Free Palestine

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.

Jack wasn’t sure when he first noticed that his house had gone from macho-bachelor pad that obviously hadn’t seen a woman’s touch in years to a place that had something pink tucked in all its corners.

Ever since you’d moved in, pink was suddenly all that Jack saw. 

Your pink towels were always fluffy and warm next to his hanging-by-a-thread navy ones on the bathroom rack. Your pink slippers sat dutifully next to his crutches while the two of you were working the night shift; you up in pedes, him down in the third layer of hell. Your pink hair ties scattered in various places: his bedside table, his side of the sink, one in the shower, a few in his vehicle, and he swears he stepped on one in his garage. 

However, no matter how many pink hair ties he saw in his dreams, nothing could have prepared him for your actual addiction: lip gloss. 

As a man, Jack thought that you’d maybe have two or three. One to go in your makeup bag and one to go in your purse and one to leave in your locker at work. 

Oh, boy, was he wrong—dead wrong. 

If he thought you had too many hair ties and too many earrings and too many claw clips that he always had to remind you to take out of your hair before a drive, their number (combined) held no candle to how many lip glosses you had. 

It felt like every trip to the store ended a new lip gloss added to the cart. And that didn’t even compare to the ones you bought online. Jack’s head went dizzy with the, what he felt to be innumerable, list of brands that you swore was better than the last. 

Rhode, Kylie Cosmetics, Summer Fridays, Glossier, Refy, Dior (Jack did like that one because he knew you used his card for that), Clinique, NYX, Eadem: the list went on longer than a receipt from CVS. 

Jack didn’t know how you could keep up with all of them. One minute you were yacking his ear off about the newest sparkly nude shade while the next you were raving about a deep berry shade that would match your dress for the next medical gala. And then in two days, a new box would show up with your name on it, and he could only bet that the four cardboard walls held a brand-new lip gloss. When he thought about it, he wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen you finish one push tube before ordering a new one. 

But that really never mattered; he didn’t care what you bought with your money as long as he got to take care of everything else you needed. 

One time when he asked why you bought so many, you had simply told him that buying a new lip gloss felt like a reward. Whether you got one after a good night with lots of cases with happy results or after a bad shift where the world just felt impossible, you could always find a smidge of joy in buying something pretty to put on your lips. 

Jack understood a little too well. While he didn’t spend his free time scouring the shelves for a new plumping formula that held the smallest of shimmers, he found that same smidge of joy in spending time with you and slowly learning that down time didn’t mean he had to fill it with adrenaline-rushing activities. 

Now, even if the only downside to your lippie addiction was that your bank account went down by almost $25 each purchase, there were a lot of upsides to it as well. One of Jack’s favorites being that you’d get to test each of them out . . . on him. 

Jack became the heart eye emoji every time you swiped the same gloopy-looking lip gloss across your lips. His hazel eyes tracked the back-and-forth motion, and most times he’d run his tongue across his own lips in preparation for what came next. Your lips, now glossy and catching the light in whatever shade you’d gotten, would stretch into a smile as you looked at him expectedly. He never failed to look away, face sometimes leaning in inch by inch before you even finished applying the gloss. 

“Calm down, boy,” you’d said, nose scrunching at his eagerness. “You’ll get your kiss in a minute.” 

“I’m being calm,” he replied cooly like he wasn’t a breath away from your face, eyes taking in each freckle and smile line on your face. If he inhaled deep enough and if your gloss came scented or flavored, he’d be able to smell it on your lips. “You’re just so pretty.” 

“You’re such a flirt.” 

You rolled your eyes and grabbed his cheeks before pulling him into a kiss. Jack never minded the feeling of the gloss transferring over to his lips. He remembers how his late-wife’s favorite wine-red matte lipstick would always leave a few prints behind and even on his teeth depending on how long he stayed connected to his lips. But now it seemed as though glosses were more popular than lip stick, and Jack would die happily with his lips between your smooth ones. 

His lips would move languidly across yours like he was savoring the feeling. His hands would also rise and hold your face so you couldn’t escape the onslaught of his kisses. And the few times that the gloss was indeed flavored, he’d make sure to finish with a swipe of his tongue to the point a string of saliva would connect your lips together before your giggles started sounding off at the sight of his lips covered in sparkles or stained dark pink. 

A boy would hate the fact, but Jack was a man, and he wore the color with pride. 

_______________________

“Brother, you got a little something, riigghhttt there,” Robby drew out while poking Jack in the cheek before handing it over his friend. “Second thought, I think it’s doing something to bring out the rosiness of your cheeks.” 

Jack smacked his hand away. “Knock it off. I thought you’d be out of here by now?” 

Robby shook his head and chuckled. “You should know by now that I haven’t left on time in years.” He leaned against the nurses’ station. “Is that a new color? Pretty sure we saw this shade two weeks ago.” 

“Can’t ever have enough shades,” Jack repeated from the multiple times you had told him the same. “But yeah, it’s a new one. There was a summer drop, and you know how she gets.” 

And he did after witnessing the near meltdown of the 2025 Rhode summer launch that you thought you had missed out on before Jack casually mentioned he’d been able to get every single product while Robby sat in the chair chuckling the entire time. 

“Did you say summer drop?” Victoria’s voice suddenly sounded, pitch a bit too loud for someone coming down after twelve straight hours of traumas after traumas. 

The corner of Jack’s lips twitched into a smirk. “My partner’s very into those. Between the two of us, we spent a minimum of $400 just to get that damned towel.” 

And it wasn’t even pink Jack thought. But a summer drop was a summer drop. 

Victoria’s jaw dropped. “Wait, are you talking about the Rhode drop?” 

“Yeah. Next week’s the popup in New England, and thankfully it happens on my day off.  I don’t want to think what would happen if we failed to get a hoodie.” 

“Damn, Dr. Abbot,” she said, jaw dropping slightly. “I didn’t expect you to be someone so into makeup.” 

Jack looked up from the tablet in his hands with furrowed brows. “Huh?” 

Because to Jack, anything you were into swiftly became everything he was into. By himself, he didn’t have a lot of interests outside of the ER and some yoga he did in the mornings. You’d brought a fresh air to his life with your hot Pilates on the weekends and your farmers markets and movie watching and book reading that included matching Kindles. So for Victoria to be confused as to why he knew exactly when the next Rhode pop-up would be, his chest flared with a feeling of invalidation. 

Victoria must have picked up on his inner turmoil by the face he was making because she quickly backtracked. “Oh, uh, that wasn’t meant to be a negative thing, Dr. Abbot. I just mean that a lot of guys really aren’t into something like that. So it’s kind of refreshing to see.” 

“I see.” Jack turned back to the tablet. “It’s a good thing I’m not being piled in with the rest of the male population.” 

“So,” Victoria began again, now looking like she wanted to delve into Jack’s personal life. “I’m guessing your girlfriend likes lip gloss?” 

Robby answered for her with a large smile. “You have no idea.” 

“Who has no idea?” Trinity asked on her way out. However, she paused and smirked at the sight of the glossy kiss-shaped splotch on Jack’s cheek that he hadn’t wiped off. “Ooooo, Dr. Abbot, you got something—” 

“Thank you, Santos,” Jack gruffly said. “I’m very well aware that I have something on my cheek. And I’d prefer that everyone stopped pointing it out. If I wanted it gone, I would have wiped it off when I noticed it before I got out of my car.” 

Jack paused. He’d said too much, and he knew that Victoria and Trinity caught on it.

“Wait,” Trinity said, “does your girlfriend come to work with you? Does she work in the Pitt?” 

Victoria looked around with wide eyes like she’d be able to find something hidden in plain sight. “Is she here?”  

“I wonder if she knows Dr. Barbie. She also likes lip gloss.” 

Robby looked over at Jack knowingly. 

The two girls, despite their excitedness, had made a few errors. 

Jack had said partner, and they clung to the idea that he had a girlfriend. But if the absolute rock of a diamond he put on your finger followed by that thin band had anything to say about it, you were far from being woman who deserved the juvenile title of girlfriend. Plus, much to contrary belief and your affinity for all thinks pink, you were only five years his junior. He absolutely loved the way you now wore your hair with gray licking at your roots. 

Second mistake was automatically thinking you worked in the Pitt. Even if you’d worked in an ER well before meeting Jack, you’d shuffled departments around until you ended up specializing in pediatrics to help your reign in your small bouts of baby fever after deciding that children weren’t something you ultimately wanted in life. 

Yet, that didn’t mean you weren’t unknown in the Pitt. To his knowledge, the younger kids had started calling you Dr. Barbie because of the number of pink scrubs you wore into work. 

See, just another bit of pink that Jack welcomed into your shared home. 

They knew you were married, often opting to let your ring flash as you walked through. So the idea of Jack having a girlfriend while you had a full husband meant that they didn’t make the connection. 

Well, that was until the elevator dinged and you stepped out, pinks scrubs, hair falling in those beautiful curls you got with an over-night curler, and, most importantly, lips shining with your first gloss of the day. 

“Dr. Barbie is so pretty,” Victoria mentioned almost dreamily. “Her time management must be insane if she manages to look so good all the time.” 

Trinity hummed in agreement. “If she wasn’t married, I’d be in line in a heartbeat.” 

Despite their comments, Jack smiled as he watched your eyes scan the room until they landed on him, and a bright smile plastered onto your face once you started making your way over to the nurses’ station. 

“Jack!” you called. “Just the man I was looking for.” You stopped right in front of him, mouth open to continue whatever you were saying, but you stopped, cocked your head, and narrowed your eyes. You clicked your tongue and stepped forward as you licked a finger. “Honey, you should have told me I left that on your cheek.”

It was as if all else faded into the background, and Jack quickly dodged your finger. “Hey!”

“Jack, just stay still for one second.” 

He caught your outstretched hand. “Knock it off.” 

“I can’t let you go the entire night walking around with Macadamia Butter lip gloss on your face.” You managed to get your hand free and gently wipe the kiss mark off. “There.” You watched Jack’s face fall. “Don’t pout.” 

He sneered playfully. “I’m not pouting.” 

He was definitely pouting. 

You warmly smiled at him. “Don’t worry, I’ll just come down later and refresh it, yeah?” 

Jack hummed lowly before he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips in the middle of the emergency department not caring who saw. He ran a quick tongue across his lips after he pulled back. “Is that the hot cocoa one?” 

Your smiled turned into a bashful one. “I’ve turned you into a lip gloss connoisseur.” 

“It’s not like you have over twenty in the house plus the extra five in the truck along with the seven you keep in your locker—” 

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you giggled right as your pager went off. “Looks like I’m being called away. I’ll see you later?” 

He nodded and smirked down at you. “I’ll see you later for my reapplication.” 

You turned away and yelled over your shoulder. “Fig sauce is going to look great on you!” 

Once you were out of sight on the elevator, Jack turned around to see the shocked faces of Victoria and Trinity. His chest puffed out just a bit, knowing he had shown them at what a good husband he was. 

“Fig sauce,” Robby chuckled. “Man, you’re so whipped. I’ll see you in twelve for my reapplication, Dr. Abbot,” he teased while walking away. 

Jack couldn’t help but laugh softly until he remembered that Robby wasn’t the only member of his audience. He eyed the two women carefully. 

“I’ll get you each three glosses from whatever brand in return for your silence.” 

Oh, yeah, Jack Abbot was indeed a lip gloss connoisseur. 

But he wouldn’t have it any other way.  

─── ୨୧ ───

Positive

You had taken three tests.

One because you were late. One because the first one was positive. One because your hands had started shaking so badly you convinced yourself you had read the first two wrong.

All three sat on the bathroom counter now, lined up beside the sink like evidence.

Positive. Positive. Positive.

You stood in front of them in one of Jack’s old T-shirts, barefoot on the bath mat, staring until the little lines blurred in front of you. Your heart had been pounding for so long you could feel it in your throat, in your wrists, behind your ribs.

A baby. Your baby. Jack’s baby.

The thought hit so hard your breath caught.

Downstairs, you heard the front door open and close.

“Sweetheart?” Jack called from below.

Your stomach flipped.

You turned toward the bathroom door, then back to the tests, then to your reflection. You looked exactly the same as you had twenty minutes ago. Messy hair. Tired eyes. Jack’s shirt hanging loose over your body.

But everything was different.

“Up here,” you called, and your voice cracked around the words.

There was a pause downstairs. Then Jack’s footsteps started up the stairs. You heard the change in them halfway up. The pace quickened. The casual rhythm vanished. Jack appeared in the bedroom doorway a few seconds later, still in his jeans and jacket, keys in one hand, brows drawn together.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked.

You tried to answer. Nothing came out. His face changed immediately.

Jack dropped his keys onto the dresser and crossed the room toward you.

“Baby,” Jack said, softer now. “What happened?”

You stepped back into the bathroom without meaning to.

Jack followed, then stopped beside you. For one second, he looked at your face. Then his eyes dropped to the counter. 

The room went impossibly quiet.

Jack stared at the tests. One. Then the next. Then the next.

You watched him process it in pieces. The confusion. The realization. The sudden stillness that took over his whole body. His mouth parted slightly.

“Are those—” Jack started.

“Positive,” you said.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. You nodded before he could ask.

“All of them,” you whispered.

His gaze moved back to the counter. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Your chest tightened.

“Jack?” you asked.

He blinked once.

 Then he looked down at your stomach. There was nothing to see. Nothing different. Nothing visible. Nothing that could explain the way the entire world had just tilted beneath your feet.

But Jack looked anyway. Like something sacred had already started there.

“Holy shit,” Jack whispered.

You swallowed hard, your hands twisting tighter in the hem of his shirt.

“Good holy shit or bad holy shit?” you asked.

Jack’s face broke. Not in a bad way. Not in fear.

In wonder.

He moved so fast you barely had time to breathe before his hands were on your face, warm and familiar and trembling.

“Good,” Jack said. “Baby, good.”

Your lips trembled. “Yeah?” you asked.

Jack nodded quickly, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Yeah,” Jack said, his voice rougher now. “Yeah, sweetheart. So fucking good.”

Then he kissed you. Not carefully. Not softly.

Jack kissed you like the joy had hit him too fast to do anything else with it, like he needed somewhere to put the fear and the relief and the impossible, overwhelming happiness flooding through him. His hands held your face, his mouth pressed to yours, and for one breathless second, you forgot the panic.

You forgot the shaking. 

You forgot everything except Jack laughing against your lips, wet-eyed and overjoyed, kissing you again before you had even fully caught your breath. A sob slipped out of you, muffled against his mouth.

Jack pulled back immediately, his forehead resting against yours.

“Too much?” Jack asked, breathless and worried all at once.

You shook your head, crying harder now.

“No,” you said, your hands gripping the front of his jacket. “No, it’s just—”

Your voice broke. 

Jack’s face softened. “I know.” 

You laughed through a sob.

“We’re having a baby,” you whispered.

Jack let out a sound that was almost a laugh and almost something broken.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “We are.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were wet.  That undid you worse than anything else.

“You’re crying,” you said.

Jack huffed, but it came out rough. “No, I’m not.” 

You gave him a look through your tears. His mouth twitched.

“Fine,” Jack said. “Maybe a little.”

You laughed, and he smiled then, soft and stunned and completely wrecked. His gaze drifted back to the counter. Jack looked at the tests again, like he needed to see them one more time to believe it. Then his brows drew together.

“You took three tests?” Jack asked.

Your laugh came out wet and embarrassed. “I panicked.” 

Jack looked back at you, his mouth softening again. 

“Yeah,” Jack said quietly. “I can see that.”

You wiped at your cheek with the heel of your hand.

“I thought maybe I read them wrong,” you said.

“All three?” Jack asked, his brows lifting.

You gave him a weak look. “I said I panicked.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Efficient panic.” 

You gave a watery laugh and swatted lightly at his chest. He caught your hand before you could pull it away and kissed your knuckles. Then his hands slid from your face to your waist, pausing there like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch. You saw the hesitation. Your chest ached.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to yours. You reached for one of his hands and guided it lower, settling his palm carefully over your stomach. There was nothing there yet. Not really. No curve. No kick. No proof beyond the tests on the counter and the impossible hope opening between you.

Jack knew that.

He was a doctor. He knew better than anyone.

Still, the second his hand rested there, his whole face changed. His thumb moved once over the soft cotton of his shirt.

“Hey,” Jack whispered.

You started crying again. Jack looked up at you, alarm flashing across his face.

“What?” Jack asked.

You shook your head. “Nothing,” you said, laughing through it. “You’re already talking to the baby.”

Jack looked back down at his hand. “Yeah,” Jack said quietly.

His throat worked once. “Yeah, I am.” 

You covered his hand with yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tests sat on the counter beside you.

Positive. Positive. Positive.

Jack bent and pressed his mouth to your forehead, lingering there as his hand stayed warm beneath yours. When he pulled back, his eyes were still wet, but his voice was steadier.

“You feeling okay?” Jack asked.

You laughed softly. “There he is.” 

Jack frowned. “What?”

You smiled up at him. “Doctor Jack.”

His frown deepened, but his thumb kept moving over your stomach.

“Husband Jack also wants to know if you feel okay,” Jack said.

Your smile wobbled.

 “I’m scared,” you admitted.

Jack’s expression softened immediately. “Yeah. Me too.”

“You are?” you asked.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said, his hand still warm beneath yours. “I’m terrified.”

A laugh broke out of you, startled and watery. Jack smiled, but his hand stayed careful over your stomach.

“But I’m happy,” Jack said. “I need you to know that part first. I’m scared, and I’m overwhelmed, and I’m probably going to say at least six stupid things in the next ten minutes.”

“You already said holy shit,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched. “That one was warranted.” 

You laughed again. His thumb moved over your stomach.

“But I’m happy,” Jack said, quieter now. “I’m so happy I don’t know what to do with it.”

Your face crumpled. Jack pulled you in again, wrapping both arms around you this time, careful but firm.

“I love you,” Jack said into your hair.

You closed your eyes.

“I love you too,” you said.

Jack held you for another long moment before he drew back just enough to look at you. Then he looked back down at your stomach, wonder stealing over his face all over again.

“Our baby,” Jack said softly.

The words settled into the bathroom, warm and terrifying and real. You covered his hand again.

“Our baby,” you whispered.

─── ୨୧ ───

Heartbeat

Jack was trying very hard to be normal.

You knew this because he had not stopped talking since you checked in.

Not loudly. Not obnoxiously. Not enough that anyone else in the waiting room would have noticed. But he had been narrating small, useless things under his breath for the better part of fifteen minutes, one hand resting on your knee while his other thumb worried at the edge of the appointment card they had given you at the front desk.

“The chairs are better here than the ones in the ER,” Jack said.

You looked over at him. Jack glanced around the waiting room like he was making a professional assessment.

“Not great,” Jack said. “But better.”

You gave him a look. “You’re reviewing the chairs?”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I’m distracting you.”

You blinked at him. Jack’s thumb moved over your knee.

“And myself,” Jack added.

Your chest softened. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Jack looked down at your joined hands, then squeezed once.

“Nervous?” he asked.

You nodded. “Very.”

Jack’s face softened immediately. “Yeah.”

“You?” you asked.

Jack looked at you. For half a second, you thought he might make another joke. Then his smile faded.

“Very,” Jack said.

The honesty settled between you, quiet and steady. You leaned your shoulder into his. Jack leaned back. Neither of you said anything for a minute. Across the room, someone’s toddler dropped a toy onto the floor with a sharp plastic clatter. A nurse opened a door and called another name. The TV mounted in the corner played a muted cooking segment no one seemed to be watching.

Jack’s hand stayed warm around yours. When your name was called, your stomach dropped so fast you almost forgot how to stand. Jack stood with you immediately.

“I’ve got you,” Jack said quietly.

You nodded, but your fingers tightened around his anyway. Jack did not let go. He stayed beside you through the walk back. Through the nurse taking your vitals. Through the questions that made everything feel both routine and terrifyingly real. Date of last period. Any spotting. Any cramping. Nausea. Medications. Allergies.

Jack stayed mostly quiet, answering only when you looked at him or when the nurse asked something he knew you were too nervous to remember. His thumb kept moving over the back of your hand.

Steady. Steady. Steady.

By the time the ultrasound tech dimmed the lights, your heart was pounding again. Jack noticed. He shifted closer to the exam table, his hand still wrapped around yours.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You swallowed hard. “Ask me after.”

Jack’s jaw tightened for a second before he nodded.

“Fair,” Jack said.

The tech smiled gently as she adjusted the machine.

“We’ll take a look,” the tech said. “It’s early, so everything is small, but we should be able to see what we need.”

Small. The word made your throat tighten. Jack’s hand squeezed yours once. You stared at the ceiling while the tech started the scan, trying to breathe normally, trying not to read every tiny shift in her face. 

The screen glowed beside you. Gray shapes moved and blurred.

You had no idea what you were looking at.

Jack probably did, at least more than you, but he did not say anything. He only watched the screen with an expression so focused it almost scared you. Then the tech angled the monitor slightly toward you.

“There,” the tech said softly. “That little flicker right there.”

Your breath stopped. Jack’s hand went still around yours.

The tech smiled. “That’s baby’s heartbeat.”

For one second, the room went silent.

Or maybe you did. Maybe everything in you went so still that the rest of the world fell away. Then the tech turned on the sound.

The heartbeat filled the room. Fast. Steady. Impossible.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Jack did not move. Not at first. You turned your head toward him and found him staring at the screen, his mouth parted slightly, his eyes already wet.

The sound kept going. Fast, fast, fast. Proof. Life. Your baby.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He blinked once. A tear slipped down his cheek before he seemed to realize it was there. You squeezed his hand. Jack let out a rough, disbelieving laugh.

“That’s our baby,” Jack said.

The tech smiled from beside the machine. “That’s your baby.”

Jack’s face crumpled for half a second. Then he looked down at you, and the look on his face nearly broke you.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said, voice wrecked. “That’s our baby.”

You nodded, crying now. “I know.”

Jack huffed another laugh, but it shook on the way out.

“I know you know,” Jack said. “I just—”

His voice broke. He looked back at the screen. The tiny flicker moved. The heartbeat kept filling the room. Jack wiped quickly at his face with his free hand, then seemed to realize there was no point pretending.

You laughed through your tears. “Still not crying?”

Jack looked down at you. His eyes were red and wet and full.

“Oh, I’m absolutely crying,” Jack said.

You laughed harder, and the sound turned into a sob. Jack bent down and kissed your forehead, his mouth lingering there while the heartbeat raced on beside you.

The tech pointed gently at the screen. “Baby is measuring right on track.”

Jack lifted his head, his face shifting just enough that you could see the doctor part of him catching the words.

“Good?” you asked quickly.

The tech nodded. “Very good.”

Jack squeezed your hand.

“Very good,” Jack repeated, softer, like he knew you needed to hear it from him too.

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen. The tiny flicker was so small. Too small, almost, for how much it had already changed.

“I can’t believe that’s inside me,” you whispered.

Jack’s thumb moved over your hand again.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “I’m having a little trouble with that too.”

You turned your face toward him. Jack smiled down at you, wet-eyed and stunned.

“What?” you asked.

 He shook his head. “Nothing.” 

You gave him a look. Jack’s smile deepened, but his voice came out soft.

“I just keep thinking about the tests,” Jack said.

“The pregnancy tests?” you asked.

Jack’s mouth twitched. “The very efficient panic tests, yeah.”

You laughed through your tears. His eyes moved back to the screen.

“They were real,” Jack said quietly.

Your chest tightened. You looked back at the monitor too. The heartbeat filled the dim little room again. Fast. Steady. Real.

You squeezed Jack’s hand.

“They were real,” you whispered.

Jack bent down again, pressing another kiss to your forehead. When he pulled back, his eyes stayed on the screen.

“Hey, kid,” Jack said softly.

Your mouth trembled.

The tech smiled to herself, but Jack did not seem to notice.

He was still looking at the flicker. At the tiny impossible proof of the baby you had both been too scared to fully believe in until that sound filled the room. Jack’s thumb moved over your hand.

“You’re already scaring the hell out of us,” Jack said quietly.

You laughed softly. “Jack.”

He glanced down at you, his face open and ruined.

“What?” Jack asked. “It’s true.”

You smiled through fresh tears. Jack looked back at the screen, and his voice softened even more.

“But we’re really happy you’re here,” Jack said.

Your face crumpled. Jack squeezed your hand again.

“So fucking happy,” Jack whispered.

─── ୨୧ ───

Kick

The first time you felt the baby move, you were on the couch with a half-empty bowl of cereal balanced on the curve of your stomach.

It was late enough that dinner had come and gone on one of Jack’s nights off, but pregnancy had apparently decided that cereal tasted best sometime after ten at night. Jack had not questioned it. He had only looked at the bowl, looked at you, and asked if you wanted the big spoon or the normal spoon.

You had chosen the big spoon.

Jack had called it a solid medical decision.

Now he was in the kitchen, putting away the rest of the dishes while you sat curled beneath a blanket, one hand resting lazily over your stomach and the other digging through the cereal bowl for the marshmallow pieces.

The baby had been quiet all day.

Not that you were far enough along to feel regular movement yet. You knew that. Jack had reminded you of that. Your doctor had reminded you of that.

Still, you had been waiting.

Listening to your body in a way that made everything feel both exciting and impossible to trust.

Then something fluttered low beneath your hand.

You froze.

The spoon stopped halfway to your mouth.

For one second, you wondered if you had imagined it.

Then it happened again.

A tiny, strange little tap from the inside.

Your breath caught so hard Jack heard it from the kitchen.

“What?” Jack asked, his voice immediately sharper.

You did not answer. Your hand pressed more firmly against your stomach.

The baby moved again. Small. Quick. Real.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Jack appeared with a dish towel still in his hands.

“What?” Jack asked again.

You looked up at him, eyes already filling.

“The baby moved,” you said.

Jack went still. The dish towel lowered slowly in his hand.

“What?” Jack asked, softer this time.

You laughed, startled and wet.

“The baby moved,” you said again. “I felt it.”

Jack dropped the dish towel onto the back of the couch and crossed the room so quickly he nearly clipped the coffee table with his shin.

“Where?” Jack asked.

You grabbed his hand before he could hover uselessly over your stomach.

“Here,” you said, guiding his palm to the spot low on your belly. “Right here.”

Jack lowered himself onto the edge of the couch beside you, his hand spread wide and careful over your stomach.

The two of you waited. Nothing happened.

Jack looked at your stomach. You looked at Jack. The baby did absolutely nothing.

Your mouth twitched.

“I swear it happened,” you said.

Jack’s eyes flicked up to yours immediately.

“I know,” Jack said.

“You don’t have to say that,” you said.

Jack frowned. “I’m not humoring you.”

You smiled softly. “You’re humoring me a little.”

“No,” Jack said, his thumb moving once over your stomach. “I believe you.”

Your chest warmed. Jack looked back down at his hand.

“I also think this kid has terrible timing,” Jack said.

You laughed. Jack leaned closer to your stomach, his brows drawing together.

“Really?” Jack asked your stomach. “You’re ignoring me already?” 

You stared at him.

“Are you arguing with the baby?” you asked.

Jack glanced up at you.

“I’m negotiating,” Jack said.

You laughed harder, one hand pressing over your mouth. 

Jack looked back down at your stomach with exaggerated seriousness.

“Listen,” Jack said, his palm still careful against you. “I know we haven’t met formally yet, but I’m your father, and I would appreciate a little cooperation.”

Nothing. The baby stayed perfectly still.

You bit your lip. Jack narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, you’re stubborn,” Jack said.

You tilted your head. “Wonder where that comes from.”

Jack looked at you.

“Not me,” Jack said.

You gave him a look. Jack’s mouth twitched.

“Fine,” Jack said. “Maybe a little me.”

The baby kicked.

Not a flutter this time. A real, unmistakable little thump beneath his palm.

Jack froze. Everything in him went still at once. His hand did not move. His face changed so quickly it stole the smile right off yours.

“Was that—” Jack started.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

Jack looked down at his hand. His mouth parted slightly.

“That was the baby?” Jack asked.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “That was the baby.”

Jack’s throat worked. He stared at your stomach like the entire universe had just shifted under his hand.

Then the baby kicked again.

Jack sucked in a breath.

“Holy shit,” Jack whispered.

You laughed through a sob.

“That one was for you,” you said.

Jack looked up at you. His eyes were wet again.

“Yeah?” Jack asked.

You nodded, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Yeah,” you said. “I think so.”

Jack looked back down at his hand. For once, he did not have a joke ready. He only sat there with his palm spread over your stomach, his thumb barely moving, his face open and stunned and softer than you had ever seen it.

“Hey, kid,” Jack said quietly.

Your face crumpled. Jack leaned closer, his mouth near your stomach, his hand warm beneath yours.

“Hi,” Jack said. “It’s me.”

“They probably know your voice by now,” you said.

Jack looked back down, and something fragile moved through his expression.

The baby kicked again.

Jack’s laugh broke out of him, rough and disbelieving.

“Oh,” Jack said. “Okay. Maybe they do.”

You slid your fingers into his hair, brushing it back from his forehead as he stayed bent close to your stomach. Jack did not move away. He pressed a kiss to the cotton of your shirt, right above where his hand rested.

Your breath caught. Jack’s eyes flicked up to yours.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You nodded, even though you were crying. “Yeah.”

His hand shifted carefully over your stomach.

“You sure?” Jack asked.

You smiled through your tears.

“I’m happy,” you said.

Jack’s face softened.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Me too.”

The baby moved again, lighter this time, a tiny flutter beneath your skin. Jack looked back down immediately. His voice dropped lower.

“There you are,” Jack said.

You stroked your fingers through his hair again. Jack’s thumb moved slowly over the curve of you. Your throat tightened.

The baby went quiet again.

Jack waited another few seconds, hopeful and still, before he finally looked up at you.

“I think I won,” Jack said.

You blinked at him. “Won what?”

Jack’s mouth curved.

“The negotiation,” Jack said.

You laughed, the sound watery and tired and full. Jack grinned, but his eyes were still damp. Then his expression softened all over again as he looked down at his hand.

“Our baby kicked me,” Jack said.

You smiled.

“Technically,” you said, “our baby kicked me.”

Jack looked offended.

“I was involved,” Jack said.

You laughed again. Jack shifted closer on the couch, careful of your bowl, and wrapped his free arm around your shoulders. You leaned into him.

His hand stayed on your stomach.

For a long while, neither of you moved.

The TV played softly across the room. The dishes sat half-finished in the kitchen. Your cereal went soggy in the bowl on your lap. Jack did not seem to notice any of it. He kept his palm on your stomach, waiting patiently for another kick, his thumb moving in slow, absent strokes over your shirt.

Eventually, you rested your head against his shoulder.

“They’re really in there,” you whispered.

Jack turned his face into your hair.

“Yeah,” Jack said softly. “They really are.”

You closed your eyes. Jack’s mouth brushed your temple.

“And they already listen to me,” Jack said.

You opened your eyes and turned your head just enough to glare at him. Jack smiled against your skin.

“They kicked you,” you said.

Jack’s smile widened.

“Twice,” Jack said.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. Jack looked back down at your stomach, his face impossibly tender.

“Good job, kid,” Jack whispered. “Keep doing that.”

─── ୨୧ ───

Voice

By the third trimester, the baby had developed strong opinions about bedtime.

Specifically, the baby seemed to think bedtime was an excellent opportunity to practice whatever complicated acrobatics were apparently necessary at midnight.

You were propped against the pillows with one hand on your stomach and the other pressed over your eyes, trying not to cry from sheer exhaustion.

Jack came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, toothbrush still in his mouth, and stopped at the sight of you.

His brows drew together. He pulled the toothbrush from his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked.

You dropped your hand from your face and looked at him.

“Your child is doing parkour,” you said.

Jack blinked. Then he looked at your stomach.

“My child?” Jack asked.

You pointed at your belly.

“This feels like your side of the family,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched around the toothbrush.

“I’m going to rinse,” Jack said. “Then I’m going to defend myself.”

You waved weakly toward the bathroom.

“Please do,” you said.

Jack disappeared for a few seconds, and you felt another firm roll beneath your ribs.

You groaned.

When Jack came back, he crossed to your side of the bed and sat carefully beside your hip.

“Still going?” Jack asked.

You nodded, exhausted and miserable. “Still going.”

Jack’s face softened immediately. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Jack said.

You closed your eyes.

“I’m so tired,” you whispered.

“I know,” Jack said.

His hand settled over your stomach, broad and warm, moving slowly until you guided him to the spot where the baby had been pushing. Jack’s palm stilled. The baby kicked against him almost immediately. Jack’s eyes widened.

“Oh,” Jack said. “Yeah. That was rude.”

A laugh slipped out of you despite yourself.

“Rude?” you asked.

Jack looked down at your stomach.

“That was very aggressive,” Jack said.

The baby kicked again. Jack’s eyebrows lifted.

“See?” Jack asked. “Aggressive.”

You laughed again, softer this time. Jack’s thumb moved gently over your shirt.

“Hey,” Jack said to your stomach. “It is very late.”

The baby shifted. Jack leaned closer, his mouth near your belly.

“Your mother needs to sleep,” Jack said.

You watched him, your chest aching. The baby kicked beneath his hand. Jack paused. Then he looked up at you.

“They’re not listening,” Jack said.

You smiled tiredly. “Shocking.”

Jack looked back down with mock offense.

“We talked about this,” Jack said to your stomach. “Cooperation. Basic respect. Reasonable hours.”

The baby moved again, a slow roll under your skin. Jack’s face changed. The joke faded a little. His hand softened over you.

“Hey, kid,” Jack said, quieter now.

Your throat tightened. The baby stilled beneath his palm. For a moment, neither of you moved. Jack looked down at your stomach like he was trying to understand how something so small could already have so much of him. Then the baby shifted again, softer this time. Your breath caught. Jack’s thumb brushed over the curve of you.

“Yeah,” Jack whispered. “I’m here.”

You looked at him. His eyes stayed on your stomach. The baby settled under his hand, the wild kicks fading into smaller movements, then quiet. You swallowed hard.

“They know your voice,” you said.

Jack lifted his eyes to yours. The look on his face was so open it nearly undid you.

“You think so?” Jack asked.

You nodded, tears prickling hot behind your eyes.

“I think so,” you said.

Jack looked back down at his hand. His jaw worked once.

“Shit,” Jack whispered.

You laughed softly. “That’s your response?”

Jack glanced at you, eyes wet and stunned.

“I’m having a moment,” Jack said.

Your smile trembled.

“I can see that,” you said.

Jack bent and pressed his mouth to your stomach, right above where his hand rested. Your breath caught. He stayed there for a second, his eyes closed, his palm warm and steady over the baby. When he pulled back, his voice was lower.

“Hi,” Jack whispered to your stomach. “It’s Dad.”

Your face crumpled. Jack looked up immediately.

“What?” Jack asked.

You shook your head, crying before you could stop yourself.

“Nothing,” you said.

Jack’s expression softened.

“That is very clearly not nothing,” Jack said.

You wiped quickly under your eyes.

“You called yourself Dad,” you said.

Jack went still. Like he had not realized. Like the word had slipped out of him before he could decide whether he was ready for it. Then his face broke into something small and overwhelmed.

“Yeah,” Jack said.

His hand moved once over your stomach.

“Yeah, I guess I did,” Jack said.

The baby stayed quiet beneath his palm. You took your first full breath in what felt like hours.

Jack noticed.

He shifted carefully, sliding down until his head was near your stomach and one arm was draped gently around your hip.

“You comfortable?” Jack asked.

You nodded. “Don’t move.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jack said.

You threaded your fingers through his hair. Jack rested his cheek lightly against your stomach, careful not to press too hard. The room settled around you. The lamp on his side of the bed cast everything in warm gold. The blankets were twisted around your legs. Your back ached, your hips hurt, and your whole body felt stretched and heavy and strange.

But the baby was still.

Jack’s voice had done what your pleading, shifting, and deep breathing had not. You looked down at him.

“Jack,” you whispered.

His eyes opened. “Yeah?” 

Your fingers moved through his hair. “Thank you.” 

Jack’s face softened. “For what?” 

You looked down at your stomach, then back at him.

“For being you,” you said.

Jack stared at you for a second.

Then he shifted up carefully, bracing one hand beside your hip so he could kiss you.

This kiss was softer than the one in the bathroom months ago. Slower. Quieter.

Jack kissed you like the whole house had gone still around the three of you, like he was careful not to wake the baby he had just somehow talked into sleeping.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“You’re doing so good,” Jack said.

Your eyes filled again. “Don’t make me cry.” 

Jack smiled, brushing his nose lightly against yours.

“I think we both know that ship sailed a while ago,” Jack said.

You laughed wetly. Jack kissed your forehead, then lowered himself back down, settling beside your stomach again. His hand returned to the curve of you.

“Okay, kid,” Jack whispered. “You and me. Quiet hours.”

The baby did not move. Jack smiled against your shirt.

“Good talk,” Jack whispered.

─── ୨୧ ───

Here

By the time the nurse told you to push again, you were certain there was nothing left in you.

Not strength. Not breath. Not courage.

Nothing.

Your hair was damp against your temples, plastered there with sweat. The hospital gown clung to your skin and twisted beneath you every time you shifted against the pillows. Your throat hurt from crying. Your jaw ached from clenching. Your whole body trembled with a kind of exhaustion that felt deeper than tired, deeper than pain, deeper than anything you had words for anymore.

Jack stood at your side with one hand wrapped around yours and the other braced behind your thigh, helping hold your leg when your own muscles started to shake too hard to do it yourself.

He had been there the whole time.

Through every contraction. Every position change. Every check. Every moment where you had cried into his shoulder, snapped that you couldn’t do this anymore, apologized for snapping, then cried harder when he told you there was nothing to apologize for.

His sleeves were pushed to his forearms now. His hair was a mess from how many times he had dragged a hand through it. His jaw was tight, and his eyes were fixed on your face with the kind of focus that would have looked calm to anyone who didn’t know him.

You knew better.

Jack Abbot was not calm.

Jack Abbot was holding himself together with both hands because you needed him to.

The doctor shifted at the end of the bed.

“Okay,” the doctor said. “With the next contraction, we’re going to push again.”

A broken sound slipped out of you before you could stop it.

Jack’s hand tightened around yours.

“I know,” Jack murmured near your temple. “I know, sweetheart.”

You shook your head weakly, tears slipping down the sides of your face.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

Jack leaned closer.

You turned toward him, breath hitching.

“Jack, I can’t,” you said, your voice cracking. “I can’t do it anymore.”

His expression broke.

Only for a second.

Only enough for you to see the pain flicker through his face before he tucked it away and bent over you like he could shield you from the whole room.

“Yes, you can,” Jack said, his voice low and rough. “You are.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I’m so tired,” you said.

“I know you are,” Jack said.

His thumb moved over the back of your hand, slow and steady, even as you crushed his fingers in your grip.

“I know,” Jack said again. “You’ve been working so hard, baby.”

Another sob tore through you.

“It hurts,” you cried.

Jack reached for the cool cloth from the nurse’s hand without looking away from your face.

“I know,” Jack said.

He wiped your forehead carefully, dragging the cloth over your hairline, down your cheek, along the damp curve of your neck. His touch was gentle, but his hand trembled once when you whimpered.

He saw you see it.

Jack swallowed.

“I’m right here,” Jack said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your lips shook.

“I don’t want to do another one,” you whispered.

His face softened, and somehow that was worse. Somehow his tenderness made you feel even more undone.

“I know,” Jack said. “I wish I could do it for you.”

You opened your eyes at that.

Jack bent closer, his mouth brushing your temple.

“I would,” Jack said quietly. “If there was any way for me to take this from you, I would.”

Another tear slipped into your hair.

“But I can’t,” Jack said. “So I’m going to stay right here, and we’re going to get through the next one together.”

You tried to breathe, but the air came in shallow and panicked.

Jack saw it immediately.

“Look at me,” Jack said.

You shook your head.

“Baby,” Jack said, firmer now. “Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused and wet.

Jack’s face came into view above you, close enough that you could see the shine in his eyes and the strain around his mouth.

“There she is,” Jack murmured.

Your face crumpled.

Jack brushed his thumb across your cheek.

“There’s my girl,” Jack said.

A laugh broke out of you, thin and miserable.

“Don’t make me cry more,” you said.

Jack’s mouth tugged into something that almost became a smile.

“I’m trying not to,” Jack said. “I’m just proud of you.”

You shook your head, your face crumpling all over again.

“I’m trying so hard,” you whispered.

Jack’s eyes filled immediately.

“I know,” Jack said, his voice rough. “I know you are.”

The contraction started low in your body, a slow, brutal tightening that made your entire spine go rigid.

Your breath caught.

Jack shifted instantly, one hand still locked around yours while the other moved more securely beneath your thigh.

“I see you,” Jack said. “I see how hard you’re trying.”

The contraction rolled through you, heavy and brutal, stealing the last of your breath before you could find it.

The nurse stepped closer to your other side.

“Okay,” the nurse said. “Deep breath in. Chin to chest. Push into that pressure.”

A strangled sound tore out of you.

Jack leaned down immediately, his mouth close to your ear.

“With me,” Jack said. “Take a breath with me, sweetheart.”

You tried.

The inhale shook on the way in, broken and thin, but Jack nodded like it was exactly enough.

“That’s it,” Jack said. “Good. Now push.”

You pushed.

Your whole body curled forward with the effort, pain and pressure blooming so sharply that the room blurred at the edges. Your fingers clamped around Jack’s hand hard enough that somewhere distant in your mind, you knew it had to hurt.

Jack did not flinch.

“There you go,” Jack said, his voice low and steady beside your ear. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

The nurse started counting. “One. Two. Three.”

Jack counted with her, his grip sure around your hand, his other arm braced behind your thigh.

“Four,” Jack said. “Five. Keep going, baby.”

A sob broke through the push.

“I can’t,” you cried.

“You are,” Jack said immediately. “You’re doing it right now. Six. Seven.”

Your body shook violently.

Jack’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed steady.

“Eight,” Jack said. “Nine. That’s it. Almost there.”

The nurse’s voice rose with encouragement.

“Ten,” the nurse said. “Good. Breathe.”

You collapsed back against the pillows, gasping, trembling so hard your teeth nearly chattered.

Jack lowered your leg carefully, then shifted closer, his hand still wrapped around yours.

“Breathe,” Jack murmured. “In and out. Just breathe for me.”

You tried to follow him, but the breaths came out ragged and wet.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you whispered.

Jack wiped your forehead again with the cloth, slow and careful, his thumb brushing away the tears at your temple.

“I know it feels like that,” Jack said.

You shook your head weakly.

“No,” you cried. “No, I can’t. I can’t keep doing this.”

Jack bent over you, blocking out some of the light, some of the room, some of everything that was too much.

“Listen to me,” Jack said. “You don’t have to do all of it right now.”

Your lip trembled.

“You just have to do the next one,” Jack said.

You stared at him, exhausted and scared and hurting.

His eyes were wet, but his voice did not move.

“Just the next one,” Jack said again. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The doctor looked up from the end of the bed.

“You’re moving baby down beautifully,” the doctor said. “We’re getting close.”

Close.

The word should have helped.

Instead, it made another sob tear up your throat.

Jack saw it instantly.

“I know,” Jack said softly.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I’m so tired,” you whispered.

“I know, baby,” Jack said.

“I don’t want to hurt anymore,” you said.

Jack’s face twisted before he could hide it.

He kissed your forehead, lingering there with his eyes closed for half a second.

“I know,” Jack said against your skin. “I know.”

His mouth brushed your temple.

“I’m right here,” Jack said. “Every second.”

Another contraction began to gather, low and merciless.

Your hand tightened around his.

Panic rose so quickly you could barely breathe around it.

“Jack,” you said, voice cracking.

“I’ve got you,” Jack said immediately.

Your eyes flew open.

“Stay with me,” you begged.

Jack bent closer, his forehead nearly touching yours.

“I’m here,” Jack said, his voice rough but steady. “I’m right here.”

The contraction climbed hard and fast, stealing whatever breath you had managed to gather.

You made a broken sound and tried to curl away from it, but there was nowhere to go. Your body was already moving, already bearing down, already demanding more from you than you knew how to give.

Jack moved with you.

His hand stayed locked around yours while his other arm braced firmly behind your thigh, holding you steady when your muscles started to shake.

“Okay,” the nurse said. “Deep breath. Push right into it.”

You shook your head, tears spilling hot down your cheeks.

“I can’t,” you cried.

Jack’s face was right there, close enough that he was the only thing you could focus on.

“You can,” Jack said. “You’ve got me. Push.”

The nurse started counting. “One. Two.”

You pushed with everything you had, a raw cry tearing out of your throat.

Jack did not look away from you.

“Three,” Jack said. “Four. Good, baby. That’s so good.”

Your fingers crushed his.

“Five,” Jack said, his voice breaking around the edge of the word. “Six. Keep going.”

“I can’t,” you sobbed.

“You are,” Jack said immediately. “You’re doing it. Seven.”

Your whole body trembled violently.

“Eight,” Jack said. “Nine. Come on, sweetheart. Almost there.”

The nurse’s voice rose beside you.

“Ten,” the nurse said. “Good. Good push.”

You fell back against the pillows, gasping, your chest heaving as you tried to drag air back into your lungs. Jack lowered your leg carefully, then reached for the cloth again. He wiped across your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth where tears and sweat had gathered together.

“You did so good,” Jack said.

You shook your head weakly, too exhausted to argue, too tired to believe him.

Jack saw it anyway. He always saw you.

“Hey,” Jack said softly.

Your eyes shifted to his.

“I know,” Jack said. “I know you don’t feel like you’re doing good right now.”

You swallowed hard, another tear sliding into your hair.

“But you are,” Jack said. “You’re doing everything right.”

The doctor looked up from the end of the bed, and something in her expression changed.

“Okay,” the doctor said. “That was really good. Baby is right there.”

Your breath hitched.

Jack went still beside you.

The doctor smiled, calm but focused.

“A couple more like that,” the doctor said, “and you’re going to meet your baby.”

For a second, the room seemed to tilt.

Your baby.

After all these months, all those tests, that heartbeat, those kicks beneath Jack’s hand, the little body that settled whenever he spoke in the dark, the words still felt too big to hold.

You turned your face toward Jack.

He was staring at the doctor, lips parted slightly, eyes bright and stunned like the sentence had hit him somewhere deep.

Then he looked down at you.

The expression on his face nearly broke you.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He blinked once, and a tear slipped free before he could stop it.

“I know,” Jack said, voice wrecked.

You started crying harder.

He bent down immediately, pressing his mouth to your forehead.

“I know,” Jack whispered against your skin. “We’re almost there.”

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

Jack pulled back enough to look at you.

His eyes were wet. His face was pale with exhaustion and fear and love, but his voice stayed steady because you needed it.

“I know you are,” Jack said.

Your fingers tightened around his.

“I’m scared too,” Jack admitted quietly.

Something in your chest split open.

Jack brushed his thumb over the back of your hand.

“But you’re not doing this alone,” Jack said. “Not for one second.”

The nurse adjusted the monitor near your belly, then gave you an encouraging smile.

“You’re doing beautifully,” the nurse said. “Baby’s tolerating everything well.”

Jack’s shoulders dropped by a fraction.

You noticed.

Even half-delirious with exhaustion, you noticed.

He looked at the monitor, then back at your face, his thumb still moving over your knuckles like he could soothe both of you with the same touch.

“The baby’s okay?” you asked, voice small.

“Baby’s okay,” the nurse said.

Jack leaned closer.

“Baby’s okay,” Jack repeated, softer now, his mouth near your temple. “You’re okay. I’ve got you both.”

You closed your eyes, trying to hold onto that.

You’re okay. Baby’s okay. Jack’s here.

The words barely settled before the next contraction started to build.

Your eyes snapped open, panic flooding through you again.

Jack saw it before you said anything.

“I’m here,” Jack said.

You shook your head, whimpering. “I can’t, Jack.”

He shifted back into position, one hand wrapped around yours, the other moving beneath your thigh.

“Yes, you can,” Jack said. “Just this one.”

The pressure grew sharper, lower, impossible to ignore.

The doctor leaned forward slightly.

“Okay,” the doctor said. “This is the one. Big push when you’re ready.”

You let out a sob.

Jack bent close, his voice rough in your ear.

“Give me this one,” Jack said. “Come on, sweetheart. Bring our baby here.”

The contraction crested, and your body folded into it.

You pushed with everything you had left.

The sound that tore out of you was raw and broken, dragged up from somewhere deep in your chest, and Jack moved with you like he could keep you from shattering through sheer force of will.

“That’s it,” Jack said. “That’s it, baby. Keep going.”

You squeezed his hand so hard your fingers ached.

Jack did not flinch.

“Good,” Jack said, voice breaking. “Fuck, you’re doing so good.”

The nurse counted beside you, but the numbers blurred together until all you could hear was Jack.

His voice. His breath. His mouth near your temple.

“Keep going,” Jack said. “You’re right there. You’re right there, sweetheart.”

“I can’t,” you cried.

“You are,” Jack said immediately. “You are. Come on, baby. Come on.”

The pressure burned white-hot.

Your body shook violently, every muscle straining, your throat tight around a sob you barely had the strength to make.

Then the doctor’s voice changed.

“That’s it,” the doctor said. “There we go. Baby’s head is crowning.”

Jack went still beside you.

His hand tightened around yours, but his voice stayed low.

“You hear that?” Jack asked, his mouth close to your hairline. “You’re doing it. You’re almost done.”

You fell back for half a second, gasping.

“I can’t,” you whispered again, but there was no force behind it anymore.

Only exhaustion. Only fear. Only the awful, impossible need to be finished.

Jack wiped your face with his free hand, brushing sweat and tears from your cheek with a tenderness that made you want to cry harder.

“You can,” Jack said. “You’re so close.”

The doctor looked up at you.

“Okay,” the doctor said. “One more push.”

You made a desperate sound, your fingers locking around Jack’s.

“No,” you cried. “No, I can’t.”

Jack leaned over you, close enough that his forehead touched yours.

“You can,” Jack said. “I know you can.”

You shook your head, crying harder.

“I don’t have anything left,” you said.

Jack’s eyes filled.

“You do,” Jack said, voice rough. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you do.”

The contraction rose again, smaller but sharper, and your entire body tensed beneath it.

Jack braced you carefully.

“Look at me,” Jack said.

You opened your eyes.

His face was the only clear thing in the room.

“There you are,” Jack whispered.

Your lip trembled.

“I’m scared,” you said.

“I know,” Jack said. “I’m right here.”

“Don’t let go,” you begged.

Jack’s hand locked around yours.

“Never,” Jack said, voice rough and absolute. “Not a fucking chance.”

The nurse’s voice softened beside you.

“Okay,” the nurse said. “When you feel that pressure, give us one more.”

You sobbed once, nodded, and pushed.

For one suspended second, there was only the pressure.

The pain.

Jack’s hand in yours. Jack’s voice breaking against your temple.

“That’s it,” Jack said. “That’s my girl. That’s it.”

Then suddenly, all at once, the pressure changed.

Released.

The doctor lifted their hands.

And a cry cut through the room.

Small. Furious. Alive.

You fell back against the pillows, stunned, shaking so hard you could barely breathe.

Jack went completely still beside you.

For one breath, nobody spoke.

Then the doctor lifted the baby just enough for you both to see.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor said.

A girl.

Your daughter.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Jack’s hand tightened around yours so suddenly that you turned your head toward him.

His face had gone completely unguarded.

All the steadiness, all the control, all the strength he had forced into himself for your sake cracked open at once. His eyes filled, his mouth parted, and the breath he let out sounded broken.

“Oh my God,” Jack whispered.

Your daughter cried again, red-faced and perfect, her tiny arms moving angrily in the air.

A sob ripped out of you.

“Jack,” you cried. “She’s here.”

Jack nodded, but his eyes never left her.

“She’s here,” Jack said, voice ruined. “Baby, she’s here.”

The nurse brought your daughter up to you, and then suddenly she was on your chest, warm and slippery and impossibly real.

Your hands came up on instinct, trembling as you touched her tiny back.

“Oh,” you sobbed. “Hi. Hi, baby.”

Your daughter cried against your skin, tiny and furious, and you started crying harder.

Jack bent over both of you, one hand still wrapped around yours, the other hovering for a second like he was afraid to touch something so small.

Then he laid one careful finger against your daughter’s back.

The baby shifted beneath his touch.

Jack broke.

His head dipped, his shoulders shaking once as he pressed his mouth to your damp hairline.

“You did it,” Jack said, crying now. “You did it.”

You looked up at him through tears.

“We have a daughter,” you said.

Jack laughed, but it came out shattered.

“Yeah,” Jack whispered. “We have a daughter.”

Your hand spread protectively over her back.

“She’s so tiny,” you said.

Jack looked down at your daughter like the entire world had narrowed to that small, warm body against your chest.

“She’s perfect,” Jack said.

“She’s loud,” you said, laughing through a sob.

Jack smiled then, tears still slipping down his face.

“That too,” Jack said.

Your daughter gave another angry little cry, and Jack looked so overwhelmed by it that you almost laughed again.

He bent closer, his mouth brushing your temple.

“I am so proud of you,” Jack whispered. “I don’t even know what to do with it.”

Your eyes closed for half a second, exhaustion pulling at every part of you.

Jack’s hand covered yours over your daughter’s back.

“I love you,” Jack said, his voice ruined and soft. “Both of you. So fucking much.”

The nurse gave you another minute with her before she shifted closer, careful and gentle.

“Dad,” the nurse said softly, smiling at Jack. “Do you want to cut the cord?”

Jack looked up like he had forgotten anyone else was in the room.

Dad.

The word moved through his face before he could hide it. His eyes dropped back to your daughter, then to you.

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice rough. “Yeah, I do.”

He bent and kissed your forehead first, his mouth lingering against your damp skin.

“I’ll be right here,” Jack murmured.

You nodded, crying too hard to answer.

The nurse guided him, and Jack followed with the kind of careful focus you knew so well. He had steady hands. He always had. But when the scissors were placed in his hand, his fingers trembled. You saw it. Jack saw you see it. A broken little laugh left him.

“Don’t start,” Jack said softly.

You laughed through a sob. “I didn’t say anything.” 

“You were thinking it,” Jack said.

“I was thinking you’re crying,” you whispered.

Jack looked at you, tears still slipping down his face. “Yeah,” Jack said. “I am.”

Then he looked back at your daughter, swallowed hard, and cut the cord with careful, reverent concentration. The moment it was done, his eyes found yours again. You didn’t know why that undid you more. Maybe because he had not stopped looking for you, even with your daughter right there between you. The nurse adjusted the blanket over the baby’s back, keeping her tucked against your chest.

“We’re going to let her stay right here for a minute,” the nurse said. “The doctor is just going to help you deliver the placenta, okay?”

You nodded, but you barely heard her.

Your daughter was warm against your skin. Real. Here.

Jack moved back beside you immediately, one hand finding your hair, his fingers smoothing carefully over the damp strands at your temple.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You let out a watery laugh, because it was an impossible question. You were exhausted. Shaking. Sore. Split open in every way a person could be split open. And your daughter was lying on your chest.

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Jack’s face softened. “That’s fair.” 

The doctor said something gentle from the end of the bed, and your body answered with another cramp, duller than before but still enough to make your face tighten. Jack saw it instantly.

“Hey,” Jack said, bending closer. “Breathe.”

You winced, one hand spreading more carefully over your daughter’s back.

“I thought the hard part was over,” you whispered.

Jack’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed soft and wet. “I know. I’m sorry.”

The contraction eased. The doctor’s voice stayed calm, the nurse’s hand steady near your shoulder, the whole room moving around you with quiet purpose. But Jack stayed fixed beside your face. Not watching like a doctor. Watching like your husband.

“You’re doing great,” the doctor said. “Placenta is delivered.”

You nodded, exhausted enough that the words floated around you instead of sinking in.

Jack brushed his thumb along your hairline. “Almost done.” 

You looked down at the baby. Your daughter’s crying had softened into tiny, breathy sounds against your skin. Her cheek was turned against your chest, her little mouth open, one fist tucked beneath her chin.

“She’s so small,” you whispered.

Jack looked down too, and his entire expression changed again. Like he had forgotten and remembered all at once.

“Yeah,” Jack whispered. “She is.”

You glanced up at him. His eyes were still wet. “Are you okay?”

Jack let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “No. Not even close.”

You laughed, then winced slightly. Jack’s hand moved to your cheek.

“Sorry,” Jack said.

“You didn’t do it,” you whispered.

“No,” Jack said, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “But I hate seeing you hurt.”

Before you could answer, the nurse shifted closer again. “We’re going to take her over to the warmer for just a few minutes,” the nurse said gently. “Get her cleaned up, check her weight, all of that. Dad can come with us.”

Your arms tightened around your daughter on instinct. Jack saw it. So did the nurse.

“Just right there,” the nurse said softly, pointing across the room. “You’ll be able to see her the whole time.”

You nodded because you understood. Because you trusted them. Because you knew it was normal. But when the nurse lifted your daughter from your chest, your whole body seemed to ache with the sudden emptiness of it. A small, wounded sound slipped out of you before you could stop it.

Jack heard it. So did your daughter. She cried harder as the nurse carried her toward the warmer, small and furious and impossibly loud for someone so tiny. Jack turned toward the sound before he seemed to realize he had moved. It was instinct. Immediate. His shoulders shifted. His head snapped slightly toward the warmer. One foot angled like he was already about to follow her across the room.

Then he stopped.

You saw it happen. The pull of it. Your daughter crying across the room. You shaking in the bed. Jack’s whole body had gone tense with the need to be in two places at once. He looked at the warmer, then back at you, his face torn open with it. His hand found your cheek again, warm and unsteady, like touching you was the only thing keeping him from splitting down the middle.

“She’s okay,” Jack said, but his voice was rougher now. “Baby, she’s okay. They’ve got her.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the warmer. Your daughter cried again. Jack’s jaw tightened. His gaze flicked back toward her, fast and helpless, then returned to you like he was forcing himself to stay planted. You reached for his wrist with what little strength you had left.

“Make sure she’s okay,” you whispered.

Jack’s eyes snapped to yours. For a second, he looked like he wanted to argue. Not because he didn’t want to go. Because leaving your side, even for ten feet, felt impossible.

“Sweetheart,” Jack said, voice low and wrecked.

“Please,” you whispered, tears slipping into your hair. “I need to know she’s okay.”

Jack stared at you. Then understanding moved through his face. Not permission. A request. A need.  You could not get to her. So he had to. His mouth trembled once before he pressed it into a line.

“Okay,” Jack said.

He bent and kissed your forehead hard, lingering there like he had to make himself let go.

“I’ll make sure,” Jack said against your skin. “I’ve got her.”

You nodded, crying too hard to answer. Jack kissed you once more, then lifted his head, his eyes moving between you and the warmer.

“I’ll be right here still,” Jack said, his voice rough but steady. “You hear me? I’m still here.”

You nodded again. “I know.” 

Even then, he hesitated. Of course he did. Your fingers slipped weakly from his wrist.

“Go, Dad,” you whispered.

Jack froze. The words hit him so hard you saw it. His face changed completely, his eyes filling all over again as he looked down at you.

“Fuck,” Jack whispered, voice breaking.

You gave him the smallest smile you could manage. Jack swallowed hard, nodded once, then stepped away from the bed. He moved toward the warmer, but he looked back at you twice before he got there, like every step away from you cost him something.

When he reached your daughter, the nurse shifted aside enough for him to see. Jack stopped dead. All the conflict on his face softened into awe. Your daughter lay beneath the warmer, red-faced and furious, her tiny mouth open around a cry that seemed far too big for her little body. Jack’s hand hovered above her for a second. For all his steady hands, all his years of knowing exactly where to touch and how much pressure to use, he suddenly looked terrified of doing it wrong.

The nurse smiled gently. “You can touch her. She knows your voice.”

Jack swallowed hard. Then he lowered one careful finger and brushed it against her tiny foot.

“Hi,” Jack said, his voice so gentle you barely recognized it. “Hi, baby girl.”

Your daughter cried harder. Jack let out a broken little laugh, tears still wet on his face.

“Yeah,” Jack murmured. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

He bent closer, his broad shoulders curling toward her like he could shelter her from the whole world.

“It’s been a hell of a day for you too, huh?” Jack whispered.

Your daughter’s tiny foot flexed beneath his finger. Jack froze like she had reached up and grabbed his heart with her whole hand.

“Oh,” Jack whispered.

You started crying again from the bed. Jack glanced back at you immediately, alarm flashing across his face. You shook your head before he could move.

“I’m okay,” you mouthed.

Jack stared at you for another second, torn all over again. Then you pointed weakly toward the baby. He huffed a wet little laugh, nodded, and looked back down at your daughter.

“There you go,” Jack whispered to her. “Mom’s already bossing me around again.”

Your daughter hiccuped through another cry. Jack smiled, utterly ruined.

“Yeah,” Jack said softly. “You’ll get used to it.”

The nurse dried your daughter beneath the warmer, murmuring softly to her while she cried like she had complaints about every single person in the room. Jack stood beside her, close enough to be there but careful not to get in the nurse’s way. One of his hands rested on the edge of the warmer. The other hovered near your daughter’s tiny foot, like he still could not quite believe he was allowed to touch her.

“Good strong cry,” the nurse said.

Jack nodded, his eyes fixed on your daughter. “Yeah.” 

“She looks great, Dad,” the nurse said.

Dad.

Even from the bed, you saw the word hit him. Jack swallowed hard, his shoulders rising and falling with one careful breath.

“She’s okay?” you called weakly.

Jack turned immediately, like your voice had pulled him by the chest.

“She’s okay,” Jack said, voice rough but steady. “She’s perfect.”

The nurse called out her weight, her length, all the tiny perfect details, and Jack listened like every number was being carved directly into his heart. Then they slipped a little diaper on her, eased a soft hat over her head, and wrapped her in a warm striped blanket.

For a second, Jack just stared. Your daughter was still crying, red-faced and furious, swallowed by the blanket and hat until only her tiny face showed. Jack’s mouth parted.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jack whispered.

Your chest ached. The nurse smiled up at him.

“Dad,” the nurse said gently. “Are you ready to hold her?”

Jack looked at the nurse. Then he looked at your daughter. Then he looked at you. Of course he did. His eyes were wet again, and his face was so open it made your throat tighten. You nodded, crying before he even said anything.

“Hold her,” you whispered.

Jack let out a shaky breath.

“Yeah,” Jack said, looking back down at your daughter. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

The nurse shifted the baby carefully in her arms.

“We can do skin-to-skin if you want,” the nurse said. “Just take your shirt off, and I’ll help get her settled.”

Jack froze. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he wanted to so badly it seemed to knock the air out of him. Then he nodded once and reached for the back of his T-shirt. You watched him pull it over his head with hands that were not quite steady, leaving his hair even more of a mess than it already was. He dropped the shirt onto the chair behind him without looking at it.

The nurse stepped close with your daughter, and Jack held his hands out like he was receiving something sacred.

“I’ve got her,” Jack said.

His voice almost broke on it. The nurse placed your daughter against his bare chest, then guided his hand over her back. Jack’s palm looked impossibly large against her, wide and careful, covering almost all of her tiny body as the nurse tucked the warm blanket around them both.

For one second, Jack did not move. Did not breathe. Then your daughter’s cheek turned against his skin, her little body settling beneath his hand.

Jack’s face crumpled. “Oh.”

It was barely a sound. It broke you anyway. Your daughter quieted slowly against him, her angry cries fading into small, breathy hiccups. Jack looked down at her like he had never known the world could make anything that small.

“Hi, baby girl,” Jack whispered.

Your hand flew to your mouth. Jack bent his head, careful and slow, until his lips brushed the top of her hat.

“Hi,” Jack said again, voice trembling. “I’m your dad.”

You started crying harder. Jack looked up at you immediately, alarm flashing through the awe. You shook your head, smiling through it.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

Jack’s eyes softened. He looked back down at your daughter, his thumb moving once over the blanket at her back.

“She’s warm,” Jack said, like it mattered more than anything.

You laughed through your tears.

“She should be,” you said. “She’s on you.”

Jack huffed a wet little laugh, then looked at you again.

“She’s so little,” Jack said.

“I know,” you whispered.

Jack’s jaw trembled.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Jack admitted quietly.

Your heart squeezed. You reached toward him with what little strength you had left. Jack stepped closer immediately, careful not to jostle the baby. You touched his wrist, your fingers weak against his skin.

“Neither do I,” you whispered.

Jack looked from you to your daughter, then back again. A small, broken smile pulled at his mouth.

“We’ll figure it out,” Jack said.

Your daughter made a tiny sound against his chest. Jack looked down at her instantly.

“Yeah,” Jack murmured, softer than you had ever heard him. “We will.”

The nurse adjusted the blanket over your daughter’s back, tucking it around Jack’s chest so only the top of her little hat and the curve of her cheek showed.

“There,” the nurse said softly. “Nice and warm.”

Jack nodded, but you weren’t sure he had really heard her. He was staring down at your daughter, his hand spread wide and careful over her back, his chest barely moving beneath her tiny body. His hair was a wreck from pulling his shirt off. His eyes were red. Tear tracks still cut through the exhaustion on his face.

You had never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

The nurse glanced toward the chair near your bed.

“Dad, why don’t we get you sitting down?” the nurse said. “Right over here, so Mom can see both of you.”

Jack’s head lifted immediately. His eyes found yours before he moved.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

You gave him the smallest nod you could manage. “I’m okay.”

The doctor was still at the end of the bed, checking you with calm, practiced hands, and your body still felt too heavy, too open, too exhausted to fully belong to you yet. The doctor glanced up with a gentle smile.

“You’re doing great,” the doctor said. “I’m just checking everything and making sure bleeding looks good. You’ll be able to hold her again soon.”

You nodded, your throat tightening as your eyes moved back to your daughter. Soon felt like too long. Jack saw that too. He shifted carefully as the nurse guided him toward the chair, every movement slow and deliberate, one hand supporting your daughter’s head while the other stayed broad over her back.

“I’m right here,” Jack said, lowering himself into the chair beside your bed. “We’re right here.”

You turned your head on the pillow so you could see them better. Jack sat close enough that if you reached out, you could touch his forearm. So you did. Your fingers found his wrist, weak and trembling. Jack looked down at your hand immediately, then back at your face. His expression softened so much it hurt.

“Hey,” Jack said quietly.

“Hi,” you whispered.

His mouth curved, exhausted and broken at the edges.

“Hi,” Jack said back.

Your daughter made a tiny sound against his chest, not quite a cry, more of a breathy little complaint. Jack looked down instantly.

“Hi to you too,” Jack murmured.

You laughed, but it came out wet. Jack glanced back at you, alarm flickering across his face. You shook your head before he could ask.

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “I just—”

Your voice broke. Jack’s thumb moved once over your daughter’s blanket-covered back.

“I know,” Jack said.

You stared at them. Your husband, shirtless in a hospital chair, one huge hand covering almost your daughter’s whole back. Your daughter, tiny and warm and tucked against him like she had always belonged there. The doctor said something to the nurse, quiet and routine, and you barely heard it. The room still moved around you, but for the first time in hours, it did not feel like it was swallowing you whole.

It had narrowed instead. Jack. Your baby. The place where your fingers rested against his wrist.

“She’s really here,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “She is.”

Your daughter shifted, her cheek rubbing slightly against his skin. Jack went completely still. You watched his entire face change.

“What?” you asked softly.

Jack swallowed, eyes fixed on the baby. “She moved,” Jack whispered.

Your chest squeezed. You smiled through fresh tears.

“Babies do that,” you said.

Jack looked up at you, his eyes wet and stunned. “I know that.”

You gave him a look, weak but fond. He huffed a shaky little laugh, then looked back down at your daughter.

“I know that,” Jack repeated, softer this time. “It’s just different when it’s her.”

The doctor’s voice came gently from the end of the bed.

“Everything looks good,” the doctor said. “We’re just going to finish getting you cleaned up and settled, okay?”

You nodded without looking away from Jack and the baby. “Okay,” you whispered.

Jack’s hand shifted over your daughter with impossible care. “You’re okay.” 

You weren’t sure if he was talking to you, the baby, or himself. Maybe all three. Your fingers tightened weakly around his wrist.

“So are you,” you said.

Jack looked at you then. For a second, he looked like he might argue. Then his face crumpled just a little, and he nodded once.

“Yeah,” Jack said, voice low. “I’m okay.”

Your daughter made another tiny sound, and Jack bent his head toward her.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Jack whispered. “We’re okay.”

You closed your eyes for half a second, exhausted beyond anything you had ever known.

When you opened them again, Jack was watching you.

Not like a doctor. Not like someone assessing. Like your husband. Like the man who had held your hand through every push and was now holding your daughter against his heart.

“She’s going to come back to you in a minute,” Jack said softly.

You nodded, tears sliding into your hair. “I know.” 

Jack’s thumb moved over the blanket. “But I’ll keep her warm until then.”

Your mouth trembled. “Okay.” 

Jack looked down at your daughter, then back at you. His eyes were red and wet and full.

“I’ve got our girl,” Jack said.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to sob again.

Jack gave you a small, ruined smile. “And I’m still right here.”

You should’ve known it was a simple scheduling error, an oversight from whichever manager had been responsible for this week’s schedule, but the thought of getting take-out and spending your Friday night catching up on a few of your favorite shows that you’ve neglected the newest episodes of had been too tempting for you to think about questioning why your name wasn’t listed under Friday, as it usually is.

Then, at 9:15 pm, precisely fifteen minutes after your shift's typical start time, your phone rang. Right away, a ball of nausea wound tight in your stomach. You didn’t even have to look at the screen to know whose name was displayed across it.

You also knew better than to risk not answering.

“Yes?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

Silas is pissed. That’s nothing new. Silas has been in a perpetual state of pissed off since the day you had the misfortune of meeting him. Pissed is his default.

“Not at work.”

A loud, sarcastic guffaw sounds from your speaker. “Yeah, I fuckin’ see that. Why the hell do you think I’m calling you? To ask about your overall wellbeing?”

“Oh, I’d never think that,” you mutter under your breath, too low and quick for him to make out over the roar of R&B music that blares in the background. “I wasn’t on the schedule tonight,” you say more clearly, digging your nails into your palm in an effort to keep your voice level.

“Yeah, and your buddy Trevor is getting his ass chewed out for that, too,” Silas spits. “You always work Friday nights. The only exception was the time you got food poisoning because I didn’t want you shitting on a customer during a dance. You know that.”

Damn it. Trevor is your favorite of all of the floor managers - the only one who talks to you like a human being. Why couldn’t it have been Gregory? That pervert getting in trouble would almost be worth this phone call and whatever punishment Silas has in mind for you not being at work right now.

“It’s not my fault that Trevor fucked up the schedule,” you say, voice still lethally calm. “I show up when I’m told to. Nothing more.”

“I don’t give a rat’s fat ass whose fault it is,” Silas hisses. “And I’m telling you to show up now, so you better get here before ten o’clock or—”

You don’t want to hear whatever he’s about to threaten you with. It could be anything from not letting you perform a solo routine on center stage tonight to taking a bigger cut of the money you make from private rooms…to even worse.

“Okay, okay. Jesus fuck. I’m on my way.”

You hang up before his voice can give you a migraine before you even arrive at the club.

Forty minutes later, after doing your hair and makeup in record time, throwing on the first cute lingerie set you can find that’s clean, and speeding at least ten over the speed limit the entire drive to the club, you show up with less than five minutes to spare.

Luckily, Silas is nowhere to be found when you enter through the back door. You know that he’ll bitch at you some more whenever you see him, but right now, you’re relieved to start your normal rounds while he’s otherwise occupied. Likely smoking himself to death with a hotdog-sized cigar in his office.

You walk the main floor, making small talk with a few regulars that aren’t complete pieces of shit as far as men who frequent strip clubs go. You book your first private room of the night, and Gregory is a little too happy to inform you that Silas will be taking sixty percent of your earnings tonight as opposed to the standard fifty.

As annoying as that is, you can’t help but feel a little relieved. As far as punishments go, a ten percent increase in his cut is mild. Last time you were reprimanded (for not fucking smiling enough), Silas added an additional five grand to the already exorbitant amount of money that your father owes him.

The exorbitant amount of money that just so happens to be the very reason you are working in this shithole in the first place.

Not even two hours into your shift, and you’re already over it. So over it that you offer to take out a bag of trash for the bartenders just as an excuse to get some fresh air for two fucking minutes.

This part of Los Angeles isn’t exactly quaint - there’s a near constant stream of car horns blaring and police sirens wailing but it’s white noise to you at this point. At least the night air is a nice reprieve from the stench of cheap weed and cheaper cologne even for only a moment.

It says a lot that you consider hanging out by literal dumpsters more appealing than being inside.

You should’ve been out of here a long time ago. It wasn’t supposed to take more than a year to clear the debt that isn’t even your debt to clear.

You didn’t even know that your dad was sick. Not until you came home from college on a random weekend, hoping to surprise him, and found him far thinner and more frail than you had ever seen him, hooked up to a dialysis machine to keep himself from dying of kidney failure.

He’d tried his hardest to keep it all from you. He didn’t want you to worry, didn’t want you to drop out of school to take care of him. He tried to handle the medical bills that accumulated rapidly on his own for as long as he could.

And when he accepted that he couldn’t, he got desperate.

He thought Silas was just a lender. Someone who would help him stay afloat long enough to get a transplant, recover, and get back to work. He didn’t realize exactly what kind of man he had borrowed from until Silas showed up at his house, uninvited and unannounced, waltzing right in like he owned the place.

So vividly you can remember the look of shame on your father’s face when Silas revealed the truth, and the panic that quickly bloomed when he looked directly at you and said the words that changed the trajectory of your life.

“You failed to mention that you have a daughter,” Silas purrs. “She sure is pretty. You know, I think she’d do real well working in one of my clubs. Yeah, she’d be popular. Make me a lot of money. How does that sound? You wanna help your poor, sick daddy out?”

Your dad had instantly refused, pleading with Silas to just give him a little more time, but you could tell that Silas wasn’t really asking. He was telling you what you were going to do. And because you were scared, for your own life and your father’s, you agreed.

Here you are, three years later, with no true end in sight.

The club’s back door screeches open, and you know that your ninety seconds of the closest thing you can get to peace around here has come to an end.

“The hell are you doing out here?” Silas booms, interrupting the relative quiet of the alleyway. “It’s almost time for you to go on center stage. You’re lucky that I’m even letting you go on at all tonight. I wasn’t planning on it, but there’s a group of guys in there requesting you.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. The last thing you want is for him to change his mind at the last second and give your solo slot to one of the other girls. “I’m coming. I was just taking out the trash.”

You take a step to walk past him, but he blocks the doorway, his clammy hand shooting out to catch you by the elbow. His grip isn’t quite hard enough to bruise, but still makes bile churn in your gut.

“Don’t get cute with me,” he spits. “You’re already on thin ice tonight.”

You don’t say anything, biting your lip to hold back the overwhelming desire to spit in his face. Silas leans in, his breath foul with the stench of whiskey and cigar smoke.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten what’s at stake here.” His fingers tighten just a fraction around your arm. Just enough to make you wince. “Maybe your dad needs a reminder.”

You taste iron from where your teeth break the skin of your lip. “I said I’m coming.”

Silas snorts, satisfied for now. He lets go of your arm with a shove that is more dismissive than violent and turns back toward the door.

“And try not to fuck up your set,” he snaps over his shoulder. “Those guys in there are blowing their money on you. Don’t make me regret doing you any favors.”

And then he’s gone, letting the metal door slam closed behind him before you can follow him inside.

You stand there for a moment, breathing in and then slowly exhaling when movement from your peripheral vision catches your eye.

Great. Just what you fucking need right now. An audience. Men, of course. Two of them. Just close enough to have heard every word.

“What are you looking at, boys?” You call, voice void of emotion as you make direct eye contact with the stocky, curly-haired one.

He’d be cute, you think, if he wasn’t the kind of guy to spend his Friday night outside of a strip club. The sandy blond looks slightly surprised that you’re acknowledging them, but his buddy remains stoic.

You jerk your chin towards the door Silas slammed behind him.

“The show’s inside.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope all but forced Deran to switch tasks with him at the last second.

Originally, he was supposed to be the one keeping a close eye on Silas Leary, Solstice’s owner, while Deran scopes out the club’s main floor for the heist that Craig, of all people, is orchestrating.

He shouldn’t be surprised. A luxury gentleman’s club based heist is quite possibly the most Craig heist possible.

But now, instead of watching the balding, sweaty jackass who had berated you in the alleyway not even ten minutes ago, he’s watching you on stage.

You’re more pleasant to look at, at least.

He’s never really seen anything quite like it - the way you dance. This isn’t his first time at a strip club. His brothers have coerced him into going to strip clubs before, though every time prior to tonight was for pleasure, not business. Still, he isn’t unfamiliar with the scene. He’s watched women pole dance before, but not like this.

You’re the only thing in the room that he can concentrate on. For the entirety of the five minutes and some change that your set lasts, he forgets that he’s technically here for recon. He and his brothers made this trip to Los Angeles to get a feel for the building’s layout, to see how operations work, to check out the security systems…not watch the strippers.

He tells himself he’s keeping up appearances. It would be weird to not watch you. Everyone in the room is - even the other dancers, though they watch with less enchantment and more disdain than the patrons.

The song comes to an end all too soon, and Pope continues to watch as you make quick work of collecting all of the bills that had been thrown onto the stage. He stands just a few feet away, close enough that he can see the body glitter dusted across your chest sparkle in the glow of the neon stage lights.

When you stand up, thick stack of cash in hand, your gaze locks with his for one tense but fleeting moment. The look in your eyes is the same as when you had made direct eye contact with him outside the club.

Just as fast as you had appeared on the stage, you then disappear, leaving Pope staring after you.

He thinks back to what he and Deran had witnessed in the alley. He had instantly recognized Silas Leary from pictures he’d seen online, so he and Deran hung around to witness the brief interaction, hoping to get some idea as to what Silas is like in person before entering the club.

It came as no shock to Pope that his reputation precedes him. Harsh, volatile, cruel seemingly for the sake of being cruel. That isn’t what made Pope freeze in place in the alley. It’s what Silas had said to you.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten what’s at stake here. Maybe your dad needs a reminder.”

And your response. You didn’t agree or disagree. Didn’t fight him on it. You looked Silas dead in the eyes, expression unreadable, and barely flinched. Like you had heard the threat a thousand times before, like you were used to the way he grabbed you by the arm. Like it hardly even phased you.

Pope’s first instinct had been to intervene, but he knew doing so would have tanked the job before it began. He couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself and Deran, and deep down, he also knew that stepping in would have likely made things worse on you, too, in the long run.

So he watched from the sidelines, feeling more at peace than ever at the prospect of stealing loads of money from someone, knowing Silas Leary deserves what’s coming for him.

Deran knew it, too, playing it off with a joke that sparked an idea in Pope’s head.

“Shit. You think she hates the fucker enough to help us rob him?”

Pope had said nothing at the time, but he was unable to shake the thought. The entire time that he watched you on stage, the look of unadulterated hatred on your face kept replaying in his mind.

But for just a few minutes, as you danced on the center stage, you seemed different than you did in the alley. Different than you did when you were collecting the dozens of tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills off of the stage floor. For a few moments, Pope saw himself in you. The way you seemed to completely dissociate while you performed, like there was no one else in the room but you and nothing else mattered. In his own way, he’s been there. With skateboarding, and with boxing. For him, those things are escapes.

He can’t help but wonder if that’s what dancing is for you. An escape from this place.

He supposes there’s really only one way to find out - if he’s right, and if Deran could possibly be right, too.

Good thing Craig had suggested they all bring plenty of cash with them. To keep up appearances, he had said. If you’re going to a strip club, you should always have cash on you. This is just recon, but you never know.

He’d smirked when he said it, as if he already had plans to spend said cash in ways that weren’t relevant to recon, but he still made a fair point.

Pope’s eyes scan the crowded room, searching through all of the dancers and customers in hopes of finding someone who might be of some help. He notices a short, pudgy, middle-aged man who appears to be scolding another dancer.

Gregory, Pope sees that his name tag reads once he approaches him.

“The dancer that just finished up on stage,” Pope asks him, “What’s her name?”

A creepy, almost unsettling smile grows on Gregory’s face. “Oh, that would be Soleil. Why? You want a room with her?”

What Pope wants is to wipe that perverted look off of his face, but rationally he knows that would be counterproductive right now, so he settles for a curt nod. “Yeah, I do.”

“Half hour? Or a full hour?”

Pope knows that he’s supposed to meet his brothers and nephew where they parked a couple blocks away in less than an hour, so he isn’t really sure why he lets the next words come out of his mouth, but for whatever reason, he does.

“Full hour.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Gregory barges into the locker room without so much as knocking.

You’re dressed (as dressed as you possibly can be in a place like this), just counting the money you made from your solo set, but his sudden presence still unnerves you.

“You’ve got a private room,” he barks, not bothering to be subtle with the way his beady little eyes trail up your legs. “Room two. Full hour. This guy asked for you after watching your solo performance, so you better not disappoint him.”

You cram the rest of your money into the locker and snap it shut, trying not to give Gregory the satisfaction of seeing how irritated you are - at the way he thinks he owns this place and can enter a changing room without knocking, and especially at hearing you have to do another private room. For a full hour.

You don’t bother asking who the private room is with. You’re confident it’s one of the men who had convinced Silas to let you go on center stage tonight. A group of four or five sat as close as possible to the front, several familiar faces throwing bills at you every few seconds. Any given one of them looks like the type to drop six hundred dollars on an hour-long private room.

“Oh, I’ll try my hardest,” you breathe sarcastically. “Now can I have a second to freshen up? Alone?”

“Hurry,” Gregory snaps. “He’s waiting for you.”

You wait until the door clicks shut behind him to curse under your breath. Sometimes, you think you might hate Gregory as much as you hate Silas - if that’s even possible.

After reapplying your lipgloss and spritzing on a little more perfume, you reluctantly make your way to the private room where you’ll spend the next hour of your life.

At least once it’s over, it’ll be after midnight, which means the rest of the shift likely won’t be quite as busy, and you’ll be able to go home soon—

“Hi,” you chirp, slipping into the room with a forced smile and your best customer service voice. “I’m Soleil. Thanks so much for booking a room with me tonight. And what’s your na—”

You freeze as soon as you turn around from shutting the door behind you, the question dying on your tongue.

Not one of the men from the eager group that sat right next to the stage. You do recognize him, though. He too had stood close to the stage, by himself.

One of the men from the alley.

“Oh,” you quip, voice rising an octave. “You’re—”

“Pope,” he interrupts, and you’re thankful for it, because you didn’t really even know where you were going with that sentence. “My name is Pope.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Pope,” you smile, taking a tentative step closer to where he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Would you like to sit down?” You ask, gesturing towards the couch behind him.

He nods. You hover for a moment, giving him space as he lowers himself stiffly onto the couch. He looks around with uncertainty, like this entire process is completely unfamiliar to him and he isn’t sure what exactly he is supposed to say or do.

“Let me guess,” he starts, settling into the velvet couch. He runs his palms over jean fabric that conceals his bulky thighs. “Your name isn’t actually Soleil?”

You snort a laugh as you take a seat in the empty space beside him. You tuck your legs beneath you, one arm relaxing across the top of the couch, your hand coming to rest just behind his head. Instinctively, your fingers inch towards the base of his skull to toy with the reddish brown curls there, but you stop yourself at the last second, instead smoothing your fingertips over the soft, velvet material of the couch.

Normally, you wouldn’t hesitate to show physical affection for such high-paying clientele - that is what at least 95% of them are here for, anyway - but something about the way he stiffens at your sudden closeness makes you think twice before touching him.

“That depends,” you counter. “Is Pope actually your name?”

He turns his neck to look you in the eye - now close enough that you’re able to see his hazel irises and the light dusting of freckles across his skin.

Pretty, you think - even if he is the kind of man to spend an asinine amount of money on a nearly naked and complete stranger’s attention, you can’t deny that he’s pretty.

“No,” he says lowly. He pauses, swallowing. “Pope’s just a childhood nickname. My real name is Andrew.”

“Andrew,” you repeat with a slow nod. “And which would you prefer that I call you?”

A slight blush appears on the apples of his cheeks. “You can call me whatever you want to.”

It doesn’t really make a difference to you, considering you’ll likely never see him again after the hour he paid for comes to an end, but you can’t help but think the way he blushed when you said Andrew was oddly endearing.

“Well, Andrew,” you hum, “you are correct in assuming that my name is not really Soleil. That’s just the stage name I chose to go by.” You nod towards the sign on the opposite wall that spells Solstice in neon, cursive lettering. You give a small shrug. “I thought it pairs well with the name of the club. Soleil at Solstice.”

There’s something close to a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m sure you’re already aware that soleil means sun in French.”

Yes, you are aware of that, but you’re slightly surprised that he knows that. Most men that come here don’t know their left from their right.

“That it does,” you agree. “Kind of ironic, actually.”

His eyebrows pinch together a bit. “How so?”

Because there isn’t actually any sun in a place like this. A dark, dystopian fucking hellscape.

But you can’t say that, of course. God forbid you say anything even slightly negative about this place and word somehow gets back to Silas. That would be your third strike of the night, and he’d likely tack on an additional twenty grand to your father’s outstanding balance for the hell of it.

You instantly regret saying anything at all.

“Oh, nothing.” You shake your head in dismissal. “Just meant the only thing that’s bright here is the strobe lights.”

He stares at you for an extended moment before responding, his gaze heavy on you. “I wouldn’t say the only thing.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, your cheeks warming more than they should at the sentiment. It fills you with a bit of shame, really - the fact that you’d feel even slightly flustered over a vague compliment from a stranger paying for your company.

“So, Andrew…” you say, breaking the brief but loaded silence that had settled between you. “You paid for this room. What would you like to do in it?”

You dread what comes next. You always do. The kind of “dancing” that you hardly even consider dancing. The stripping, the touching. There’s supposed to be boundaries, of course, but most men think that if they’re paying then that gives them a right to cross them.

But private rooms are part of the job. Silas has made that clear from day one. He lets you perform your solo routines because they generate too much revenue to deny you the one part of the night that you don’t absolutely despise - but your sets last five, maybe ten minutes at most. Your shifts run about six hours. That leaves five hours and fifty minutes to keep the money flowing if you want to keep Silas appeased, which means doing every soul-sucking part of the job you hate: the floor dances, the private rooms, the mandatory mingling and endless flirting.

Every now and then, though, someone will book a private room and pleasantly surprise you.

“I just wanna talk,” Andrew says simply. “If that’s alright with you.”

You have to hold back the urge to sigh in relief. Talking you can do. And the fact that Andrew doesn’t reek of body odor and stout liquor like the majority of your customers makes the thought of conversing with him for the remainder of the next hour even less painful.

Six hundred dollars (well, significantly less once Silas takes his sixty percent cut…) and all you have to do is sit and talk to a decent looking man who isn’t belligerently drunk? You’ve had far worse nights.

“Of course,” you smile, and for once it isn’t completely forced. “You’re paying. If you want to talk, then we talk.”

Andrew is silent for a moment, as if he’s considering what to say next. His stare is unyielding, but not in the way that would normally make you cringe so hard that you risk breaking a tooth. Instead, it feels like he’s really looking at you. Not Soleil, but you.

“I watched your set earlier,” he says when he finally speaks. “That was very impressive. How long have you been dancing?”

Ah. Yes, you had noticed him towards the very front of the crowd when you finished your routine. He’d looked every bit as serious and solemn as he had when you first saw him in the alleyway earlier tonight.

“Dancing? Since I was four. Ballet, tap, jazz, lyrical…” You list off all of the weekly classes you remember taking throughout your childhood. “Pole dancing, though? About three years.”

Andrew looks surprised by the answer, his brows lifting slightly and hazel eyes widening. “Only three years? I would’ve thought a lot longer than that. Is that how long you’ve worked here, then?”

You nod, retracting your arm from where it had been resting behind his head now that it’s clear that - for whatever reason - Andrew is only interested in conversation. You let yourself relax a bit, relieved that you don’t have to put up the usual facade that makes most men swoon.

“Yeah, right at three years now. I practice a lot at home, though. I even got a pole for my apartment. If you work here, you’ve really gotta know your way around a pole, so…I’ve put in the hours.”

He looks impressed at that - or maybe surprised. Or maybe something else entirely. You aren’t sure. You can’t read his facial expressions or his body language nearly as easily as most of the men that enter this room.

“Wow,” Andrew hums with what appears to be a nod of approval. “That’s dedication. You must have really wanted to work here to put so much effort into learning such a specific skill.”

You barely manage to hold back a cackle at that. If he only fucking knew.

You give a half shrug, playing it off. “What can I say?” You sigh. “Guess I really needed the money.”

It’s the truth. Not the whole, disgusting, gritty truth, but it is accurate. As accurate as you can be without trauma dumping and jeopardizing your life…and your father’s.

Andrew nods, looking down at his hands splayed across the tops of his thighs. “Yeah. I get that. I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t made money in some unconventional ways.”

That piques your interest. “Oh? Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

He exhales a small laugh before bringing his eyes back to yours again. “As long as you promise not to tell anyone. If I tell you, it can’t leave this room.”

You make a motion with a hand across your mouth as if you’re zipping your lips and throwing away the key. “My lips are sealed. Pinky promise.” Then, for good measure, you hold out your pinky finger to him in offering.

He stares at your littlest finger for a long moment, the slightest hint of a smirk beginning to tug at the corners of his lips again before he finally lifts a hand of his own, pinky finger upright. He wraps the digit around yours, giving it a firm squeeze before slowly pulling away.

“Years ago,” Andrew starts, “I robbed a bank. It didn’t go as planned, and I spent a few years in prison for it.”

You blink, and wait for him to laugh, or say that he’s kidding. But then five, ten, fifteen seconds pass, and he’s still looking at you with the exact same unreadable expression.

“You robbed a bank?” You ask incredulously. “Jesus, I thought you were going to say that you sold pictures of your feet online or something.”

He doesn’t smile or flinch, just holds your gaze for a second longer. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t say that I’m proud of it, but I did.”

You know that your face must give away your surprise. His revelation should freak you out - if he’s capable of bank robbery, what else is this stranger capable of?

Maybe you’ve become somewhat desensitized to the concept of people going to extremes for money. Your dad. Silas. Even you. A few years ago, you never would have imagined that you’d be here right now. But you have your reasons, and you are. Even though it isn’t your first choice, you wouldn’t want anyone to judge you too harshly for doing what you feel you have to do.

You don’t know Andrew’s past. You have no idea what happened in his life that led him to make the decision to rob a bank. It probably wasn’t because he woke up bored one morning and decided that it sounded like a fun thing to do. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and you know that all too well.

“Well,” you huff a laugh, “I can’t say that I really blame you. I mean, I’d never be able to execute something like that, but it’s fun to fantasize about on occasion.”

“On occasion?” Andrew repeats in a low, curious tone. His brows lift in question. “Like when you’re here?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Please, if I was planning a bank robbery every time that I’m here, I would’ve been locked up years ago. But this place…” You trail off, searching for the right words for what you want to say but know you shouldn’t, “this place can get to you sometimes. Makes stupid ideas sound less stupid. No offense.”

Andrew makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a hum. “No offense taken.”

The rest of the hour drifts by far easier than you expect. Andrew tells you some stories from his time in prison, and about how he grew up not too far from here, in Oceanside. He talks about his siblings, looking down at his lap when he reveals that he’s a twin, but his twin sister, Julia, passed away somewhat recently. You try not to talk too much about yourself, but when he asks you questions, you answer as honestly as you can - telling him that you had been in your third year of college when you started working here, and that one day, when the time is right, you’d like to finish your degree.

By the time a knock sounds at the door signaling that the hour is up, you’re almost startled. It barely feels as if sixty minutes have passed.

“Huh,” you muse, rising from the couch as he does. “That went by a lot quicker than time usually does here.”

Andrew is silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face, still as serious as when you had first made eye contact with him in the alley. Then, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small envelope.

“Here,” he says quietly, holding out the envelope for you to take. “This is for you.” He pauses. “Just you. Not your boss.”

Your eyes shoot up to his in surprise. Not at the fact that he’s offering what you presume to be a tip, but at the last three words. Not your boss.

When your brain catches up, you accept the envelope, clutching it in both hands. “Thank you,” you murmur, trying to keep an even, neutral tone, though you’re sure your face betrays you. “It was, uh…it was nice to meet you, Andrew.”

He gives a small, polite smile as he takes a step towards the door. “It was nice to meet you, Soleil.”

Only when he reaches for the doorknob do you stop him by uttering a single word. He looks back over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised.

You repeat yourself once more. “That’s my name,” you clarify. “My real name.”

He says your name softly. Barely audible. As if just testing how it feels to say it. Then, with a slow nod, he turns the doorknob and exits the room without another word, leaving you staring after him.

Only after his footsteps fade down the hallway do you open the envelope and find that he has given you a thousand dollars.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“You’re joking, right?”

Jay’s voice fills the silence that had settled over Smurf’s living room following Pope’s suggestion.

“No,” Pope says, trying not to let impatience slip into his tone. “I’m not joking. I really think she would be willing to help us.”

The three men take turns looking at each other before turning their stares back to Pope.

“The stripper?” Craig snorts. “That’s your big idea? I mean, I love strippers as much as the next guy, but you can’t be serious right now.”

“It was technically Deran’s idea.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Deran pipes up.

“When we saw her in the alley,” Pope says, like it’s obvious. “You asked me if I think she hates her boss enough to help us rob him. The answer is yes. I think she does hate him that much. I think she hates that whole place that much.”

No, you hadn’t blatantly said so, but you didn’t need to. He could see it in your eyes, and hear it in your tone. It may as well have been written across your forehead.

“Jesus Christ, man, I wasn’t being serious.”

“Still,” Pope implores, “I spent an hour talking to her. It’s clear she doesn’t want to be there. And after what we witnessed in the alley? It wouldn’t surprise me if she doesn’t really have a choice in the matter.”

His brothers and nephew are silent again, exchanging glances amongst each other.

“She’s been there for three years,” Pope continues. “She knows the layout. She knows when Silas comes and goes. And I’m willing to bet she knows exactly where that safe is and how to get to it, too.”

“So she hates her job,” Craig shrugs. “Doesn’t mean she’s cool with risking a felony charge.”

Pope shakes his head. “She didn’t seem too put off when I told her that I’ve done time for armed robbery.”

All three voices erupt at once.

“You told her what?”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

“Dude, are you insane?”

“I wanted her to know that she can trust me,” Pope says simply. “And she reacted fine. More than fine. She seemed to understand.”

Jay clears his throat. “Look, if we do this, she can’t be a liability. She needs to know what she’s doing, and she needs to keep her mouth shut.”

“She will,” Pope says instantly. “I know she will.”

Deran squints. “How? You spent one hour with her. You don’t actually know her.”

Pope meets his eyes with an unblinking stare. “You think I’d risk all of our asses if I wasn’t sure? I know enough to know that I’m not wrong.”

Pope’s stare is locked on Craig. It’s his operation and therefore he gets the final say. If it were solely up to Jay, or even Deran, he wouldn’t think there’s a chance of getting them to agree. But Craig’s a little riskier than they are. If he thinks there’s even a slight chance that it’ll increase the odds of the job being a success, he’s likely to agree.

“Fuck it,” Craig finally mutters, shaking his head. “Fine. We’ll try it your way. But we aren’t sharing our cut with her. If she gets anything, it’s coming out of your share. I’m not sacrificing my payday because you have a crush on the stripper.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope knows a guy who knows a guy who somehow knows everything about everyone. And if that guy doesn’t know, he has ways of finding out.

Well, technically Smurf knew him, but Pope uses that connection to his advantage.

The information doesn’t come cheap, but Pope needed to know with absolute certainty before waltzing back into Solstice and asking you to help him rob your boss.

Except now he isn’t just asking for help pulling off the heist. He’s going to ask for help pulling off an execution, because he doesn’t just want Silas Leary’s money, he wants him dead.

It may have cost him three grand, but Pope now has confirmation that his suspicions were correct and somehow worse than he had thought. Not only are you essentially being trafficked, but you’re doing so because your life and your father’s are on the line.

Now he knows, without a doubt, just how desperate you must be for a way out. And even though he’s only met you one time, Pope wants to give you that way out.

If only you’ll be willing to take it.

Pope makes the hour and a half long drive from Oceanside to Los Angeles again the very next night without any confirmation that you would even be working, but it’s a chance he’s willing to take. Craig and the others want to get on with the job, and Pope wants to get you away from the likes of Silas Leary as quickly as possible.

He goes over it all in his head the entire drive to the club. Everything he knows about you, from what he had witnessed the moment he first saw you in the alley, to every word you said to him in the private room, to what the private investigator informed him of.

But that’s not all he thinks about. He also thinks about the way your pinky finger felt wrapped around his when you offered the symbolic gesture to keep his secret, and the intoxicating smell of your perfume that he had to fight the urge to inhale the entire hour that you sat beside him on that tiny couch. He thinks about how sweet it sounded to hear you say his name, his real name, and how it sounded even sweeter when you told him your real name.

Maybe Craig is right. Maybe he does have a crush. That’s the most logical explanation for why Pope suddenly no longer cares how much money he pulls from this job. There will always be another job - if he wanted to, he could rob another bank by himself next week. He cares more about getting you out of the unfortunate predicament you’re in, and ensuring that Silas can never bring harm to you or anyone else ever again.

When he arrives, it’s close to midnight and the club is packed. He can barely get through the dense crowd of dancers and patrons that occupy the main floor, his eyes carefully scanning the crowd as he makes his way to the bar, where he orders a beer to keep up appearances until he’s able to spot you.

He waits for over half an hour. He doesn’t move from his seat at the bar, where he has the perfect view of center stage, the main floor, and the doorway to the hallway that leads to the private room he shared with you last night.

Just observing it all is overstimulating. From the loud music that pulsates through Pope’s barstool, to the neon strobe lights that make his eyes throb, to the smell of bodies and liquor that hangs heavy in hot club air, he doesn’t know how you have done it for three years without losing your sanity. Even just sitting here, all Pope can think about are all of the germs on every surface of this place.

When you finally appear at the mouth of the small hallway that leads to the private rooms wearing a pale pink, ruffled bodysuit that looks like it was custom made for you, Pope momentarily forgets why he’s here.

He watches as your eyes flicker around the main floor of the club, as if you’re dreading stepping back into the chaos of it all. When you finally glance towards the bar, your gaze locks with his and Pope’s skin warms at the way your face lights up with surprise. He offers you a small smile and wave of his hand, and that’s all you need to walk the short distance to where he sits.

“Andrew,” you breathe, coming to stand next to where he sits. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“Soleil,” he greets, a teasing edge to his tone. He almost lets your real name slip out, but thinks better of it at the last second. He isn’t sure why you trusted him enough to let him know your real name after only an hour together, but he gets the feeling that isn’t something that you tell just anyone.

“I didn’t expect to be back so soon, but…” He trails off momentarily, glancing around the crowded room. There’s too many people. He has to speak too loudly in order for you to hear him over all of the voices and loud music, and he doesn’t want to risk anyone overhearing. “Are you busy right now?”

You shake your head. “No. I just finished up a private room. I’ve already done my solo set for the night. I was just going to walk around, make conversation with some regulars. Why? Are you…wanting a room?”

Pope can’t help but think you sound a little hopeful. But maybe that’s wishful thinking on his part. You are doing your job, after all.

“Yeah, I am,” he says, standing up beside you. “If you have time.”

You nod with a smile that reaches your eyes. “Of course.”

He follows as you lead him down the hallway, straight to the exact room that the two of you occupied last night. As he does, a terrifying thought occurs: you might say no. You might get scared, and deny everything, and refuse to help. You might tell him to get lost, and he doesn’t know where the hell that would leave him. But as he walks into the room after you, he swallows that thought down, and focuses on what he does know: you want to be here even less than he does.

“I’m really glad to see you,” you say as you shut the door behind him. “And I’m not just saying that because you tipped me a thousand dollars. Thank you, by the way. That was very generous of you.”

Pope takes a seat on the couch, the exact same spot he sat twenty-four hours ago, though he feels significantly more nervous now than he did then. “No need to thank me,” he murmurs. “I really enjoyed talking to you.”

You take a seat beside him, relaxing against the couch. “Is that why you came back? To talk more?”

He nods. “It is. If that’s okay with you.”

“More than okay with me. Is there anything in particular that you’d like to talk about tonight, Andrew?”

He hesitates for a second. He spent half the drive here rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to you to ensure that this would go as smoothly as possible, but now that he’s sitting beside you, he has forgotten how to string two words together.

He clears his throat slightly. “Can I ask you something?”

Your eyebrows twitch in curiosity. “Sure.”

“If you could walk out of this place tonight and never come back, would you?”

A small laugh escapes you, and you instantly drop his gaze, looking down at your hands in your lap instead. “That’s a hell of a question. You know, most people that get me alone in this room just ask me if I have a boyfriend or what my favorite position is.”

Pope watches you for a moment. “Well, I’m not most people.”

You look back up, your lips pursed. “No,” you agree quietly. “You’re definitely not.” You pause just long enough to make Pope wonder if you’re going to say anything else at all. “Yeah. I would. What makes you ask?”

He exhales slowly, only mildly surprised by your honesty. “I heard what happened in the alley yesterday.”

You’re visibly taken aback, your body going rigid and your eyes going wide, and he can understand why. In the entire hour you spent together last night, he didn’t bring up the incident in the alley. You probably assumed he hadn’t been able to hear what Silas had said, or that he at least hadn’t thought anything of it, but now here he is, bringing it up unprompted.

“Oh,” you start, your voice unnaturally high, “that was just—”

He cuts you off by shaking his head. “I’m not asking you to explain anything to me,” says lowly. “But I know who Silas is. That’s why me and my brothers came here last night. We were supposed to come here, get information, and leave.”

You don’t move as you stare at him in silence, either too stunned or too scared to speak. He continues so you don’t have to.

“But then I met you. And now I can’t just pretend I didn’t see that.”

You study him for a long moment. “What kind of information?”

“Remember when I told you that I did time in prison?”

Your eyebrows scrunch together before realization blooms across your face a fraction of a second later. Instinctively, you change your position on the small sofa, putting more space between the two of you. “Jesus,” you hiss. “You were going to rob—”

You don’t finish your sentence, looking from Pope, to the door just a few feet away, to a security camera in the corner of the room.

“You’re lucky that thing doesn’t have audio,” you spit under your breath.

Pope holds back a laugh. “I know it doesn’t have audio. I know what I’m doing.” He pauses, then offers a small, almost shy smile. “Most of the time.”

“Oh, most of the time?”

Pope shrugs. “Most of the time.”

You sigh, running a hand down your face as you look around the room again.

“Look,” you whisper, “I don’t care what you and your brothers do to Silas, but I can’t get involved.”

Pope doesn’t respond right away. He was expecting you to say something along those lines. But you aren’t screaming at him to get out, or running away to find a security guard, so he still feels hope.

He murmurs your real name for the first time since you had first told him what it is last night. It causes your expression to soften the tiniest bit, a glimpse of vulnerability appearing in your eyes.

“I know that he’s got something over you. And I swear I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

You purse your lips as you stare at him, as if searching for any sign that he could be lying to you.

“I know you don’t know me,” Pope adds delicately. “I wouldn’t blame you for not trusting me. I’m just asking you to hear me out.”

Another beat of loaded silence. “Okay,” you say, barely audible. “But we can’t talk about this here. It’s too risky.” You nod towards the door. “I don’t get off until three.”

“That’s okay,” Pope says, and he hopes that his relief isn’t too evident in his tone. “I can wait.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

When you first noticed Andrew sitting at the bar, grinning as if just waiting for you to walk in the room, you would’ve assumed that would be the most surprising thing to happen to you tonight.

That assumption proved to be dead wrong, because five minutes later, he revealed that he’s planning to rob your boss.

(Correction: he’s planning to rob him, and knows that he’s a huge piece of shit who is blackmailing you).

The surprises don’t stop there, though. Next, you surprise yourself by inviting a practical stranger into your home.

Your self-preservation skills have always been lacking. That was evident the day that you willingly agreed to work for Silas to help pay off your dad’s debt instead of fleeing the state of California and never looking back.

But this might just break the record for most reckless and foolhardy thing you’ve ever done.

Andrew waits for you in the parking garage down the block from the club until you get off just after three o’clock in the morning. Your body is exhausted, but your mind has never been more awake as you drive back to your apartment with him tailing you in his truck.

Your thoughts reel with all of the ways that this could go disastrously wrong.

You do not actually know this man. You’ve spent less than a collective two hours with him. Your gut tells you that he’s being honest, but is it worth the risk? He’s a bank robber. A convicted felon, who apparently comes from a crime family. Is it possible that you could just be trading one Silas for another? Andrew claims he can help you, but how? And at what cost?

Moments after you arrive at your apartment, Andrew pulls into the parking spot directly next to yours and then follows you wordlessly to your unit.

You have every intention of telling him to make himself comfortable on your couch and offering him fresh coffee. It is well after three o’clock in the morning - most people who don’t work the nightshift would be asleep at this time. But as soon as your front door clicks shut, you suddenly forget all pleasantries.

“You said that you know he’s got something over me.” You stand before Andrew in your small kitchen, looking him dead in the eye. “How much do you know, exactly?”

He meets your gaze with an equally level stare. It isn’t harsh, but it is hard for you to read. You’re quickly learning that to be the norm with Andrew. Difficult to read.

“I know enough,” Andrew says calmly. “I know Silas is a loan shark. I know you’re working for him to pay back money that you didn’t borrow.”

You nod slowly, dropping your gaze to the floor as you lean against your kitchen counter. “And how do you think you can help me with that, exactly?” You glance back up. “Don’t get me wrong, I would love to believe you, but I just don’t see how you and your brothers robbing the guy magically frees me of him. I mean, if he were to find out that it was you, and that I’ve even talked you outside of the club, he would—”

“He wouldn’t find out,” Andrew cuts you off, voice even and low. “I would make sure of that.”

“How?” You take a step towards him without thinking, your hands clasped in front of you. “How would you make sure of that? If you know why I’m working for Silas, then I’m assuming you know about my father. It isn’t just my life on the line here, Andrew.”

His hazel eyes soften at that. “I do know about your father. I also know there’s a lot of people stuck in situations like you and your father, because of Silas. A lot of people who would all be better off if Silas…wasn’t around anymore.”

Your eyebrows lift halfway up your forehead. “Wasn’t around anymore?” You echo. As soon as they leave your lips, the implication becomes clear.

Wasn’t around anymore. Gone. Deleted. Erased.

Andrew doesn’t verbalize a response. He just watches you from where he stands an arm’s length away and waits for you to process what he’s telling you.

That he’s offering to kill Silas. Or have him killed. You don’t really know. There’s a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears that’s making it impossible to think clearly.

You finally manage to get two words out. “You’re serious.”

It isn’t posed as a question.

“I am,” Andrew says simply. “If you want me to be.”

You snort at that, because what the fuck are you supposed to say? “Yeah, off with his head!” and “oh no, please don’t hurt him!” somehow feel equally wrong.

You look to the floor again. And then around the room. To your houseplants that need watered, and then to last night’s dishes that still need to be put in the dishwasher. Anywhere but Andrew’s intense, unyielding honey colored stare that you could probably get lost in if it weren’t for the bizarre circumstances for which he is in your apartment right now.

Finally, you exhale. “I think…I want some coffee.” You turn to the espresso machine behind you, and then glance at Andrew over your shoulder. “What about you?”

He looks surprised for a split-second, then nods. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

Upon your invitation, Andrew takes a stiff seat on your couch while you use the few minutes that it takes you to brew and prepare the drinks to attempt to process what the fuck has transpired since the two of you entered your apartment.

It does little good. You still have just as many questions as you did on the drive home. Even more now. Andrew is offering to kill for you? Has he killed before? Was he really in prison for bank robbery? Or was it something else? Should you be trying to secretly dial 911 on your watch right now?

Probably. If you were smart. But you’re not smart. You’re desperate, and Andrew might just be offering you a way out on a silver platter.

Although it could come back to bite you in the ass, right now, you’re willing to be an open book. You meant what you had said to Andrew at the club tonight - you don’t care what he and his brothers do to Silas. Rob him, or worse…he deserves it. And after the hell he has put you, and your father, through these last three years, you have very little hesitation helping Silas get his karma.

“Hypothetically,” you start, sitting down on your small loveseat directly across the table from him. “Let’s say I agree to this…walk me through it. How would you and your brothers…go about this? What would you need from me? And what about…afterwards? What would I owe you?”

The questions pour out of you faster than you can stop them.

Andrew’s brows scrunch together. “You wouldn’t owe me anything,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’m not Silas. I just want to help you. And if you have any information that could potentially help us, then that would be great, but if not…I still want to do whatever I can to get you out of this mess.”

He says every word so sincerely that it makes you feel silly for even thinking otherwise.

Of course he isn’t Silas. You might not know Andrew very well, but you know that he isn’t Silas. Silas takes what he wants with zero regard for anyone but himself. Andrew has given you every opportunity to express discomfort, to change your mind, to tell him to fuck off. Even now, if you told him to get lost and never contact you again, you don’t doubt that he’d honor your wishes.

Andrew stares so heavy that you swear he can see right through you. His voice is low and steady when he speaks again. “You don’t deserve what Silas is doing to you. But he does deserve what’s coming to him.”

You don’t know if the next words out of your mouth mean that you’re crazy, or just desperate.

“What kind of information do you need?”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope didn’t want to leave you in Los Angeles, but he had to come back home to Oceanside to work out all of the details of the heist with his brothers.

He knows you’re capable of taking care of yourself. You’ve been doing it for years. You don’t need a man that you met two days ago playing bodyguard. But he’d be lying if he said that the thought of you working even one more shift at Solstice, or the thought of you being in close proximity to Silas, or the thought of a random sleazebag laying so much as a finger on you in that place doesn’t make his blood burn white-hot.

He takes comfort in knowing that after tonight, you only have to step foot into that place one more time. And that time, he will be there, too.

Still, he hates knowing that as he sits on his couch in Oceanside, you’re at the club in LA. Pope had suggested that you call out tonight, but you had shot that idea down quickly. You explained that you always work Sunday nights, and you didn’t want to risk drawing any negative attention to yourself before the heist that is now planned for this upcoming Friday night.

Currently, it is 3:46 in the morning, and Pope is wide awake, even though he shouldn’t be, and thinking of you, even though he probably shouldn’t be doing that, either. He wonders if you’ve made it home from work yet, and if your shift went okay or if Silas was there tonight…and he subconsciously grits his teeth at the thought of that.

He manages to hold out until 3:58 before he finds your name in the recently added section of his contacts and presses call.

You answer just after the first ring.

“Andrew,” Your voice pours from his speaker softly, slightly hoarse. “Is everything okay?”

Right away, he’s relieved at the lack of background noise. No music blasting and no drunk frat guys yelling over it. No car horns honking or sirens wailing. It’s safe to assume that you have made it home already.

“Everything’s fine,” he answers. “I just wanted to make sure you got home safely. See how your shift went.”

You exhale a hum of soft laughter. “Just walked through the door a few minutes ago. Work was busy. Really busy for a Sunday night. I’m glad it’s over. Almost.”

“Almost,” he agrees. “At least you’re off for the next few days. The next time you step foot in that place, it’ll be the last.”

There’s a brief pause before you speak. “As long as everything goes according to plan,” you murmur, and Pope can hear the nerves in your voice.

“It will,” he assures you. “Let us worry about that, alright? You just try to relax in the meantime.”

You snort. “Easier said than done.”

“Keep yourself busy so you don’t think about it too much,” Pope suggests lightly. “Do you have any plans this week?”

“Not really,” you grumble. “Los Angeles isn’t really my scene. I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for…” You trail off momentarily. You don’t have to finish the sentence. “Anyway. I go to work, I go home, and sometimes I go to the beach. That’s about it.”

“You like the beach?”

“I do,” you hum. “It’s one of the very few things I like about living here. My apartment is only about a twenty minute drive from Venice Beach. Well, really more like forty with all of the traffic…”

Pope is silent for a moment. During those few seconds of silence, he can hear waves crash against the shore just beyond the front door of the small beachfront house. If he were to step outside and walk mere yards, his feet would touch sand. He can glance out of the window in front of him and see moonlight dance across the water. There’s nothing separating him from the ocean but the walls of the house.

“I live right on the beach, you know,” Pope says, going for casual but probably failing. “The beach is my front yard.”

“Really?” You chirp. “God, that must be nice. I mean, you saw where I live in LA. Just about anywhere beats this shitty apartment, and the shitty traffic, and all of the endless noise, but living on the beach? I can only imagine how peaceful that is.”

There’s an idea forming in Pope’s mind, and he knows it’s irrational and naive, but he has already offered to kill for you after knowing you for one day, so how crazy could anything else really be?

“You ever been to Oceanside?”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Against your better judgment, later that day you drive to Oceanside with the address Andrew sent you typed into your GPS.

You almost turn around at least a dozen times.

You don’t want to turn around, but what little common sense you possess nearly convinces you to do so. What would you say if one of your coworkers told you that they have packed a bag and are going to stay with a mysterious man who booked a private room with them only forty-eight hours ago, tipped them a thousand dollars, came back the very next night, and revealed that he’s planning to both rob and kill your boss?

You would tell them that the next time you see them, it’s going to be on a missing person’s poster or a Dateline episode.

Yet here you are. Doing exactly that. Because for reasons you do not fully understand, Andrew makes you feel safe. Maybe you’re just so used to feeling unsafe that true safety has become a foreign concept to you. Maybe your judgment is clouded. But when he told you that he has a spare room and offered it to you for the days leading up to the heist, it hardly took any convincing for you to say yes.

Now, less than twelve hours later, with only a duffel bag in your passenger seat stuffed full of beach attire and toiletries, you’re driving to him.

Andrew had offered to come get you, too. And even though you ultimately insisted that you were fine with driving yourself to Oceanside, you can’t deny that the offer made your whole body feel irrationally warm and fuzzy - the fact that he’d be willing to make a third trip to Los Angeles in the last three days because you had made an off handed comment about your distaste for LA traffic.

You’re excited. Not only to get away from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles for a few days, but also to see Andrew again. This time not inside a private room at Solstice or in your tiny apartment at four o’clock in the morning. You’re eager to get a feel for who he really is outside of the club environment, to see how he is when he’s somewhere that he’s comfortable, to learn about the man who has done nothing but surprise you time and time again since you met him only days ago.

When your car’s GPS announces your arrival, you don’t have to question whether or not you’re at the right place. He’s waiting for you on the front porch.

Like every time that you have seen him so far, he wears a short sleeve button-up shirt and a grave expression that would make you question if he’s actually glad to see you if it weren’t for the fact that he wastes no time trotting down the porch steps to greet you at your car.

He opens your door for you before you have the chance.

“You weren’t exaggerating when you said that the beach is your front yard,” you laugh, grabbing your duffel bag from your passenger seat that Andrew immediately reaches to take from you. “If you were any closer, you’d be in the water.”

When you stand up, Andrew shuts your door behind you and then rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, his cheeks flushing slightly. It dawns on you that this is the first time that you’ve seen him in the daylight. Before now, you’ve only seen him in the neon fluorescents of the club and the low lighting of your apartment in the middle of the night. But now, in broad daylight without so much as a cloud in the sky, you feel like you’re really seeing him for the first time.

You already knew he has freckles, but now you could count every single one, if you wanted to. You knew that his eyes were hazel, but now you can see the tiny flecks of gold around his irises. And you thought that he was pretty the very first time you saw him in the alley, but you can’t help but think he’s even prettier in the sunlight.

“I may have said that to make you want to come,” he admits sheepishly. “But it wasn’t a lie.”

Your own face warms at the admission. “Well, clearly it worked. I came.”

Andrew’s mouth upturns slightly at the corners, his eyes crinkling around them. “Come on,” he nods towards the house. “I’ll show you around.”

The place is relatively small - a single story two bedroom, but in comparison to your studio apartment, it feels like a castle. And it’s clean. Spotless, actually. You hadn’t been expecting a pigsty by any means, but the exceptional tidiness is still a pleasant surprise. There’s not a decorative pillow out of place or so much as a dirty dish in the sink.

He carries your bag to the doorway of the first bedroom and lets you enter before him.

“This is the, uh…” Andrew trails off for a fraction of a second, searching for words, “This is the guest room. All yours while you’re here.”

You take in the appearance of the small room. Like the common areas of the house, it’s clean, but there’s certain characteristics that stand out to you. A pastel pink, floral comforter. A stack of children’s books on the dresser. A handful of small clothes hangers in an otherwise empty closet, and a ladder of pencil markings on the wall right beside it. At first, they look like random scratches in the paint, but as you take a step closer, you realize that they are height measurements. Each spaced a few inches apart, with dates scribbled next to each line. Some of the handwriting appears more feminine, whereas the more recent markings seem childlike.

You glance at Andrew over your shoulder, where he still stands in the doorway, watching you. “Do you…have children?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.

His gaze shifts past you, to the pencil markings in the far corner of the room. “No, I don’t,” he answers, a hint of melancholy in the words. “This room was my niece’s, but she doesn’t live here anymore. I just…can’t bring myself to erase it.”

Judging by his tone and dejected expression, he doesn’t seem particularly eager to talk about the subject, so you don’t press it any further, instead locking the information away with everything else you’ve learned about him in the last few days.

His childhood nickname is Pope. He had a twin sister named Julia. He drinks his coffee black. He has a niece, and as of last summer, she was approximately 45 inches tall. He did time in prison for armed robbery, and he’s prepared to kill someone for a woman he barely knows.

You offer a small nod. “Well, it’s a really nice place. Thank you, again. For inviting me. You have no idea how glad I am to be away from LA, even for a few days.”

Andrew’s expression softens. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, voice calm in a way that you’re quickly growing to find very comforting. “I’m happy that you’re here.”

You plop down on the edge of the mattress and grin up at him. “So, what’s the plan for today? You gonna show me around Oceanside?”

“I was planning on it.” He leans against the doorframe, his thumbs in his pockets as he smirks at you. “We can do whatever you want. Go to the beach, the pier, just ride around. We do need to go to the grocery store at some point so I can grab some things for dinner.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise. “We can do whatever I want and you’re going to make me dinner? You’re quite the host, Andrew.”

He blushes at that, the apples of his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. The thought crosses your mind right then and there - you would never in a million years guess that he’s capable of doing what he plans to do later this week just by looking at him. This blushing, thoughtful man who has been nothing but respectful and considerate of you since the moment you met. He’s going to put a permanent end to the problem that has plagued you for years?

There’s more than one side to people, clearly. But that doesn’t bother you. Not in the slightest. In fact, you’re interested in getting to know every side of Andrew Cody. The soft-spoken version of him standing before you, and the version of him capable of the kind of violence you’ve only ever let yourself fantasize about.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Oceanside is - quite literally - a breath of fresh air compared to Los Angeles.

It isn’t exactly a small town, but it feels like one by comparison. There’s less people, less noise, less traffic, less smells. The ocean is five minutes away no matter where you go.

Los Angeles may be less than a two hour drive from Oceanside, but it feels like it’s worlds away. You feel like you can actually fucking breathe here.

By the end of your very first day here, you dread ever returning to LA. To Solstice (even for just one more shift). To your cramped, overpriced studio apartment that you’ve tried your hardest to make feel like home but never really has.

But here? Oceanside? Even just a few hours after your arrival, you can tell that this is a place that could easily start to feel like home to you. Partially due to the relaxed nature of the beach town, and partially due to the curly-haired man who is currently cooking you dinner as you watch from across the kitchen bar.

“Whatcha gonna make for dinner?” You ask as Andrew pulls into the grocery store parking lot.

He puts the truck in park and unbuckles his seatbelt before turning slightly to face you. “That depends entirely on what you’d like to eat.”

You had tried to insist that you were fine with whatever, but Andrew is quite convincing when he wants to be. He had refused to leave the grocery store until you told him what to make for dinner. Not wanting to be an inconvenience, or high maintenance, or too picky, you suggested the first relatively simple and inexpensive meal that you could think of on the spot.

Now, you sit across the counter from him, watching as he cooks fettuccine alfredo for the both of you.

As hard as you try not to let your eyes wander, you can’t stop yourself. Andrew seems oblivious, and if he notices he doesn’t say anything, but your eyes are drawn to his broad shoulders, thick arms, and bulky chest. His curls are wind-blown and skin sun-kissed from an afternoon spent walking on the beach near his house, making his freckles more visible than ever.

He catches you smirking at him as he’s plating up the food. A bashful grin appears on his face. “What is it?”

You shake your head with a small shrug. “Nothing. You’re just…not at all what I thought you’d be when we first met.”

Andrew’s eyebrows arch slightly. “You mean the kind of guy that normally books private rooms with you at the club?”

You snort a laugh. “Yeah, something like that.” You pause, grinning. “I mean, obviously most of them don’t recruit me to help them rob my boss…” Andrew chuckles lowly at that. “But they also don’t cook me Italian food and let me stay at their beach house.”

“What can I say?” Andrew slides your plate across the counter. “I’m full of surprises.”

You can’t disagree with that.

Andrew takes a seat beside you and the meal is eaten in companionable silence for the most part, giving your thoughts time to stray to all of the things that you have tried your hardest not to dwell on too much since you arrived here today.

You’ve tried not to think about what’s to come at the end of the week, and all of the ways that it could go disastrously wrong. As hard as you try to think positively, you can’t help but worry about someone getting hurt. Andrew, or one of his brothers, or a random dancer at the club who somehow gets caught in the crosshairs, or even yourself. Your brain conjures worst case scenarios, causing visions of anyone other than Silas dying to replay on a loop until you snap yourself out of it.

But with Andrew sitting next to you, it’s a little easier to silence those scary thoughts and replace them with better ones. Like maybe, just maybe, if this whole operation doesn’t go to shit, there could be more moments like this.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Pope isn’t particularly eager for you to meet his family, but he knows it’s bound to happen sooner or later. Especially if he hopes to maintain a regular presence in your life once this week is over.

He doesn’t expect you to want the same, but he does hope.

So, on your second day in Oceanside, he bites the bullet and drives you both to the family home after asking his brothers and nephew to meet there to go over everything for the heist a final time.

You assure him you don’t mind, but you’ve never met his family before. He’s slightly comforted by the fact that he never has to worry about you meeting Smurf, but there’s still Deran and Craig, who act like teenagers more than half the time.

“Look,” Pope stops you with a gentle hand on your arm before he reaches for the front door, “If they say anything inappropriate, or weird, just ignore them. They’re children. We’re just here to go over the plan and then we’ll leave, I promise.”

You exhale a laugh. “I can assure you that I’m used to inappropriate and weird, Andrew. They cannot possibly be any worse than the men that I have dealt with on a regular basis the last three years.”

He hesitates a moment, his hand still on your arm as he watches for any sign of reluctance, but you give none. Grudgingly, Pope opens the door and lets you enter before him.

Inside, there’s less noise than Pope expects, and it gives him the tiniest bit of hope that everyone will be on their best behavior. He leads you through the house, where the two of you find Craig, Deran, and Jay already gathered in the living room.

All three pairs of eyes immediately land on you as soon as you and Pope enter the room.

“Holy shit,” Craig laughs. “She actually exists.”

Deran snorts. “I told you she does.”

“Still,” Craig shrugs. “I didn’t believe that she would actually be willing to hear Pope out and not immediately run screaming to the cops.” He stands then, walking the short distance to where you stand beside Pope, extending a hand to you in offering. “Craig, by the way.”

“Ah,” you sigh, briefly shaking his hand. “The mastermind behind this operation, I hear.”

Craig winks, clicking his tongue. “You’ve heard correctly.”

Jay and Deran then introduce themselves, clarity blooming on your face as you recognize Deran from the brief encounter in the alley. You’re perfectly friendly, but the tension in your shoulders and the way that you clasp your hands in front of you doesn’t go unnoticed by Pope.

He can’t blame you for being nervous. You are in a room full of criminals, all of whom are strangers to you - himself included - to plot not only the financial but also physical demise of the man who has made your life hell for years.

Anyone sane would be nervous. But it speaks volume to Pope how much trust you’re putting in him (and how desperate you must be for any chance at freedom, no matter how risky it may be).

With a featherlight hand on the small of your back, Pope nods to an empty section on the couch for you to take a seat. He sits directly beside you, just close enough for the side of your thigh to brush against his.

Craig immediately launches into the logistics of the plan for Friday night. Jay is to disable all security cameras inside and around the perimeter of the club, and then waits with the getaway car. After the cameras have been disabled, Craig, Deran, and Pope will all enter through the basement. Once they are in the safe room, Pope is to signal to you through a discreet communication device that you’ll wear in your ear.

“…and then you’ll tell your creepy floor manager…”

“Gregory.”

“Gregory,” Craig repeats, “that you saw a customer open the basement door and go downstairs. But only if you know that Silas is distracted at the time. We don’t want Silas coming down before we make Gregory open the safe.”

“Right,” you nod. “So then Gregory opens the safe, Deran takes the money and leaves, you and Andrew make Gregory call for Silas to come downstairs, and then…?”

“And then Craig and I take care of the rest,” Pope answers simply. He doesn’t want you worrying about the specifics as to what happens once Silas enters the basement. The less you know at that point, the better. “Whatever you do, you stay upstairs. Finish your shift just like you would any other night. By the time you get off, it’ll all be finished.”

You’re silent for a moment, glancing around at each of the men in the room before you turn your head just enough to look Pope in the eyes. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do to help? Kinda feel like I’m not really pulling my weight here.”

“We’re sure,” Pope says before any of the others have a chance to speak up, his tone final, leaving no room for objection. “Between the information you’ve given us and what you’ll say to Gregory, you’ve done more than enough.”

You glance down to where your hands are interlocked in your lap. Then, in a smaller voice with a humorless laugh, “Enough for you to kill a man for me? To risk going back to prison?”

The question makes him forget that the two of you are in a room with three other men. He instinctively reaches out, placing a hand on top of both of yours. Your eyes dart down in surprise to where his hand rests on yours and a thick silence settles over the room before Pope slowly retracts his hand before answering you with absolute resolution.

“Yes,” he implores. “I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again. You don’t have to do anything to earn this. I’m offering. Because I want to.”

He wants to for you. Since the moment he first saw you in that alley and he stood and watched as Silas grabbed you by the arm, a part of him has wanted to ensure that Silas never touches you again. That desire has only grown stronger since meeting you, talking to you, and getting to know you these last few days. The only thing that could possibly stop him from sending Silas to an early grave is if you personally begged him not to, and even then, Pope would still want to with every fiber of his being.

You stare at Pope, pursing your lips, and he halfway expects you to argue. But he doesn’t drop your gaze, doesn’t even blink, and eventually you exhale a shaky breath.

“Let’s do this, then.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“You nervous about tomorrow?”

You’re hardly able to make out the words over the crashing of waves against the shore and the squawking of a seagull just a few yards away from where you and Andrew sit on the beach.

You turn your gaze away from the sun that has started to set over the Pacific Ocean to find that Andrew is already looking at you.

“Of course,” you admit with a breathy laugh. “Are you nervous?”

Andrew lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, looking back out to the water. “We’ve pulled off more complicated jobs than this before. Not too long ago we infiltrated a military base. A strip club is nothing compared to that.”

Your eyes widen in surprise, as they tend to do anytime you’re learning new information about the man sitting beside you. “A military base?” You echo in disbelief. “Jesus. How exactly did you guys even get into this kind of thing, anyway?”

Robbing banks. Offering to kill a man for a woman he’s only just met. And apparently, infiltrating military bases. That kind of thing. The kind of thing that should send you running in the opposite direction but for some reason makes you want to lean in closer.

Andrew shakes his head, a quick snort of laughter escaping him. “Our mother,” he answers. “She taught us everything we know. I’ve been doing this since Craig and Deran were still in diapers.”

“Jesus,” you mumble. You don’t know the exact age difference between Andrew and his brothers, but he can’t possibly be all that much older than them. He was just a kid. “And you…enjoy it?”

Andrew thinks about it for a moment, leaning back with his palms pressed into the sand. “I wouldn’t say that enjoy is the right word. It’s just all that I’ve ever known.”

You nod slowly, contemplating the words. This lifestyle is his baseline for normal. If you struggle to remember what life was like before you got dragged into working at Solstice only a few years ago, you can only imagine the complex feelings that come with being groomed into an entire lifetime of crime.

“Have you ever thought about what else you would do?” You ask hesitantly. “If you weren’t doing this?”

Again, he doesn’t answer right away. You watch as his eyes narrow in thought, his stare locked on the pink and orange horizon ahead of you. “I’ve thought about it,” he murmurs, a hint of restrained emotion in his tone. “Never for long enough to act on it, but…maybe I’d open a skatepark. Eventually settle down, start a family of my own.”

“Really?” You can’t hide the surprise from your voice. You aren’t quite sure why the answer surprises you as much as it does - you did literally just meet this man less than a week ago, but you didn’t exactly peg him to be the chasing toddlers, Pee-wee soccer game on a Saturday morning kind of guy. “You want to have kids?”

“Maybe one or two,” he shrugs. “I probably won’t, though. It’s just something I like to think about sometimes.” He pauses. “What about you? What are you gonna do when this is all over?”

That’s a question that you’ve been asking yourself for years. Up until now, it has only felt like a distant fantasy. Even now, you’re trying not to get your hopes up too high for fear that it won’t work out. That things will take a turn for the worst. That someone will get hurt, that Silas will somehow get away and find out what you’ve tried to do. Even with freedom almost close enough to touch, you won’t let yourself believe it’s yours until you’re actually holding it in your hand…and until you are, it’s difficult to imagine what life could possibly look like.

You exhale. “I’ll probably start by visiting my dad. I haven’t seen him in a while. I wanna let him know that me and him are gonna be okay. And then…” You trail off momentarily, “and then I’m gonna get the fuck out of LA. Maybe go back to school eventually,” you shrug. “I guess I haven’t let myself think about it too much either.”

Andrew hums in thought at the response. Then, he sits up straight, pulling his knees awkwardly to his chest and looking at you with the same serious expression that you’re no closer to being able to read than you were the night you first met him.

“You’re always welcome here. If you need a place to stay while you figure out what you wanna do.”

The offer warms you more than the evening California sun. Not only the words, but the way you can’t help but think he sounds nervous, and maybe a little hopeful, when he speaks them.

And because you don’t know how to express your gratitude in words, you place your head on his shoulder, instead. He tenses in surprise for a fraction of a second, then relaxes into the embrace, nuzzling the side of his cheek against the top of your head.

“I do like it here,” you hum. I like you, too, you think to yourself. “I might have to take you up on that.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“Cameras are officially offline. Soleil, if you can hear me, cough two times.”

Jay’s voice pours through the tiny communication device that Andrew had helped place in your ear only an hour ago. You’re able to make out Jay’s words, but they’re muffled, as the club is already extremely busy tonight - which you’re far more grateful for than you usually would be. Tonight, the more noise, the better. Boisterous laughs and obnoxiously loud music means that patrons and dancers are less likely to hear anything out of the ordinary.

As inconspicuously as possible, you raise your arm and cough twice into your elbow.

“Good,” Jay replies. “Everyone keep to the plan. Pope, let us know when you guys are in.”

The line then goes silent, leaving you to attempt to act calm, cool and collected for however long it takes Andrew, Craig and Deran to get into the basement and then the safe room without being caught.

You haven’t even been here for an hour yet, and you already feel the need to reapply deodorant due to the intense nervous sweats that you’re currently experiencing. You’ve already been to the bathroom twice because your stomach is so tied in knots that you are convinced you’re going to get sick.

Maybe you should have listened to Andrew and called out tonight. He had tried to assure that they would find a way to make everything work without you there, but you stubbornly insisted on helping.

What if your anxiety gets the best of you and you get sick on center stage tonight? What if someone notices how antsy you are? What if your earpiece falls out while dancing?

Oh, that’s just a hearing aid. I somehow went partially deaf in the last few days.

It doesn’t help that Silas is exceptionally irritable tonight, barking at every dancer and employee for every little thing. You spend the first part of the night maintaining as much distance between yourself and him as you possibly can while also keeping a careful eye on him. It’s sheer dumb luck that no one requests a private room with you during the first hour of the night so you’re able to monitor both Silas and Gregory from a reasonable distance while simultaneously conversing with customers.

And, if you were having any second thoughts about playing a part in Silas’ demise, those go out the window the minute that he approaches you that night.

You’re standing at the bar, waiting on some drinks for a table you have been entertaining, when he eases up beside you. Call it a sixth sense, but the way that your skin crawls at the sudden presence tells you it’s him before you even glance over.

“Enjoy your days off?” Silas asks, voice low enough for only you to hear. You cut your eyes in his direction to find him smirking at you, the look in his eyes making it clear that he isn’t just making friendly conversation.

“I did,” you answer shortly, eyeing the bartender to see where she’s at with the Jack and cokes. Not that it’s any of your concern, you bite back.

Silas hums, swirling the ice in his glass. “I’m glad to see you tonight, you know. I was starting to worry that maybe you skipped town.”

Your hands clutch the edge of the bar to steady yourself, your stomach sinking. He doesn’t know. There’s no way that he knows. How would he know?

“Am I not allowed to go out of town for a few days when I’m not working?” You snort, trying to play it off, hoping your horror isn’t displayed across your face. You don’t deny it, because if he’s bringing it up, then he already knows. You just don’t know how much he knows. “I have to run my vacation plans by you now?”

A low chuckle escapes him as he takes a slow sip of his drink. “What’s in Oceanside, anyway?”

Fucking hell.

Just as the last word leaves his lips, and the room around you seems to freeze, the bartender slides the tray of drinks across the counter to you. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to pick it up. You’re vaguely aware of Andrew whispering your name in your ear, his voice panicked, but you can’t respond yet.

“The ocean,” you spit, turning around and walking away with the drinks before Silas can say another word.

When you’re halfway across the room, Andrew’s voice pours through the communication device again.

“Are you okay? What the hell was that?”

You still don’t risk responding. You drop the drinks off at the table with exaggerated pleasantries and quickly excuse yourself before the men have a chance to drag you into whatever it is they’re now animatedly conversing about. A fleeting glance in the direction of the bar lets you know that Silas is now occupied by a customer, and only after confirming that his attention is no longer on you, do you take off in the direction of the employee bathroom and lock the door behind you.

“Andrew?” You hiss under your breath. “How much of that did you hear?”

“All of it,” Andrew answers right away. “How the hell does he know?”

“I have no idea,” you whisper, sitting down on the closed toilet. Now that you’re alone and can begin to process what the hell just happened, your heart is racing and your body is shaking and you’ll be lucky to walk back out of this room without collapsing. “I haven’t told anyone about my trip to Oceanside. He must have someone keeping tabs on me when I’m not here.”

The realization makes bile churn in your gut. He’s watching you. Even when you’re not here, he’s watching. He knows when you come and when you go, and he knows where you go. Who fucking knows how many times he’s had someone spying on you when you were just buying groceries or getting your nails done or—

“Breathe,” Andrew says, somehow able to detect your panic without even seeing you. “He’s just trying to scare you. He might know that you went to Oceanside, but he doesn’t know our plan. This doesn’t change anything, okay? We’re already in. We’re doing this. And you won’t have to worry about him anymore after tonight.”

You inhale, then exhale, then repeat, trying your hardest to convince yourself that what he’s saying is true. You know he believes it, and you trust that he wouldn’t lie to you, but right now the small amount of self-preservation that you possess is screaming at you to abandon ship.

But then you think of Andrew, in the basement, only one floor separating you from him. You think of all he’s risking by what he’ll do for you tonight. You think of your time spent together in Oceanside, and how you long for more, and how that isn’t a possibility unless you leave this bathroom and do what you came here to do.

One more deep breath. “Okay,” you exhale. “Okay, I’m okay.” It sounds like you’re trying to assure yourself as much as you are him.

“Good,” Andrew encourages softly. “We’re in the safe room now. No sign of anyone down here. I need you to get Gregory to come downstairs now, okay? Remember the plan?”

Even though he can’t see you, you nod. “I remember.”

Just in case someone is standing outside the door, you flush the toilet and turn the sink on momentarily for the sake of keeping up appearances as you take in your own appearance. Your makeup is slightly patchy from beads of sweat that have gathered on your forehead, but all things considered, you look normal enough.

You pause with your hand on the bathroom doorknob, taking one last, steadying breath before reentering the main floor of the club. A large group of men are huddled around center stage as another popular dancer performs her solo set, and sensuous music blasts loudly through the room.

Silas has moved from his seat at the bar, relocating to a far corner where he sits conversing with a table of regulars with his back to you. Good. And as for Gregory….

Gregory stands next to one of the newest dancers, who currently looks as if she’s being held hostage by whatever Gregory is saying to her.

Now or never, you suppose, forcing one foot in front of the other as you walk across the room.

“Hey, Angel,” you greet her with a cheerful voice and smile, hoping it sounds genuine. “There’s a guy at the bar asking for a private dance with you. I told him I’d send you over.”

Right away, she looks relieved to be freed from her conversation with Gregory. “Thanks,” she breathes before heading in the direction of the bar.

Gregory starts to walk off - knowing that you won’t engage in casual conversation with him like the newer hires who feel obligated to - when you speak up.

“Hey, I saw a guy trying to open the basement door just a minute ago,” you tell him, relieved when the words come out with just the right amount of faux concern. Gregory immediately looks in that general direction, beady eyes narrowing as he tries to find who you could be referring to.

“He was jiggling the handle,” you continue, hoping it prompts him in that direction.

“A guy?” He repeats. “What guy? What did he look like?”

You shrug. “Never seen him before. He was about your height, middle aged, short black hair.”

Gregory’s eyes dart between you and the hallway behind you. “Okay,” he huffs, taking a step away from you. “I’ll tell Silas—”

“I already told him,” you blurt without thinking. “He’s busy. He told me to tell you to check it out.”

To both your surprise and relief, he doesn’t question you further. He just huffs in annoyance, muttering something under his breath about having to do fucking everything around here and storms in the direction of the basement stairway.

For the briefest of moments, you almost feel bad for him. Then, you remember all of the times he has walked in on you and other dancers in the changing room, or tattled on you to Silas for not smiling enough, or stared directly at your tits with zero shame, and then your guilt disappears just as quickly as it had appeared.

You aren’t quite sure what Andrew and his brothers plan to do with Gregory. You didn’t ask, and you aren’t going to. You figured that Andrew would likely give you the same answer he has to the majority of questions you’ve asked over the last few days: the less you know, the better.

You do your best to appear subtle as you watch Gregory approach the door that leads to the basement of the club. He glances around, seemingly looking for the mystery man that you had made up a description of on the spot. When he sees no one that looks as you had described (because of course he doesn’t), he jiggles the handle to find it still locked. Your stomach sinks as you worry that Gregory will chalk that up to good enough and turn around to report to Silas, but then he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a set of keys, still visibly muttering under his breath and shaking his head.

You breathe an audible sigh of relief when he opens the door and he slips into the stairwell without drawing any attention from Silas, who still has his back to the entire incident on the other side of the room.

“He’s coming,” you murmur under your breath, “Gregory is coming downstairs now.”

There’s a quick whisper of confirmation, so fast and low that you aren’t even sure whose voice it was, and then the line goes silent. Your part of the job is over, and you’re left to wait. Wait until you see Silas walk to the stairs when Andrew makes Gregory call for him. Wait as you hope that he never walks back up those stairs. Wait until you hear from Andrew, wait until your shift is over.

And waiting might just be the hardest part of it all.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

“I’m gonna ask you one more time to open this fucking safe.”

Like a rat after a piece of cheese, Gregory had walked right into the trap. He clearly had not actually expected anyone to be down here, because he walked right inside the safe room, muttering to himself about not getting paid enough, where Craig and Deran snuck up behind him, overpowering him within seconds. He didn’t even have a chance to yell before a handkerchief was crammed into his mouth.

Popes gotta hand it to Gregory, though. He fully expected the cowering, sniveling little shit to open the safe the very first time the three masked men demand he do so. But so far, he has yet to cave. Even with the barrel of Pope’s gun pressed to his temple.

He’s trembling, and whimpering, and he has definitely pissed himself, but he is also refusing to put the code in the fucking vault. He’s loyal to Silas, even if he’s nothing else, and that makes Pope feel the slightest bit better about what he plans to do with Gregory whenever they no longer have any use for him.

Pope and his brothers like to avoid casualties if at all possible. But after all you’ve told him about Gregory and now how stubborn he’s being? Pope has a hard time feeling bad.

“I don’t fucking have time for this,” Pope grunts, pulling the Glock away from Gregory’s forehead and instead aiming it towards the lower half of his body. He tries to shout, tries to protest, but the cloth crammed inside his mouth makes it all sound like muffled gibberish.

Pope doesn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, sending Gregory crumpling to the floor with a shot to the thigh that has him screeching around the gag; a high-pitched, animalistic sound. Upstairs, the music continues to blast, the bass vibrating through the floor. Even if Pope’s gun didn’t have a suppressor, he doubts anyone would have heard the shot over all the noise in the club.

Craig and Deran yank Gregory back upright despite his cries of pain. “The next shot won’t be to your leg. You think we’re bluffing?” Craig bellows. “You’re gonna find out if you don’t open that fucking safe right now.”

Gregory frantically nods. Craig and Deran haul him forward, and he raises his bound wrists to the safe’s keypad and begins typing with shaking hands. After a few seconds, the safe door clicks open. Deran pulls Gregory out of the way, allowing Pope to open the door.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Craig laughs in relief at the sight inside. “This has gotta be even more than I thought.”

It is a lot - too much for Pope to take an accurate guess as to exactly how much, but it has to be in the hundreds of thousands. He can’t get too excited yet, though. Not when Gregory here is bleeding through his pants and you’re still upstairs with Silas.

Pope and Craig make quick work of emptying the safe, shoving the stacks of cash into backpacks that Deran and a soon to be masked Gregory will wear out of here to where Jay awaits with the getaway car while Pope and Craig deal with Silas. But first…

“You got your phone on you?” Pope asks Gregory.

Gregory nods with an unintelligible noise of confirmation through the handkerchief still in his mouth.

“Good,” Pope lifts a hand to remove the gag, pausing before pulling it out. “I’m gonna take this out now. You scream, you die. Understand?”

Gregory nods, eyes wide with fear. Pope then yanks the cloth out of Gregory’s mouth, and he immediately begins to hyperventilate.

“Where’s your phone?” Craig demands.

“Back - back pocket,” Gregory pants.

Deran reaches into the back pocket of Gregory’s pants, retrieving the cell phone and tosses it to Pope. Pope holds the phone up to Gregory’s face, letting Face ID unlock the screen. He goes through Gregory's call history and quickly finds Silas’ name.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Pope says coolly, looking Gregory dead in the eye. “You’re going to give your boss upstairs a call. You’re gonna stay calm, and tell him that you need him to come down here right now. When he asks why, you tell him there’s an issue with the safe. If he tries to question you, you pretend you can’t hear him over the music and reiterate for him to come down here. Am I clear?”

Craig speaks up before Gregory has a chance to agree or disagree. “If you try to warn him, you’ll be bleeding from your other leg, too. Or worse. Got it?”

Gregory nods with a panicked sound of agreement, and Pope presses Silas’ name. He answers after the second ring, pop music pouring through the phone’s speaker.

“What?” Silas barks.

Gregory doesn’t speak right away. He opens his mouth like he’s going to, but then closes it, his eyes darting between Pope, Craig, and Deran. Pope wiggles the phone in his face, giving Gregory a look that dares him to test his luck.

“Hey,” he squeaks. “I - uh - I need you to come downstairs for a minute.”

“What?” Silas snaps. “Why? What are you doing downstairs right now?”

“I…I…uhm—” Gregory stutters, his voice unnaturally shrill and shaky. He looks between Pope and his brothers again in hesitation, unable to force the next words out. Deran nudges Gregory’s ribcage with his gun in a reminder of what’s at stake.

There’s one last, loaded second of silence before Gregory opens his mouth and seals his fate…and yours.

“Soleil told me she saw a man going to the basement, I’m sorry Silas, they made me do it—”

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

You watch Silas from across the room the moment that he raises his cell phone to his ear.

It could be someone else calling him. Maybe it isn’t Gregory, yet. But it only takes about ten seconds for any doubt to fade away, because Silas looks over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room until they lock with yours.

You try to look away, to play it off, to pretend you weren’t just watching him like a hawk, but it’s too late. He noticed. He definitely fucking noticed. And whatever was said to him during that short phone call, makes him stand up and head directly towards you.

“Why don’t we take a little walk?” Silas says, low enough for only you to hear. “There’s some things that we need to talk about.”

Your knees buckle and the room around you begins to spin. “I…have a private room in a few minutes. Can’t it wait?”

That’s a lie, but you’re trying to do whatever it takes to do what Andrew had asked of you. Stay upstairs.

“Nah, it can’t.” Silas glances around briefly before sliding a hand into his coat pocket. The movement looks innocent enough but then the unmistakable outline of a gun straining against the material catches your eye. You look back up, your blood running cold, and he’s smirking at you. “And I’m not asking.”

He doesn’t give you the chance to object before he grabs you by the arm and starts hauling you across the overcrowded dance floor, everyone too drunk and distracted to pay any mind to either of you.

“Where are we going?” You ask, trying to play dumb. You say the words loudly enough that Andrew, or anyone listening downstairs, will be able to hear.

He vibrates with low, chesty laughter. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

It takes every ounce of concentration just to put one foot in front of the other and keep yourself upright. Your thoughts are reeling with worst case scenarios. What will you find when you enter the basement? Did Andrew and the others get caught? Did Gregory have a gun on him? Is someone hurt? Once you walk down these stairs, will you ever walk back up?

Neither of you speak again until Silas opens the stairwell door, pushes you inside, and pulls it closed behind him.

“I’ve always known that you’re a flight risk,” Silas grumbles, steering you down the stairs with one hand gripping you by the shoulder and the barrel of his gun now pressed to the small of your back. You couldn’t escape even if you tried. “You really think I wouldn’t notice if you left town for four days? To fuck off to Oceanside?”

You don’t answer. His grip on your shoulder tightens enough that you’ll still feel the imprint of his hand hours later.

“The tracker that I put on your car sure came in handy,” he chuckles low, the sound sending chills down your spine. “Led me right to the Cody residence. I had to do a little digging after that, but imagine my surprise to learn that the Codys have quite the reputation.”

You reach the bottom of the stairs, and he shoves you up against the concrete wall and brings the gun to the side of your temple. You can’t stop the whimper that escapes your lips.

“I just didn’t think you would risk your dad’s life trying to pull some bullshit like this. Clearly I underestimated just how stupid and naive you really fuckin’ are.” He’s close enough that spit sprays across your face with nearly every word that he says.

“So this is what you are going to do if you want your sweet old daddy to live to see another day,” he murmurs, voice lethally calm in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand straight.

Your dad’s face the night Silas first showed up at his house to collect flashes through your mind. The night that would eventually butterfly effect into you standing right here, right now.

“We’re going to walk in there exactly like this.” He presses the gun harder against your temple for emphasis. “And you’re going to tell whoever is in that room to put my money back where they found it. After they’ve done that, you’re going to tell them to get the fuck out of here unless they want to clean your brains off of my floor. And then I’ll deal with you after.”

He pulls the gun away, and the small device in your left ear suddenly feels impossibly loud despite the silence on the other end.

You can only hope that Andrew has heard every word and knows what is coming.

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

The door to the safe room is wide open, and you see Gregory’s motionless body crumpled on the floor before you even step foot inside, a bullet wound dead-center of his forehead.

The second thing you notice is that Craig and Deran begin to lower their weapons as soon as you, and Silas directly behind you with his gun still aimed at your head, come into view.

The third, and most concerning thing? Andrew is nowhere to be seen.

After you get over the initial shock of realizing that Gregory is dead, presumably killed by one of the boys after saying whatever the hell he said that made it click in Silas’ head that you have very much played a part in all of this, the realization that you have no idea where Andrew is and that Craig and Deran are surrendering their weapons hits you like a brick.

You were so, so stupid to have ever thought this would work. To have actually believed that things wouldn’t go to shit, that everything would go according to plan, that this would end in your freedom. Now it’ll be a miracle if you and every member of the Cody family makes it out of this building alive.

Where the hell is Andrew?

He wouldn’t leave his brothers behind. He wouldn’t leave you behind. You’re sure enough of that. Not if there were any other way.

“Well?” Silas barks, pressing the muzzle of the gun into your temple. “Tell them.”

But your mouth has gone bone dry. Andrew. Andrew. Where is Andrew—

Craig and Deran exchange a look that lasts a mere second before Craig opens his mouth to speak. “Look, man, we don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Let her go and we’ll leave. Just take it easy.”

“Easy?” Silas repeats incredulously. “You conspire against me, break into my club, kill one of my employees…” He tips his head in the direction of Gregory’s lifeless body. “…and you want me to take it easy?”

Craig and Deran are both silent.

“Kick the bags over,” Silas sighs, his patience already wearing thin.

“Do what he asks, guys,” you manage to force out. “He’ll let you go. Just give back the money.”

Another second of hesitation, another glance between themselves, and then they nudge the backpacks across the floor.

Silas laughs quietly from behind you. “Smart choice.”

It’s then that you notice Craig’s eyes shift past Silas, the movement too quick and minute for Silas to even register as he starts to reach down for one of the backpacks.

Then all hell breaks loose, and the following thirty seconds feel like something out of a fever dream.

One second, Silas’ gun is pressed against your head, and the next, it’s flying across the room with a shot that goes right through the wall. Your body gets propelled forward by a blunt force from behind you, and you go tumbling to the floor with a sharp cry.

When you look up, there’s chaos all around you, but most importantly, there’s Andrew.

The door to the safe room, which had been wide open just seconds ago, is now nearly shut. He had been here the whole damn time, just waiting for the perfect moment to pop out and strike Silas from behind.

Andrew drives into him like a freight train, wrapping both arms around Silas’ torso and carrying him into a metal shelving unit. The entire thing rattles violently on impact, random boxes and loose paperwork falling from the shelves and scattering across the floor. Silas lets out a startled, animalistic grunt, but he recovers surprisingly fast for a man pushing sixty.

Then Craig and Deran jump in, and the four men crash together in an aggressive tangle of limbs and curses. It all happens so fast that it’s impossible to tell who throws which punch and whose blood is dripping onto the concrete.

All you know is that you’re the reason that they called Silas down here in the first place, and you see someone’s gun on the ground, no more than an arm’s length away from you.

Before you can give it a second thought, you grab the gun and force yourself to your feet.

Your hands are shaking so hard that it looks as if you have Parkinson’s disease, and you’re terrified to take the shot for fear that you’ll hit anyone other than Silas, but every horrible thing he has said and done in the last three years is suddenly replaying in your mind as your finger dances over the trigger and you know without a doubt that you have to do what you’re most scared to do.

You yell. A deep, guttural sound that tears through you, loud enough to get the attention of all four men in front of you. Deran, who’s positioned slightly in front of a beaten and bloodied Silas, instantly moves out of the way, giving you a clear shot.

You hear Andrew say your name, you see Silas start to attempt to lunge towards you, but you don’t let either of those things stop you from squeezing the trigger.

Time slows down. Despite the fact that the gunshot hadn’t been very loud thanks to the suppressor attached to it, there’s still a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears.

For only a fraction of a second, you wonder if you hit him at all. Then, your question is answered when dark crimson begins blooming across the fabric of his cream colored button-down, just over his heart.

Silas opens his mouth to speak, but only blood comes out, and then he falls forward, collapsing on the ground beside Gregory.

You’re still aiming the gun right where Silas had been standing with shaking hands when Andrew takes a tentative step towards you.

“I killed him,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I killed him.”

Andrew slowly and carefully peels your hands away from the gun and takes it from you. You’re still glued to the spot, both your mind and body in shock from what just happened. From what you just did.

You killed him. You killed Silas. You killed someone. Murdered them. And yes, they deserved it, but you still fucking pulled the trigger and shot them in the chest.

“No, you didn’t,” Andrew murmurs, giving Silas a kick to the shoulder with his foot. Silas lets out a weak groan that makes you instinctively jump back. “He’s still alive.” Then, before you can spiral any further, Andrew aims the gun directly at the man lying on the floor and fires it again, hitting Silas in the head.

He turns to face you, holstering the gun. “See? You didn’t kill him. I killed him.”

“So much for not shooting him in front of her,” Deran grumbles as he picks up one of the backpacks and slides it on. Him and Craig begin to move around the room, but you aren’t paying attention to what they are doing, because your eyes are locked on the body on the floor in front of you.

Bodies. Plural. Two of them. Silas, and Gregory. And blood. A lot of it.

Andrew steps in front of you, blocking your view of it all.

“We need to clean all of this up now,” Andrew tells you gently. He raises his hands as if he’s going to place them on your shoulders, but stops himself at the last second, his hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before dropping them back to his sides. “I need you to do one last thing for me, and then this will all be okay. Okay?”

His voice is steady and calm, but his hazel eyes are serious and pleading, like it’s taking every ounce of his willpower to maintain composure for your sake.

You give him a shaky nod to confirm that you heard him.

“I need you to go back upstairs. I need you to keep watch and make sure that no one tries to come down here, and warn us if they do.”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking. “What? No, no. I can’t go back up there. I can’t. I won’t be able to keep it together. I can’t pretend like—”

“You can,” Andrew interjects, voice firm. “It’s for your own safety, too. People will be suspicious if you disappear at the same time as Silas. You need an alibi. Go upstairs, show your face, book a private room or two, and pretend like everything is normal. Just for a few more hours.”

You swallow, inhaling and exhaling. What he says makes sense. All of the individual words make sense. But how the fuck are you supposed to walk back upstairs and act like everything is normal when you just killed a man?

Okay, Andrew technically killed him. But you still shot him in the lung. He would have eventually died from that alone even if Andrew hadn’t taken the gun from you and put a bullet in his brain.

“Just stay until the end of your shift to cover your own ass. Do you know if anyone noticed you come down here?”

“Uh—” you stutter, trying to remember everything that led up to this moment. “Uh, no. I don’t think so. The club’s really crowded tonight, everyone seemed busy and distracted.”

“Good,” Andrew nods. “You were never down here, okay? The cameras are offline, so you were never here.”

You nod, still unsure of how you’re going to will your legs to carry you back up those stairs, or how you’re going to keep the utter shock of what has transpired in this basement off of your face for the next few hours.

“What - what about you guys?” You ask him. “How are you going to get rid of all of this?”

Andrew shakes his head in dismissal. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. We’ll handle it. The bodies, the blood, the money, we’ll take care of all of it. Just go upstairs and keep an eye out for us.” He pauses, his eyes scanning your face. “You’ve trusted me so far, yeah? I just need you to trust me again for a few more hours.”

You have. You do. You don’t know if you trust yourself to not have a full blown panic attack in the middle of the club, but you do know that you trust Andrew.

You can’t quite bring yourself to verbally agree, but you nod.

Andrew takes a step closer and raises a tentative hand to your face, gently tilting your head to the side. “Earpiece is still in place,” he murmurs.

You expect him to pull away once he’s satisfied with his inspection, but he doesn’t. Instead, the soft pad of his thumb sweeps beneath your eye, wiping away a streak of smudged mascara. The touch is so tender that under different circumstances, you might have leaned into it. Might have closed the distance between you entirely. But right now, with blood still drying on the floor, all you can do is stand there and let him.

It gives you the much needed inspiration to get through the next few hours without completely falling apart, at least.

｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡

It takes every single last ounce of Pope’s self-restraint to not abandon Craig, Deran, and Jay to deal with the aftermath of the heist by themselves while he whisks you far the hell away from the city of Los Angeles in the middle of the night.

Truthfully, the only reason he doesn't do just that is because he doesn’t want it to come back to bite you in the ass.

He has to make sure everything is cleaned up. Everything. Every last drop of blood, every fingerprint, every strand of hair that could have fallen from your person to the floor of that safe room has to be eradicated before he feels comfortable leaving the club’s premises, and he sure as fuck doesn’t trust Craig or Deran to be as thorough as him. Deran lets his dish sponges get filthy and he doesn’t trust Craig to properly wash his own ass.

Finally, in the early hours of morning just before dawn, Pope can confidently say that the job is finished. Through the combined efforts of Craig, Deran, Jay, and himself, the safe room is cleaned spotless, the bodies of Silas and Gregory are disposed of, and the haul of cash makes it back to Oceanside.

Getting both bodies out wasn’t exactly easy, but Pope had planned for shit to go sideways. Jay was on standby in the getaway truck with an appliance dolly in case they were unable to retrieve the money from the safe while inside the club.

It was Craig’s idea, actually, to cram both bodies inside the safe and haul the entire thing offsite…to the middle of the fucking desert where all four men spent several hours digging a hole big enough for a six hundred pound safe.

No, things didn’t go according to plan, but they rarely do. It all proved to be worth it when the cash count ended up being just shy of half a million.

And if Pope’s share of more than a hundred grand wasn't enough to make the entire ordeal feel worthwhile, the relief on your face and the way you fling your arms around his neck when he shows up at your apartment later that day sure as hell does.

Maybe it’s a combination of everything that has happened in the last twelve hours and sleep deprivation, but it takes Pope a moment to register that you’re hugging him in your doorway. When he does, he wraps his arms around your torso and hugs you back, pulling you tight against his chest without a word.

“Sorry,” you breathe when you pull back, just far enough to look up at him. “I’m sorry, I…I’ve been so worried.”