pope's truck was parked at the end of the alley. Fifty yards away. Might as well have been fifty miles. They ran, half-carrying, half-dragging Craig between them. Pope's shoulder screamed where the bullet had grazed him. His hands were slick with his brother's blood. His lungs burned.

Behind them, the house was chaos. Gunfire. Explosions. Screaming.

And Smurf was still in there. Pope didn't look back. Couldn't look back. Because if he did, he'd stop. He'd go back for her. And Craig would die.

Choose.

That's what it came down to. His mother or his brother. The woman who'd raised him or the boy who he’d raised himself.

It wasn't a choice at all. They reached the truck.

Deran yanked open the back door. They shoved Craig inside as gently as they could, which wasn't gentle at all. Craig's head hit the seat. He didn't react. Didn't move. Didn't make a sound.

Pope climbed in beside him. Pressed his hands against the wound again. Blood pulsed between his fingers.

Too much. There's too much blood. He's dying.

“DRIVE!” Pope screamed ripping his shirt and stuffing it into craig’s wound.

Deran threw himself into the driver's seat. Started the engine. The truck roared to life. He slammed it into gear and floored it, tires screeching as they peeled out of the alley.

Agents shouted behind them. Someone fired. The back window exploded. Glass rained down on Pope and Craig.

Deran didn't slow down. He drove like a man possessed, weaving through side streets, running red lights, taking corners so fast the truck nearly flipped. Pope braced himself against the door with one hand and kept pressure on Craig's wound with the other.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Please, Craig. Please stay with me.”

Craig's eyes fluttered open. He looked at Pope. Tried to say something. Blood bubbled from his lips. His eyes closed again.

“NO!” Pope shook him. “Craig! CRAIG!”

“Is he-“ Deran's voice cracked. “Pope, is he-“

“Just drive. JUST FUCKING DRIVE.”

Deran drove. Away from the house. Away from the FBI. Away from Smurf. Away from everything.

And Pope sat in the back seat covered in his brother's blood, watching Craig's chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths, and wondered if they'd just traded one death for another.

Smurf was in the living room when she realized they were gone. She'd been firing through the front window, taking calculated shots at the agents advancing on the house. Her pistol was almost empty. Her ears were ringing. Smoke burned her lungs. But she was still standing. Still fighting. Still refusing to surrender.

“Pope!” she called. “Craig! Deran!”

No answer. Just gunfire. Just chaos. Just the sound of her empire crumbling around her.

“POPE!”

Still nothing. She turned. The kitchen was empty. The hallway was empty. The back door was hanging open, swinging in the breeze. They were gone. They'd left her.

The realization hit her like a physical blow.

Her sons, her boys, the ones she'd raised and protected and controlled and loved, had abandoned her.

They'd chosen to save themselves. They'd chosen to save Craig. They'd chosen each other over her.

Rage exploded through her chest. White-hot. Blinding.

All-consuming.

“YOU FUCKING COWARDS!” she screamed.

An agent appeared in the doorway. Smurf fired. The agent went down. Another took his place. Smurf fired again.

Click. Empty.

She threw the gun at the agent and ran. Through the kitchen. Through the hallway. Toward the back door. Bullets chased her, punching through walls, shattering picture frames, destroying everything in their path.

She made it to the door. Stumbled outside.

The yard was full of smoke and chaos. Agents were everywhere. Flashlights swept through the darkness. Someone was shouting orders.

Smurf ran. She didn't know where she was going. Didn't care. Just ran. Through the yard. Over the fence. Into the alley. Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed. But she didn't stop.

Behind her, the house exploded. Not literally. But it might as well have. Flashbangs. Smoke grenades. The sound of wood splintering and glass shattering and her entire life being torn apart.

She kept running. Through alleys. Through yards. Through the dark spaces between houses where the FBI's lights couldn't reach.

She was bleeding. A bullet had grazed her side, she didn't even remember when it had happened. Blood soaked through her white silk blouse, turning it red. Her hair had come loose from its perfect style and hung in wild tangles around her face. Ash and dirt streaked her skin.

She looked like a ghost. Like a monster. Like a queen who'd lost her kingdom. But she was alive. And she was furious. Because her sons had left her.

They'd chosen to save Craig instead of coming back for her. They'd chosen each other instead of choosing her. They'd chosen you instead of choosing her.

Because that's what this was really about.

You.

The woman who'd poisoned her boys against her. The woman who'd shown them a different life. The woman who'd made them believe they could be something other than what Smurf had made them.

You had taken everything from her.

And now Smurf was going to take everything from you.

She stopped running. Leaned against a wall. Caught her breath. Her side was on fire. Her lungs burned. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might explode.

But her mind was clear. Crystal clear. She knew exactly where she was going. She knew exactly what she was going to do.

Your apartment was fifteen minutes away. Smurf started walking.

You weren’t watching the news when it started. You'd been trying to distract yourself. Trying to focus on anything other than the fact that Pope had been gone for days and hadn't called. Trying not to think about the way he'd looked at you before he left. Trying not to wonder if he was ever coming back.

The TV was on in the background. Some mindless reality show. You weren't really watching as you packed Lena’s whole life into boxes. Then the programming cut out.

“WE INTERRUPT THIS BROADCAST FOR BREAKING NEWS.”

You looked up. The screen showed a house. Smurf's house. You recognized it immediately. Your stomach dropped.

“We're coming to you live from Oceanside where a massive FBI operation is currently underway. Multiple agencies have surrounded this residence in what appears to be a coordinated raid on an organized crime operation.”

The camera showed the street. Black SUVs. SWAT vans. Agents in tactical gear. Guns. So many guns.

“We're hearing reports of gunfire inside the residence. Authorities are urging residents to stay indoors and away from windows.”

Your hands started shaking. Pope was in there. Craig was in there. Deran was in there.

They were all in there. And the FBI was-

Gunfire erupted on the screen.

You could hear it through the TV. Sharp cracks. Rapid bursts. The sound of automatic weapons and explosions and chaos.

You grabbed your phone. Called Pope. It went straight to voicemail. You called again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.

“No,” you whispered. “No no no no no.”

You called Deran. Voicemail. Craig. Voicemail. J. It rang. And rang. And rang. No answer.

You were standing now. Pacing. Your heart was hammering. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely hold the phone.

On the TV, the standoff continued.

“We're seeing movement inside the house. It appears-yes, there's definitely gunfire. Multiple shots. This is an active situation.”

The camera zoomed in. You could see muzzle flashes through the windows. Could see smoke pouring out. Could see agents taking cover behind vehicles.

Could see- An explosion.

The front door blew inward. SWAT poured inside. More gunfire. More chaos.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please be okay. Please be alive. Please-“

Your phone rang. You nearly dropped it. Looked at the screen. Unknown number. You answered. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello? Andrew? Is that you?”

More silence. Then a click. They'd hung up. You stared at the phone. Tried to call back. The number didn't exist.

You threw the phone on the couch. Went back to watching the TV. The standoff was still happening. Agents were still surrounding the house. Gunfire was still erupting. And you had no idea if Pope was alive or dead. If any of them were alive or dead. If you'd just watched the man you loved die on live television. You sank onto the couch. Put your head in your hands. And tried not to scream.

The standoff lasted another twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of gunfire and explosions and chaos.

Twenty minutes of you sitting on the couch, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything except watch and pray and hope.

Then it ended. The gunfire stopped. The smoke cleared. Agents moved into the house. The news anchor's voice was somber.

“It appears the standoff has concluded. We're seeing agents entering the residence now. No word yet on casualties or arrests. We'll continue to bring you updates as we receive them.”

You waited. And waited. And waited. Your phone didn't ring. No one called. No one texted. Nothing. Just silence.

Just the terrible, suffocating silence of not knowing. You tried calling Pope again.

Voicemail. Deran. Voicemail. Craig. Voicemail. They were dead.

They had to be dead. There was no other explanation. The FBI had killed them. All of them.

And you were alone. Again. Always alone.

You curled up on the couch. Pulled your knees to your chest. And let yourself break.

A knock came thirty minutes later.

You'd been sitting on the couch in the dark. The TV was still on, still showing footage of the house, still replaying the standoff over and over. But you weren't watching anymore. You were just staring at nothing. Feeling nothing. Thinking nothing. Numb.

Then the knock. Three sharp raps on the door. Your heart stopped. You stood up. Walked to the door. Your hands were shaking.

It's Pope.

It has to be Pope.

He got out. He's alive. He's here.

You didn't check the peephole. Didn't ask who it was. Just unlocked the door. Pulled it open. And froze.

It wasn't Pope. It was Smurf.

She stood in the hallway like something out of a nightmare. Her white silk blouse was soaked with blood, some of it hers, some of it probably not. Her jeans were torn and filthy. Ash and dirt streaked her face. Her hair hung in wild, tangled strands around her shoulders. A cut above her eyebrow bled freely, the blood running down the side of her face and dripping from her jaw.

But it was her eyes that made you freeze. They were absolutely unhinged.

Wild. Feral.

Burning with a rage so intense it was almost physical.

She was breathing heavily. Her chest heaved with each breath. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. She looked like an animal. Like something that had crawled out of hell specifically to destroy you.

You took a step back. “Smurf-“

She didn't let you finish. Smurf lunged.

She grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked you forward with brutal force. You screamed. Pain exploded across your scalp. She dragged you into the apartment and slammed the door behind her with her foot.

Then she hit you. Her fist connected with your face with a sickening crack.

Your head snapped to the side. Pain burst through your cheek, your jaw, your eye. You tasted blood immediately, hot and metallic, flooding your mouth. Your vision blurred. Your ears rang.

You stumbled backward. Tried to catch yourself. Couldn't. Fell. Hit the floor hard.

Smurf was on you before you could move. She grabbed your hair again. Yanked your head back. Leaned down so her face was inches from yours. Her breath was hot and ragged. Her eyes were insane.

“You took everything from me,” she hissed.

Then she hit you again. And again. And again.

Smurf beat you with the methodical precision of someone who'd done this before. She knew where to hit to cause maximum pain.

Knew how to make it hurt. Knew how to break you. Her fist slammed into your ribs. You felt something crack. The pain was blinding. You tried to curl into a ball, tried to protect yourself, but she grabbed your arm and wrenched it back, forcing you flat.

She hit you in the stomach. The air left your lungs in a rush. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except gasp and choke and try to survive.

Blood poured from your nose. You could feel it running down your face, hot and thick, dripping onto the floor. Your mouth was full of it. You tried to spit it out and only managed to choke.

Smurf grabbed you by the throat.

Her fingers dug into your windpipe. She lifted you, actually lifted you, and slammed you against the wall. Your head hit the plaster with a sickening thud. Stars exploded across your vision. The world tilted.

She leaned in close. “You think you can take my boys from me?” she snarled. “You think you can poison them against me? You think you can destroy my family?”

She kneed you in the stomach.

The pain was indescribable. You doubled over, or tried to. Her hand was still around your throat, holding you up, choking you. You clawed at her fingers. Tried to pry them away. Couldn't. She was too strong. Too angry. Too far gone.

“They're MINE,” she hissed. “They've always been mine. And you, you're NOTHING.”

She threw you. You hit the coffee table. It shattered beneath you. Glass and wood exploded. Shards cut into your back, your arms, your legs. You screamed. Tried to roll away. Tried to get up.

Smurf kicked you in the ribs. You heard the crack before you felt the pain. Then the pain hit and it was like being stabbed with a hot knife. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything except lie there and bleed and hurt.

She kicked you again. And again.

Each impact sent fresh waves of agony through your body. You could feel bones breaking. Could feel blood pooling beneath you. Could feel yourself shutting down.

I'm going to die.

She's going to kill me.

Smurf grabbed your hair again. Dragged you across the floor. Glass cut into your skin. Blood smeared across the hardwood. You tried to fight back. Tried to grab her wrist. Tried to do anything.

She slammed your face into the floor.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Your nose broke. The sound was wet and crunching and horrible. Blood exploded across your face. Pain whited out your vision. You couldn't see. Couldn't hear. Couldn't think.

Just pain. Just blood. Just the terrible certainty that you were going to die.

Smurf flipped you onto your back. Straddled you. Pinned you down with her weight. Her hands wrapped around your throat again.

Squeezed. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't get air. Your lungs burned.

Your vision started to go dark around the edges. And Smurf leaned down and smiled.

“They're dead,” she whispered. Your eyes widened. “Pope. Craig. Deran. All of them. The FBI killed them. I watched them die.”

No.

No no no no no.

“Pope died first. Took a bullet to the chest. Bled out in seconds. He called your name. Did you know that? His last word was your name.”

You tried to shake your head. Tried to tell her she was lying. You couldn't. Her hands were too tight. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything except stare up at her and feel your heart shatter.

“Craig went next. Shot in the head. Didn't even see it coming. Just-“ She made a gun with her fingers. “-gone.”

Tears streamed down your face. Mixed with the blood. Dripped onto the floor.

“And Deran. Poor Deran. He tried to run. They shot him in the back. He crawled for a while. Begged them to stop. They didn't.”

She's lying. She has to be lying. Please let her be lying.

“They're all dead,” Smurf said. “And it's your fault. You did this. You took them from me. You poisoned them. You destroyed them. And now they're gone.” She leaned closer. Her face was inches from yours. Her eyes were wild. Insane. Triumphant.

“I'm the queen,” she whispered. “I've always been the queen. And you-you're nothing. You're nobody. You're just some little girl who thought she could take what was mine.”

She squeezed harder. Your vision was going black. Your lungs were screaming. Your heart was slowing. This is it. This is how I die. Lena will come home and find me and-

Lena.

The thought hit you like lightning.

Lena. Your daughter. Your baby. The little girl who'd already lost so much. Who'd already been abandoned and hurt and traumatized.

Who was counting on you. Who needed you. Who loved you. No. I'm not dying here. I'm not leaving her. I'm not letting this bitch win.

Something shifted inside you. Something primal. Something fierce. Something that had been sleeping woke up. And it was angry.

Your hand moved. You didn't think about it. Didn't plan it. Just moved. Your fingers found a shard of glass from the broken coffee table. Large. Sharp. Perfect. You grabbed it. Felt it cut into your palm. Didn't care. And you drove it into Smurf's side.

She screamed. Her hands released your throat. You gasped. Air flooded your lungs. Sweet. Precious. Life.

Smurf stumbled backward. Looked down at the glass protruding from her side. Looked back at you. Her face was shocked. Disbelieving. You didn't give her time to recover. You lunged. Tackled her.

Drove her backward. She hit the wall. You hit her.

Your fist connected with her face. Her head snapped back. Blood exploded from her nose. She tried to push you away. You hit her again. And again. And again. All the rage. All the pain. All the fear and grief and fury.

It poured out of you. You weren't thinking. Just fighting. Just surviving. Just refusing to die.

Smurf grabbed your hair. Yanked. You screamed. She threw you off. You hit the floor. Rolled. Came up on your knees.

Smurf was standing now. The glass was still in her side. Blood soaked through her blouse. Her face was a mask of rage and pain and disbelief.

“You little BITCH,” she snarled.

She came at you again. You scrambled backward. Your hand hit something. The lamp. You grabbed it. Swung. It connected with Smurf's head with a sickening crack.

She stumbled. Fell to one knee. You hit her again. The lamp shattered. Smurf collapsed.

You stood over her. Breathing hard. Bleeding. Broken. But alive.

Smurf tried to get up. You kicked her. She fell back down. Tried again. You kicked her again.

She looked up at you.

Blood ran from a cut on her forehead. Her nose was broken. Her eyes were still wild but now there was something else in them.

Fear. She was afraid. Of you.

“You can't-“ she gasped. “You can't do this. I'm—I'm the-“

“You're nothing,” you said. Your voice was hoarse. Raw. Barely recognizable. You looked around. Saw the kitchen. Saw the knife block on the counter. You walked over.

Pulled out the largest knife. Turned back to Smurf. She was trying to crawl away. Leaving a trail of blood across your floor. You followed her.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please don't-“

“So you can dish it but you can’t take it huh.” you said quietly.

You knelt beside her. Grabbed her hair. Yanked her head back. Pressed the knife to her throat.

“You took everything from me Janine. I’ve killed a man because of you, I lost Andrew because of YOU!”

Tears streamed down Smurf's face. “I'm sorry,” she gasped. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean-“

“Yes you did.” You pressed the knife harder. A thin line of blood appeared. “You meant every word. You want me to suffer. You want me to break. You want me to die believing I'd destroyed them.”

“Please-“

“But you were wrong.” You leaned closer. Your face was inches from hers. Blood dripped from your nose onto her face. “I didn't destroy them. You did. You destroyed everything you touched. You poisoned your own sons. You turned them into criminals. You made them afraid to love anyone but you.”

“That's not-“

“And now you're going to die knowing they chose me over you.” Smurf's eyes widened. “They hate you,” you whispered. “They hate what you’ve made them. I freed them from that, you mean nothing to them anymore.”

“No-“

“They don't love you anymore, Smurf. They're done with you. And you know what? I don't think they ever really loved you at all. They were just afraid of you.”

Smurf was sobbing now. Full, broken sobs. “Please,” she begged. “Please don't kill me. Please. I'll leave. I'll disappear. You'll never see me again. Just please-“

You looked at her. This woman who'd terrorized you. Who'd tried to destroy you. Who'd beaten you and choked you and told you the man you loved was dead.

This woman who'd controlled and manipulated and poisoned everyone she touched. This woman who'd rather die than lose control.

And you realized something. You didn't want to kill her. You weren't a killer. You weren't like her. But you also couldn't let her live. Because if you did, she'd come back. She'd hurt you again. She'd hurt Lena. She'd never stop.

Never.

So you had to stop her. You had to end this. For Lena. For yourself. For all of them.

“I'm sorry,” you whispered. And you meant it. You were sorry it had come to this. Sorry that she'd forced your hand. Sorry that this was the only way. But you weren't sorry enough to stop.

You drove the knife into her throat. Smurf's eyes went wide. She tried to scream. Couldn't.

Blood poured from the wound. Hot. Dark. Arterial. It sprayed across your face, your chest, your hands. You didn't let go. Didn't pull back. Just held the knife there and watched her die.

She clawed at your hands. Her nails raked across your skin. Drew blood. You didn't move.

She tried to push you away. Couldn't. Her strength was fading. Her movements were getting weaker. Slower.

Her eyes were still locked on yours. Still wild. Still furious. Still disbelieving. Blood bubbled from her mouth. Ran down her chin. Pooled beneath her head. Her hands fell away from yours. Dropped to the floor. Her chest heaved. Once. Twice. Then stopped.

Her eyes stared at nothing. Empty. Blank. Dead.

You held the knife for another moment. Making sure. Making absolutely sure.

Then you pulled it out. Blood gushed from the wound. Soaked into the floor. Spread in a dark pool around her head.

You dropped the knife. It clattered on the hardwood. You stood up. Looked down at her.

Smurf lay on your floor in a spreading pool of blood. Her white silk blouse was completely red now. Her hair was splayed out around her head like a broken crown, wild and tangled and soaked with blood. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing. Her mouth was open in a silent scream.

She looked small. Pathetic. Nothing like the terrifying matriarch who'd controlled an entire criminal empire. Nothing like the woman who'd beaten you half to death.

Just a corpse. Just a body. Just the end.

You stood over her. Breathing hard. Shaking.

Blood ran down your face from your broken nose. It dripped from your mouth where she'd split your lip. It soaked through your clothes from a dozen cuts and wounds. Your ribs screamed with every breath. Your head pounded. Your vision was blurred.

But you were alive. You'd survived. You'd won. You looked down at Smurf's body.

At the blood. At the broken crown of her hair.

And you felt something shift inside you. Not satisfaction. Not triumph. Just exhaustion.

Just the terrible weight of what you'd done. You'd killed someone. You'd taken another life.

You'd become the thing you'd always feared becoming. But you'd also saved yourself. Saved Lena. Saved whatever future you might still have.

You knelt beside Smurf's body. Leaned down. Your face was inches from hers. Blood dripped from your nose onto her cheek. You looked at her dead eyes. At the woman who'd called herself a queen. Who'd ruled through fear and violence and control. Who'd destroyed everyone she touched.

And you growled. Your voice was hoarse. Raw. Barely human.

“You're the queen of nothing now.”

The words hung in the air. Final. True. Absolute. Smurf didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Would never answer again. You stood up. Looked around your apartment. At the blood. At the broken furniture. At the shattered glass.

You were still standing over Smurf's body when you heard them. Footsteps. Heavy. Multiple. Running up the stairs.

Your heart stopped.

The door exploded inward. “FBI! HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

You raised your hands. They were covered in blood. Smurf's blood. Your blood. You couldn't tell anymore. Agents poured into the apartment. Black tactical gear. Rifles raised. Flashlights cutting through the dim light. They swept the room with military precision, clearing corners, checking for threats.

One of them saw Smurf's body. “We've got a body! Female, late fifties, multiple stab wounds, arterial bleeding-she's gone.”

Another agent approached you slowly. His rifle was lowered but ready. His eyes scanned you from head to toe. Taking in the blood. The injuries. The way you were swaying on your feet.

“Ma'am, I need you to put your hands down slowly. Are you injured?”

You tried to answer. Your voice was gone. Your throat was raw from screaming. From choking. From surviving. You nodded.

“Okay. I need you to sit down for me. Can you do that?”

You tried to move. Your legs gave out. You collapsed. The agent caught you before you hit the floor.

“I need a medic! NOW!”

Everything was spinning. The room tilted. Your vision blurred. You could hear voices but they sounded far away. Underwater. Distorted.

“-severe facial trauma-“

“-broken ribs, possible internal bleeding-“

“-defensive wounds on her hands and arms-“

“-the deceased has offensive wounds, looks like the victim fought back-“

Victim.

They called you a victim. Not a suspect. Not a murderer. A victim.

Someone was pressing gauze to your face. You flinched. Pain exploded through your broken nose.

“I know, I know. I'm sorry. Just hold still for me.”

You tried to focus. Tried to see who was talking. A paramedic. Young. Female. Kind eyes.

“What's your name, honey?”

“B-Bambi,” you whispered. Your voice was barely audible. Hoarse. Broken.

“Okay, Bambi. My name's Sasha. I'm going to take care of you, okay? Can you tell me what happened?”

You looked at Smurf's body. At the blood. At the knife on the floor.

“She-“ You coughed. Blood filled your mouth. You spit it out. “She tried to kill me.”

“Okay. Did you know her?” You nodded. “Who was she?”

“My boyfriend's mother.”

Sasha's eyes widened slightly. But she didn't stop working. Didn't stop checking your injuries. Didn't stop trying to save you.

“Alright. We're going to get you to the hospital. You're going to be okay.”

Another agent appeared. Older. Gray hair. Sharp eyes. He knelt beside you.

“Ms. Bambi, I'm Special Agent Morrison. I need to ask you a few questions. Is that alright?”

You nodded.

“Did Janine Cody break into your apartment tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Did she attack you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you fight back in self-defense?”

“Yes.”

Agent Morrison nodded. He looked at Sasha. At your injuries. At the blood soaking through your clothes.

“We've been tracking Janine Cody since she escaped FBI custody earlier tonight. We had reason to believe she was coming here. We just-“ He paused. “We didn't get here in time. I'm sorry.”

You stared at him. They knew. They knew she was coming. They could have stopped her.

But they didn't. And now Smurf was dead. And you were the one who'd killed her.

“Am I-“ You coughed again. More blood. “Am I under arrest?”

“No, ma'am. This is clearly self-defense. You're not being charged with anything.”

Relief flooded through you. Then guilt. Because you'd killed someone. You'd taken a life. And you felt relieved.

What did that make you?

Sasha was strapping you onto a gurney now.

“We need to move. She's losing too much blood.”

They lifted you. Carried you out of the apartment. Down the stairs. Into the night. The street was full of vehicles. FBI. Police. Ambulances. Neighbors stood on their porches, watching.

Whispering. Pointing. You closed your eyes. Couldn't look at them. Couldn't face their judgment. Couldn't-

Lena.

Your eyes flew open.

“Wait!” You tried to sit up. Pain exploded through your ribs. You gasped. “My daughter-Lena-she's at school-someone needs to-“

“We'll take care of it,” Agent Morrison said. He was walking beside the gurney. “We'll make sure she's safe. I promise.”

“Don't let her see-“ Your voice broke. “Don't let her see the apartment. Don't let her see the blood. Please.”

“We won't. I give you my word.”

They loaded you into the ambulance. Sasha climbed in beside you. Started an IV. Checked your vitals. The doors slammed shut. The siren wailed. And you were moving. Away from the apartment. Away from Smurf's body. Away from everything. You stared at the ceiling of the ambulance. At the bright lights. At the medical equipment. And you thought about Pope. About the standoff you'd watched on TV.

About the gunfire. About the blood.

Is he really dead?

You wanted to ask. Wanted to know. But you were afraid of the answer. So you said nothing. Just lay there. Bleeding. Broken. Alone.

The hospital was chaos. Doctors. Nurses. Bright lights. Machines beeping. People shouting orders. They cut your clothes off. Examined every inch of you. Took X-rays. CT scans. Blood tests.

You floated through it all in a haze of pain and shock. Someone gave you morphine. The pain dulled. But the fear didn't. The fear that Pope was dead. That Craig was dead. That Deran was dead. That you'd destroyed everything.

That Lena would grow up without any of them. That you were alone. Again. Always alone.

A doctor appeared beside your bed. Young. Tired eyes. “Ms. Bambi, I'm Dr. Patel. I've been overseeing your care. You have three broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone, a broken nose, severe bruising and lacerations across your face and body, and a mild concussion. You're going to be in a lot of pain for the next few weeks, but you're going to recover.”

You nodded. Tried to speak. Your throat was too raw. Dr. Patel poured you a cup of water. Helped you drink. The water burned going down. But it helped.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“There's something else,” Dr. Patel said. Her voice was gentle. Careful. The kind of voice doctors used when they had news. Good or bad, you couldn't tell.

Your heart started racing. “What?”

“We always run precautionary tests incase of restrictions. Your blood work came back. You're pregnant.”

The world stopped. Everything went silent. Still. Frozen.

Pregnant. You were pregnant. With Pope's baby.

The man who'd left you. The man who might be dead. The man who'd walked away to protect you and now you were carrying his child.

“How-“ Your voice cracked. “How far along?”

“About six weeks. Very early. But-“ Dr. Patel paused. “Ms. Bambi, given the severity of your injuries, if you hadn't fought back tonight, if you hadn't survived-both you and the baby would have died.”

Both of us. We both would have died.

You looked down at your stomach. At the hospital gown covering it. At the place where a life was growing. Pope's baby. Your baby. A life you'd created together.

A life you'd saved tonight without even knowing it existed. Tears started falling. You couldn't stop them. Didn't try. Just lay there and cried. For everything you'd lost.

For everything you'd survived. For the tiny life inside you that deserved better than this.

Better than a mother covered in blood. Better than a father who might be dead. Better than a family torn apart by violence and fear.

“I'm sorry,” you sobbed. “I'm so sorry.”

Dr. Patel squeezed your hand. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You survived. You protected yourself. You protected your baby. That's what matters.”

But it didn't feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough. You'd killed someone. You'd taken a life while creating one.

What did that make you?

What kind of mother did that make you?

“Does anyone know?” you whispered. “About the baby?”

“Just the medical team. We haven't told anyone else. That's your decision.”

You nodded. Closed your eyes. Tried to process. Tried to understand. Tried to figure out what came next. But you couldn't.

Your mind was too fractured. Too broken. Too overwhelmed. All you could think about was Pope. About whether he was alive. About whether he'd ever know. About whether he'd care.

He left you. He walked away. He chose his mother over you. But he'd also loved you. He'd also held you. He'd also promised forever.

And now you were carrying his child. A child he might never meet. A child who might grow up without a father. Just like Lena had.

But what choice did you have? Pope was gone. Maybe dead. Maybe alive but never coming back. Either way, you were alone.

You and Lena. And now this baby. This tiny, fragile life that deserved so much more than you could give. You pressed your hand to your stomach. Felt nothing. Too early.

But you knew it was there. Growing. Waiting. Trusting you to keep it safe.

“I will,” you whispered. “I promise. I'll keep you safe.”

Even if it killed you. Even if you had to do it alone. Even if Pope never came back.

You'd keep this baby safe. You'd give it the life it deserved. You'd be enough. Somehow.

They moved you to a private room. Stitched your cuts. Set your broken nose. Wrapped your ribs. Gave you more morphine. You drifted in and out of consciousness.

Dreaming. Nightmares. Pope's face. Smurf's dead eyes. Blood. So much blood. You woke to voices. Quiet. Careful. Someone was in the room.

You opened your eyes. Agent Morrison was standing by the door. Talking to a woman. Older. Professional. Carrying a clipboard.

“stable now. The doctors say she'll make a full recovery.”

“And the child? Lena?”

“She's with Child Protective Services. We picked her up from school. Told her there was an emergency. She doesn't know the details yet.”

“Does she know about her mother's condition?”

“Not yet. We wanted to wait until Ms. Bambi was conscious.”

The woman nodded. Wrote something on her clipboard. “I'll need to do an assessment. Make sure the home environment is safe before we can release Lena back into her care.”

You tried to sit up. Pain exploded through your body. You gasped. Both Agent Morrison and the woman turned.

“Ms. Bambi,” the woman said. She approached your bed. “I'm Margaret. I'm a social worker with Child Protective Services. I'm here to-“

“You can't take her,” you interrupted. Your voice was hoarse. Desperate. “Please. You can't take Lena. She's-she's all I have. Please.”

Margaret's expression softened. “I'm not here to take her away. I'm here to make sure she's safe. That's all.”

“She is safe. With me. I would never-I would die before I let anything happen to her.”

“I believe you. But given what happened tonight, I need to do my due diligence. I need to make sure you're capable of caring for her while you recover.”

You wanted to argue. Wanted to fight. But you were so tired. So broken. And she was right. How could you take care of Lena like this? You could barely move. Could barely breathe. Could barely function.

“Where is she?” you whispered.

“She's in the waiting room. With a foster care coordinator. She's safe. She's been asking about you.”

Fresh tears fell. “Can I see her?”

Margaret looked at Agent Morrison. He nodded. “I think that would be good for both of you,” Margaret said. “But I need to prepare you-she's scared. She knows something bad happened. She saw the police cars. The ambulances. She's been crying.”

Your heart shattered. Lena. My baby.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please let me see her.”

Margaret nodded. “I'll go get her.” She left.

Agent Morrison stayed. He pulled a chair up beside your bed. Sat down.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.”

He smiled slightly. “That's about what it looks like.”

You tried to smile back. Couldn't. “Have you-“ You swallowed. “Have you heard anything? About the other people at the house?”

Agent Morrison's expression shifted. Became carefully neutral. “I can't discuss an ongoing investigation.”

“Please. I just need to know if they're alive.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed. “Three men fled the scene, we’re not sure if they are alive.”

“What are you going to do when you find them?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“Please.”

“I'm sorry.”

You closed your eyes. You didn't know. Couldn't know. And the not knowing was worse than anything.

The door opened. You looked up. Margaret was there. And beside her Lena. Your baby. Your little girl.

She looked so small. So scared. Her eyes were red from crying. Her hair was messy.

She was wearing the same clothes she'd worn to school that morning, a pink dress with flowers, white tights, her favorite sneakers.

She looked like a child. Like the innocent, beautiful child she was. And you'd brought violence into her life. Again.

“Mama?” she whispered.

The word hit you like a physical blow. She'd never called you that before. Never.

It had always been Miss Bambi or Bambi or sometimes just you.

Never Mama.

Never anything that claimed you as hers. Until now.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you whispered. Your voice was shaking. Tears were falling. You couldn't stop them.

Lena took a tentative step forward. Then another. Then she was running. Margaret tried to stop her.

“Lena, careful-“

But Lena didn't listen. She ran to your bed. Climbed up. Threw her arms around you. Pain exploded through your broken ribs. You gasped. But you didn't push her away. Couldn't push her away. Just held her.

As tight as you could. As carefully as you could. And let her cry.

“I was so scared,” she sobbed into your shoulder. “The police came and they said there was an emergency and they took me to this place and there were other kids and I didn't know where you were and I thought-I thought-“

“Shh. It's okay. I'm here. I'm okay.”

“You're hurt.”

“I know. But I'm going to be fine.”

“What happened?”

You looked at Margaret. She was watching carefully. Assessing. Judging. Deciding if you were fit to be a mother.

You looked back at Lena. At her tear-streaked face. At her wide, terrified eyes. At the little girl who'd already lost so much.

“Someone tried to hurt me,” you said quietly. “But I'm okay now. The doctors are taking care of me.”

“Who tried to hurt you?”

You hesitated. “Someone bad,” you said. “But they can't hurt us anymore.”

Lena pulled back. Looked at your face. At the bruises. At the cuts. At the bandages. Her little hand reached up. Touched your cheek gently. “Does it hurt?”

“A little.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, baby.”

“I should have been there. I should have protected you like Uncle Pope would’ve.”

Your heart broke. “Lena, listen to me.” You took her face in your hands. Looked into her eyes. “This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. You are a child. It's my job to protect you. Not the other way around. Do you understand?”

She nodded. But you could see she didn't believe you. She'd been protecting herself for so long. Been surviving on her own. Been the adult when the adults around her failed.

And now she thought she'd failed you.

“I love you,” you whispered. “So much. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. And I am so, so grateful that you're safe.”

“I love you too.” She said it quietly. Almost shyly. Like she wasn't sure if she was allowed.

“Come here.” You pulled her close again. Ignored the pain. Ignored everything except the feeling of her in your arms. Safe. Alive. Yours.

Margaret cleared her throat. “I'm going to step outside for a moment. Give you two some privacy.”

She left. Agent Morrison followed. The door closed. And it was just you and Lena. You and your daughter. Because that's what she was. Your daughter. Not legally. Not yet. But in every way that mattered.

“Lena,” you said softly. “I need to tell you something.”

She pulled back. Looked at you. Waiting.

“I'm going to be in the hospital for a few days. While I heal. And you're going to have to stay with-“ You paused. “With someone else. Just for a little while.”

“No.” Her voice was sharp. Panicked. “No, I want to stay with you.”

“I know, baby. But I can't take care of you right now. I can barely move. And you need someone who can-“

“I don't care. I'll take care of myself. I'm good at it. I can cook and clean and I won't be any trouble. Please don't send me away.”

“I'm not sending you away.”

“Yes you are. Everyone always sends me away.”

“Lena-“

“My mom sent me away. My dad sent me away. And now you're sending me away too.”

“No.” You grabbed her hands. Held them tight. “I am not sending you away. I am never sending you away. Do you hear me? Never. You are mine. You are my daughter. And I am your-“

You stopped. Because you didn't know what you were. Guardian. Caretaker. Friend. But not mother. You'd never claimed that title. Never felt like you deserved it.

But Lena was looking at you with those big, scared eyes. And you realized she needed to hear it. Needed to know. Needed to understand that she wasn't alone.

“I'm your mama,” you whispered.

Lena's eyes widened. “What?”

“I'm your mama. If you want me to be. If you'll have me.”

Tears started falling down her cheeks. “Really?”

“Really.”

“You mean it?”

“I mean it. I love you, Lena. I love you so much. And I know I'm not perfect. I know I'm broken and scared and I don't always know what I'm doing. But I promise you-I will never abandon you. I will never send you away. I will fight for you. I will protect you. I will be here. Always.”

Lena threw her arms around you again. Buried her face in your neck. And sobbed.”Mama,” she whispered.

The word was muffled. Broken. Beautiful. “Mama, I was so scared.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

“I thought you were going to die.”

“I'm not going to die. I promise.”

“You can't promise that.”

She was right. You couldn't. But you said it anyway. Because she needed to hear it. Because you needed to believe it.

“I'm not going to die,” you repeated. “I'm going to get better. And then I'm going to come home. And we're going to be a family. You and me. And-“

You stopped. And the baby. You hadn't told her yet. Didn't know how. Didn't know if you should. But she deserved to know.

“And someone else,” you said quietly.

Lena pulled back. Looked at you. Confused.

“Who?”

You took a deep breath. Placed your hand on your stomach. “I'm pregnant, Lena. You're going to be a big sister.”

Her eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Really.”

“When?”

“In about seven months.”

“Is it-“ She hesitated. “Is it Uncle Pope's?”

Your heart clenched. Uncle Pope.

“Yes,” you whispered.

Lena was quiet for a long moment. Processing. Thinking. Then she looked up at you. “Does he know?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“I don't know. I don't even know if he's-“

You couldn't finish. Couldn't say it. Lena seemed to understand. She placed her small hand on your stomach. Right where yours was.

“It's okay,” she said softly. “Even if Uncle Pope isn't here, the baby will have us. We'll take care of it. Right, Mama?”

Mama.

She said it again. So easily. So naturally. Like she'd been waiting her whole life to say it. And maybe she had.

“Right,” you whispered. “We'll take care of it.”

“And we'll be a family.”

“We'll be a family.”

Lena smiled. It was small. Fragile. But real.

“I love you, Mama.”

The word hit you again. Harder this time. Because it was real now. She'd claimed you. And you'd claimed her.

And nothing, not Smurf, not Pope, not the FBI, not anything, could take that away.

“I love you too, baby,” you whispered.

You pulled her close. Held her. And for the first time since Pope had left, you felt something other than grief.

You felt hope. Because you weren't alone. You had Lena. You had this baby growing inside you. You had a future. It wasn't the future you'd planned. It wasn't the future you'd wanted. But it was yours.

And you were going to fight for it. For them. For yourself. No matter what came next.

Lena settled against you carefully. Her head on your shoulder. Her hand still on your stomach. Protecting her sibling.

Already being the big sister. “Mama?” she whispered.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Are you scared?”

You thought about lying. About telling her everything was fine. About being strong. But she deserved the truth.

“Yeah,” you whispered back. “I'm scared.”

“Me too.”

“But we're going to be okay.”

“Promise?”

You kissed the top of her head. “Promise.”

And even though you didn't know if it was true, even though everything was broken and uncertain and terrifying, you meant it.

Because you had to. Because she needed you to. Because you were her mama now. And that meant being brave even when you weren't. That meant promising things you couldn't guarantee.

That meant fighting for a future you couldn't see. Lena's breathing slowed. Deepened. She was falling asleep. Exhausted from fear and tears and relief.

You held her. Watched her. This little girl who'd chosen you. Who'd called you Mama. Who'd given you a reason to keep going.

And you thought about Pope. About whether he was alive. About whether he'd ever know about this baby.

About whether he'd care. But then you looked at Lena. At her peaceful face. At the trust she'd placed in you. And you realized something. It didn't matter. Pope or no Pope.

Alive or dead. Here or gone. You had everything you needed right here.

You had Lena. You had this baby. You had yourself. And that was enough. It had to be enough.

“Mama,” Lena murmured in her sleep. The word was soft. Sleepy. Perfect.

You closed your eyes. Let yourself feel it. Let yourself believe it. You were a mother. Not just a guardian. Not just a caretaker.

A mother.

“I've got you, baby,” you whispered. “Mama's got you.”

And for the first time in days, you let yourself rest.

The hospital smelled like death and bleach. Pope stood in the doorway of the emergency room, Craig's blood still wet on his hands, and tried to remember how to breathe. The building was small. One story. Crumbling stucco walls painted a faded yellow that might have been cheerful once but now just looked diseased. The sign above the entrance was missing half its letters. HOSPITAL GENERAL SAN- something. Pope hadn't bothered to read the rest.

Deran was already inside, shouting in broken Spanish at a nurse who looked about sixteen years old.

“Mi hermano-my brother-he's been shot. Disparado. In the chest. El pecho. He needs a doctor. Un médico. NOW.”

The nurse's eyes were wide with fear. She kept looking at Craig. At the blood soaking through the towels Deran had pressed against his chest. At the way Craig's head lolled to the side, unconscious, his skin gray and waxy. At the way his breathing came in shallow, rattling gasps.

“Un momento,” she stammered. “Por favor, espere-“

“We don't have a fucking moment!” Deran roared. “He's dying! Do you understand? Muriendo!"

Pope moved forward. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. He grabbed Deran's shoulder. “Let her do her job.”

Deran spun on him. “Her job? Look at this place, Pope! Look at it! This isn't a hospital. It's a fucking butcher shop. Craig's going to die here.”

“He's going to die if we keep standing here arguing.”

The nurse disappeared through a set of double doors. Thirty seconds later, two men in stained scrubs appeared with a gurney. They didn't ask questions. Just lifted Craig onto the gurney and wheeled him away.

Deran tried to follow.

One of the men held up a hand. “No. Espere aquí.”

“Like hell-“

Pope grabbed Deran's arm. “Let them work.”

“Pope-

“Let. Them. Work.”

Deran's jaw clenched. But he stayed. The double doors swung shut. And Craig was gone.

The waiting room was a nightmare. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing like dying insects. Half of them were out completely, leaving the room in a sickly yellow-green glow. The walls were the color of old teeth. Water stains bloomed across the ceiling like mold. The floor was cracked linoleum, sticky in places, stained in others.

There were six plastic chairs bolted to the wall. Three of them were broken. Pope sat in one of the intact ones.

Deran paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. His boots squeaking on the linoleum. His hands opening and closing into fists.

“He's going to be okay,” Deran said. “Right? He's going to be okay.”

Pope didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because he didn't know. Craig had been shot in the chest. Upper left side. Close to the heart. Maybe through the lung.

Pope had seen the entry wound when they'd stripped Craig's shirt off in the truck. Bleeding steadily but not gushing. That was good, right? If it wasn't gushing, that meant it hadn't hit an artery. But Craig had been unconscious for the last hour.

His breathing had gotten worse. Shallower. Wetter. Like he was drowning from the inside. And this hospital-

Pope looked around. At the peeling paint. At the ancient equipment visible through the open door of an exam room.

At the rust stains on the sink. At the smell. God, the smell. Antiseptic trying to cover decay. Bleach trying to mask blood. Desperation trying to hide death. This wasn't a hospital.

Deran was right. This was a place people came to die.

“Pope.”

He looked up. Deran had stopped pacing. He was standing in front of Pope, his face pale, his eyes red.

“Say something. Please. Just-say something.”

Pope opened his mouth. Closed it. What was there to say? That Craig might die?

That they'd dragged him across the border with a bullet in his chest because they couldn't risk an American hospital?

That the FBI was probably looking for them right now?

That Smurf was-

Pope's hands clenched. Smurf. This was her fault. All of it.

“I need to call Bambi,” Pope said.

Deran blinked. “What?”

“I need to know if she's okay.” The words came out raw. Desperate. Deran stared at him.

“You think something happened to her?”

“I don't know. I haven't heard from her. Or J. Or anyone. Not since-“ Pope couldn't finish.

Since the raid. Since the FBI had surrounded the house. Since Craig had been shot. Since they'd dragged him out the back door and thrown him in Deran's truck and driven.

Just driven. South. Away. Toward the border. Toward Mexico. Toward this shithole hospital where Craig was maybe dying and Pope was sitting in a broken plastic chair covered in his brother's blood.

“She's fine,” Deran said. “She wasn't even there. She's in her apartment with Lena. She's safe.”

“You don't know that.”

“Pope-“

“You don't fucking know that!” Pope was on his feet now. He couldn't say it. Couldn't voice the fear that had been clawing at his chest since they'd crossed the border.

That Smurf had gone after you. That she'd finished what she'd started.

That while Pope was running, while he was saving Craig, while he was choosing his brother over everything else-you had been alone.

Unprotected. Vulnerable.

“Call her,” Deran said quietly.

Pope pulled out his phone. No service. Of course. They were in the middle of nowhere Mexico in a hospital that probably didn't have running water half the time.

“There's a payphone,” Deran said, pointing to a corner of the waiting room. Pope walked over.

The phone was ancient. Covered in grime. The receiver was cracked. But when he picked it up, he heard a dial tone. He dialed your number. It rang. And rang. And rang. Voicemail.

“Hi, you've reached Bambi. I can't come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I'll call you back!”

Your voice. Bright. Happy. Alive. The beep sounded.

Pope opened his mouth. Nothing came out. What was he supposed to say?

I'm in Mexico. Craig's been shot. I don't know if he's going to make it. I don't know if you're okay. I don't know if Smurf found you. I don't know anything except that I left you and now I can't reach you and I'm terrified that you're hurt or worse and it's my fault because I wasn't there to protect you.

He hung up. Tried J's number. Straight to voicemail. Tried you again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.

“Pope.”

He turned. Deran was standing there, his expression careful. “She's probably just at work. Or with Lena. She's fine.”

“Then why isn't she answering?”

“Because she doesn't know what happened yet. She doesn't know we're-“ Deran gestured vaguely. “She thinks we're still in California. She thinks everything's fine.”

Pope wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that you were safe.

That you were at work. That you were picking Lena up from school. That you were living her life, unaware that everything had gone to hell. But he couldn't. Because he knew Smurf. He knew what she was capable of.

And he knew that if Smurf had escaped, If she was still out there she would go after you.

She would finish it. She would take away the one thing Pope loved most. Just to prove she could. The double doors burst open.

One of the doctors appeared. Young. Maybe thirty. Exhausted. His scrubs were covered in blood. Craig's blood.

“Familia de Craig Cody?”

Pope and Deran rushed over.

“Is he alive?” Deran demanded. “Is my brother alive?”

The doctor's English was heavily accented but clear. “He is alive. But he is very critical. The bullet, it punctured his lung. There is much bleeding. We have stabilized him for now, but-“ He paused. “He needs surgery. Real surgery. In a real hospital. We do not have the equipment here. We do not have the blood. We are doing what we can, but-“

“But what?” Pope's voice was flat.

The doctor met his eyes. “But I do not know if he will survive the night.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Deran made a sound. Something between a sob and a growl.

“Can we see him?” Pope asked.

The doctor hesitated. Then nodded. “Sí. But only for a moment. He is unconscious. He cannot hear you.”

They followed him through the double doors. Into a hallway that smelled like copper and rot. Past exam rooms with open doors showing bloodstained gurneys and broken equipment. Past a supply closet with empty shelves. Past a bathroom with no door. Into a room at the end of the hall.

Craig was on a bed. Tubes everywhere. An oxygen mask over his face. An IV in his arm.

Bandages wrapped around his chest, already soaked through with blood. His skin was gray. His lips were blue. His chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths.

He looked dead. He looked like he was already gone.

Deran moved to his side. Grabbed his hand. “Craig. Hey. It's me. It's Deran. You're going to be okay, man. You hear me? You're going to be fine.”

Craig didn't respond. Didn't move. Didn't even twitch. Pope stood in the doorway. Watching. Feeling nothing. No. That wasn't true. He felt everything. Rage. Grief. Guilt. Terror. But it was all so big, so overwhelming, that it felt like nothing.

Like he was hollow. Like he'd been scooped out and filled with static.

“Pope,” Deran said. His voice was shaking. “Come here. Talk to him.”

Pope didn't move.

“Pope.”

“He can't hear me.”

“You don't know that.”

“The doctor said-“

“I don't give a fuck what the doctor said. Talk to him.” Pope forced himself to move.

One step. Then another. Until he was standing beside the bed. Looking down at his brother. At Craig.

Dying in a shithole hospital in Mexico because Pope hadn't been fast enough. Hadn't been smart enough. Hadn't been strong enough to protect him.

“I'm sorry,” Pope whispered.

Craig's chest rose. Fell. Rose. Fell. The heart monitor beeped.

Steady. Weak. But steady.

“I'm sorry,” Pope said again.

And then the monitor flatlined. The sound was piercing. Endless. A single, high-pitched tone that cut through everything.

Deran screamed. “CRAIG!”

The doctor shoved past Pope, yelling in Spanish. Two nurses appeared. They pushed Deran out of the way. Started compressions. Pope watched. Frozen. Numb. As they worked. As they tried to bring Craig back. As the monitor kept screaming.

“Cargando!”

The defibrillator. They pressed the paddles to Craig's chest. His body jerked. The monitor screamed.

“Otra vez!”

Again. Craig's body jerked. The monitor screamed.

“Otra vez!”

Again. And then a beep. Weak. Irregular.

But a beep. The monitor showed a heartbeat. Faint. Erratic. But there.

The doctor sagged. “Dios mío.”

The nurses kept working. Adjusting IVs. Checking vitals. Monitoring the machines.

Deran was on his knees. Sobbing. Pope just stood there. Watching Craig's chest rise and fall. Watching the monitor beep. Watching his brother cling to life by a thread.

And he thought about you. About whether you were okay. About whether you were hurt. About whether you were lying in a hospital somewhere just like this.

Or worse.

About whether you were-

No. He couldn't think it. Couldn't let himself go there. You were fine.

You had to be fine.

Because if you weren’t-If something had happened to you-If Smurf had-

Pope turned and walked out of the room. Down the hallway. Through the double doors. Into the waiting room.

He kept walking. Out the front entrance. Into the parking lot. The sun was setting. The sky was orange and purple and beautiful.

Pope leaned against his truck. Pulled out his phone. Still no service. He wanted to scream. Wanted to put his fist through something. Wanted to get in the truck and drive back to California and find you and make sure you were okay.

But he couldn't.

Because Craig was dying. Because Deran needed him. Because if he left now, if he abandoned his brother-He'd never forgive himself.

Deran appeared beside him. His face was red. His eyes were swollen. “He's stable,” Deran said. “For now.” Pope nodded. “The doctor says if he makes it through the night, he might have a chance.”

“Okay.”

“Pope-“

“I have to go back.”

Deran stared at him. “What?”

“To California. I have to go back. I have to see her.”

“Are you insane? The FBI is looking for us. If you go back-“

“I don't care.”

“You'll get arrested.”

“I don't care.”

“Pope-“

“I have to know if she's okay!” Pope's voice cracked. “I have to know if she's alive. I can't-I can't just sit here and wait and wonder. I can't do it, Deran. I can't.”

Deran was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed. “When?”

“Tonight. As soon as it's dark.”

“And if Craig-“

“You'll be here. You'll take care of him.”

“Pope-“

“I'm going, Deran. With or without your permission. I'm going.”

Deran looked at him. Really looked at him. At the blood on his hands. At the desperation in his eyes. At the way he was barely holding it together.

“Okay,” Deran said quietly. “Okay. Go.”

Pope nodded. Turned toward the truck.

“Pope.” He looked back. “Be careful.”

Pope didn't answer. Just got in the truck. Started the engine. And drove.

Pope pulled onto your street at 7:23 AM. The sun was fully up now. Bright. Harsh. Unforgiving. He slowed the truck. Scanned the street. Looking for-His heart stopped.

FBI vehicles. Three of them. Black SUVs with government plates. Parked in front of your apartment complex.

Pope pulled over. Parked half a block away. Killed the engine. His hands were shaking.

It's fine. They're probably just-They're probably-

He couldn't finish the thought.

Couldn't make sense of it. Why would the FBI be at your apartment?

You weren’t involved. You didn't know anything. You were innocent.

Pope got out of the truck. Started walking. Slowly. Carefully. Trying to look casual. Just a guy out for a morning walk. Not a wanted fugitive.

Not a man whose brother was dying in Mexico. Not a man whose entire world was collapsing. He got closer. Saw the officers. Four of them. Standing near the entrance.

Talking. Radios crackling. One of them was on the phone.

Pope stopped. Ducked behind a parked car. Watched. The apartment complex door opened. Two more officers emerged.

And between them-Pope's vision tunneled.

A body bag. Black. Zipped. Being carried on a stretcher.

No. No no no no no.

Pope's legs gave out. He caught himself on the car. Forced himself to stay upright. To keep watching. To see.

The officers loaded the body bag into a coroner's van. Closed the doors. One of them made a note on a clipboard.

Another spoke into his radio. “-body recovered from apartment 2B. Female. Preliminary assessment suggests homicide. Multiple stab wounds. Victim has been identified as-“

The radio crackled. Pope couldn't hear the rest. Didn't need to.

Female. Apartment 2B. Homicide. Multiple stab wounds.

You were dead.

Smurf had killed you.

While Pope was running. While he was saving Craig. While he was choosing his family over her. Smurf had gone to the apartment. Had broken in. Had stabbed you. Had killed you.

And Pope hadn't been there. Hadn't protected you. Hadn't saved you.

He'd left you. And you’d died alone.

The coroner's van pulled away. Pope watched it go. Watched it carry your body.

Watched it take you away from him. Forever.

Something inside him broke. Not cracked. Not fractured. Broke. Completely. Irreparably. He'd spent his whole life trying to be good. Trying to protect people. Trying to do the right thing. And it had all been for nothing.

Baz was dead. Craig was dying. You were dead. Lena was-

Pope's head snapped up. Where's Lena?

If you were dead, If Smurf had killed you-

Where was Lena? Was she-Had Smurf-

Pope couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't process. He pulled out his phone.

Tried to call Deran. His hands were shaking so badly he dropped it. It clattered on the pavement. He picked it up. Tried again.

It rang.

lPope? Did you find her? Is she-“

“She's dead.”

Silence.

“What?”

“Bambi's dead. The FBI is at her apartment. They just-they just took her body away. She's dead, Deran. She's fucking dead.”

“Pope-“

“Smurf killed her. While we were running. While we were-she went to the apartment and she killed her and I wasn't there. I wasn't fucking there.”

“Pope, listen to me-“

“I have to find Lena. I have to-if Smurf hurt her-if she-“

“Pope, stop. Just stop. You need to get out of there. If the FBI sees you-“

“I don't care.”

“Pope-“

“I don't fucking care!” Pope was shouting now. “Don't you get it? She's dead! Bambi's dead! And it's my fault! I left her! I chose you and Craig over her and now she's dead!”

“That's not-“

“It is! It is my fault! I should have stayed! I should have protected her! I should have” His voice broke. He couldn't finish. Couldn't say anything else. Just stood there.

Phone pressed to his ear. Watching the FBI officers. Watching them secure the scene.

Watching them treat your apartment like a crime scene. Because that's what it was. A crime scene. A murder scene.

The place where the woman he loved had died.

“Pope,” Deran said quietly. “You need to leave. Right now. Before they see you.”

“I need to find J.”

“What?”

“J. I need to find him. This is his fault. His plan. His-“

“Pope, J didn't kill Bambi. Smurf did.”

“J's plan got Smurf out. J's plan put her on the street. J's plan-“ Pope stopped. Because he realized something. “I'm going to kill him,” Pope said.

His voice was flat. Empty. Dead.

“Pope-“

“I'm going to find him. And I'm going to kill him.”

“Pope, don't-“ Pope hung up. Turned off his phone. And started walking. Away from the apartment. Away from the FBI. Away from your body.

Toward He didn't know where. Didn't care. All he knew was that J had destroyed everything. And Pope was going to make him pay. He was going to find him. He was going to look him in the eye. And he was going to kill him. Slowly. Painfully. The way J deserved.

The way anyone who hurt you deserved. Pope kept walking. The sun was bright. The sky was blue. The world was beautiful. And Pope wanted to burn it all down. For you.