I Have No Self Control

Joel Miller

so so much breeding

if he ever got certain he wanted to get you pregnant, he'd be a menace

No other boy gets to cum in you-perhaps even coax them to fuck your ass just in case

keeps you plugged on his coc

Oberyn Martell

sneaky boy

would fuck you still, not a drop going to waste

biggest smile ever plastered on his face if you got pregnant

Catfish

if he ever got to fuck you, he'd probably want to get you pregnant just to keep you safe

imagine, it's catfish's day and you had expected it to be a day of recovery, but suddenly he's locking Dieter out of the room and waling up to you

you kiss back, you are so goddamn pliant it makes him feel worse

"J-joel said not inside" You mewl against his damp hair, he scowls

I can totally see them like that!!!

and then the others

Javier Peña

piggy back rides

would be kind of nonchalant and not very emotional, but would definitely support the kid

would be the one to teach him how to shoot once he’s old enough, of course because it’s much needed

would bring him along in his smuggling trips as a distraction

Oberyn

would definitely teach him battle and fighting skills

the child is HIS son in his mind

very protective

Dieter Bravo

negligence at it’s finest

would complain on the kid being around

Catfish

so much pain

he reminds him of his boy

main masterlist | read on ao3

chapter 1: Frank Langdon

chapter 2: Brendon Park

chapter 3: Jack Abbot

chapter 4: Michael Robinavitch

chapter 5: Rabbot [part one]

chapter 6: Brendon Park, again

chapter 7: Rabbot [part two]

chapter 8: parker ellis

chapter 9: TBD

more chapters to come!

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MAEKAR:

Psychology: For Maekar, oral is about control and surrender in conflict. This man does not yield easily. Does not submit, doesn't show vulnerability simple as. Having you on your knees for him creates this delicious contradiction: he's receiving pleasure (passive) but you're the one on your knees (submissive position). It fucks with his head in the best way because he can't decide if he's dominating you or if you're dominating him by controlling his pleasure.

How he acts: Resistant at first. Gruff. "You don't have to do that." But the moment your mouth is on him he goes rigid, every muscle locked tight, fighting the pleasure like it's an enemy to be conquered. His hands clench into fists at his sides because he doesn't trust himself to touch you. Afraid he'll grip too hard, push too deep, hurt you. He stays almost eerily still, letting you work, his jaw clenched and his breathing harsh. The sounds he makes are bitten-off grunts, growls, curses muttered under his breath.

What it feeds: His desperate need for softness that he'd never admit to. Maekar is all hard edges and duty and resentment, but having you willingly pleasure him—choosing to give him this when he's given you so little softness in return—breaks something open in him. It feeds his possessiveness too. The visual of you on your knees, your mouth stretched around him, makes him viciously satisfied in ways he doesn't examine too closely.

Preferences:

Time: Morning, before the day's responsibilities intrude. When he's still half-asleep and his defences are lower, more likely to allow himself to feel without overthinking.

Setting: Winterfell, in the Lord's chamber. Specifically, you catching him right after he's woken, still in bed, morning light cold and grey. There's something about you servicing him in your ancestral home, in the North, that feeds his conqueror complex.

Posture: Between his spread thighs while he sits on the edge of the bed, or him standing and you kneeling. He likes the height difference, the way you have to look up at him. His hands eventually find your hair but he keeps the grip loose until he's close, then it tightens almost painfully.

Outdoors: Absolutely not. Far too undignified. Too vulnerable. Too... unless you're somewhere truly isolated (a hunting cabin, deep in the wolfswood) where there's zero chance of anyone seeing the fourth son brought to his knees (metaphorically) by his Northern wife.

Specific details: He tries to warn you before he comes. Some ingrained sense of courtesy breaking through even when he's lost to pleasure, but if you don't pull off, if you swallow, it does something to him psychologically. Watching you swallow his seed, claim it, makes his possessiveness spike to almost dangerous levels. Afterward he's surprisingly gentle, helps you up, checks that he didn't hurt you (even though he was scrupulously controlled), and the praise he gives is gruff but genuine: "Good. That was—you're good at that."

AERION:

Psychology: For Aerion, receiving oral is about worship and degradation tangled together. He needs you on your knees for him because it confirms he's worth worshipping, but he also desperately needs the visual of you debased, marked by him, thoroughly used. It feeds his obsession. His Northern lady brought low by the mad dragon's cock, choosing to pleasure him, wanting him enough to kneel.

How he acts: Smug and demanding at first, one hand in your hair immediately, guiding (controlling) the pace. "That's it, take it deeper. You can do better than that." But the arrogance is a thin veneer over desperate need. As you work him over he starts to fall apart. His breathing goes ragged, his grip in your hair tightens almost painfully, and the words tumbling from his mouth become increasingly incoherent. Praise and degradation mixed: "So good, so fucking perfect, look at you choking on my cock, you're beautiful like this, mine, all mine, taking me so well—"

What it feeds: His need for validation and his exhibitionist tendencies. He wants proof that you want him as desperately as he wants you, and you on your knees is undeniable proof. He also gets off on the power dynamic—the visual of you servicing him feeds his ego and his possessiveness in equal measure. And there's a humiliation aspect too: he likes when it's messy, when you're drooling and glaring, when he's marked you with his pre-come and your own saliva. The more debauched you look, the more it proves you want him enough to be thoroughly ruined for him.

Preferences:

Time: Whenever he can get it, honestly. Aerion has no shame. Middle of the day, late at night, early morning—whenever the need hits him and you're available.

Setting: Anywhere semi-public where there's a risk of being seen. His chambers with the door unlocked. A shadowed alcove near the great hall. Under his desk while he's supposed to be reviewing documents. The risk feeds his exhibitionist streak and the possessiveness: let people see who you belong to.

Posture: On your knees, obviously, but he likes variations. Sometimes he's sitting and you're between his thighs. Sometimes he's standing and you're kneeling at his feet. Sometimes he has you on the bed with your head hanging off the edge so he can fuck your mouth at the angle he wants, stroking you throat. He always wants access to your hair—needs to grip it, pull it, use it to guide your pace.

Outdoors: Absolutely yes. He'd fuck your mouth in the godswood, in a corridor where anyone could walk by. The more inappropriate the location, the more it appeals to him.

Specific details: He's vocal. Extremely vocal. Running commentary the entire time about how good you look, how well you're taking him, how perfect your mouth is, how he's going to come down your throat and mark you from the inside. When he gets close his words deteriorate into High Valyrian curses and your name chanted like prayer. He always comes in your mouth (or on your face if you pull off) because he needs the visual evidence, needs to see you marked by him. Afterward he's surprisingly tender, wipes your face clean with gentle hands, pulls you into his lap, kisses you deeply despite (or because of) tasting himself on your tongue.

DAERON:

Psychology: For Daeron, oral is about escape and intimacy without eye contact. This man is perpetually performing, perpetually bitter, perpetually drunk to numb the visions. Having you service him with your mouth lets him close his eyes and just feel without having to maintain the caustic wit or meet anyone's gaze. It's one of the few times he can be vulnerable without feeling exposed.

How he acts: Lazy. Sprawled back in a chair or against pillows, wine cup probably still in one hand, eyes closed. He doesn't guide or control, just lets you do what you want, his free hand resting loosely in your hair. The sounds he makes are soft, almost wounded, quiet gasps and sighs rather than loud moans. Sometimes he talks, rambling half-drunk observations: "Gods, that's—you're too good to me. Too good for me. Why are you—fuck—why do you do this?" Sometimes he's silent except for breathing. Sometimes he cries a little, overwhelmed by the physical pleasure mixing with emotional release.

What it feeds: His desperate need to be chosen and his equally desperate need to not be seen while needing. Daeron is all sharp edges and bitter commentary to protect himself, but your mouth on him bypasses all his defences. It's intimate without requiring him to perform emotionally. He can just receive and feel and not have to give anything back in that moment. Also feeds his oral fixation in reverse, he gives oral as worship and self-destruction; receiving it is rare softness he doesn't think he deserves.

Preferences:

Time: Late night, deep into drinking, when he's soft around the edges and his walls are down. Or lazy afternoons when he's melancholy and seeking comfort.

Setting: His chambers, in his bed or his favourite chair. Somewhere he feels safe enough to be vulnerable. Low lighting, comfortable, private. Or, alliteratively, something very risqué when he's especially drunk.

Posture: Him reclined, you between his legs, his hand in your hair but not gripping, just touching, grounding himself. He keeps his eyes closed most of the time.

Outdoors: Sometimes. Generally feels too exposed, too vulnerable, too public, unless he's drunk enough to truly switch off.

Specific details: He warns you before he comes (always, even drunk) giving you the choice to pull off. If you swallow he makes this broken sound like it's too much, too good, too intimate. Afterward he pulls you up into his arms and holds you, face buried in your neck, and sometimes the tears he was holding back finally come. He'll murmur thank yous and apologies in equal measure: "Thank you. I'm sorry. You shouldn't—I don't deserve—thank you." He falls asleep like that more often than not, still holding you, and it's one of the few times he sleeps without nightmares.

VALARR:

Psychology: For Valarr, oral is about forbidden intimacy and guilt. Whether this is DM verse (his cousin's betrothed/lover) or Modern AU (his father's girlfriend), there's massive taboo attached. Having you on your knees for him feeds both his arousal and his shame in equal measure. It's proof of his transgression, proof he's taking something that's not his, proof he's betraying someone he loves, and all of that makes it devastatingly erotic.

How he acts: Hesitant and guilty at first. "We shouldn't—this is wrong—we should stop." But the moment your mouth is on him the protests die. His hands hover uncertainly before finally settling in your hair, and he's apologising even while his hips are lifting into your mouth: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't—it feels too good, I can't stop." Beautiful boy torn between what he should do and what he desperately wants, and the wanting wins every time.

What it feeds: His corruption kink and his worship complex. He worships you (puts you on a pedestal, thinks you're too good for him, certainly too good to be on your knees) so seeing you choose to do this breaks his brain in the best way. It makes him feel simultaneously special (she chose me, wants me, is doing this for me) and terrible (I'm corrupting her, ruining her, taking what's not mine). The guilt enhances the pleasure rather than diminishing it.

Preferences:

Time: Stolen moments. Whenever you can get away with it without being caught, which makes every instance feel urgent, forbidden, desperately needed.

Setting: Somewhere risky but not completely public. A shadowed alcove. An empty room during a feast. His chambers with the door locked but knowing people are nearby. The risk of discovery heightens everything.

Posture: You on your knees, him standing because it emphasises the wrongness (you kneeling in worship of someone you shouldn't want), or him sitting and you between his thighs. His hands in your hair, gentle but desperate.

Outdoors: Only if there's significant risk of being caught. Gardens during a feast. A secluded corner of a training yard. Somewhere his father (in Modern AU) or his cousin (in DM) might find you.

Specific details: He comes fast (too fast, embarrassingly fast) because the taboo and the intimacy and your mouth overwhelm him. He always tries to warn you but it comes out strangled: "I'm going to—you should—oh gods—" If you don't pull off he nearly sobs with how good it feels. He's also, surprisingly, amongst the roughest. When the lines blurs so much he can't quite hold himself back and that perfect veneer crumbles to reveal the starved thing beneath.

LYONEL:

Psychology: For Lyonel, oral is about joy and generosity reciprocated. This man gives oral enthusiastically and often because he loves giving pleasure, loves being between your thighs, loves making you scream. When you return the favour it's mutual celebration, not power play. It feeds his pride (look how much she wants me, wants to please me) and his genuine affection (we're good together, we match, this is fun).

How he acts: Enthusiastic and vocal. He doesn't hold back sounds—groans and laughs and encouragement all mixed together. "Fuck yes, just like that! Gods, your mouth! You're incredible!" Hands in your hair, not controlling just appreciating, maybe guiding you to the perfect angle. He's the opposite of restrained, throws his head back, curses loudly, tells you exactly how good it feels with zero shame.

What it feeds: His ego (in the best way) and his competitiveness. If you do something particularly good (take him deeper, use your tongue just right) he makes mental notes to return the favour even better next time. It becomes this joyful back-and-forth of pleasure where you're both trying to outdo each other.

Preferences:

Time: Morning sex after a particularly enthusiastic night. Or midday quickies. Or evening before a feast. Honestly, any time. Lyonel is enthusiastic about sex at all hours.

Setting: Anywhere comfortable. His preference is the bed because he can sprawl out, but he's not picky. Against a wall, in a chair, on a table—wherever the mood strikes.

Posture: Varied. Sometimes you on your knees, sometimes him lying back and you between his spread legs, sometimes sixty-nine because he can't resist eating you out while you're sucking him. His hands are always involved: in your hair, on your shoulders, cupping your face.

Outdoors: Absolutely. He'd let you suck him off in the Kingswood during a hunt, behind the stables, in a tent during a campaign. Not necessarily because he's an exhibitionist but because the spontaneity and adventurousness appeal to him.

Specific details: He gives loud, enthusiastic warnings before he comes: "Fuck, I'm close! I'm going to—" Gives you plenty of time to decide. If you swallow he laughs with delighted surprise and pulls you up for a deep kiss. If you don't he's equally pleased watching it paint your chest or face. Either way, afterward he's grinning and satisfied and already planning how to return the favour. Expect him to pull you onto his face within the next hour for enthusiastic reciprocation.

DUNK:

Psychology: For Dunk, oral is about unworthiness and overwhelming gratitude. This lowborn hedge knight who became Kingsguard has massive imposter syndrome. Having you (highborn, beautiful, completely out of his league) choose to kneel for him and pleasure him with your mouth breaks his brain. It feeds his worship of you and his disbelief that this is real, that you actually want him.

How he acts: Frozen at first. Literally doesn't know what to do with his hands. "My lady, you don't have to—I'm not—you shouldn't—" But once you make it clear you want this, he surrenders completely. His hands hover over you like he's afraid to touch, afraid he'll break the spell. The sounds he makes are these overwhelmed groans, almost pained because the pleasure is so intense it's nearly too much. He watches you with wide eyes like he's trying to memorise every moment because he can't believe it's actually happening.

What it feeds: His worship kink and his size kink simultaneously. He worships you, thinks you're perfection incarnate, can't believe someone like you wants someone like him, so you on your knees is almost religious ecstasy. And his size kink manifests in seeing your much smaller mouth stretched around him, knowing he's too big, watching you struggle to take him and still trying because you want to please him. It makes him feel simultaneously protective (don't hurt yourself) and desperately aroused (but gods it looks incredible).

Preferences:

Time: Late night, after patrol duties, when the castle is quiet and you've invited him to your chambers. Very much feels like a gift he doesn't deserve.

Setting: Private. Your chambers or his quarters. Somewhere no one will interrupt or question why the lady is visiting the Kingsguard. He needs privacy because the vulnerability of it would be too much with any risk of discovery.

Posture: You on your knees, him standing or sitting, his hands finally settling in your hair with reverent gentleness. He tries very hard not to thrust, not to push deeper, too aware of his size and too afraid of hurting you.

Outdoors: No. Far too improper, too risky for your reputation. He'd never forgive himself if someone saw and your honour was compromised.

Specific details: He tries to warn you well in advance that he's getting close, giving you ample time to pull off: "My lady, I'm—you should stop, I'm going to—" His voice breaks on the words. If you don't stop, if you take him through it, he comes with what sounds almost like a sob, your name reverent on his lips. Afterward he's immediately concerned: "Are you alright? Did I hurt you? Your jaw must ache, let me—" He fusses over you with big gentle hands, and the genuine care in his eyes makes it very clear that this man is utterly devoted to you.

DAEMON BLACKFYRE:

Psychology: For Daemon, oral is about claiming and conquest. Everything with Daemon has undertones of power play. He's the pretender king, the rebel, the man who thinks he should rule. Having you on your knees servicing him feeds his conqueror complex. But there's also genuine passion underneath the power play. He wants you because he wants you, not just the political statement of having claimed Stark loyalty (or the taboo of stealing what's meant for his half-nephew in some verses).

How he acts: Commanding and confident. He doesn't ask, he guides you to your knees with a hand on your shoulder, fingers sliding into your hair immediately. "That's it. Show me how much you want this. Show me what you'd do for your king." The dirty talk is constant, mixing praise and possession: "Beautiful. Mine. Look at you eager for my cock. The Northern wolf tamed by the dragon." But underneath the performance there's genuine heat, genuine want that breaks through in the way his breathing catches, the way his grip tightens.

What it feeds: His need to be chosen (you choosing him over duty, over loyalty to the sitting king, over propriety) and his need to dominate. It's visual proof that he's won, that he's conquered, that the daughter of the North kneels for the King Who Should Have Been. Also feeds his romantic streak—there's something almost courtly about it in his mind, the lady offering pleasure to her chosen champion.

Preferences:

Time: After battle or training, when adrenaline is still pumping and he needs an outlet. Or late night in his tent during campaign when the outside world feels distant.

Setting: His tent during rebellion, or later in a throne room (if he's won), or anywhere that emphasises his kingship/power. He likes the symbolism of you kneeling before the throne (literal or metaphorical) you've chosen to support.

Posture: You on your knees, him standing or sitting on a throne-like chair, one hand in your hair and the other holding Blackfyre (the sword propped beside him, reminder of his claim and his power). The juxtaposition of you servicing him while he's still half-armoured, still the warrior-king, does something for him.

Outdoors: If it's during a campaign and there's privacy, absolutely. Against a tree in the Kingswood, in his tent with guards outside, anywhere that emphasises the raw passion and the rebellion of it all.

Specific details: He's theatrical about it—head thrown back, loud groans, praising you in High Valyrian mixed with Common Tongue. When he comes he holds your head in place, makes you take it, and the possessiveness of the gesture matches the possessive sounds he makes: "Mine. All mine. My lady. My queen." Afterward he pulls you up and kisses you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue without shame, and there's genuine affection in how he holds you: "You're incredible. Perfect. My perfect queen."

AEGON THE CONQUEROR:

Psychology: For Aegon, oral is about submission offered and destiny confirmed. This man saw you in prophecy, dreamed of you before you arrived, knew you were coming. Having you on your knees confirms what he already knew: that you were meant to be his, meant to worship him (and be worshipped in return), meant to complete the three-headed dragon. It's religious for him, watching prophecy made flesh kneel before him.

How he acts: Intense and mostly silent. He doesn't command or guide much, just watches with those violet, unreadable eyes while you pleasure him. His hand finds your hair but it's more connection than control, anchoring himself to the moment. The sounds he makes are quiet: sharp inhales, low groans that sound almost surprised, like the reality is exceeding even his visions. He maintains eye contact relentlessly, watching every expression on your face with that weighted attention that makes you feel simultaneously exposed and worshipped.

What it feeds: His prophetic certainty and his possessiveness. Every moment confirms what he saw in flames. Your willingness, your desire for him, the rightness of this bond between you. It feeds something primal in him too: the conqueror being serviced by the Northern ice he claimed, the visual proof that fire and ice have merged exactly as destiny demanded. Also feeds into the three-headed dragon dynamic—this is his claiming of you, but he knows his sisters will have their turns, and the thought of you being passed between all three heads makes his possessiveness spike.

Preferences:

Time: Dawn or dusk: liminal times when the veil between dream and reality feels thinnest. Times when he's most connected to his visions.

Setting: Dragonstone, in chambers with a view of Balerion sleeping outside the window. Or on the beach where he first claimed you, dragon-heat still radiating nearby. Somewhere the dragons can witness, can approve, can be part of the bond even indirectly.

Posture: You kneeling, him seated or standing, his hand in your hair. Not controlling but connecting. He needs to see your face, needs to confirm this matches his visions, needs to watch you choose this.

Outdoors: Yes, but specifically near dragons. He'd absolutely let you suck him off against Balerion's flank, the heat radiating through both of you, the dragon's breathing matching the rhythm. That dragon-bond element elevates it from mere physical pleasure to something sacred.

Specific details: He's quieter than you'd expect, intense but not vocal. When he comes it's with your name in Old Valyrian and his hand tightening in your hair and his eyes never leaving yours. Afterward he pulls you up with surprising tenderness, kisses your forehead, murmurs something about destiny that you don't quite catch. Then he mentions, casual but weighted: "Visenya will want you tomorrow. Then Rhaenys. They saw you too, in their own ways. The dragon has three heads and all three will claim you completely."

MAEGOR THE CRUEL:

Psychology: For Maegor, oral is about power and vulnerability. This man trusts no one, shows weakness to no one, maintains absolute control at all times. Having you on your knees with his cock in your mouth is dangerous (you could bite, could harm him, could exploit the vulnerability) and that edge of danger combined with the pleasure creates this intoxicating mix. It's also one of the few times he receives pleasure without having to perform strength or cruelty.

How he acts: Rigid with control initially. Every muscle locked tight, jaw clenched, watching you with those cold eyes like he's waiting for betrayal. His hands stay at his sides, fisted, refusing to touch you because touch would be surrender. But as you work him over, as you prove you're not going to hurt him (and in fact want to pleasure him), that control fractures. His hand finds your hair eventually, gripping almost painfully tight, not to guide but to anchor himself to something real. The sounds he makes are bitten-off grunts and growls, cursing in Old Valyrian, your name like a weapon or a prayer depending on his tone.

What it feeds: His desperate need to be chosen without admitting he needs anything. Maegor is surrounded by people who fear him or want something from him. You choosing to pleasure him, kneeling voluntarily, offering this vulnerability and intimacy, it feeds the starving part of him that wants to be wanted, not just feared. Also feeds his possessiveness and his breeding kink: the visual of you on your knees, mouth stretched around him, is practice for what he really wants (you stretched around his cock, full of his seed, swelling with his child).

Preferences:

Time: After court when he's been performing cruelty all day and needs the release. Or early morning before his armour goes on and he has to be the Cruel King.

Setting: Private. His chambers, door barred, no witnesses. This is too vulnerable to share, too intimate to allow others to see. The privacy makes it feel like a gift meant only for him.

Posture: You on your knees, him standing, towering over you—the height and size difference emphasised, practically weaponised. His hand eventually fists in your hair, his other hand braced against a wall because his knees threaten to give out from the pleasure.

Outdoors: Absolutely not. Far too exposed, too vulnerable, too dangerous. The only exception would be somewhere utterly isolated where there's zero chance of interruption or discovery.

Specific details: He doesn't warn you before he comes, partly because he's too lost in it, partly because the control has completely shattered by that point. He comes with a sound that's almost a roar, his hand fisting in your hair tight, and if you swallow it does something to him. His expression cracks open for just a moment, raw need and gratitude and disbelief that you'd do this for him willingly. Afterward he pulls you up with perhaps surprising gentleness, checks your jaw with a rough hand (concerned he gripped too hard, held you too tight) perhaps closest he'll get to genuine show of care.

BLOODRAVEN:

Psychology: For Brynden, receiving oral is about being known and choosing to be vulnerable with the one person who sees him as human. This man sees everything—a thousand eyes watching the realm through ravens, networks of spies reporting every secret, the weight of omniscience crushing him. But he can't see his own pleasure, can't observe himself falling apart, can't maintain that clinical detachment when your mouth is on him. It's the one time his control fractures, the one time he's the subject rather than the observer, and that surrender is terrifying and necessary in equal measure.

How he acts: Extraordinarily controlled at first, almost unnervingly so. He watches you with that red eye like he's drinking in every movement, every technique, mentally filing away data. "You hollow your cheeks when you take me deeper. Your tongue favours the left side. You breathe through your nose every third stroke." The clinical observations continue until you do something unexpected, something that breaks through his analytical framework, and suddenly he's gasping, his pale hands fisting in your hair, and the mask cracks. The sounds he makes are almost shocked, like pleasure is surprising him, overwhelming his ability to predict and control.

What it feeds: His desperate need to be seen as something other than the monster, the sorcerer, the spy. You choosing to pleasure him, not because he's useful or powerful or frightening, but because you want to give him this, feeds the starving part of him that wants to be desired for himself. It also feeds his obsession and his possessiveness: he's watched you, studied you, learned your body, and now you're learning his in return. The reciprocity of knowledge, the mutual vulnerability, is far more intimate than any physical act.

Preferences:

Time: Deep night when his work is done, when the ravens are settled and the reports have been read and he can finally stop being the Master of Whisperers and just be Brynden.

Setting: The rookery or his private chambers, places that are his, where he feels safest. Surrounded by his ravens (who are extensions of himself), or in the privacy of his own space where no one else intrudes. The birds watching is actually comforting rather than voyeuristic. They're part of him, and he wants all of himself to witness this.

Posture: Initially him seated and you kneeling between his spread thighs so he can watch, can observe, can maintain some semblance of control. But as he loses himself his hands find your hair and he guides you with increasing desperation, and eventually he'll pull you up to straddle him so he can bury his face in your neck while you finish him with your hand, too overwhelmed to maintain the visual.

Outdoors: Absolutely not in any public sense, but possibly in very isolated locations that hold significance—near a weirwood where he can feel the Old Gods watching (which somehow feels less exposing than human eyes), or on a rooftop under stars where only ravens bear witness.

Specific details: He tries to maintain the clinical narration even as he's falling apart: "Your heart rate has increased. I can see your pulse in your throat. You're you're enjoying this, aren't you? The power of it. Making me—" His words dissolve into quiet mutters of Old Tongue curses and half-formed observations that no longer make sense. When he comes it's with a sound of almost pained surprise, like his body betrayed his mind's attempt at control. If you swallow he goes completely still, staring at you with intense focus: "You—" He can't articulate why the act of taking his seed, claiming it, accepting that part of him, breaks him so completely. Afterward he pulls you into his lap and holds you with shaking hands, face buried in your hair, and whispers things he'd never say if he had more control: "I've watched you for so long. Wanted this. Wanted you. Didn't think you'd ever want me back. The monster. The bloodsucker. The—" You have to kiss him quiet before the self-loathing spiral takes him.

Specific kink, The Watching: Sometimes he asks to sketch you afterward—you sprawled satisfied, lips swollen, marked by him—because he needs to capture the moment, needs to study it later when he's alone and can't quite believe it was real. His artistic obsession manifests in dozens of sketches hidden away: you on your knees, you looking up at him, you with your mouth stretched around him. It's not exhibitionism (he'd never share these) but documentation, proof that this happened, that someone wanted him enough to do this.

A toddler bounced from behind the woman and quickly attached herself to Abbot’s leg (the flesh one, anyway). The attending smiled—perhaps for the first time in recorded human history, thought Whitaker—before picking up the child and propping her up on his hip, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

The mother turned to Abbot and smiled, pressing a kiss to his lips while he massaged her lower back with his free hands. His wedding band stuck out against the woman’s lighter shirt. Ah. The wife. A moan that definitely wasn’t appropriate for the workplace escaped the woman, seemingly unknowingly, leaving Abbot with a subtle smirk on his face.

Jack guided his wife into the comfortable chair he’d commandeered. Whitaker envied the relief on her face. The lumbar support cushion and ergonomic design could’ve made him cry. His body was aching for relief after hours on his feet, but he conceded that the woman needed it more than he did.

With a barely audible whimper, the med student went back to his original task. He’s startled when a foldable plastic chair, the ones that are typically kept in patient rooms for guests, unceremoniously clatters down next to him, brought over by none other than the stoic night shift attending.

“My wife said she’s sorry for stealing your seat. I’m not.” Dr. Abbot provided no further context before heading straight back to the room he came from. Some of the surrounding ED staff caught wind of the interaction and glanced up at the status board.

PEDS RM 1. 3 YRS 5 MOS MALE J. ABBOT. FOREIGN BODY INGESTION

Understanding hums sounded out before everyone went back to work.

It was rare to see Jack in anything other than black scrubs at the hospital. Today, he was in full Dad mode. The pink glitter nail polish on his fingers matched his daughter’s. His white New Balance sneakers and cargo shorts allowed a clear view of his prosthetic, which his son had decorated with dinosaur stickers. If you looked close enough, you could see a small apple sauce stain on his shirt.

You relaxed further into the chair and closed your eyes once Jack came back to witness your daughter Ellie toddling around the exam room. At 30 weeks pregnant, rest and comfort were becoming increasingly difficult to come by, especially when raising 3-year-old twins.

Dr. Collins caught Jack sitting at the end of the gurney with his son when she waltzed in, tailed by Matteo.

“What brings you all in today? It’s a pleasure to see the Abbot family. Some members more than others…” Heather teased, making a show out of whispering to Jack’s wife and tickling Ellie.

“Jacob here ate some crayons. Maybe some other stuff too. I want imaging of the GI tract to rule out any other foreign bodies or obstructions,” Jack rattled off, never taking his eyes off his son. The doctor’s leathered, weathered hand dwarfed his son’s small leg. Jack had a tough time letting go of his kids, especially when they were hurt or sick.

“Maybe he’s got a future career in the Marines,” Matteo joked.

“Watch it.” Jack warned with an even glare. The intense look on his face didn’t last long; his wife’s giggle brought a small smile to his face as he glanced toward her. 

You winced when the baby delivered a particularly strong jab to your ribs. Jack’s smile quickly turned to concern before you shook your head to reassure him and ran a hand over your bump. Collins and Matteo didn’t miss the silent communication between the couple.

It made sense for the two of you. You were so in sync—always had been. The Pitt staff rarely got to see Jack’s wife, which you supposed was a good thing. Jack tried to keep his personal and professional life separate, but he’d become known for loving you and your little family so much. He would take your calls in the middle of a shift, routinely add more photos of his family to his locker, and occasionally show up to work with glittery nail polish if he forgot to remove it before clocking in.

Doctor Collins high-fived little Jacob, who was the spitting image of his father, after he tolerated the physical exam.

“No guarding or tenderness. Bowel sounds are hypoactive but present. Has he been NPO otherwise?” The physician glanced between the parents.

“We had breakfast around 8,” you supplied, exhaling when you got another sharp kick straight to the bladder.

“Alright. I’ll put in the imaging orders. Radiology will come and grab you guys soon,” Dr. Collins waved goodbye to the toddlers. 

Matteo kept a stash of stickers in his scrub pocket for the kiddos that came into the Pitt. Jacob gladly accepted one and promptly stuck it on Jack’s prosthetic. Matteo blinked a couple of times, watching the exchange. 

Jack was unfazed. His children seldom went a day without leaving their mark on him. If painted nails and a decorated prosthetic leg made them happy and preserved their innocence, he was happy to be a canvas.

The racecar was a fun addition to the dinosaurs anyway.

a/n: Please let me know what you think! Reblogs & comments keep me motivated <3

Companion piece: Hung The Stars

The first month is a mess.

The kind of beautiful mess Jack would throw fists for if anyone ever tried to take it from him.

You both live in pajamas now. The kitchen has surrendered first—an open graveyard of half-drunk coffee cups, takeout containers, and meals nuked just enough to be edible. Some nights, you collapse into bed with the baby between you, swearing you’ll move her to the bassinet as soon as you can feel your legs again.

Jack, somehow, turns out to be better at diaper changes than either of you expected.

“Field dressing a sucking chest wound’s harder,” he mutters at four a.m., hands steady as he peels back the tabs of a fresh diaper. You’re blinking back tears over the latest catastrophic blowout, but Jack just shrugs, casual, like he's back in the desert again. “You just gotta respect the shrapnel.”

You’re better at feeding her—at being soft, patient, warm, even when you’re dead on your feet.

Jack watches you from across the couch sometimes, nursing her with your sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and he thinks about how he almost didn’t get this.

How easily it could’ve gone the other way.

And he aches.

God, how he aches.

At her two-week checkup, Jack nearly decks a stranger.

You’re pushing open the door to the pediatrician’s office when it happens—some old guy with too much time and too little shame leers and says, “Bounced back fast after birth, huh?” His eyes drift lower, lingering where they have no business being.

You freeze, the words catching in your throat.

Jack doesn’t.

He moves without thinking, sliding in front of you with the kind of quiet, coiled force that doesn’t ask twice. It’s instinct, muscle memory, something deeper than thought. His frame blocks you from view, every line of his body taut with warning.

“Move along,” Jack says, low enough to rattle the floorboards.

The guy doesn’t argue. He takes one look at Jack—at the broad set of his shoulders, the dead-calm heat in his eyes—and stumbles off without another word.

Your fingers find Jack’s wrist, a light touch, grounding him before he slips somewhere darker.

He flexes his hand once, twice, the tension bleeding out slow. Then, wordlessly, he threads his fingers through yours, squeezing once.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

On the nights when the house feels too small and the baby won’t sleep unless she’s moving, Jack drives.

He straps her into the car seat so carefully you'd think she’s made of glass, adjusts the rearview mirror just to catch a glimpse of her, and drives the empty streets of Pittsburgh while you nap in the passenger seat, a ratty Allegheny General hoodie drowning you to the wrists.

Jack hums under his breath to fill the silence.

Old Johnny Cash songs. Some half-forgotten lullaby he doesn’t realize he knows.

You wake up once at a red light and find him staring at the baby in the mirror like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.

You don’t say anything.

You just reach across the console and wrap your fingers around his wrist again.

Jack squeezes back.

Always back.

By the end of the first month, the house is wrecked, your work email has 235 unread messages, and Jack is one wrong word away from brawling with the guy at the grocery store who keeps asking if he needs "help carrying his bags" because of the limp.

Some nights you fall asleep on the couch with the baby breathing soft against your chest, too worn down to even shift her to the bassinet. Tonight’s one of those nights.

Jack walks in from the kitchen and stops when he sees you there—both of you curled into each other, the porch light casting a soft glow across the room.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself down. Not onto his knees—he plants himself into a sitting position, legs stretched out, leaning his good shoulder into the side of the couch so he’s right there, steady and close.

He brushes your hair back from your face with the backs of his fingers, so gently it almost doesn’t touch.

You stir at the contact, your voice thick with sleep.

"You’re tired too. Let me take her."

Jack shakes his head.

"No."

It’s soft. Absolute. Final.

He reaches up, sliding his hand over your shin, anchoring himself to you. His other hand comes to rest lightly on the baby's back, fingers spanning nearly her whole body.

"You’ve done enough today, baby," he murmurs, voice rough and low, barely stirring the air.

"You both have."

Jack tilts his head against the couch, eyes slipping closed. He doesn't need to say it—how much this moment means, how deeply it roots itself inside him.

The weight of it—the love, the exhaustion, the brutal, perfect ache of having something to lose again—presses deep into his bones, his chest, his blood.

And he lets it.

Finally, finally, he lets it.

MONTH TWO

The second month of her life feels quieter—but not easier.

The house settles into a strange rhythm: sleep in broken stretches, coffee going cold on the counter, laundry half-folded before someone cries (you, him, the baby—any of the above).

And Jack, god love him, tries to hold it all together like he's still back in combat—shouldering it, swallowing it, limping through it even when it's bleeding him dry.

You wake up around 3:00 a.m. to the soft, rhythmic creak of footsteps.

The baby’s crying had pierced your dream, but what keeps you awake is the sound of Jack pacing the living room—steady, stubborn, relentless.

You get out of bed and creep toward the hallway, heart aching at the sight you find:

Jack's shirt is rumpled, hanging loose over sweatpants. His hair's a wreck. He's moving with that stiff, exhausted limp he gets when he’s pretending everything’s fine. When it's been rubbing wrong all day and he hasn't said a word about it.

Your baby is pressed against his chest, tiny fingers clinging to the fabric of his t-shirt, and Jack’s rubbing her back in slow, soothing circles, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

You stand there for a second, heart splitting open inside your chest.

He’s trying so hard.

He’s carrying all of it.

And you’re not about to let him do it alone.

"Jack," you say softly.

He startles a little, blinking over at you with that war-tired look he gets sometimes, like he forgot he's allowed to have backup now.

You cross the room without hesitation.

"Hey," you murmur, gentle but firm, sliding your hands around his forearms. "Give her to me, baby."

Jack opens his mouth to argue—but you’re already untangling the baby from his arms, lifting her carefully against your chest.

He lets go with a shuddering breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

You bounce your daughter lightly, whispering soft, nonsense words into her ear while you use your free hand to tug Jack down onto the couch beside you.

"You’re limping bad," you say, thumb brushing over the line of tension at his brow. "You’re running yourself into the ground."

Jack huffs, looking away like he’s embarrassed, like admitting to needing anything is too much.

But you don’t let him.

You tilt his face back toward you with two fingers under his chin—gently, insistently.

"You don’t have to earn this, Jack," you whisper, so low it barely stirs the air. "You already have."

He closes his eyes like the words hurt—and heal—all at once.

You settle your daughter into the crook of one arm, and with the other, you start tracing slow, soothing circles against Jack’s wrist.

Just touching him.

Just reminding him you’re here.

That you’re not going anywhere.

Jack leans his head back against the couch, breathing you in. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

He just lets himself be touched.

Be loved.

And somewhere around the fourth circle you draw against his wrist, he shifts closer and drops his forehead to your shoulder with a heavy, broken little sigh.

You turn your face into his hair and close your eyes.

In the second month, the baby starts to smile for real.

Real, gummy, lit-up smiles that make Jack feel like some knife's getting twisted deeper and deeper in his chest every time he sees them.

She smiles biggest when Jack talks. It doesn't matter what he's saying. He could be reading off the damn grocery list, and she lights up like he’s singing Sinatra.

You catch him one afternoon standing in the kitchen, holding her in the crook of his arm like it’s second nature now, explaining in a deadly serious tone why the Pittsburgh Steelers are going to break his heart again this year.

“Listen, kid, it’s tradition. You root for them, they let you down. Builds character.”

You grab your phone and snap a picture before he can bark at you not to.

Jack scowls, but you see the faintest twitch of a smile he can’t fight back.

He wants to remember this.

You both do.

The second month also brings the first real fight since bringing her home.

It’s stupid.

It’s exhaustion and hormones and pride, the way all stupid fights are.

You leave the car seat in the wrong spot—tilted funny, not latched all the way into the base—and Jack’s voice cuts sharper than he means it to when he points it out.

“She’s tiny, for Christ’s sake, you can’t just—”

“I’m trying, Jack!” you snap back, tears already stinging because you’ve been running on fumes for weeks and you hate feeling like you’re screwing up.

“Yeah? So am I.”

You’re both breathing hard, the kind of thin, angry breaths that never come from real hatred—only from fear.

Only from love.

You turn away, chest heaving. Jack grips the counter, knuckles white, wrestling the instinct to bark something else, something mean just to end it.

Instead—he exhales hard, walks over to you, and wraps his arms around your shaking shoulders from behind.

You don’t fight him.

You crumble.

"I’m sorry," he says, rough against your ear. "You’re doin’ good. Better than good."

His mouth presses to your temple.

"I’m just... scared, honey." It guts him to say it out loud. It tears something wide open. But it’s the truth.

You turn in his arms, grab two fistfuls of his t-shirt, and bury your face against his chest.

Jack just holds you.

Breathes you in like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

At her two-month appointment, the pediatrician grins and says she’s perfect.

You hold Jack’s hand in the sterile white room, squeezing so tight he must feel the bones grind together.

He doesn’t pull away.

He squeezes back.

Hard.

In the car afterward, Jack drives one-handed with his other hand curled protectively around your thigh, thumb tracing slow, steady lines into your jeans.

You lean into his shoulder at the stoplights, both of you blinking back tears that neither one of you says a word about.

That night, when the baby finally sleeps and the house goes still, you coax Jack into the shower first, insisting you’ll handle the night feed if she wakes.

He tries to protest.

You kiss the protest right off his mouth, slow and deep, until he’s dizzy from it. Until he forgets how to argue.

And when he comes back. you’re waiting for him in bed, the baby curled between you like the only piece of heaven either of you has ever touched.

Jack hesitates for half a second in the doorway, looking at you like a man seeing home for the first time.

Then he crawls in beside you, tucking you against his chest, wrapping his hand around both you and the baby like he can physically keep the whole world at bay.

"You’re my best thing," you whisper into his skin.

Jack's arms tighten around you instinctively.

You feel the rumble of his voice more than you hear it when he answers.

"You two are mine," he says hoarsely.

"My only thing."

And for the first time since she was born, all three of you sleep through the night.

Together.

Whole.

MONTH THREE

The first real laugh doesn’t come from you.

It doesn’t come from the hundreds of stupid faces you’ve been making, the toys you bought, the songs you sang off-key.

It comes from Jack.

Of course it does.

You’re sitting on the floor one slow Sunday afternoon, sorting laundry, when you hear it—a sharp, surprised little giggle that bubbles out of your daughter’s mouth like she’s just been given the whole damn world.

You snap your head up so fast you almost get whiplash.

Jack’s standing over the bassinet, freshly showered, shirt slung loose over his broad frame, cradling her under the arms and bouncing her so carefully.

She’s looking up at him with those big, bright eyes—utterly delighted just to exist in his arms.

And he’s looking at her like she’s gravity itself.

Jack bounces her again. She squeals, full-body, gummy-mouthed, hands flapping.

Jack grins—a real one, crooked and wide and rare—and chuckles under his breath.

"You like that, huh?" he mutters, voice going soft the way it only ever does for her. "Yeah, you would. Tough little thing."

You don't realize you’re crying until Jack glances over and sees you.

His grin fades, replaced by that worried furrow between his brows you know too well. "Hey. Hey, honey, what's wrong?"

You crawl over the laundry, heart a molten, useless mess, and surge up to kiss him—just grab the collar of his stupid, soft t-shirt and haul him down into a kiss so full of love it knocks both of you sideways.

He catches you with one arm, the baby cradled between you, and lets you sob into his mouth without complaint.

Lets you cling.

Because he knows.

Of course he knows.

"I love you," you breathe against his jaw when you finally surface.

"I love you so much I don't even know what to do with it."

Jack presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

"You’re doin’ fine, baby," he says hoarsely.

"You’re doin’ perfect."

Jack starts pulling on his black scrubs again.

Not full-time.

Not yet.

Just a couple shifts. Just enough to feel like he’s still the guy who shows up when it counts.

You watch from the kitchen doorway, the baby warm against your hip, as he adjusts the fit of his prosthetic with practiced, impatient hands. The grimace flashes across his face for just a second before he smooths it away.

You shift the baby higher, heart aching.

"You don’t have to prove anything, Jack," you say softly, voice thick with sleep and worry."You’re already everything we need."

He exhales slowly through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, his movements stiff with exhaustion.

Then he shakes his head once — small, stubborn, final.

"I gotta do it for me," he says simply.

No drama. No explanation. Just truth.

You don’t argue.

You just step closer, barefoot across the tile, and reach up to cup the back of his neck — that vulnerable, familiar spot you’ve loved for years — pulling him down into a slow, steady kiss.

"Come back safe," you whisper against his mouth.

Jack leans into you for a second longer than he means to, his hand sliding instinctively over the baby's small back, grounding himself in you both.

"Always," he promises, voice rough.

You let him go — but not before slipping a small, folded scrap of paper into the chest pocket of his scrub top when you hug him goodbye.

A stupid, crumpled love note, already warm from your palm.

He doesn’t find it until hours later — after he’s stitched up a kid with a broken bottle wound, after he’s cleaned puke off his boots, after he’s barked orders across the trauma bay like muscle memory.

It’s almost 3 a.m. when he sinks down onto a bench in the stairwell, legs aching, head heavy.

Jack fishes the note out absentmindedly, thinking it’s a scrap of gauze.

But when he unfolds it, it’s your handwriting — messy and rushed, like you couldn't get the words down fast enough:

We miss you. We love you. Come home to us.

Jack stares at it for a long second, the breath catching thick in his chest.

He presses the heel of his hand against his face — hard — willing the burn behind his eyes to back off.

Then he folds the note carefully, tucks it back into the pocket over his heart, and pushes himself upright again.

One more patient.

One more hour.

One step closer to home.

The baby starts reaching this month. Grabbing everything. Blankets. Your hair. Jack’s dog tags, which he sometimes wears tucked under his shirt when he needs grounding.

The first time she grabs them—those worn, cold little pieces of steel swinging free when Jack leans over her bassinet—he freezes.

She wraps her tiny fist around the chain and pulls. Hard.

Jack just stands there, staring down at her like she’s cracked open his chest with one touch.

You come up behind him, pressing your hand to the small of his back, feeling the shudder that goes through him.

"You okay?" you murmur.

Jack swallows.

Nods.

"Yeah," he says roughly.

"Yeah, she’s just... strong."

You curl your arms around him from behind, forehead pressed to the sharp line of his spine.

"You’re allowed to be soft too, y'know," you whisper against him.

"She's allowed to make you soft."

Jack closes his eyes and lets the weight of your words settle into his bones.

Late one night, after a particularly brutal shift, Jack comes home bone-deep exhausted. You meet him at the door, baby asleep on your shoulder, wearing nothing but his oversized hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks.

Jack stares at you like he’s forgotten how to speak.

You press the baby into his arms without a word.

Then you wrap your arms around his waist, lean your cheek against his chest, and stand there breathing him in—hospital soap, sweat, exhaustion, love—until he finally melts against you.

Until he finally lets himself be held. He presses a kiss into your hair, breathing out a laugh that sounds more like a sob.

"Missed you" he rasps.

MONTH FOUR

Jack notices it before you do.

The shift.

One morning, while you’re wrestling a footie onesie onto the baby and cursing under your breath about the tiny snaps "Who invented these? Satan?", Jack leans against the doorframe, rubbing a hand absently over the back of his neck.

“She’s different,” he says quietly.

You look up, exhaustion written all over your face, and squint at him.

“She’s four months old, Jack. She’s not gonna start driving a car yet.”

But he just shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving her.

“No. She's holdin’ herself different. Stronger.”

You look down—and sure enough, your daughter is sitting up better now, her spine wobbling but proud, little hands planted on her thighs like she’s ready to start throwing punches.

Jack steps forward like he can’t help himself.

He drops to a crouch—careful with the stiff pull of his prosthetic—and cups one big hand around her tiny side, steadying her without overwhelming her.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice breaking a little at the edges.

"Look how tough you are, bean."

You watch him, heart climbing into your throat. Because you see it too. Not just the way she’s changing—but the way he is.

Jack Abbot, who once stood half a step too close to a rooftop edge because the world was too heavy, is now kneeling barefoot on the carpet, whispering praise to their baby girl who thinks the sun rises and sets just for him.

You slip your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek against the crown of his head.

"I love you," you say simply.

Jack kisses the back of your hand.

"I know," he whispers. "And I love you back, honey. 'Til my last damn breath."

This is the month she starts teething.

You survive it through sheer grit, coffee, and the unspoken pact of taking turns walking endless circles around the house with a red-faced, furious, drooling baby in your arms.

Jack handles it the way he handles everything: quietly, stubbornly, with a fierce, aching kind of patience that makes you want to cry and kiss him all at once.

You find him one night at 2:00 a.m., swaying barefoot in the kitchen, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, the baby gnawing furiously on his knuckle while he hums some gravelly, broken tune into her hair.

You lean against the doorway and just watch him, blinking hard against the tears that well up.

Jack catches you watching. Doesn’t say anything—just crooks a finger at you without shifting the baby from his chest.

"Get over here, pretty girl," he rumbles.

You go willingly, sliding into his side, wrapping your arms around his middle and burying your face in the warm, solid plane of his ribs. He smells like soap, exhaustion, and her. Your whole world tucked into one man.

"You’re the best thing that ever happened to us," you whisper into his skin.

By the end of Month Four, she’s rolling over.

You’re standing in the living room when you hear Jack’s startled bark of laughter from the floor.

You whip around to find him sprawled out on his side, laughing helplessly, while your daughter beams at him proudly from her belly, arms and legs kicking like she just won the goddamn Super Bowl.

Jack slaps a hand to his heart dramatically.

"Baby girl, you’re killin' me!" he groans. "You’re growin’ up too fast already. Slow it down, huh? Let your old man catch up."

You cross the room, scooping the baby up into your arms. "You hear that?" you coo into her hair. "You’re makin’ Daddy emotional."

Jack props himself up on an elbow, watching you two with the softest damn look you’ve ever seen on his face. The one he only ever shows you. The one no one at the Pitt would even believe exists.

You kneel down beside him, easing your daughter into his arms again. You watch the way his whole body softens around her without thinking. How his scarred hands are somehow the safest place in the world.

"She’s perfect," you say softly.

Jack leans down and kisses the baby’s forehead, then yours.

"Yeah," he murmurs.

"So’s her mom."

You spend the rest of the evening curled up together on the living room floor—baby between you, laundry forgotten, the whole messy, perfect world you built breathing around you.

And for the first time since she was born—you’re not scared of time passing. You’re just grateful for every second you get.

MONTH FIVE

It happens by accident.

The first time she says it.

Jack’s sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, hair mussed from sleep, still wearing the black t-shirt and flannel pants he stumbled into after pulling an overnight shift.

You’re curled up on the couch, fighting to keep your eyes open, watching the early spring sunlight spill across the floorboards.

Your daughter is sitting between Jack’s legs, gripping his dog tags in one tiny fist, drooling determinedly all over them while Jack pretends to be scandalized.

"Hey, those are government-issued, kid," he drawls, grinning like a fool. "You gonna pay for ‘em with your drool tax?"

And then—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—she looks up at him, eyes bright, and squeals:

“Dada!”

The word is messy. Slurred. Half-drooled through.

But it’s real.

Clear as day.

Jack freezes.

Completely still, like something in him just snapped loose.

You sit up fast. "Jack," you breathe.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

The baby bounces in place, fist still clutching the tags, crowing delightedly: “Dada!”

Jack finally exhales, a broken, wrecked sound like he just got the wind punched out of him. He scoops her into his arms so fast she squeals again, arms flailing, laughing.

He presses her tight against his chest, hands shaking.

"You talkin’ to me, bean?" he rasps, voice thick, kissing the top of her head over and over.

"That me?"

You slide off the couch, crawling across the floor to them, feeling your heart explode into a thousand shimmering pieces inside your chest.

You wrap yourself around both of them—Jack and the baby—your forehead resting against Jack’s stubbled jaw. He’s shaking. Full-body, unstoppable tremors. You just hold him tighter.

"You deserve it," you whisper into his skin.

"You deserve every single thing she sees in you."

Jack swallows hard, arms crushing both of you close.

"You’re my whole damn world," he chokes. "You and her—you’re it."

You kiss the corner of his mouth, the scar on his jaw, the salt of tears he didn’t mean to shed.

And when the baby says it again—“Dada!”—giggling and tugging on his shirt, Jack laughs through the wreckage of himself.

Laughs like he’s got a whole new heart built from the two of you.

This month, Jack comes home earlier when he can. Steals hours when the Pitt is short-staffed but Robby covers.

You make a ritual out of it without even meaning to:

Jack coming through the door, dropping his bag with a heavy thunk, immediately seeking you out first.

He always kisses you first.

Even if the baby’s squealing for him, even if she’s kicking her legs and reaching. He presses his mouth to yours first—hard, desperate, like he’s coming up for air.

Then he takes her from you, murmuring nonsense into her hair, like he can't bear to go another second without her.

You watch him sometimes from the kitchen, heart brimming so full it feels like your ribs can’t contain it.

You let the pasta overboil, the laundry pile up, the emails from your accounting firm stack unanswered.

Because nothing matters more than the way Jack Abbot holds his daughter like she’s sacred. Like she saved him.

Late one night, the baby finally goes down after an hour of slow rocking and whispered lullabies.

You tiptoe out of the nursery, heart thudding like you just disarmed a bomb, and find Jack waiting for you at the end of the hallway.

He’s leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. That tired, crooked half-smile lifts his mouth when he sees you.

"She out?" he murmurs.

You nod, grinning like an idiot. "For now. If we breathe too loud, she’ll start screaming again."

Jack chuckles low under his breath. Then he crooks two fingers at you—small, unmistakable—come here.

You pad over and melt against him without hesitation.

Jack’s arms slide around you automatically, strong and sure, pulling you flush against the solid line of his body.

For a few minutes, you just stand there.

Swaying a little.

Breathing in sync.

Letting the world be small and soft for once.

His hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking lazy circles into your hairline. "Miss you," he says roughly, voice low enough that it rumbles against your chest.

You pull back just enough to look at him—really look. At the dark shadows under his eyes. The worn edges of him. And the way his whole face softens when he’s looking at you.

"I’m right here," you whisper, sliding your hands up under his old t-shirt to trace the warm skin of his back. "You always got me."

Jack huffs a soft, broken sound and leans down to kiss you.

Slow.

Lingering.

The kind of kiss that says a thousand things neither of you knows how to say out loud.

His fingers flex against your spine, like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s still a little terrified that one day he’ll blink and you’ll be gone.

You deepen the kiss, tipping up onto your toes, tangling your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck. Jack groans quietly into your mouth and tightens his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like it costs him nothing. (You know it does—you know he’s tired and sore—but he doesn’t care.)

He kisses you like you’re oxygen. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

When he finally pulls back, breathing hard, he presses his forehead to yours and just stands there.

Silent.

Anchored.

You guide him gently down the hall, fingers laced through his. The two of you slip into your bedroom, leaving the door cracked just enough to hear the baby if she wakes.

He eases onto the bed. The prosthetic comes off with a practiced, tired motion — a routine so familiar it barely registers anymore — and he sets it aside without ceremony, like he can't stand the thought of one more thing strapped to him tonight.

You slide into bed beside him, the mattress dipping under your weight. Jack doesn’t hesitate—he hooks an arm around you and pulls you in close, pressing you against the steady, grounding thump of his heart.

With his free hand, he pulls the blanket up over both of you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders like he's sealing you in. Then he drops a slow, tired kiss into your hair, lingering there for a second longer than he means to, breathing you in like you're the only thing anchoring him to the world tonight.

You fall asleep like that—safe. Held. Loved. The two of you breathing slow and steady together, with your whole world sleeping peacefully in the next room

MONTH SIX

The thing about six months is—everything starts feeling bigger.

Her smiles.

Her babbling.

The way she kicks her legs like she’s training for the Olympics whenever Jack comes home from a shift.

And your love for her—your daughter—isn’t something neat and quiet anymore. It’s loud inside your chest. It’s messy.

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

You get the morning to yourself one rare Saturday.

Jack’s still knocked out in bed, sleeping off back-to-back night shifts, and the baby wakes early, squirming and babbling in her crib.

You scoop her up before she can start crying and carry her to the kitchen, heart already aching at how much bigger she feels in your arms.

She babbles nonsense at you while you fix a bottle one-handed, bouncing her on your hip.

You talk back, just as nonsensical, just as giddy.

"Yeah? You think so? I dunno, kiddo, the market’s not looking great for that kind of investment portfolio," you joke, nuzzling her soft cheek.

She giggles—full, wild baby giggles—and you feel it shake right through your ribs. You feed her at the table, tucked into the crook of your arm, sunlight pouring across both of you.

The house is still and warm and safe.

It’s just you and her.

When she finishes, you keep holding her, rocking gently. Her little fingers find your hair and tug, clumsy but affectionate. You laugh quietly and kiss the top of her head.

"You’re my best girl," you whisper.

"My whole heart."

You don’t even hear Jack come in. You just feel the change in the air—the way the world gets steadier when he’s close.

You glance over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Sleep-tousled hair. T-shirt wrinkled. And looking at you like you hung the goddamn stars.

"Hey," you murmur.

"Hey," Jack echoes, voice low and rough with sleep.

He crosses the room without hesitation and drops a kiss onto your hair first, then the baby's. Then he sinks into the chair beside you, resting his forearms on the table, eyes drinking you both in like he’s starving for it.

"You’re beautiful, you know that?" he says softly.

It’s not performative.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s just the truth, plain and steady, the way Jack says everything that matters.

You feel your face flush, your chest tighten.

Even after everything—even after the sleepless nights, the spit-up stains, the exhaustion—you still feel beautiful when he says it.

You still believe it.

Because it’s Jack.

And Jack doesn’t waste words.

That afternoon, you all pile into the beat-up Jeep and drive out toward the river, just to get some fresh air.

The baby's strapped into her carrier against Jack's chest, her little arms poking out. He adjusts the straps with the easy, absent-minded care of a man who would walk through fire just to keep her comfortable.

You hold hands as you walk, your fingers laced tight, your body leaning naturally into his.

Jack lifts your joined hands sometimes just to kiss your knuckles, like he can't help it. Like the love is leaking out of him at the seams.

The baby finally goes down around 9:30. You stand frozen outside the nursery door. Across the hall, Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with that sleepy, crooked smile that always gives him away.

The 'I’d burn the world down for you' smile.

The one he thinks you don’t catch.

You tiptoe toward him, socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and he lifts his hand—palm up, waiting. You grin, fitting your fingers into his without hesitation.

He squeezes once, slow and firm.

"Mission accomplished," he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn't even ripple the heavy quiet of the house.

You snort quietly.

"One kid. One bedtime. And it almost killed us."

Jack tugs you gently toward the kitchen. "Almost," he says, mock serious. "But not quite. ‘Cause you married a damn machine, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes so hard you almost sprain something.

"A machine who just bribed a six-month-old with four rounds of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and half a pack of graham crackers?"

Jack smirks as he grabs two beers from the fridge—one for him, one he opens and hands to you like he’s presenting you with fine wine instead of a Sam Adams.

"A win’s a win, pretty girl. Don’t question the strategy."

You lean your elbows on the counter, taking a long pull from the bottle, watching him. Loose, hair messy. T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Grinning at you like he’s just happy you’re standing in the same room breathing.

He sets his beer down, then leans in until his forehead bumps yours lightly. "Still married to me," he murmurs, like it’s some grand, ridiculous miracle. "Still puttin’ up with my ass."

"Somebody’s gotta," you tease, nose brushing his. "Can't let you run around unsupervised. You’d live on black coffee and beef jerky."

Jack laughs, low and warm, and drops a quick kiss onto your mouth—chaste, easy. But you feel the zing of it anyway.

The way you always do with him.

Like the earth tilting a little under your feet.

You set your beer down blindly and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Jack goes willingly, hands sliding low around your hips, thumbs slipping under the hem of your sleep shirt to find bare skin.

He grins against your mouth, voice rough with teasing. "Careful, honey. House is quiet. Baby’s asleep. Husband’s feelin’ reckless."

You tilt your head back a little, laughing softly.

"Oh yeah? What exactly is reckless gonna look like?"

Jack leans in again, bumping your nose with his. "Thinkin’ about throwin’ you over my shoulder. Maybe take you to the bedroom. Show you you’re still my girl first and her mom second."

You feel it—the way your heart slams against your ribs, the way heat flares under your skin.

God, you missed this.

Missed him like this—teasing and full of life and all that wrecking ball love aimed straight at you.

You tug his shirt higher, fingers skimming the hard plane of his back. "You’re all talk, Dr. Abbot," you whisper. "You forget—I know you."

Jack’s grin turns dangerous. "You sure about that, honey?"

Before you can answer, he sweeps you off your feet with one fast, practiced move—arms under your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter like you weigh nothing.

You gasp, laughing breathlessly as your beer bottle clatters harmlessly.

Jack crowds into your space, standing between your knees, hands braced on either side of you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, burning dark under the dim kitchen light.

"You’re still my girl," he says, voice dropping.

"Always gonna be."

He kisses you then—and it’s nothing like polite.

It’s deep, dirty, teeth dragging gently against your lower lip before his mouth seals over yours in a kiss so consuming it makes you whimper low in your throat.

Jack groans in answer, sliding his hands up under your shirt, palms rough and reverent over your ribs, your back, the soft curve of your waist.

You clutch at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, your body arching into him on instinct.

The kiss goes on and on—long, slow, greedy—like he’s trying to make up for every second the two of you have been too tired, too busy, too wrapped up in being parents to just be husband and wife.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathing hard, faces flushed, chests heaving.

"Love you," he murmurs, so low and wrecked you almost cry. "More now than the day I married you. More every damn day."

You kiss him again, softer this time, and thread your fingers through his.

"Same, Jack," you whisper. "Same. Always."

Jack presses another kiss to your temple, then another to your cheekbone, then one to the corner of your mouth—because he’s a man who doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.

And you let him.

You let him kiss you like he’s starving, let him hold you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

Because you are.

You always have been.

MONTH SEVEN

The late afternoon light spills golden across the living room, catching on the scattered toys and half-folded laundry.

Jack’s flat on the carpet, army-crawling after your daughter, who’s shrieking with laughter as she belly-flops toward her stuffed dinosaur.

"And she’s on the move!" Jack calls, his voice exaggerated and playful, dragging himself forward with his arms, shifting his weight carefully off his prosthetic like it’s second nature now.

Your daughter lets out a victorious squeal as she clutches the dinosaur, kicking her legs against the carpet.

Jack grins up at you from the floor, flushed and a little breathless. "Looks like the rookie’s got me beat," he says, dragging himself into a full, lazy sprawl. "Think she’s got a better crawl time than I ever did."

You’re sitting on the couch, your legs tucked under you, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Maybe if you had a binky and a stuffed T-Rex in basic, you would’ve made it further," you tease.

Jack barks a laugh, slow and rumbling.

"You tryin’ to start something, honey?" he says, rolling onto his good knee and levering himself upright in that smooth, practiced motion he’s mastered without fanfare.

"You got the mouth for it."

You arch a brow, playful.

"You wouldn't dare."

Jack tilts his head, that cocky, lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. "Wanna bet?"

Before you can move, he lunges—slow enough for you to see it coming, fast enough that you shriek anyway, scrambling off the couch.

You dart for the hallway, laughing breathlessly. Jack’s heavy footfalls thud behind you—the lighter footstep mixing with the solid stomp—and you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe as he catches you around the waist.

You squeal, kicking your legs uselessly as he lifts you, hauling you easily against his chest.

"Gotcha," he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his voice a low, delighted growl.

You slump against him, laughing helplessly, your heart hammering in your chest.

His hands are warm on your hips, steady and strong. Jack chuckles low, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

"Raincheck," he murmurs against your skin. "Handle her first. Then you’re all mine."

It takes an hour to get her down.

A bottle.

Three lullabies.

Some quiet rocking with Jack swaying on his feet, his body moving instinctively to keep her settled. You watch him from the nursery door, heart aching so sweetly it hurts—the way he holds her, the way his whole body softens when she finally, finally gives in to sleep.

When he lays her gently in the crib and brushes a calloused knuckle over her cheek, you know you’re done for.

Jack straightens slowly, adjusting his balance before he turns back toward you. He’s flushed and tired and barefoot, in an old black t-shirt and sweats—and he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

You take his hand silently.

He lets you.

Lets you pull him down the hall, fingers laced tight into yours.

The second you’re both inside the bedroom, Jack tugs you to a stop.

"You sure?" he says, voice low, serious. "Honey... we don’t gotta rush. You’re tired, I know—"

You cut him off with a kiss.

Hard.

Needy.

Full of every word you can’t fit into your mouth fast enough.

Jack groans low in his chest and lifts you carefully, steadying you against him before easing you back onto the bed.

No rush.

No slam.

Just the kind of rough, reverent touch that only he knows how to give you.

He crawls over you slowly, moving like he’s already half-drunk on you. His weight shifts naturally off the prosthetic, instinctive after all these years—but this time, he pauses. Sits back on his heels, eyes never leaving yours.

Wordlessly, Jack reaches down and unclips the prosthetic, setting it aside with a soft thud against the floor.

He exhales through his nose, rough and steady, the kind of sound he only makes when he’s dropping the last of his defenses. When it’s just you and him and nothing else that matters.

Then he’s back over you, heavier now, hotter, real in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

Jack fits himself between your thighs, the mattress dipping under his weight, his hands bracing on either side of your head.

"You good, baby?" he mutters, voice gravel-thick, the words brushing warm against your mouth.

You nod, already arching up into him, already lost.

Jack smiles—slow, crooked, hungry—and kisses you like a man who’s got nowhere else to be. His hands slide under your shirt, fingers rough and reverent against your skin.

"You’re so goddamn beautiful," he mutters, voice wrecked.

"Been drivin' me crazy all day. Chasin’ you around the house like a damn fool."

You giggle breathlessly into his mouth, tugging his shirt off over his head.

Jack chuckles low, dragging your sleep shirt up inch by inch, kissing every new patch of skin he uncovers.

He’s warm and solid and stupidly good at this—kissing you until you’re panting, until you’re squirming under him, until you’re gasping his name.

"You’re mine," he murmurs against your skin. "Still my girl. Always."

When he finally slides inside you, it’s slow.

Deep.

A rhythm he sets without thinking—steady, grounded, devastating.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails scraping gently over the broad planes of his back. Jack buries his face in your neck, groaning low as he rocks into you, one hand sliding under your thigh to angle you closer, deeper, better.

"God, baby," he pants. "Feels so good—always you, only you—"

You arch into him, every nerve ending blazing, every breath catching.

He kisses you like it’s the first time.

Like it’s the last time.

Like it’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.

You come apart first—soft, wrecked, clinging to him—and Jack follows with a groan that sounds like your name shattered across his lips.

He stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his body heavy and warm and so damn real on top of you.

You thread your fingers through his messy hair, stroking gently. Jack hums low, shifting carefully so he’s not crushing you, pulling you into his side, tucking your head under his chin.

"You’re my whole world," he whispers, voice cracking. "You and her. Always."

You kiss the center of his chest, right over his hammering heart.

"You’re ours too," you whisper back. "Always."

MONTH EIGHT

The house is so quiet in the early mornings now.

Jack is always the first one up. Not because he has to be—but because he wants to be.

You find him almost every morning sitting at the kitchen table, coffee in hand, the baby in his lap.

Sometimes he’s got her pressed against his chest, one hand wrapped completely around her little body.

Sometimes he’s reading aloud from whatever’s nearby—sports page, medical journal, the back of a cereal box.

This morning, it’s the latter. Jack’s deep voice rumbles through a very serious dramatic reading of the Lucky Charms ingredients list.

You lean against the doorway, grinning like an idiot, just watching them. Watching the way he sips his coffee absently between sentences, the way the baby clutches a fistful of his t-shirt, drooling contentedly.

The way Jack drops a kiss onto her hair every couple minutes without even realizing he’s doing it.

This is what love looks like, you think. This is what home feels like.

It happens on a Sunday morning.

One of those soft, slow days where the house smells like coffee and pancakes and the baby’s shrieking happily in her bouncer.

Jack’s at the stove, wearing nothing but flannel pajama pants and an old army t-shirt, trying to flip pancakes while holding a spatula and a coffee mug at the same time.

You’re sitting on the counter, swinging your legs, wearing Jack’s hoodie and absolutely no pants, grinning like an idiot.

"You're gonna burn those," you warn, sipping your coffee.

Jack glances over his shoulder, smirking.

"Negative, pretty girl. This is controlled chaos."

The second he turns back, the pancake flops halfway out of the pan, folding over itself in a sad, gooey mess.

You laugh so hard you almost spit out your coffee. Jack groans dramatically, setting down the spatula and mock-bowing to the baby.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he says solemnly. "Your breakfast has been compromised."

The baby claps her hands excitedly.

And then—clear as a bell—she looks straight at you and says, "Mama!"

You freeze.

Jack freezes.

The whole house freezes.

Your coffee cup slips out of your hands onto the counter with a thunk. Jack turns, eyes wide, mouth falling open in slow motion.

"Did she—?" he croaks.

"Did you—?"

You slide off the counter, rushing over, scooping her up in your arms, laughing and crying all at once.

"Say it again, baby," you whisper, beaming through your tears.

And sure enough, your daughter beams back at you, kicking her little legs, babbling happily: "Mama! Mama!"

Jack’s standing frozen by the stove, coffee mug forgotten in his hand, just staring at the two of you. His face is flushed, his eyes suspiciously bright.

You turn toward him, bouncing your daughter on your hip.

"Jack," you laugh, voice thick.

"She said it! She really said it—"

You don’t even finish. Jack’s across the room in three strides, careful not to trip on the rug, pulling you both into his arms.

He hugs you so tight you can barely breathe, his head dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

"I’m so goddamn proud of you," he mutters hoarsely, pressing a kiss into your hair, then one to your daughter’s head.

"So proud of my girls."

You blink up at him, overwhelmed with love, cupping his face in your hand. Jack leans into your touch shamelessly, his lashes lowering, his mouth soft and wrecked.

"Mama," the baby chirps again, and Jack laughs—low and broken and full of more joy than you’ve ever heard from him.

"Yeah, that’s right, bean," he whispers. "That’s your mama. Best damn one in the world."

You end up on the couch in a heap—Jack stretched out with you sprawled half on top of him, the baby curled between you, all three of you breathing each other in.

It’s messy.

It’s imperfect.

It’s everything.

The first real crisp Saturday, Jack piles you both into the Jeep.

No agenda. Just air. Leaves. Time.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to hold yours across the console.

The baby babbles in her car seat, kicking her little feet at the window, and Jack keeps glancing at her in the mirror with that soft, wrecked look you’ve come to recognize.

You end up at a small park—just woods and trails and a rickety playground. Jack lifts her out of the car seat with the same appreciation he uses for the most fragile patients.

Presses his forehead to hers.

"You ready to see the world, little bean?" he whispers.

You walk the trails together, Jack keeping her tucked close to his chest, narrating everything he sees: "This is a maple tree, sweetheart. Turns red in October. Looks like the whole damn world’s on fire when it hits right."

"These are squirrels. Little thieves. Don’t trust ‘em."

You laugh the whole time, half at him, half at the sheer overwhelming joy of watching the two people you love most in the world wrapped up in each other.

Jack pulls you into a kiss when you least expect it—deep, slow, hungry—with the baby giggling between you.

Like he can’t help it.

Like loving you is as natural to him as breathing.

MONTH NINE

Jack’s the one who insists on it.

You catch him late one night scrolling through his phone in bed, looking at local pumpkin patches like he’s planning a heist.

You smother a laugh into his shoulder.

"You serious about this, Abbot?"

Jack snorts.

"First Halloween. First pumpkin. Non-negotiable."

He books it two days later—drives you both out on a crisp Saturday, one hand on the wheel, the other resting over your knee the whole time. Your daughter’s bundled in a little fleece onesie with bear ears on the hood, clutching the strap of her car seat and babbling to herself.

When you get there, Jack’s all in.

Wheeling the wagon.

Letting her "choose" a pumpkin by the scientific method of whichever one she tries to eat first.

Crouching slow and careful so she can sit in a pile of leaves while he snaps a thousand photos on his phone like a proud dad on steroids.

At one point you turn around and find Jack sitting in the dirt, legs sprawled out, your daughter crawling all over him—tugging at his hoodie strings, trying to steal his hat.

He’s laughing, full and unguarded, his face lit up in a way that makes your heart physically ache.

It happens when you’re least expecting it. Which, you’re starting to realize, is how all the big moments happen.

You’re doing dishes in the kitchen. Jack’s sitting on the floor, flipping through a toy catalog someone left at the nurses' station, pretending to be very serious about Christmas gift planning.

The baby’s on her playmat, babbling to herself, surrounded by stuffed animals and teethers.

You walk into the living room—and freeze.

She’s got her tiny hands braced on the couch. Her legs wobble dangerously under her.

But somehow—God, somehow—she pulls herself upright.

Your mouth drops open.

"Jack—"

Jack’s eyes are wide, almost panicked.

Like if he blinks, he’ll miss it.

Like it’s the most fragile miracle in the world.

She wobbles, Jack lunges—and catches her gently before she tips.

"That’s my girl! You’re gonna take over the world!"

You sit down hard on the couch, heart pounding, grinning so wide your face hurts. Jack beams at you over her head, and you swear to God his eyes are shiny.

He won’t admit it.

But you know.

You both pretend it’s for her.

It’s not.

It’s for you and Jack.

Jack spends hours on the couch sketching costume ideas like he’s designing a battle plan.

Pirates?

Farmers?

Superheroes?

Jack suggests "trauma surgeons," but you veto it when he tries to strap a fake scalpel to the baby’s diaper bag.

You finally settle on a simple one: A little pumpkin suit for her.

You and Jack wear matching orange hoodies.

Jack grumbles, but secretly loves it—you can tell by the way he keeps brushing his knuckles against your side every time you get close.

At the neighbor’s block party, Jack holds her the whole time, proudly accepting compliments like he personally grew her in the backyard.

He lets her chew on his hoodie string.

Lets her grab fistfuls of his hair.

Lets her shriek in his ear without flinching.

Later, back home, you find him sitting on the floor in the nursery with her asleep on his chest—both of them still wearing their pumpkin outfits.

MONTH TEN

The front yard was Jack’s idea.

"You can’t stay cooped up in the house forever, bean," he tells her, propping the storm door open with his boot while he adjusts the old quilt he spread out over the browning fall grass.

"You gotta touch some dirt sometime. It's character-building."

You smile from the porch, arms folded loosely over your chest, heart full to the point of aching. It’s cold enough that you’re both bundled up—Jack in an old hoodie and jeans, your daughter in a too-puffy jacket that makes her arms stick out like a tiny scarecrow.

Jack crouches carefully. He sets her down on the quilt.

She sits there for a second, blinking up at him.

Then at you.

Then down at the crinkling, crunchy leaves scattered across the grass. Jack tosses her one—big and orange, almost bigger than her face. She squeals, clutching it in both hands, waving it around like a victory flag.

You laugh quietly.

Jack turns his head, grinning that slow, easy grin that still knocks the breath out of you.

And when he turns back—it happens.

She pushes herself upright.

Wobbly.

Determined.

Like the whole world’s just waiting for her to take it.

Jack freezes, one hand still half-extended like he was about to offer her another leaf.

You watch, breathless, from the porch—hands fisted in the sleeves of your sweatshirt, heart pounding.

And then—one step. Another.

Toward him.

Toward Jack.

Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays absolutely still, arms hanging loose at his sides, his whole body vibrating with the effort not to rush forward and grab her.

When she stumbles into him—three full steps later—he scoops her up so fast you barely see it happen.

Lifts her high into the air, spinning once under the porch light, laughing that full, broken, wrecked-little-boy laugh you only hear when he’s completely undone.

"That’s my tough girl," he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss into her pink cheeks. "God, you’re somethin’ else, baby bean."

He tips his head back toward you, still holding her high against his chest—and you see it.

The way his mouth is trembling.

The way his eyes are suspiciously bright, blinking hard.

Jack Abbot, who’s been shot at, seen death on rooftops and in ER trauma bays—wrecked into soft, helpless pieces by a pair of wobbly baby legs and three whole steps.

You jump down off the porch without even thinking, running toward them, wrapping yourself around them both.

Jack catches you one-armed, pressing his face into your hair, breathing hard.

"You see that?" he mutters against you, voice rough and low. "She chose me. Took her first steps to me."

You nod, laughing through tears.

"I saw it, Jack," you whisper back. "I saw everything."

The first real cold snap hits two weeks later.

Jack makes a production out of it—dragging down tubs of winter clothes from the attic, testing the space heater, checking the baby monitor batteries like you’re preparing for the Arctic.

You find him one evening sitting on the floor of the nursery, surrounded by a sea of tiny coats, mittens, hats, and boots.

The baby’s crawling around giggling, trying to chew on every hat she can get her hands on.

Jack’s holding up a toddler-sized snowsuit with a deeply skeptical expression.

"She’s gonna look like a marshmallow," he mutters. "Can she even breathe in this?"

You laugh, sitting down beside him. "You’re gonna be that dad, huh?" you tease, bumping his shoulder. "The one who brings her to preschool wearing a parka in 40 degrees?"

Jack lifts his chin stubbornly. "Better too warm than too cold."

He glances at the baby trying to fit an entire mitten in her mouth and grins. "Besides. She’s gotta survive Pittsburgh winter. It’s a rite of passage."

You didn’t plan on getting a tree that day.

Jack says it’s too early. You agree.

But when you drive past the little lot tucked between the church and the fire station—when you see the tiny white lights strung overhead—you both say nothing.

Just look at each other.

And turn in without a word.

Jack lifts the baby out of her car seat, tucking her close against his chest inside his coat. You wander through the rows slowly, letting her grab fistfuls of pine needles, letting Jack argue seriously with the teenager working the lot about which tree "looks the most structurally sound."

You settle on a small, sturdy one.

Jack ties it to the roof of the Jeep himself, refusing help.

You know better than to argue—watching him knot the ropes with steady, competent hands, his mouth set in that focused line you love so much.

When you get home, he lifts the baby onto his shoulders and lets her "help" you string lights—her squealing laughter echoing off the walls.

Jack catches your hand as you walk past, tugging you into his side.

"We’re makin’ a good life, huh, pretty girl?" he murmurs.

"One hell of a good life."

MONTH ELEVEN

You didn't plan to make a big deal out of it.

First Christmas.

She's too young to remember.

That's what you kept telling yourselves.

But Jack...he can't help himself.

You find him at the kitchen table on Christmas Eve, hunched over a roll of wrapping paper, tongue poking out slightly as he wrestles with Scotch tape and a box that’s clearly too big for its contents.

The tree glows in the corner of the living room, soft and gold, the whole house smelling like pine and cinnamon.

Your daughter babbles from her playpen, chewing on a crinkly ribbon Jack forgot to hide. Jack just shakes his head fondly and lets her.

When he sees you standing there, arms crossed and smiling, he tries to scowl. Fails miserably.

"What?" he mutters, sticking another crooked piece of tape down. "Santa’s gotta show up somehow."

You cross the room, sliding your arms around his shoulders from behind, resting your chin on top of his head.

"You’re gonna ruin her for real Christmases when she’s older," you murmur against his hair. "Nothing’s ever gonna top this."

Jack hums low in his throat, one hand reaching up to squeeze your forearm where it crosses his chest. "Good," he says simply.

"I don’t want her ever thinkin' she’s gotta go lookin’ for somethin' better. She’s already got everything she needs."

It’s still dark when you feel him stir.

Jack’s body slides out of bed carefully, trying not to wake you. You crack one eye open and watch him pad silently to the nursery in sweatpants and a ratty old Steelers hoodie.

You follow a minute later, wrapping a blanket around yourself.

You catch the scene from the hallway: Jack crouched low by the crib, one big hand resting gently on the bars, his head bowed.

Not saying anything.

Just... being there.

Breathing her in.

He lifts her slowly, carefully, pressing his face into her hair, and you hear it—the soft, wrecked sound he makes when she cuddles into him without hesitation.

"Hey, bean," he whispers, voice cracking.

"Merry Christmas, baby girl."

You stand there, hand pressed to your mouth, heart splitting wide open.

Jack turns finally, cradling her tight against his chest. His eyes find yours in the half-light. And even though he doesn’t say anything, you hear it clear as day:

Thank you. Thank you for her. Thank you for this. Thank you for choosing him.

It starts snowing after breakfast. Big, lazy flakes drifting down outside the windows, blanketing the world in white.

Jack builds a fire in the living room fireplace, cursing gently under his breath when it smokes at first.

You bundle the baby in a ridiculous red-and-white onesie covered in tiny reindeer and sit her in the middle of the couch with a pile of pillows on either side like she's royalty.

Jack flops down beside her with a grunt, stretching out his long legs and tilting his head back to watch the snow.

The fire crackles low. The tree lights blink softly. Your daughter babbles, chewing happily on the sleeve of her onesie. You settle into Jack’s side, his arm automatically looping around your shoulders.

He kisses your temple without thinking. Without needing to.

"You warm enough, pretty girl?" he murmurs. "Got everything you need?"

You don’t answer.

You just nod, curling closer into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and pine and Jack. Because you do. You really, truly do.

The baby sleeps early, worn out by too many presents, too many relatives, too much excitement.

You and Jack stay up late.

Too late.

Sitting on the living room floor like teenagers, backs against the couch, drinking hot chocolate and eating the burnt-edge cookies you forgot to take out of the oven in time.

You talk about stupid things at first. Work. Sports. Whether the baby's going to end up a hockey player or a piano prodigy.

And then Jack gets quiet. Staring into the fire. "You ever think it’d be like this?" he asks finally, voice low and rough. "Back then?"

You know what he means.

Back when the world was a lot harder.

When he never thought he’d make it past thirty.

When you weren’t even sure you believed in happy endings.

You slide your hand into his, threading your fingers tight.

"No," you whisper. "Not like this." You turn your head, smiling soft against the firelight. "Better."

Jack squeezes your hand once, hard, and you feel him nod. Feel him breathe. Feel him let it in. The good. The love. The life he never thought he deserved.

MONTH TWELVE

The holidays are over. The tree’s gone. The stockings are packed away. The house feels a little empty without all the lights and glitter, but honestly?

You’re relieved.

You and Jack have been circling the same conversation for two weeks now: How big should her first birthday be?

Jack leans over the kitchen counter one evening, thumbing through a battered old notebook, his mouth pulled into that stubborn line he gets when he’s pretending to be casual but is actually spiraling.

"I mean..." he says, flipping a page. "We could just do somethin' small. Family. Cake. A couple of her toys. No big deal."

You lift an eyebrow at him.

"And by ‘small’ you mean...?"

Jack shrugs, grinning sheepishly.

"Maybe invite, like, Shen. Dana. Robby. Princess. Perlah. Ellis. Collins. Langdon. McKay. And maybe the rookies if they don't annoy me"

You snort, dropping into the chair across from him.

"So, basically... the entire Pitt."

Jack smirks. "You wanna tell Ellis she’s not invited to her honorary niece’s first birthday?" He taps his pen on the paper. "'Cause I’m not getting in the middle of that one, pretty girl."

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

"You’re impossible."

Jack leans across the counter, catching your chin lightly between his thumb and knuckle, tilting your face up.

"You love me anyway."

The January sky is sharp and dark, heavy with the kind of cold that makes the world feel smaller.

You find Jack in the nursery after you put the baby down—sitting in the old rocking chair, one foot nudging the floor in a slow rhythm. He’s staring at the crib. Silent. Still.

You lean against the doorway, watching him. Watching the way the weight of the year—the weight of love—settles heavy over his broad shoulders.

Jack finally looks up, catching your eye. His voice is low, rough with something he hasn’t figured out how to say yet.

"You remember..." He clears his throat. "You remember when we brought her home?"

You nod, stepping quietly into the room. Press your hand to the back of his neck, feeling the tension there. The life humming under his skin.

"I didn’t know what the hell I was doin'," Jack mutters, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Didn’t know if I deserved her. If I deserved you."

You slide your fingers through his hair, soft and sure.

Jack leans into it like he can’t help himself.

"You do," you whisper. "You deserve all of it, Jack. You always have."

He pulls you into his lap then, wrapping his arms around your waist, tucking his face into your neck. Holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

And maybe you are.

Maybe you always will be.

The day of her birthday dawns cold and gray, the streets dusted with a thin layer of January snow.

You wake up to Jack already downstairs, setting up balloons and streamers with the grim determination of a man trying to fix a leaky roof mid-thunderstorm.

You find him half-wrestling a giant "1" balloon into the living room, muttering curses under his breath when it refuses to cooperate.

"You good, champ?" you tease, sipping your coffee.

Jack glares at you over the top of the balloon, but there’s no heat in it. Only love. Only joy. Only him.

"You wanna fight the damn helium next?" he mutters, half-laughing as he pins the balloon to the back of a chair.

The party is perfect.

Small, chaotic, full of noise and warmth.

The Pitt crew shows up—Dana with an armful of presents, Robby with some ridiculous talking toy that immediately gets banned to the garage after ten minutes, Shen slipping Jack a flask when he thinks you’re not looking.

Jack never puts her down.

Not really.

He lets her toddle a little—lets her show off the new steps she’s so proud of—but he’s always within reach. Always there to catch her.

You cut the cake.

She smashes her tiny fists into the frosting with a triumphant shriek. Everyone cheers. Jack laughs so hard he almost drops the camera.

Later, when the guests trickle out and the house quiets, you find Jack standing in the kitchen, wiping down the counters like he can scrub the day into permanence.

He turns when he hears you, setting the rag down. Looks at you with that look—the one he only ever gives you. The one that says everything without a single word.

You cross the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest.

Jack hugs you back immediately, fiercely. Kisses your hair. "She’s gonna be so damn good, honey," he murmurs against your crown. "You’re makin’ sure of that."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "You too, Jack," you whisper. "You’re the best thing she’ll ever know."

"Can’t believe we made it a year," he murmurs. "Can’t believe we get to keep doin’ this."

The other grips the strap of a leather bag, weighed down with printed ledgers and a half-dozen highlighters—color-coded in a way no one but you understands.

The badge clipped to your shirt flashes with every turn:

Kane & Turner LLP : Federal Compliance Division

Your name, printed clean in black sans serif.

That’s the only thing you say as you approach the front desk—your name. You don’t need to say why you’re here. They already know.

You’re the audit. The walk, the clothes, the quiet. It’s all part of the package. You’ve learned that you don’t need to act intimidating—people project the fear themselves.

“Finance conference room’s down the left hallway,” says the woman behind the desk, not bothering to smile. She’s polite, but brisk—like she’s been told to expect you and is already counting the minutes until you’re gone. “Security badge should be active ‘til five. If you need extra time, check with admin operations.”

You nod. “Thanks.”

They always act like audits come unannounced. But they don’t. You gave them notice. Ten days. Standard protocol. The federal grant in question flagged during the quarterly compliance sweep—a mismatch between trauma unit expenditures and the itemized supply orders. Enough of a discrepancy that your firm sent someone in person.

That someone is you.

You push the door open to the designated conference room and are hit with the familiar scent of institutional lemon cleaner and cold laminate tables. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, facing the opposite hospital wing; the rest is sterile whiteboard and cheap drop ceiling. Someone left two water bottles and a packet of hospital-branded pens on the table. The air is too cold.

Good. You work better like that.

You slide into the seat furthest from the door and start unpacking: first the laptop, then the binder of flagged ledgers, then a manila folder marked ER SUPPLY – FY20 in your handwriting. You open it flat and smooth the corners, spreading it across the table like a map. You don’t need directions. You’re here to track footprints.

Most audits feel bloated. Fraud is rarely elegant. It’s padded hours, made-up patients, vendors that don’t exist. But this one is… off. Not obviously criminal. Just messy.

You sip the lukewarm coffee you poured in the break room—burnt, stale, and still the best part of your morning—and begin.

Line by line.

February 12th: Gauze and blood bags double-logged under pediatrics.

March 3rd: 16 units of epinephrine marked as “routine use” with no corresponding case.

April 8th: High-volume saline usage with no corresponding trauma log.

None of it makes sense until you hit the May file.

May 17th.

Your finger stills over the page. A flagged case code—4413A—a GSW patient brought in at 02:11AM, code blue on arrival. The trauma bay requisition log is blank. Completely empty. No gauze. No sutures. No chest tube. Not even surgical gloves.

Instead, the corresponding supply usage appears—wrong date, wrong bay, under the general medicine supply closet three doors down. The only signature?

J. Abbot.

You sit back in your chair, eyes narrowing.

It’s not the first time his name has come up. You flip through past logs, then again through the April folder. There he is again. Trauma-level supplies signed under incorrect departments. Equipment routed through pediatrics. Trauma kit requests stamped urgent but logged under outpatient codes.

Never outrageous. Never duplicated. But always… altered. Shifted.

And always the same name in the bottom corner.

Jack Abbot Trauma Attending.

No initials after the name. No pomp. Just that hard, slanted signature—like someone in too much of a hurry to care if the pen worked properly.

You lean forward again, grabbing a sticky note.

Who the hell are you, Jack Abbot?

Your phone buzzes. A reminder that your firm expects an initial report by EOD. You check your watch—8:58 AM. Still early. You’ve got time to dig before anyone notices you’re not just sitting quietly in the background.

You open your laptop and search the internal directory.

ABBOT, JACK. Emergency Medicine, Trauma Center – Full Time Contact : [email protected] Page: 3371

You hover over the extension.

Then you close the tab.

There are two ways to handle something like this. You can go the formal route—submit a flagged incident for admin review, request clarification via email, cc your firm. Or...

You can go see what the hell kind of doctor signs off on trauma supplies like they’re water and lies to the system to get away with it.

You stand.

Your shoes are soundless against the tile.

Time to meet the man behind the margins.

Tuesday — 9:07 AM Allegheny General Hospital – Emergency Wing, Sublevel One

You don’t belong here, and the walls know it.

The ER hums like a living organism—loud in the places you expect to be quiet, and disturbingly quiet in the places that should scream. No signage tells you where to go, just a worn plastic placard labeled “TRAUMA — RESTRICTED ACCESS” and an old red arrow. You follow it anyway.

Your heels click once. Then again.

A tech throws you a sideways glance. A nurse barrels past with a tray of tubing and a strip of ECG printouts clutched in her fist. You flatten yourself against the wall. Keep moving.

This isn't the world of emails and boardrooms and fluorescent-lit compliance briefings. Here, time is blood. Everything moves too fast, too loud, too hot. It smells like antiseptic and old sweat. Somewhere nearby, a man is moaning—low, ragged. In another room, someone shouts for a Glidescope.

You don’t flinch. You’ve sat across from CEOs getting indicted. But still—this is not your battlefield.

You square your shoulders anyway and head for the nurse’s station, guided by the pulsing anxiety of your purpose. The folder tucked against your ribs is thick with numbers. Itemized trauma inventory. Improper codes. Unexplained cross-departmental requisitions. And one name—over and over again.

J. Abbot.

You stop at the cluttered, overrun desk where five nurses and two interns are trying to share a single charting terminal. Dana Evans, Charge Nurse, gives you a look like she’s been warned someone like you might show up.

“You lost?” she asks, not unkind, but sharp around the edges.

“I’m here for Dr. Abbot. I’m conducting an internal audit—grant oversight tied to the ER trauma budget.”

Dana lets out a soft, near-silent laugh through her nose. “Oh. You.”

“Excuse me?”

“No offense, but we’ve been placing bets on how long you’d last down here. My money was on ten minutes. The med student said eight.”

“I’ve been here twelve.”

She cocks a brow. “Well. You just made someone ten bucks. He’s at the back bay, not supposed to be here this morning—double-covered someone’s shift. Lucky you.”

That last part catches your attention.

“Why is he covering?”

Dana shrugs, but her expression flickers—tight, guarded. “He’s not supposed to be. Got a call about a kid he used to mentor—resident from one of his old programs. Car wreck on Sunday. Jack’s been pacing ever since. Showed up before sunrise. Said he couldn’t sleep.”

You blink.

“You’re telling me he—”

“Hasn’t slept, probably hasn’t eaten, definitely hasn’t had a civil conversation since Saturday? Yeah. That’s about right.”

You process it. Nod once. “Thank you.”

She grins. “You’re brave. Not smart. But brave.”

You leave her laughing behind you.

The trauma wing proper is a maze of curtained bays and rushed movement. You keep scanning every ID badge, every profile, looking for something—until you see him.

Back turned. Clipboard under his elbow, talking to someone too quietly for you to hear. He’s taller than you’d imagined—broad in the shoulders, but tired in the way his weight shifts unevenly from one leg to the other. One knee flexes, absorbs. The other does not.

You recognize it now.

You walk up and stop a respectful foot behind.

“Dr. Abbot?”

He doesn’t turn at first. Just adjusts the pen behind his ear, flicks a switch on the vitals monitor. Then:

“Yeah.”

He looks over his shoulder, sees you, and stills.

His face is older than his file photo. Harder. Faint stubble across his jaw, a constellation of stress lines under his eyes that no amount of sleep could erase. His black scrub top is creased at the collar, short sleeves revealing tan forearms mapped with faded scars and the pale ghost of a long-healed burn.

You catch your breath—not because he’s handsome, though he is. But because he’s real. Grounded. And already deciding what box to put you in.

You lift your badge. “I’m with Kane & Turner. I’m conducting a trauma budget audit for the grant you’re listed under. I’d like to go over some of your logs.”

He stares at you.

Long enough to make it feel intentional.

“Now?”

“I was told you were available.”

He huffs out a laugh, if you can call it that—dry and crooked, more breath than sound. “Jesus Christ. Yeah. I’m sure that’s what Dana said.”

“She said you came in before sunrise.”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just scratches once at his jaw, where the stubble’s gone patchy, then drops his hand again like the gesture annoyed him. “Didn’t plan to be here. Wasn’t on the board.”

A beat. Then: “Got a call Sunday night. One of my old residents—kid from back in Boston. Wrapped his car around a guardrail. I don’t know if he fell asleep or if he meant to do it. Doesn’t matter, I guess. He died on impact.”

His voice doesn’t shift. Not even a flicker. Just calm, like he’s reading it off a report. But his fingers twitch once at his side, and he’s standing too still, like if he moves the wrong way, he might break something in himself.

“I’ve been up since,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Figured I’d do something useful.”

You hesitate. “I’m sorry.”

He finally looks at you, and the hollow behind his eyes is like a door left open too long in winter. “Don’t be. He’s the one who didn’t walk away.”

A beat of silence.

“I won’t take much of your time,” you say. “But there are significant inconsistencies in your logs. Some dating back six months. Most from May. Including—”

“Let me guess,” he interrupts. “May 17th. GSW. Bay One unavailable. Used the peds closet. Logged under the wrong department. Didn’t have time to clear it before I scrubbed in. End of story.”

You blink. “That’s not exactly—”

“You want a confession? Fine. I logged shit wrong. I do it all the time. I make it fit the bill codes that get supplies restocked fastest, not the ones that make sense to people sitting upstairs.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Jack turns to face you fully now, arms crossed. “You ever had a mother screaming in your face because her kid’s pressure dropped and you’re still waiting for a sterile suction kit to come up from Central?”

You shake your head.

“Didn’t think so.”

“I understand it’s difficult, but that doesn’t make it right—”

“I’m not here to be right,” he says flatly. “I’m here to make sure people don’t die waiting for tape and tubing.”

He steps closer, voice quieter now.

“You think the system’s built for this place? It’s not. It’s built for billing departments and insurance adjusters. I’m just bending it so the next teenager doesn’t bleed out on a gurney because the ER spent two hours requesting sterile gauze through the proper channel.”

You’re trying to hold your ground, but something in you wavers. Just slightly.

“This isn’t about money,” you say, though your voice softens. “It’s about transparency. The federal grant is under review. If they pull it, it’s not just your supplies—it’s salaries. Nurses. Fellowships. You could cost this hospital everything.”

Jack exhales hard through his nose. Looks at you like he wants to say a hundred things and doesn’t have the energy for one.

“You ever been in a position,” he murmurs, “where the right thing and the possible thing weren’t the same thing?”

You say nothing.

Because you’ve built a life doing the former.

And he’s built one surviving the latter.

“I’ll be in the charting room in twenty,” he says, already turning away. “If you want to see what this looks like up close, you’re welcome to follow.”

Before you can answer, someone shouts his name—loud, urgent.

He bolts toward the trauma bay before the syllables finish echoing.

And you’re left standing there, folder pressed to your chest, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with ethics and everything to do with him.

Jack Abbot.

A man who rewrites the rules not because he doesn’t care—

But because he cares too much to follow them.

Tuesday — 9:24 AM Allegheny General – Trauma Bay 2

You were not trained for this.

No part of your CPA license, your MBA electives, or your federal compliance onboarding prepared you for what it means to step inside a trauma bay mid-resuscitation.

But you do it anyway.

He told you to follow, and you did. Not because you’re scared of him—but because something in his voice made you want to understand him. Dissect the logic beneath the defiance. And because you're not the kind of woman who lets someone walk away thinking they’ve won a conversation just because they can bark louder.

So now here you are, standing just past the curtain, audit folder pressed against your chest like armor, trying not to breathe too shallow in case it looks like you’re afraid.

It’s loud. Then silent. Then louder.

A man lies on the table, unconscious. Twenty-five, maybe thirty. Jeans cut open, a ragged wound in his left thigh leaking bright arterial blood. A nurse swears under her breath. The EKG monitor screams. A resident drops a tray of gauze on the floor.

You don’t step back.

Jack Abbot is already at the man’s side.

His hands move like they’re ahead of his thoughts. No hesitation. No consulting a textbook. He pulls a sterile clamp from a drawer, presses it to the wound, and shouts for suction before the blood can pool down the table leg. The team forms around him like satellites to a planet. He doesn't yell. He commands. Low-voiced. Urgent. Controlled.

“Clamp there,” Jack says, to a stunned-looking intern. “No, firmer. This isn’t a prom date.”

You stifle a snort—barely. No one else even reacts.

The nurse closest to him says, “BP’s crashing.”

“Pressure bag’s up?”

“In use.”

“Give me a second one, now. And call blood bank—we’re skipping crossmatch. Type O, two units.”

You shift your weight quietly, moving two inches left so you’re out of the path of the incoming trauma cart. It bumps your hip. You don’t flinch.

He glances up. Sees you still standing there.

“You sure you want to be here?” he asks, not pausing. “It’s not exactly OSHA compliant.”

You meet his eyes evenly.

“You invited me, remember?”

He blinks once, but says nothing.

The monitor screams again. Jack lowers his head, muttering something you don’t catch. Then, to the nurse: “We’re not getting return. I need to open.”

“You want to crack here?” she asks. “We’re two minutes from OR three—”

“We don’t have two minutes.”

The tray arrives. Jack snaps on a new pair of gloves. You glance down and catch the gleam of something inside him—a steel that wasn’t there in the hallway.

This man is exhausted. Unshaven. Probably hasn't eaten in twelve hours. And yet every move he makes now is poetry. Violent, beautiful poetry. He’s not a man anymore—he’s a scalpel. A weapon for something bigger than him.

And still, you stay.

You even speak.

“If you’re going to override a standard OR protocol in front of a compliance officer,” you say calmly, “you might want to narrate it for the notes.”

The entire room freezes for half a second.

Jack looks up at you—truly looks—and his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something older. A flicker of amusement under pressure.

“You’re a piece of work,” he mutters, turning back to the table. “Sternotomy tray. Now.”

You watch.

He cuts.

The man survives.

And you’re left trying to hold onto the version of him you built in your head when you walked through those double doors—the reckless trauma doctor who flouts policy and falsifies entries like he’s above the rules.

But he’s not above them.

He’s beneath them. Holding them up from below.

Twenty-three minutes later, he’s stripping off his gloves and washing his hands at a sink just past the trauma bays. The blood spirals down the drain in rust-colored ribbons. His jaw is clenched. His shoulders sag.

You step closer. No fear. No folder to hide behind now—just your voice.

“I don’t know what you think I’m doing here,” you say quietly, “but I’m not your enemy.”

Jack doesn’t look up.

“You’re wearing a suit,” he says. “You carry a clipboard. You track numbers like they tell the whole story.”

“I track truth,” you correct. “Which is a lot harder to pin down when you hide things in pediatric line items.”

He turns. That gets his attention.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Hiding things?”

“I think you’re manipulating a fragile system to serve your own triage priorities. I think you’re smart enough to know how to avoid audit flags. And I think you’re exhausted enough not to care if it lands you in disciplinary review.”

His laugh is dry and joyless.

“You know what lands me in disciplinary review? Not spending thirty bucks of saline because a man didn’t bleed on the right fucking floor.”

“I know,” you say. “I watched you save someone who wasn’t supposed to make it past intake.”

Jack pauses.

And for the first time, you see it: a beat of surprise. Not in your observation, but in your acknowledgment.

“Then why are you still pushing?”

“Because I can’t fix what I don’t understand. And right now? You’re not giving me a goddamn thing to work with.”

A long silence stretches.

The sink drips.

You fold your arms. “If you want me to report accurately, show me what’s behind the curtain. The real system. Your system.”

Jack watches you carefully. His brow furrows. You wonder if anyone’s ever said that to him before—Let me see the whole thing. I won’t flinch.

“Follow me,” he says at last.

And then he walks. Not fast. Not trying to shake you. Just steady steps down the hallway. Past curtain 6. Past the empty crash cart. To a supply room you didn’t even know existed.

You follow.

Because that’s the deal now. He shows you what he’s built in the margins, and you decide whether to burn it down.

Or defend it.

Tuesday — 10:02 AM Allegheny General – Sublevel 1, Unmapped Storage Room

The hallway leading there isn’t on the public map. It’s narrower than it should be, dimmer too, the kind of corridor that exists between structural beams and budget approvals. You follow him past the trauma bay, past the marked charting alcove, past a metal door you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stopped.

Jack pulls a key from the lanyard tucked in his back pocket. Not a swipe badge—a key. Real, metal, old. He unlocks the door with a twist and a grunt.

Inside, fluorescent light hums awake overhead. The bulb stutters once, then holds.

And you freeze.

It’s a supply closet—but only in name. It’s his war room.

The room is narrow but deep, lined wall-to-wall with shelves of restocked trauma kits, expired saline bags labeled “STILL USABLE” in black Sharpie, drawers of unlabeled syringes, taped-up binders, folders with handwritten tabs. No digital interface. No hospital barcodes. No asset tags.

There’s a folding chair in the corner. A coffee mug half-full of pens. A cracked whiteboard with a grid system that only he could understand. The air smells like latex, ink, and whatever disinfectant they stopped ordering five fiscal quarters ago.

You take a breath. Step in. Close the door behind you.

He watches you like he expects you to flinch.

You don’t.

Jack leans a shoulder against the far wall, arms crossed, one leg bent to rest his boot against the floorboard behind him. The right leg. The prosthesis. You clock the adjustment without reacting. He notices that you notice—and doesn’t look away.

“This is off-grid,” he says finally. “No admin approval. No inventory code. No audit trail.”

You walk deeper into the room. Run your fingers along the edge of a file labeled: ALT REORDER ROUTES – Q2 / MANUAL ONLY / DO NOT SCAN

“You’ve built a shadow system,” you say.

“I built a system that works,” he corrects.

You turn. “This is fraud.”

He snorts. “It’s survival.”

“I’m serious, Abbot. This is full-blown liability. You’re rerouting federal grant stock using pediatric codes. You’re bypassing restock thresholds. You’re personally signing off on requisitions under miscategorized departments—”

“And you’re here with a folder and a badge acting like your spreadsheet saves more lives than a clamp and a peds line that actually shows up.”

Silence.

But it’s not silence. Not really.

There’s a hum between you now. Not quite anger. Not admiration either. Something in between. Something volatile.

You raise your chin. “I’m not here to be impressed.”

“Good. I’m not trying to impress you.”

“Then why show me this?”

“Because you kept your eyes open in the trauma bay,” he says. “You didn’t faint. You didn’t cry. You watched me crack a man’s chest open in real time, and instead of hiding behind a chart, you asked me to narrate the procedure.”

You blink. Once. “So that was a test?”

“That was a Tuesday.”

You glance around the room again.

There are labels that don’t match any official inventory records you’ve seen. Bin codes that don’t belong to any department. You pull a clipboard from the wall and flip through it—one page, then another. All hand-tracked inventory numbers. Dated. Annotated. Jack’s handwriting is messy but consistent. He’s been doing this for years.

Years.

And no one’s stopped him.

Or helped.

“Do they know?” you ask. “Admin. Robinavitch. Evans. Anyone?”

Jack leans his head back against the wall. “They know something’s off. But as long as the board meetings stay quiet and the trauma bay doesn’t run dry, no one goes looking. And if someone does, well…” He gestures to the room. “They find nothing.”

“You hide it this well?”

“I’m not stupid.”

You pause. “Then why let me see it?”

Jack looks at you.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like he’s finally weighing you honestly.

“Because you’re not like the others they’ve sent before. The last one tried to threaten me with a suspension. You walked into a trauma bay in heels and told me to log my chaos in real-time.”

You smirk. “It is hard to argue with a woman holding a clipboard and a minor God complex.”

He chuckles. “You should see me with a chest tube and a caffeine withdrawal.”

You flip another page.

“You’ve been routing orders through departments that don’t even realize they’re losing inventory.”

“Because I return what I borrow before they notice. I run double restocks through the night shift when the scanner’s offline. I update storage rooms myself. No one’s ever missed a needle they weren’t expecting.”

You shake your head. “This is a house of cards.”

Jack shrugs. “And yet it holds.”

“But for how long?”

Now you’re the one who steps forward. You plant yourself in front of the table and open your binder. Click your pen.

“I can’t pretend this doesn’t exist. If I report this exactly as it is, the grant’s pulled. You’re fired. This hospital goes under federal review for misappropriation of trauma funds.”

He doesn’t blink. “Then do it.”

You stare at him. “What?”

He steps off the wall now, closes the space between you like it’s nothing.

“I’ve survived worse,” he says. “You think this job is about safety? It’s not. It’s about how long you can keep other people alive before the system kills you too.”

You inhale, hard. “God, you’re dramatic.”

He smirks. “And you’re stubborn.”

“Because I don’t want to bury you in a report. I want to fix the goddamn machine before someone else gets chewed up in it.”

Jack stares at you.

The flicker of something new in his expression.

Respect.

“Then help me,” you say. “Let me draft a compliance framework that mirrors what you’ve built. A real one. If we can prove this routing saved lives, reduced downtime, and didn’t drain pediatric inventory, we can pitch it as an emergency operations protocol, not fraud.”

His brows lift, skeptical. “You think they’ll buy that?”

“No,” you say. “But I’m not giving them the choice. I’m giving them math.”

That gets him.

He grins. Barely. But it’s real.

“God,” he mutters. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re welcome.”

He turns away to hide the grin, but not before you catch the edge of it.

And then—quietly—he reaches for a file at the back of the shelf. It’s older. Faded. Taped up the side. He places it in your hands.

“What’s this?” you ask.

“The first reroute I ever filed. Back in 2017. Kid named Miguel. We were out of blood bags. I had a connection with the OR nurse who owed me a favor. Rerouted it through post-op. Saved the kid’s life. Never logged it.”

You glance down at the file. “You kept it?”

“I keep all of them.”

He meets your eyes again.

“You’re not here to bury me. Fine. But if you’re going to save me, do it right.”

You nod.

“I always do.”

Tuesday — 12:23 PM Allegheny General – Third Floor Charting Alcove

There’s no door to the alcove. Just a half-wall and a partition, like someone once tried to offer privacy and gave up halfway through. There’s a long desk, a broken rolling chair, two non-matching stools, and a stack of patient folders leaning so far left you half expect them to fall. The overhead light buzzes faintly, casting everything in pale hospital yellow.

You sit at the desk anyway.

Jacket folded over the back of the stool, sleeves pushed to your elbows, fingers already flying across the keyboard of your laptop. You’re building fast but clean. Sharp lines. Conditional formatting. A crisis-routing framework that looks like it was written by a task force, not two people who met five hours ago in a trauma hallway soaked in blood.

Jack stands across from you.

Leaning, not lounging. One arm crossed, the other flexed slightly as he rubs a knot in his shoulder. His scrub top is wrinkled and dark at the collar. There's a faint stain down his side you’re trying not to identify. He hasn't touched his phone in forty minutes. Hasn’t once asked when this ends.

He’s watching you.

Not like you’re entertainment. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll slip.

You don’t.

“You ever sleep?” he asks, finally breaking the silence.

You don’t look up. “I’ve heard of it.”

He makes a sound—half laugh, half breath. “What’s your background, anyway? You don’t have the eyes of someone who studied finance for fun.”

“Applied mathematical economics,” you say, still typing. “Minor in gender studies. First job was forensic audits for nonprofits. Moved to healthcare compliance after a board member got indicted.”

That gets his attention. “Jesus.”

You glance at him. “I’m not here because I care about sterile supply chains, Dr. Abbot. I’m here because I know what happens when people stop paying attention to the margins.”

He leans in. “And what happens?”

You meet his eyes.

“They bleed.”

Something in his face tightens. Not defensiveness. Recognition.

You go back to typing.

On your screen, the Crisis Routing Framework takes shape line by line. A column for shelf code. A subcolumn for department reroute. A notes field for justification. A time-stamp formula.

You highlight the headers and format them in hospital blue.

Jack watches your hands. “You make it look real.”

“It is real. I’m just reverse-engineering the lie.”

“You ever consider med school?”

You snort. “No offense, but I prefer a job where the people I save don’t flatline halfway through.”

He grins. It's tired. But it's real.

You type another line, then say, “I’m flagging pediatric code 412 as overused. If they run a query, we need to show it tapered off this month. Start routing through P-580. Float department. Similar stock, slower pull rate.”

He nods slowly. “You’re scary.”

“Good. You’ll need someone scary.”

He rubs his thumb along his jaw. “You always this relentless?”

You pause. Then look at him.

“I grew up in a house where if you didn’t solve the problem, no one else was coming. So yeah. I’m relentless.”

Jack doesn’t smile this time. He just nods. Like he gets it.

You shift gears. “Talk me through supply flow. Where’s your weakest point?”

He thinks. “ICU hoards ventilator tubing. Pediatrics short-changes trauma bay stock twice a year during audit season. Central Supply won't prioritize ER if the orders come in after 5PM. And once a month, someone from anesthesia pulls from our cart without logging it.”

You blink. “That’s practically sabotage.”

You finish a formula. “Okay. I’m structuring this like a mirrored requisition chain. Any reroute needs a justification and a fallback, plus one sign-off from a second attending. If we’re going to pitch this as protocol, we can’t make you look like the sole cowboy.”

Jack quirks a brow. “Even though I am?”

“Especially because you are.”

He laughs again, and it’s deeper this time. Not performative. Just… easy.

He moves closer. Pulls a stool up beside you. Watches the screen over your shoulder.

“Alright. Let’s build it.”

You glance at him sideways. “Now you want in?”

“I don’t like systems I didn’t help design.”

You smirk. “Typical.”

“Also,” he adds, “I’m the one who’s gonna have to sell this to Robby. If it sounds too academic, he’ll assume I lost a bet and had to let someone from Harvard try to fix the ER.”

“I went to Ohio State.”

“Even worse.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re naming it CRF—Crisis Routing Framework.”

“That’s terrible.”

“It’s bureaucratically unassailable.”

“Still sounds like a printer manual.”

“You’re welcome.”

He chuckles again, and it hits you for the first time how rare that sound probably is from him. Jack Abbot doesn’t laugh in meetings. He doesn’t charm the board. He doesn’t play. He works. Bleeds. Fixes.

And here he is, giving you his time.

You scroll to the bottom of the spreadsheet and create a new tab. LIVE REROUTE LOG – PHASE ONE PILOT

You look at him. “You’re gonna log everything from here on out. Time, item, reroute, reason, outcome.”

Jack raises a brow. “Outcome?”

“I’m not defending chaos. I’m documenting impact. That’s how we scale this.”

He nods. “Alright.”

“You’re going to train one resident to do this after you.”

“I already know who.”

“And you’re going to let me present this to the admin team before you barge in and call someone a corporate parasite.”

Jack presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I never said that out loud.”

You glance at him.

He exhales. “Fine. Deal.”

You close the laptop.

The spreadsheet is done. The framework is real. The logs are ready to go live. All that’s left now is convincing the hospital that what you’ve built together isn’t just a workaround—it’s the blueprint for saving what’s left.

He’s quiet for a minute.

Then: “You know this doesn’t fix everything, right?”

You nod. “It’s not supposed to. It just keeps the people who do fix things from getting fired.”

Jack tilts his head. “You really believe that?”

You meet his eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

He studies you like he’s trying to find the catch.

Then he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You know, when they said someone from Kane & Turner was coming in, I pictured a thirty-year-old with a spreadsheet addiction and no clue what a trauma bay looked like.”

“I pictured a man who didn’t know what a compliance code was and thought ethics were optional.”

He grins. “Touché.”

You smile back, tired and full of adrenaline and something else you don’t have a name for yet.

Then you stand. Sling your laptop under your arm.

“I’ll send you the first draft of the protocol by morning,” you say. “Review it. Sign off. Try not to add any sarcastic margin notes unless they’re grammatically correct.”

Jack stands too. Nods.

And then—quietly, like it costs him something—he says, “Thank you.”

You pause.

“You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t have to. You walk out of the alcove without looking back. You’ve already given him your trust. The rest is up to him.

Behind you, Jack pulls the chair closer. Opens the laptop.

And starts logging.

Saturday — 12:16 AM Three Weeks Later Downtown Pittsburgh — The Forge, Liberty Ave

The bar pulses.

Brick walls sweat condensation. Shot glasses clink. The DJ is on his third remix of the same Doja Cat song, and the bass is loud enough to rearrange your internal organs. Somewhere behind you, someone’s yelling about their ex. Your drink is pink and glowing and entirely too strong.

You’re wearing a bachelorette sash. It isn’t your party. You barely know half the girls here. One of them’s already crying in the bathroom. Another lost a nail trying to mount the mechanical bull.

And you?

You’re on top of a booth table with a stolen tiara jammed into your hair and exactly three working brain cells rattling around your skull.

Someone hands you another tequila shot.

You take it.

You’re drunk—not hospital gala drunk, not tipsy-at-a-networking-reception drunk.

You’re downtown-Pittsburgh, six-tequila-shots-deep, screaming-a-Fergie-remix drunk.

Because it’s been a month of high-functioning, hyper-competent, trauma-defending, budget-balancing brilliance. And tonight?

You want to be dumb. Messy. Loud. A girl in a too-short dress with glitter dusted across her clavicle and no memory of the phrase “compliance code.”

You tip your head back. The bar lights blur.

That’s when you try the spin.

A full, arms-above-your-head, dramatic-ass spin.

Your heel lands wrong.

And the table snaps.

You hear it before you feel it—an ugly wood crack, a rush of cold air, your body collapsing sideways. Something twists in your ankle. Your elbow hits the edge of a stool. You end up flat on your back on the floor, breath gone, ears ringing.

The bar goes silent.

Someone gasps.

Someone laughs.

And above you—through the haze of artificial light and bass static—you hear a voice.

Familiar.

Dry. Sharp. Unbelievably fucking real.

“Jesus Christ.”

Jack Abbot has been here twelve minutes.

Long enough for Robby to buy him a beer and mutter something about needing “noise therapy” after a shift that involved two DOAs, one psych hold, and an attempted overdose in the staff restroom.

Jack hadn’t wanted to come. He still smells like the trauma bay. His back hurts. There’s blood on his undershirt. But Robby insisted.

So here he is, in a bar full of neon and glitter, trying not to judge anyone for being loud and alive.

And then you fell through a table.

He doesn’t recognize you at first. Not in this light. Not in that dress. Not barefoot on the floor with your hair falling out of its updo and your mouth half-open in shock.

But then he sees the way you try to sit up.

And you groan: “Oh my God.”

Jack’s already moving.

Robby shouts behind him, “Is that—oh shit, that’s her—”

Jack ignores him. Shoves through the crowd. Kneels at your side. You’re clutching your ankle. There's glitter on your neck. You're laughing and crying and trying to brush off your friends.

And then you see him.

Your eyes go wide.

You blink. “...Jack?”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. It’s me.”

You try to sit up straighter. Fail. “Am I dreaming?”

“Nope.”

“Are you real?”

“Unfortunately.”

You drop your head back against the floor. “Oh God. This is the most humiliating night of my life.”

“Worse than the procurement meeting?”

You peek up at him, hair in your eyes. “Worse. Way worse. I was trying to prove I could still do a backbend.”

Jack sighs. “Of course you were.”

You wince. “I think I broke my foot.”

He presses two fingers to your pulse, checks your ankle gently. “You might’ve. It’s swelling. You’re lucky.”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

“You are,” he says. “If you’d twisted further inward, you’d be looking at a spiral fracture.”

You stare at him. “Did you really just trauma-evaluate my foot in a bar?”

Jack looks up. “Would you prefer someone else?”

“No,” you admit.

“Then shut up and let me finish.”

Your friends hover, but none of them move closer. Jack’s presence is... commanding. Like the bar suddenly remembered he’s the person you call when someone stops breathing.

You watch him.

The sleeves of his black zip-up are rolled to the elbow. His hands are clean now, but his cuticles are stained. His ID badge is gone, but he still wears the same exhaustion. The same steady focus.

He touches your foot again. You flinch.

Jack winces, just slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

Jack slips one arm under your legs and the other behind your back and lifts.

“Holy shit,” you squeak. “What are you doing?!”

“Getting you off the floor before someone livestreams this.”

You bury your face in his collarbone. “I hate you.”

He chuckles. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re smug.”

“I’m right.”

“You smell like trauma bay and cheap beer.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

He carries you past the bouncer, past the flash of phone cameras, past Robby cackling at the bar.

Outside, the air hits you like truth. Cold. Sharp. Clear.

Jack sets you down on the hood of his truck and kneels again.

“You’re taking me to the ER?” you ask, quieter now.

“No,” he says. “You’re coming to my apartment. We’ll ice it, wrap it, and if it still looks bad in the morning, I’ll take you in.”

You squint. “I thought you weren’t off until Monday.”

Jack stands. “I’m not, but you’re coming with me. Someone’s gotta keep you from dancing on furniture.”

You blink. “You’re serious.”

“I always am.”

You look at him.

Three weeks ago, you rewrote a system together. Built a lifeline in the margins. Saved a hospital with data, caffeine, and stubborn brilliance.

And now he’s here, brushing glitter off your shoulder, holding your sprained foot like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I thought you hated me,” you murmur.

Jack looks at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“I didn’t hate you,” he says.

He leans in.

“I just didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Saturday — 12:57 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You don’t remember the elevator ride.

Just the press of warm hands. The cold knot of pain winding tighter in your foot. The way Jack didn’t flinch when you leaned into him like gravity wasn’t working the way it should.

He’d carried you like he’d done it before.

Like your weight wasn’t an inconvenience.

Like there wasn’t something fragile in the way your hands gripped the edge of his jacket, or the way your voice slurred slightly when you whispered, “Please don’t drop me.”

“I’ve got you,” he’d said.

Not a performance. Not pity.

Just fact.

Now you’re here. In his apartment. And everything’s still.

The door clicks shut behind you. The locks slide into place. You blink in the quiet.

Jack’s apartment is...surprising.

Not messy. Not sterile. Lived in.

A row of mugs lined up by the sink—some hospital-branded, one chipped, one that says “World’s Okayest Doctor” in faded red font. A half-built bookshelf in the corner with a hammer sitting beside it, a box of unopened paperbacks on the floor. A stack of trauma logs on the kitchen counter, marked with highlighters. There’s a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair. A photo frame turned face-down.

He doesn’t explain the place. Just moves toward the couch.

“Feet up,” he says gently. “Cushions under your back. I’ll get the ice.”

You let him settle you—ankle elevated, pillow beneath your knees, spine curving against the soft give of the cushion. His hands are firm but careful. His touch steady. No wasted movement.

The moment he turns toward the kitchen, you finally exhale.

Your foot throbs, yes. But it’s not just the injury. It’s the shift. The collapse. The way your brain is catching up to your body, fast and unforgiving.

He returns with a towel-wrapped bag of crushed ice. Kneels beside the couch. Presses it gently to your swollen ankle.

You wince.

He watches you. “Still bad?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He cocks his head. “Let me guess—tax season?”

You smile, tired. “Try federal oversight for a trauma unit that runs on scraps.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

He adjusts the ice. Shifts slightly to sit on the floor beside you, back against the edge of the couch.

“Thanks for not taking me to the hospital,” you murmur after a beat.

He snorts. “You were drunk, barefoot, and covered in glitter. I figured they didn’t need that energy tonight.”

You laugh softly. “I’m usually very composed, you know.”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“You’re also the only person I’ve ever seen terrify a board meeting into extending a $1.4 million grant with nothing but a color-coded spreadsheet and a raised eyebrow.”

You grin, despite the ache. “It worked.”

He looks at you then.

Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It did.”

Silence stretches, but it’s not awkward.

The hum of his fridge clicks on. The distant wail of a siren threads through the cracked kitchen window. The ice burns through the towel, numbing your foot.

You turn your head toward him. “You don’t talk much when you’re off shift.”

He shrugs. “I talk all day. Sometimes it’s nice to let the quiet say something for me.”

You pause. Then: “You’ve changed.”

Jack’s eyes flick up. “Since what?”

“Since the first day. You were—” you search for the word, “—hostile.”

“I was exhausted.”

“You’re still exhausted.”

“Maybe.” He rubs a hand over his face. “But back then, I didn’t think anyone gave a shit about the mess we were drowning in. Then you showed up in heels and threatened to file an ethics report in real-time during a trauma code.”

You grin. “You never let me live that down.”

He chuckles. “It was hot.”

You blink. “What?”

His eyes widen slightly. He looks away. “Shit. Sorry. That was—”

“Say it again,” you say, heartbeat ticking up.

He hesitates.

Then, quieter: “It was hot.”

The room stills.

Your throat goes dry.

Jack clears his throat and stands. “I’ll get you some water.”

You catch his wrist.

He stops. Looks down.

You don’t let go. Not yet.

“I think I’m sobering up,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t speak. But his expression softens. Like he’s afraid you’ll take it back if he breathes too loud.

“And I still want you here,” you add.

That breaks something in his posture.

Not lust. Not intention.

Just clarity.

Jack lowers himself back down. Closer this time. He leans forward, arms on his knees, forearms bare, veins visible under dim kitchen-light glow. You’re aware of the space between you. The hush. The hum.

“I’ve been trying to stay out of your way,” he admits. “Let the protocol speak for itself. Let the work be enough.”

“It is.”

“But it’s not all.”

You nod. “I know.”

He meets your eyes. “I meant what I said. I didn’t know how much I needed you until you stayed.”

Your chest tightens.

“You make it easier to breathe in that place,” he adds. “And I haven’t breathed easy in years.”

You lean back against the couch, exhale slowly.

“I think we’re more alike than I thought,” you murmur. “We both like being the one people rely on.”

Jack nods. “And we both fall apart quietly.”

Another silence. Another shift.

“I don’t want to fall apart tonight,” you whisper.

He looks at you.

“You won’t,” he says. “Not while I’m here.”

And then he reaches for your hand. Doesn’t take it. Just lets his fingers rest close enough that the warmth passes between you.

That’s all it is.

Not a kiss.

Not a confession.

Just one long moment of quiet, where neither of you has to hold the weight of anyone else’s world.

Just each other’s.

Sunday — 8:19 AM Jack's Apartment — South Side Flats

You wake to soft light.

Filtered through half-closed blinds, the kind that turns gray into gold and casts long lines across the carpet. The apartment is quiet, still warm from the night before, but there’s no sound except the faint hum of the fridge and the scrape of the city waking up somewhere six floors down.

Your foot throbs—but less than last night.

The pain is dulled. Managed.

You shift slowly, eyes adjusting. You’re on the couch, still in your dress, a blanket draped over you. Your leg is elevated on a pillow, and your ankle is wrapped in clean white gauze—professionally, precisely. You didn’t do that.

Jack.

There’s a glass of water on the coffee table. Full. No condensation. A bottle of ibuprofen beside it, label turned outward. A banana and a paper napkin.

The care is unmistakable.

You blink once, twice, then sit up slowly.

The apartment smells like coffee.

You limp toward the kitchen on your good foot, using the back of a chair for balance. The ice pack is gone. So is Jack.

But on the counter—neatly arranged like he planned every inch—is a folded gray hoodie, your left heel (broken but cleaned), a fresh cup of black coffee in a white ceramic mug, and something that stops you cold:

The new CRF logbook.

Printed. Binded. Tabbed in color-coded dividers. The first page filled out in his slanted, all-caps writing.

At the top: CRF — ALLEGHENY GENERAL EMERGENCY PILOT — 3-WEEK AUDIT REVIEW. In the corner, under “Lead Coordinator,” your name is written in ink.

There’s a sticky note beside it. Yellow. Curling at the edge.

“It works because of you.— J”

You stare at it for a long time.

Not because it’s dramatic. Because it’s not.

Because it’s simple. True.

You pick up the binder, flip to the first log. It’s already halfway filled—dates, codes, outcomes. Jack has been tracking everything. By hand. Every reroute. Every save. Every corner he’s bent back into shape.

And he’s signing your name on every one of them.

You run your fingers over the paper.

Then reach for the mug.

It’s warm. Not fresh—but not cold either. Like he poured it minutes before leaving.

You sip.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you don’t feel like you're catching up to your own life. You feel placed. Like someone made room for you before you asked.

You limp toward the window, slow and careful, and watch the street below wake up.

The city is still gray. Still loud. But it’s yours now. His, too. Not perfect. Not quiet. But it’s working.

You lean against the frame.

Your chest aches in that unfamiliar, not-quite-painful way that only comes when something shifts inside you—something big and slow and inevitable.

You don’t know what this is yet.

But you know where it started.

On a trauma shift.

In a supply closet.

With a man who saw your strength before you ever raised your voice.

And stayed.

One Month Later — Saturday, 6:41 PM Pittsburgh — Shadyside, near Ellsworth Ave

The sky’s already lilac by the time you get out of the Uber.

The street glows with soft storefront lighting—jewelers locking up, the florist’s shutters halfway drawn, the sidewalk sprinkled with pale pink petals from whatever tree is blooming overhead. The restaurant is tucked between a jazz bar and a wine shop, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it.

But Jack is already there.

Leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t want to go in without you. He’s in a navy button-down, sleeves pushed up to the elbow, top button undone. He’s not hiding in trauma armor tonight. He looks clean. Rested. Still a little unsure.

You see him before he sees you.

And when he does—when his head lifts and his eyes find you—he stills.

The kind of still that feels like reverence, even if he’d never call it that.

He says your name. Just once. And then:

“You came.”

You smile. “Of course I came.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He looks down, breathes out through his nose. “Because sometimes when things matter, I assume they won’t last.”

You step closer.

“They haven’t even started yet,” you murmur. “Let’s go in.”

The bistro is warm. Brick walls. Low ceilings. Candles on every table, their flames soft and steady in small hurricane glass cylinders. There’s a record player spinning something old in the corner—Chet Baker or maybe Nina Simone—and everything smells like rosemary, lemon, and the faintest hint of woodsmoke.

They seat you at a two-top near the back, under a copper wall sconce. Jack pulls out your chair.

You settle in, napkin across your lap, and when you look up—he’s still watching you.

You say, half-laughing, “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

You arch a brow.

Jack clears his throat, quiet. “Just… didn’t think I’d ever sit across from you like this.”

You tilt your head. “What did you think?”

“That you’d disappear when the work was done. That I’d keep building alone.”

You soften. “You don’t have to anymore.”

He looks away like he’s holding back too much. “I know.”

The first half of the date is easier than expected.

You talk like people who already know the shape of each other’s silences. He tells you about a med student who called him “sir” and then fainted in a trauma room. You tell him about a client who tried to expense a yacht as “emergency morale restoration.” You laugh. You eat. He lets you try his meal before you ask.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and dessert, the air starts to shift.

Not tense. Just heavier. Like both of you know you’ve reached the part where you either step closer… or let it stay what it’s always been.

Jack leans back, arm resting on the back of the chair beside him.

He watches you carefully. “Can I ask something?”

You nod.

“Why’d you keep answering when I texted?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—you’re good. Smart. Whole. You didn’t need me.”

You smile. “You’re wrong.”

Jack doesn’t say anything. Just waits. You fold your hands in your lap. “I didn’t need a fixer,” you say slowly. “But I needed someone who saw the same broken thing I did. And didn’t flinch.”

His jaw flexes. His fingers tap the edge of the table. “I flinched,” he says. “At first.”

“But you stayed.”

Jack looks down. Then up again. “I’ve never been afraid of blood,” he says. “Or death. Or screaming. But I’ve always been afraid of this. Of getting used to something that could disappear.”

You exhale. “Then don’t disappear.” It’s not flirty. It’s not dramatic. It’s a promise.

His hand finds the table. Palm open.

Yours moves toward it.

You hesitate. For half a second.

Then place your hand in his.

He closes his fingers around yours like he’s done it a hundred times—but still can’t believe you’re letting him. His voice is low. “I like you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t do this. I don’t—”

“Jack.” You squeeze his hand. He stops talking. “I like you too.”

No rush. No smirk. Just this slow-burning, backlit certainty that maybe—for once—you’re allowed to be wanted in a way that doesn’t burn through you.

Jack lifts your hand. Presses his lips to the back of it—once, then again. Slower the second time.

When he lets go, it’s with a softness that feels deliberate. Like he’s giving it back to you, not letting it go.

You reach for your phone, half on autopilot. “I should call an Uber—”

“Don’t,” Jack says, low.

You pause.

He’s already pulling out his keys. “I’ll drive you home.”

You smile, small and warm.

“I figured you might.”

Saturday — 9:42 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The hallway feels quieter than usual.

Maybe it’s the way the night sits heavy on your skin—thick with everything left unsaid in the car ride over. Maybe it’s the way Jack keeps glancing over at you, not nervous, not unsure, but like he’s memorizing each second for safekeeping.

You unlock the door and push it open with your shoulder.

Warm light spills out into the hallway—the glow from the lamp you left on, the one by the bookshelf. It’s yellow-gold, soft around the edges, the kind of light that doesn’t ask for anything.

Jack pauses at the threshold.

You watch him watch the room.

He notices the details: the stack of books by the bed. The houseplant you’re not sure is alive. The smell of bergamot and something citrus curling faintly from the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything about it. He just steps inside slowly, like he doesn’t want to ruin anything.

You toe off your shoes by the door. He closes it behind you, quiet as ever. You catch him glancing at your coat hook, at the little ceramic tray full of loose change and paper clips and hair ties.

“You live like someone who doesn’t leave in a rush,” he says softly.

You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”

Jack shrugs. “It means it’s warm in here.”

You don’t know what to do with that. So you smile. And then—like gravity resets—you’re both standing in your living room, closer than you meant to be, without shoes or coats or any buffer at all.

Jack shifts first. Hands in his pockets. He looks down, then up again. There’s something almost boyish in it. Almost shy. “I keep thinking,” he murmurs, “about the moment I almost asked you out and didn’t.”

You swallow. “When was that?”

He steps closer. His voice stays low. “After we wrote the first draft of the protocol. You were sitting in that awful rolling chair. Hair up. Eyes on the screen like the world depended on your next keystroke.”

You laugh, soft.

“I looked at you,” he says, “and I thought, ‘If I ask her out now, I’ll never stop wanting her.’”

Your breath catches.

“And that scared the hell out of me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Because you’re already reaching for him. And he meets you halfway. Not in a rush. Not in a pull. Just a quiet, inevitable lean.

The kiss is slow. Not hesitant—intentional. His hand finds your waist first, the other grazing your cheek. Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself.

You part your lips first. He deepens it. And it’s the kind of kiss that says: I waited. I wanted. I’m here now.

His thumb traces the side of your face like he’s still getting used to the shape of you. His mouth moves like he’s learned your rhythm already, like he’s wanted to do this since the first time you told him he was wrong and made him like it.

He breaks the kiss only to breathe. But his forehead stays pressed to yours. His voice is hoarse.

“I’m trying not to fall too fast.”

You whisper, “Why?”

Jack exhales. “Because I think I already did.”

You press your lips to his again—softer this time. Then pull back enough to look at him. His expression is unguarded. More than tired. Relieved. Like the thing he’s been carrying for years just finally set itself down. You brush your thumb across the line of his jaw.

“Then stay,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. No hesitation.

“I will.”

He follows you to the couch without asking. You curl into the corner, legs tucked beneath you. He sits beside you, arm behind your shoulders, body warm and still faintly smelling of cologne.

You rest your head on his chest.

His hand moves slowly—fingertips tracing light shapes against your spine. You think maybe he’s drawing the floor plan of a life he didn’t think he’d ever get.

Neither of you speak. And for once, Jack doesn’t need words.

Because here, in your living room, under soft lighting and quiet, and the hum of a city that never quite sleeps—you’re both still.

And neither of you is leaving.

Sunday – 6:58 AM Your Apartment – East End, Pittsburgh

It’s still early when the light begins to stretch.

Not sharp. Not the kind that yells the day awake. Just a slow, honey-soft glow bleeding in through the blinds—brushed gold along the floorboards, the edge of the nightstand, the collar of the shirt tangled around your frame.

It smells like sleep in here. Like warmth and cotton and skin. You’re not alone. You feel it before your eyes open: the quiet sound of someone else breathing. The weight of a hand resting loosely over your hip. The warmth of a body curved behind yours, chest to spine, legs tucked close like he was worried you’d get cold sometime in the night.

Jack.

Your heart gives a small, guilty flutter—not from regret. From how unreal it still feels. His arm shifts slightly. He inhales. Not quite awake, but moving toward it. You keep your eyes closed and let yourself be held.

Not because you need protection. Because being known—this fully, this gently—is rarer than safety.

The bedsheets are half-kicked off. Your shared body heat turned the room muggy around 3 a.m., but now the chill has crept back in. His nose is tucked against the crook of your neck. His stubble has left faint irritation on your skin. You could point out the way his foot rests over yours, how he must’ve hooked it there subconsciously, anchoring you in place. You could point out the weight of his hand splayed across your ribcage, not possessive—just there.

But there’s nothing to say. There’s just this. The shape of it. The way your body fits his. You shift slightly beneath his arm and feel him breathe in deeper.

Then—“You’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice sleep-rough and warm against your skin.

You nod, barely. “So are you.”

He lets out a quiet hum. The kind people make when they don’t want the moment to change. You turn in his arms slowly. He doesn’t fight it. His hand slips to your lower back as you roll, fingers still curved to hold. And then you’re facing him—cheek to pillow, inches apart.

Jack Abbot is never this soft.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, messy hair pushed back on one side, face creased faintly where it met the pillow. His mouth is slightly open. There’s a dent at the base of his throat where his pulse beats slow and steady, and you watch it without shame.

His eyes search yours. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here in the morning,” he says.

You reach up, touch a lock of hair near his temple. “I think I wanted you here more than I’ve wanted anything in weeks.”

That gets him. Not a smile. Something quieter. Something grateful. “I almost left at five,” he admits. “But then you turned over and said my name.”

You blink. “I don’t remember that.”

“You said it like you were still dreaming. Like you thought I might disappear if you stopped saying it.”

Your throat catches. Jack reaches up, runs a thumb under your cheekbone. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

You rest your forehead against his. “I know.”

Neither of you move for a while.

Eventually, he shifts slightly and kisses your jaw. Your temple. Your nose. When his lips brush yours, it’s not a kiss. Not yet. It’s just a touch. A greeting. A promise that he’ll wait for you to move first.

You do.

He kisses you slowly—like he’s checking if he can keep doing this, if it’s still allowed. You kiss him back like he’s already yours. And when it ends, it’s not because you pulled away.

It’s because he smiled against your mouth.

You shift again, stretching your limbs gently. “What time is it?”

Jack rolls slightly to glance at the clock. “Almost seven.”

You hum. “Too early for decisions.”

“What decisions?”

“Like whether I should make breakfast. Or pretend we’re too comfortable to move.”

Jack tugs you a little closer. “I vote for the second one.”

You laugh against his chest. His hand strokes up and down your spine in lazy, slow passes. Nothing rushed. Just skin and warmth and quiet.

It’s a long time before either of you try to get up. When you do, it’s because Jack insists on coffee.

You sit on the bed, cross-legged, blanket pooled around your waist while he pads around the kitchen in boxers, hair a mess, your fridge open with a squint like he’s trying to understand your milk choices.

“I have creamer,” you call.

“I saw. Why is it in a mason jar?”

“Because I dropped the original bottle and couldn’t get the lid back on.”

Jack just laughs and pours two mugs—one full, one halfway. He brings yours first. “Two sugars?”

You blink. “How did you know?”

“You stirred your coffee five times the other day. I watched the way your face changed after the second packet.”

You squint. “You remember that?”

Jack shrugs, eyes soft. “I remember you.”

You take the cup. Your fingers brush. He leans in and kisses the top of your head. The apartment smells like coffee and him. He stays all morning. You don’t notice the time pass.

But when he kisses you goodbye—long, lingering, forehead pressed to yours—you don’t ask when you’ll see him next.

Because you already know.

Friday – 12:13 AM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

You’re awake, but just barely.

Your laptop is dimmed to preserve battery, the spreadsheet on screen more muscle memory than thought. You’d told yourself you'd finish reconciling the quarterly vendor ledger before bed, but your formulas have started to blur into one long row of black-and-white static.

There’s half a glass of Pinot on your coffee table. You’re in an old sweatshirt and socks, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. The only light in the apartment comes from the kitchen—low, golden, humming.

It’s late, but the kind of late you’re used to. And then—three knocks at the door. Not buzzed. Not texted. Not expected.

Three solid, decisive knocks.

You sit up straight. Laptop closed. Glass down. Your feet find the floor with a soft thud as you cross the room. The locks click one by one. You look through the peephole and your heart stumbles.

Jack.

Black scrubs. Blood dried along his collar. One hand braced against your doorframe, as if he needed the structure to hold himself up.

You don’t hesitate. You open the door. He looks at you like he’s not sure he should’ve come. You step aside anyway.

“Come in.”

Jack crosses the threshold slowly, like someone walking into a church they haven’t set foot in since the funeral. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t offer a greeting. His movements are mechanical. His body’s tight.

He stands in the middle of your living room, beneath the soft spill of light from the kitchen, and doesn’t say a word.

You shut the door. Turn toward him.

“Jack.”

His eyes lift to yours. He looks wrecked. Not bleeding. Not broken. Just… done. And yet still trying to hold it all together. You take one step forward.

“I lost a kid,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Tonight.”

You go still.

“She came in from a hit-and-run. Eleven. Trauma-coded on arrival. We got her to the OR. Her BP was gone before the second unit of blood even cleared.”

You don’t interrupt.

“She had these barrettes in her hair. Bright pink. I don’t know why I keep thinking about them. Maybe because they were the only clean thing in the whole room. Or maybe because—” he breaks off, jaw clenched.

You reach for his wrist. He lets you.

“I didn’t want to stop. Even after I knew it was gone. Her mom—” his voice cracks—“she was screaming.”

Your fingers tighten gently around his. He finally looks at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to bring this to you. The blood. The mess. You work in numbers and deadlines. Spreadsheets and order. This isn’t your world.”

“You are.”

That stops him. Jack looks down.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

You step into him fully now, arms sliding around his back. His hands hover for a moment, unsure.

Then he folds. All at once. His chin drops to your shoulder. One arm tightens around your waist, the other wraps up your back like he’s afraid you might vanish too. You feel it in his body—the way he lets go slowly, like muscle by muscle, his grief loosens its grip on his spine.

You don't rush him. You don’t ask more questions.

You just hold.

It takes him a long time to speak again.

When he does, it’s from the couch, twenty minutes later. He’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, your throw blanket around his shoulders.

You made tea without asking. You’re curled at the other end, knees drawn up, watching him with quiet presence.

“I don’t know how to be this person,” he says. “The one who can’t hold it all.”

You sip from your mug. “You don’t have to hold it alone.”

Jack lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh. “You say that like it’s easy.”

You set the mug down. Shift closer.

“You patch up people who never say thank you. You hold their trauma in your hands. You drive home alone with someone else’s blood on your shirt. And then you pretend none of it touches you.”

He looks over at you.

“It touches you, Jack. Of course it does.”

He doesn’t respond. You reach for his hand. Laced fingers. “I don’t need you to be okay right now.”

His shoulders drop slightly. You lean into him, resting your head on his arm.

“You can fall apart here,” you say, voice low. “I know how to hold weight.”

Jack breathes in like that sentence pulled something loose in his chest. “You were working,” he says after a beat. “I shouldn’t have come.”

You look up. “I audit grants for a living. I’ll survive a late ledger.”

He smiles, barely. You move your hand to his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there.

“I’m glad you came here.”

He leans forward, presses his forehead to yours. “Me too.”

He kisses you once—slow, still tasting like exhaustion—and when he pulls back, it feels like the world has shifted a half-inch left.

You don’t say anything else. You just get up, take his hand, and lead him down the hallway.

You fall asleep wrapped around each other.

Jack’s head pressed between your shoulder and collarbone. Your legs tangled. Your arm around his middle. And for the first time in hours, his breathing evens out. He doesn’t flinch when the siren howls down the block. He doesn’t wake from the sound of your radiator clanking.

He stays still.

Safe.

And when you wake hours later to the soft grey of morning just beginning to yawn over the windowsill—Jack is already looking at you. Eyes soft. Brow relaxed.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods. “I will be.”

Jack watches you like he’s learning something new. And for once—he doesn’t try to fix a single thing.

Two weeks after the hard night — Thursday, 9:26 PM Your Apartment — East End, Pittsburgh

The second episode of the sitcom has just started when you realize Jack isn’t watching anymore. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, fleece blanket over your legs, half a container of pad thai balanced precariously on your thigh. Jack’s sitting at the other end, your feet in his lap, chopsticks abandoned, one hand absently rubbing slow circles over your ankle.

His gaze is fixed—not on the TV, not on his food. On you.

You pause mid-bite. “What?”

Jack shakes his head slightly. “Nothing.”

You raise an eyebrow. He smiles. “You’re just… really good at this.”

You blink. “At what? Being horizontal?”

He shrugs. “That. Letting me in. Making room for me in your life. Turning leftovers into dinner without apologizing. Letting me keep my toothbrush here.”

You snort. “Jack, you have a drawer.”

He grins, but it fades slowly. Not gone—just quieter. “I keep waiting to feel like I don’t belong in this. And I haven’t.”

You watch him for a long beat. Then: “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

He looks down. Then back up. “I think I was afraid you’d get bored of me. That you’d realize I’m too much and not enough at the same time.”

Your heart tightens. “Jack.”

But he lifts a hand—like he needs to say it now or he won’t. “And then I came here the other week—falling apart in your doorway—and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t ask me to explain it or shape it or make it easier to hold. You just… held me.”

You set the container down. Jack shifts closer. Takes your foot in both hands now. Thumb moving over your arch, slower than before.

“I’ve spent years patching things. Working nights. Giving the best parts of me to strangers who forget my name. And you—” he exhales—“you made space without asking me to perform.”

You don’t speak. You just listen. And then he says it. Not softly. Not theatrically. Just right.

“I love you.”

You blink. Not because you’re shocked—but because of how easy it lands. How certain it feels.

Jack waits. Your mouth opens—and for a moment, nothing comes out. Then: “You know what I was thinking before you said that?”

He quirks a brow.

“I was thinking I could do this every night. Sit on this couch, eat cold noodles, watch something dumb. As long as you were here.”

Jack’s eyes flicker. You move closer. Take his face in both hands. “I love you too.” You don’t say it like a question. You say it like it’s always been true.

Jack leans in, kisses you once—sweet, grounding, slow. When he pulls back, he’s smiling, but it’s not smug. It’s soft. Like relief. Like home.

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Okay.”

Four Months Later — Sunday, 6:21 PM Regent Square — Their First House

There are twenty-seven unopened boxes between the two of you.

You counted.

Because you’re an accountant, and that’s how your brain makes sense of chaos: it gives it a ledger, a timeline, a to-do list. Even now—sitting on the floor of a house that still smells like primer and wood polish—your eyes keep drifting toward the boxes like they owe you something.

But then Jack walks in from the porch, and the air shifts. He’s barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a bottle of sparkling water dangling from one hand. His hair’s slightly damp from the post-move-in rinse you bullied him into. And there’s something different in his face now—lighter, maybe. Looser.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m mentally organizing.”

Jack drops beside you on the floor, leans his shoulder into yours. “You’re stress-auditing the spice rack.”

“It’s not an audit,” you murmur. “It’s a preliminary layout strategy.”

He grins. “Do I need to leave you alone with the cinnamon?”

You elbow him.

The room around you is full of light. Big windows. A scratched-up floor you kind of already love. The couch is still wrapped in plastic. You’re sitting on the rug you just unrolled—your knees pressed to his thigh, your coffee mug still warm in your hands. There’s a half-built bookcase in the corner. Your duffel bag’s still open in the hall.

None of it’s finished. But Jack is here. And that makes the rest feel possible. He glances around the room. “You know what we should do?”

You look at him, wary. “If you say ‘unpack the garage,’ I’m calling a truce and ordering Thai.”

“No.” He turns toward you, one arm braced across his knee. “I meant we should ruin a room.”

You blink. Then stare. Jack watches your expression shift. You set your mug down slowly. “Ruin?”

“Yeah,” he says casually, totally unaware. “Pick one. Go full chaos. Pretend we can set it up tonight. Pretend we didn’t already work full days and haul furniture and fail to assemble a bedframe because someone threw out the extra screws—”

“I did not—”

He holds up a hand, grinning. “Not important. Point is: let’s ruin one. Let it be a disaster. First night tradition.”

You pause.

Then—tentatively: “You want to… have sex in a room full of boxes?”

Jack freezes. You raise an eyebrow. “Oh my God,” he mutters.

You start laughing. Jack covers his face with both hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You said ruin a room.”

“I meant emotionally. Functionally.”

You’re still laughing—half from exhaustion, half from how red his ears just went.

“Jesus,” he mutters into his hands. “You’re the one with a mortgage spreadsheet color-coded by quarter and you thought I wanted to christen the house with a full-home porno?”

You bite your lip. “Well, now you’re just making it sound like a challenge.”

Jack groans and collapses backward onto the rug. You follow him. Lay down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The ceiling above is bare. No light fixture yet. Just exposed beams and white primer. You stare at it for a long beat, side by side. He turns his head. Looks at you.

“You really thought I meant sex in every room?”

You shrug. “You said ruin. I was tired. My brain filled in the blanks.”

Jack snorts. Then rolls toward you, props himself on one elbow. “Would it be that bad if I had meant that?”

You glance at him. He’s flushed. Amused. Slightly wild-haired. You reach up and thread your fingers through the edge of his hoodie.

“I think,” you say slowly, “that it would make for a very effective unpacking incentive.”

Jack grins. “We’re negotiating with sex now?”

You shrug. “Depends.”

He kisses you once—soft and full of quiet mischief. You blink up at him. The room is suddenly still. Warm. Dimming. Gentle. Jack’s smile fades a little. Not gone—just quieter. Real.

“I know it’s just walls,” he says softly, “but it already feels like you live here more than me.”

You frown. “It’s our house.”

He nods. “Yeah. But you make it feel like home.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans down and kisses you again—this time longer. Slower. His hand curls against your waist. Your body moves with his instinctively. The kiss lingers.

And when he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers, “Okay. Let’s ruin the bedroom first.”

You smile. He stands, offers you a hand. And you follow. Not because you owe him. But because you’ve already decided:

This is the man you’ll build every room around.

One Year Later — Saturday, 11:46 PM The House — Bedroom. Dim Lamp. One Window Open. You and Him.

Jack Abbot is looking at you like he wants to burn through you.

You’re straddling his lap, bare thighs across his hips, tank top riding high, no underwear. His sweatpants are halfway down. Your bodies are flushed, panting, teeth-marks already ghosting along your collarbone. His hands are firm on your waist—not rough. Just present. Like he’s still making sure you’re real.

The window’s cracked. Night breeze slipping in against sweat-slicked skin.

The sheets are kicked to the floor.

You’d barely made it to the bedroom—half a bottle of wine, two soft laughs, one look across the kitchen, and he’d muttered something about being obsessed with you in this shirt, and that was it. His mouth was on your neck before you hit the hallway wall.

Now you're here.

Rocking slow on his cock, bodies tangled, your hand braced on his chest, the other wrapped around the back of his neck.

“Fuck,” Jack groans, barely audible. “You feel…”

“Yeah,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “I know.”

You’d always known.

But tonight?

Tonight, it clicks in a way that guts you both.

He’s not thrusting. He’s holding you there—deep and still—like if he moves too fast, the moment will shatter.

He kisses you like a vow.

You can feel how wrecked he is—his hands trembling a little now, his mouth hot and slow on your shoulder, his body not performing but unraveling.

And then he exhales—sharp, shaky—and says:

“I need you to marry me.”

You freeze.

Still seated on him, still connected, your breath caught mid-moan.

“Jack,” you say.

But he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even blink.

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Hoarse. “I was gonna wait. Make it a thing. But I’m tired of pretending like this is just… day by day.”

You open your mouth.

He lifts one hand—fumbles behind the nightstand, like he already knew he was going to crack eventually.

And pulls out a ring box.

You blink, heart pounding. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

He flips it open.

The ring is huge.

No frills. No side stones. Just a bold, clean-cut diamond—flawless, high clarity, set on a platinum band. Sleek. A little loud. But elegant as hell. The kind of thing that says, I know what I want. I’m not afraid of weight.

You blink down at it, still perched on top of him, still pulsing around him.

Jack’s voice drops—tired, exposed. “I know we won’t get married yet. I know we’re both fucking alcoholics. I know we argue over the thermostat and forget groceries and ruin bedsheets we don’t replace.”

Your throat goes tight.

“I know I leave shit everywhere and you color-code spreadsheets because it’s the only way to feel okay. I know you’re steadier than me. Smarter. Better. But I need you to be mine. Fully. Officially. Before I ruin it by waiting too long.”

You look at him—really look.

His eyes are glassy. His hair damp. His lips parted. He looks like he just survived a war and crawled out of it with the only thing that mattered.

You whisper, “You’re not ruining anything.”

He doesn’t flinch.

“Say yes.”

“Jack.”

“I’ll wait. Years, if I have to. I don’t care when. But I need the word. I need the promise.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him slow.

Then lift the ring from the box.

Slide it on yourself, right there, while he’s still inside you. It fits perfectly.

His breath stutters.

You roll your hips—just once.

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

You drag your mouth across his jaw, bite down gently, then whisper: “It’s a fuck yes.”

Jack flips you—moves so fast you gasp, but his hands never leave your skin. He spreads you beneath him like a prayer.

“You gonna come with it on?” he asks, voice wrecked, forehead to yours.

“Obviously.”

“Fucking marry me.”

“I just said yes, idiot—”

“I need to hear it again.”

“I’m gonna marry you, Jack,” you whisper.

His hips drive in deeper, and you sob against his neck. Jack curses under his breath.

You come first. Soaking. Gasping. Shaking under him. He follows seconds later—moaning your name like it’s the only language he speaks.

When he collapses on top of you, still sheathed inside, he’s breathless. Raw.

He lifts your hand. Looks at the ring.

“It’s too big.”

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re gonna hit people with it accidentally.”

“I hope so.”

Jack presses a kiss to your palm, right at the base of the band.

Then, out of nowhere—

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever done.”

You smile, blinking hard.

“You’re the best thing I ever let happen to me.” You hold up your left hand, wiggling your fingers. The diamond flashes dramatically in the low light. “I can’t wait to do our shared taxes with this ring on. Really dominate the IRS.”

Jack groans into your shoulder. “Jesus Christ.”

You laugh softly, kiss the crown of his head.

And somewhere between his chest rising against yours and the breeze cooling the sweat on your skin, you realize:

You’re not scared anymore.

“Five,” you say. “Eight if I try anything heroic.”

“Retire heroics,” he says. He raises the head of the bed a notch and slides a flat hand under your skull, easing you forward. “Small breaths. Show-off ones later.”

His phone buzzes on the tray. He checks, and his mouth softens.

“Dana?”

“She’s off,” he says. “She stole our child.”

“Good.”

He tilts the screen so you can read.

DANA EVANS

08:16 — Your kid has announced my fridge “doesn’t have ‘nuff grapes.” What’s the daily quota here? 08:33 — Direct quote: “Soup is for old peoples.” She then pointed at my hair, but we all know she meant yours. You’re the primary demographic, Abbot.

You laugh. The incision complains, you make a face and Jack pretends not to see before he very much sees, two fingers settling at your wrist to count with you until your ribcage behaves.

Another buzz.

08:35 — Situation report: fort constructed. Materials: two chairs, one blanket, my remaining patience. Terms negotiated: 1) No crying foul. 2) Grapes banned. 3) Duck untouchable. 08:35 — Text me a note for Bean when you can. I’ll deliver it like discharge instructions. Word for word, no edits.

Jack’s thumbs move. Report: Mommy is stubborn and healing. Twins are loud on schedule. Dad is obeying nurses like a man who loves his life. He doesn’t look at you while he types it; he looks at your IV site, your fingers, the jump of your pulse against the thin skin at your throat... the things that tell him if you’re telling the truth.

“Go check on them” you say. “Then come back and tell me everything you didn’t need to notice but did anyway.”

He bends, kisses your hairline and slips out with that unshowy limp you only notice when he’s far enough away to miss.

The room is honest without him. You listen to small sounds of a hospital trying not to wake anyone: a printer, a clack of a cart wheel hitting the same nick in the floor, someone laughing once down the hall and then remembering where they are.

Your mind does what it has since the twins came—scanning for the switch you failed to flip. Salt. Stairs. The coffee you let yourself have at week twelve because the craving was unbearable. The sleep you owed yourself and didn’t take. Your brain flips through the ledger like it might find a math error that will let you back into the plan. Your plan. The correct one.

A knock at the frame. Shen leans just past the line, night-shift fatigue still on him even though he’s showered. Ellis ghosts behind with a tablet and the unblinking calm of someone who has quietly triaged three floors before breakfast.

“Morning,” Shen says. “Hemoglobin moving up. Pressure cooperative. NICU says both are on the rails.”

Parker’s eyes skim you. “Pain?"

“Manageable.”

“You’re managing it,” she corrects, dry. She taps an order. “Oral analgesia. You’ll sleep better.”

Shen rests a knuckle on the bedrail, his version of a hand squeeze. "Jack’s in Special Care with the babies," he tells you. "He’ll give you the update later. Annotated, I’m sure." You already know this. When they leave, the quiet is clearer. Your mind threatens to go back to the tile, the sirens, the doors he couldn’t follow you through. You force your eyes to the ceiling.

Jack returns, you can read everything in his shoulders. He leaves a foam cup on the counter, what was once coffee, and places two Polaroids on your blanket, face up. They're the new photos for his wallet. The girl is a small insulted monarch. The boy looks like he’s considering litigation. Long fingers on her; a decisive mouth on him. Your heart finds a new shape that hurts and fits.

“She attempted assault on a thermometer. He lost a bout with a bottle. That’s the morning report.”

You look at them too hard, trying to find proof you didn’t fail them. The thought rises before you can pin it: I should have kept you longer. You hate it as it comes; you don’t know how to stop it.

Jack’s hand returns to your wrist. “What’s going on in that head of yours?” he asks, quiet.

“I did everything right,” you say, and it embarrasses you how young you sound, and you say it anyway. “I did the water. I stopped the coffee. I counted the stupid protein grams. I didn’t lift. I made lists like it was a job, Jack. And still—” The words crack. “Still I didn’t hold.”

He doesn’t paste anything over it. He just waits.

“When I got back,” he says, and you don’t need him to name from where, “a therapist told me control is a story we tell so we’re not afraid. I told him he could keep his story.”

“Did it help?”

“Not that day... but I hate what that sentence does to you more than I hated hearing it.”

You wait.

“You didn’t cause this,” he says, level. “You didn’t knock over a domino. You didn’t choose a wrong stair. Something gave while you were building two more people. That’s physics, blood, bad luck. Not a moral failure. Not a report card.”

Your throat tightens, then lets go a fraction. “What if I don’t know how to keep the table level anymore?”

“Then I’ll take the other end,” he says without pause. “Your stubbornness, my bad calls... we’ll keep the house upright.”

You let that sit, then nod toward the wheelchair. “Wheel me.”

He’s already moving. Of course he knows which closet hides the wheelchairs that don’t squeak, and which elevator doesn’t lurch when the doors close. He maneuvers like this place belongs to him. Because in some ways, it does.

He angles you wide around the slick spot by the ice machine without a word. Cuts down the back hallway where the vending machine eats quarters but never snacks. You catch the nod he trades with Mateo at the nurse’s station, a kind of shorthand that doesn’t need words. Security, housekeeping, ward clerks, he’s known them all for years.

Ahmad from Security holds the door before Jack even slows, a flat-palmed gesture that says: I’ve got you. Lupe Perez, perched behind the desk like the whole place runs through her, doesn’t bother with small talk. She pushes a laminated visitor sticker across the counter with a wink. Because NICU rules are rules, and because she likes you—but she likes him more.

Jack bends to smooth the sticker onto your gown himself, thumb pressing it flat. “Official now,” he mutters, and it’s not a joke so much as a benediction. Perlah glides past with a stack of charts and a glance that measures pain correctly. Gloria Underwood floats past, smile like polished tile; Jack answers with a neutral nod that translates to not now.

The NICU is courteous light and invention. An unnamed nurse with steady eyes warms a blanket in a dryer that never works for anyone else. She lifts your daughter and rests her on your sternum like she’s placing a puzzle piece. Fear arrives secondhand: your hands might shake; she might feel the fault in you; she might know. Then she makes a single noise and goes quiet, palm pressed against your collarbone like she’s checking in.

Jack stands close. He watches your face and sets his palm just below your shoulder.

“She’s smaller than my fear,” you whisper.

“Most things are,” he says.

For a minute the only jurisdiction in the world is that square of skin, that particular breathing. When the nurse moves your daughter back, your chest aches with the pain of something being removed that belonged. Jack waits for your nod. He lifts your son with that quiet, decisive competence you’ve watched him use on metal and artery and disaster, and sets the boy against your heart. The boy huffs like a small furnace, heavy in the way pennies are heavy.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, not sure which him you mean. “I thought I’d get longer.”

Jack hears the fault line under it. “They got you,” he says simply. “That’s the long part.”

The nurse steps into the hall for labels. Jack glances after her, then back at you. “Two minutes,” he says, low. “Just us.”

It is exactly that: the four of you. You slide a finger under your daughter’s sock until you find the soft heel. You spread your palm over your son’s small back and feel the engine of him. You make an inventory you’ll carry around for the rest of your life: the weight, the two different rhythms, the way one relaxes faster than the other, the way your body stops arguing with itself when it has a job.

On the slow walk back you collect witnesses without effort. Dr. Walsh gives you a single nod that means I was there and you’re here. Shen again, hair damp, coffee in hand. Garcia strides with a stack of labs and a pen behind her ear, sees you, recalculates the entire day without saying it. The building feels like a city Jack owns without a deed.

Back in your room, he tilts the blind until the strip of light lines your blanket. He peels an orange and sets the segments in a clean row.

“Eat,” he says.

You eat. Your mouth remembers sweetness. Your body edges closer to normalcy. The clipboard thought returns, bureaucratic and dull: If I had slept more. If I had—

Jack doesn’t let the sentence finish. He sits on the mattress, demoting his chair to coat rack, and lowers his forehead to yours.

“You didn’t break,” he says. “You’re allowed to mourn the neat version and then love this messy one harder once you live inside it. Pain isn’t merit. Guilt isn’t currency. And if anyone tries to hand you either, I’ll take it and throw it down the chute.”

“You’ll miss.”

“I’ll make Mateo do it. He enjoys aim, have you seen his arms?”

You huff. It hurts less this time.

His phone buzzes. He checks because Bean outranks philosophy.

DANA EVANS

11:27 — Naptime. She lasted nine minutes, confessed to stealing two Band-Aids.

Jack smiles then sets the phone face down. You slide under sleep the way a person slides into a pool, body coming to terms with warmth. Jack counts your breaths because that’s who he is. Sometime later, you wake to find him still there but softer, chin on his forearm, not guarding so much as keeping. You touch his hair. He startles; then he’s ashamed of the startle.

“Sorry,” he mutters, up in an instant.

“You’re allowed to be horizontal,” you say. “I won’t dock your pay.”

He half smiles and adjusts again. “Tell me to be scared,” he says. It’s not a trick. He’s offering you the reality.

“Are you?”

He nods, once. “I keep hearing you say 'don’t put me under',” he admits. “I didn’t know how to ask you to forgive me for not stopping them.”

“You kept me,” you say. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

He closes his eyes for a long second. “Good,” he says, voice low. “Then we’re even.”

Evening approaches. Jack retrieves the better blanket from a closet he is not cleared to access. He changes the angle of the blind one more notch.

A last buzz.

DANA EVANS

19:07 — Which one of you geniuses told her butter is a vegetable? 19:08 — Get some sleep. Your kid is snoring on my couch, Duck’s hypothetically drooling on my rug. World keeps turning.

Jack replies with a photo he doesn’t show you: your hand on the blanket, his fingers resting there, no faces. Proof, not performance.

You sleep. He keeps the count.

Two Days Before Discharge — Whitaker + King + Mohan + Santos Off

The house carries its own kind of emptiness without you in it. Jack feels it before his eyes open—in the cold stretch of sheets, in the silence that presses down heavier than any night shift. The air has that faint antiseptic tang clinging to him from the constant shuttle between you and home. Someone might argue it makes no difference, you’re under the same roof, the same hospital he works in, but the distance gnaws differently. Nights without you mean holding Bean until she folds into sleep, her fist knotted in his shirt, whispering, I miss Mommy.

Bean cries first. Jack follows, because there isn’t a muscle in him strong enough to fight against it.

It hits differently when it’s her crying for you. He’s been wrecked before—Afghanistan carved out rooms inside him he never wanted to visit again—but this is a new kind of wreckage. He cried at your wedding when you walked toward him. He cried when he first held Bean. He cried the night the twins came out under too-bright light and he thought he might lose you. Those tears belonged to love and relief. This—this is hollowing.

It happens in your bedroom, he pulls back the comforter and lets Bean climb into your side, Duck tucked under the sheet. The pillow that smells like your hair is fading at the edges; the smell on his T-shirt is hospital-clean instead of you, and he hates it. He hates not being there with you. Hates the stupid geometry of it: meters and stairwells and security doors adding up to miles.

It’s the first real stretch of time he’s been apart from you since you moved in together. Even during doubles, he came home at two or three a.m. and found you. Foot against his calf, your sleepy complaint about his cold hands. Since you, every night has been one thing shared.

Bean feels the subtraction. At bedtime she lifts Duck like a shield, small chin wobbling. “I want Mommy. Mommy home now.” Her whole body shivers like if she shakes hard enough something will give in. Jack says the right words: Mommy is resting, Mommy loves you, we’ll see her soon—but when her lip trembles and she says, “I don’t want Daddy, I want Mommy,” he breaks first.

The crying isn’t cinematic. It’s ugly, breathless, practical and human, like the body doing what it has to do. He folds around her, arms tight, her curls damp against his jaw, Duck’s beak denting his collarbone. He wants her to know I’m here. I love you. You’re not being pushed aside just because there are more babies now. He wants the house to feel like itself so she doesn’t feel pawned off every time a new adult appears with a gentle voice and a bag of snacks.

So he cries with her until she burns through it and goes heavy, asleep with her fist still locked in his shirt. He stays awake anyway, counting the slow rise of her back, scanning the ceiling like the answers might be written there.

Morning shows up because it’s stubborn. Jack is already in the kitchen, making pancakes. Focus on the small thing: pour, wait for the bubbles, flip. Bean perches on his hip, bare feet pressed to his skin, supervising.

“Don’t smush,” she orders, pointing at the pan.

“Copy,” Jack says. His voice is raw but even. She reaches up and pinches a strand at his temple.

“Winter sprinkles,” she diagnoses.

“Rude” He kisses her forehead anyway. She smells like last night’s tears and toothpaste.

On the counter, his phone hums its particular three-beat rhythm. He doesn’t flip it over. He knows who. He plates a pancake, cuts it, slides the plate toward Bean, and answers.

“Tell me you’re already on the porch,” Jack says, no preamble. “I’ve got a toddler, a stuffed bird, and a schedule that says your name in permanent marker.”

On the other end, Robby is in motion. His breath notched from walking and talking. “Emergency board just popped,” he says. “Three-car on the parkway, one rollover. Two nurses short. Gloria’s doing NASCAR laps with a clipboard, which is new and horrifying. I was off. I am not.”

Jack lowers the spatula before it snaps in his hand. He’d told Bean last night: Uncle Robby and Aunt Heather, snacks and a fort, the magic trick Robby still owes her from the other day. She’d taken it seriously—her certainty built on the way adults usually keep their word. Jack had promised it too.

“You told her you were coming,” Jack says, straight, because the truth is the only thing that works on either of them.

“I know.” There’s a whirr of a portable ultrasound powering up, someone yelling Bay Three, the clack of a curtain ring. Robby drops his voice. “Heather’s in Portland. Mom took a turn. She caught the first flight out. I’m solo.”

“So you’re calling to be sorry and useless.”

“I’m calling to be sorry and extremely useful in a way you’re going to hate,” Robby says, and Jack can hear the grin he puts on when he’s about to sell him a terrible good idea. “Use the kids.”

“Don’t call them kids,” Jack says automatically.

“Use the kids,” Robby repeats, unbothered. “They’re off. Mohan, Mel, Santos, Whitaker. Juniper Street, the big porch with the peeling paint and Whitaker’s chicken-wire basil prison. Four brains, one child. Team bonding.”

“This is childcare by committee,” Jack says. “That’s how planes crash.”

“Planes crash when no one’s in the cockpit,” Robby counters. “You can’t be next to your wife and also keep a toddler out of a NICU simultaneously, unless you’ve developed teleportation and didn’t share. Mohan is a walking boundary. Mel will laminate a routine and color code it. Whitaker will apologize to furniture until it forgives him. Santos will body check God if He looks at Bean sideways. It’s fine.”

“Fine,” Jack says flatly. “The last time Santos held a baby, she tried to teach it how to flip people off.”

“Bean could do worse than learning boundaries early,” Robby says. “And you know Santos... she talks tough, but she’s different with Bean. Softer. Like a wolf that picked one lamb and decided, mine.”

“Poetic,” Jack says. “Did you eat today, or are you running on sarcasm and bad coffee?”

“Two sips of something that wanted to be coffee when it grew up,” Robby mutters, then exhales like he’s trying to hide it. “Look, man. You want Bean at the hospital? I’d pull strings if I could. Dana’s not an option—she just got called in. Her plate’s stacked too. You really want Bean bounced between five couches in a day? She’s not luggage.”

Jack braces a hip against the counter and watches Bean dismantle the pancake. She hums to Duck while she eats, that nonsense tune kids are born knowing.

“I want my family under one roof,” Jack says. He doesn’t try to sand the edges off it. “I want to quit counting elevator stops to see my wife.”

Robby doesn’t talk for a second. Then: “I know,” he says, quiet, the part of him that never jokes. “But between the perfect thing and the doable thing, pick the one that gets you in two places without breaking your kid.”

“Don’t make sense at me,” Jack says. “I told you not to do that in my house.”

“You live in my ER,” Robby says. “So I get a visiting professor credential for your kitchen. Here’s my lecture: you take Bean to Juniper. You do your sweep because you won’t sleep if you don’t. You hand off to four people who would fight a bear for you on a Tuesday. Then you come here, hold your wife’s hand, and stare at two ridiculous people who think breathing is brand new. After that, you come back, steal your kid, and go home. Rinse, repeat, survive.”

“Gloria will love the part where I say ‘resident babysitting,’” Jack says. “She’ll write a policy called No Joy Outside The Building.”

“I’ll present it at the board as Pediatric Morale Stabilization: Outcomes and Snacks,” Robby says. “I’ll even add a bar graph.”

“You do love a graph,” Jack says, and feels the smallest click of something in his sternum ease.

“Give me a data point then,” Robby says. “If you do this, you get to see the person who scares you into staying alive. That’s worth the experiment.”

Bean touches her face with a syrup-slick finger. “Jack-Jack? Robby come now?”

“Got stuck at the hospital, bug,” Jack says, meeting those big eyes straight on. “He’s sorry.”

“It's ok, I not sad,” she decides, generous.

Robby hears it, and Jack can hear how it hits him—something unclenches in the way he breathes. “General Bean,” Robby says into the speaker, “I owe you cookies and a coin trick I do not currently know how to do.”

Bean smiles with grave delight. Then she leans in, “Daddy… Mommy home now?”

“Soon,” he says. “You'll see her soon. And the babies.”

On the line, Robby does nothing but breathe for a beat, which is the right answer. “Text me when you drop her. And Jack... don’t Joint-Commission their house. It’s lived in. It passes.”

“We’ll see,” Jack lies, because perimeter checks are the only religion that’s ever worked for him.

Someone calls for Robby. I’m here, Robby answers off-mic. Then, back: “Make the call, Jack. Let people love you the way you love your family. It’s not a trap.”

“That’s exactly what a trap sounds like,” Jack says, but his mouth. “Go save your rollover.”

“Copy,” Robby says.

Jack kills the call before he can say something soft enough to embarrass them both. Bean is chewing thoughtfully. Duck is face down in a smear of syrup like they're passed out at a party. Jack wipes Duck with a dish towel. He refills Bean’s water, adds five grapes to the plate, and looks at his phone.

Whitaker’s contact—DENNIS WHITAKER (HUCK)—sits there. Jack glances at the clock, at the backpack Bean packed (two picture books, her plastic stethoscope, a single sock, three stickers, Duck’s bottle-cap hat) at the front door with its scuff marks from a life that is good even when it isn’t.

“Field trip?” he asks her.

She nods. “Give Mommy my kiss.” She cups her hands, breathes into them, and presses the invisible thing into his palm. “Don’t squish it.”

“I won’t.” He tucks air into his pocket. Then Jack hits call.

The line clicks, a beat of static, and then Whitaker’s voice, tight, formal, too eager. “Dr. Abbot?”

“Jack,” he says immediately. There’s a pause. He can hear Whitaker swallow.

“You ever babysat before?” Jack asks, blunt, no cushioning.

“Uh—my nieces,” Whitaker says. “Seven of them. I’ve changed diapers. Done bottles. I can—”

“She’s not a diaper,” Jack cuts him off. “She’s a toddler. She negotiates like a lawyer and she doesn’t bluff. If she says she’s not tired, she means she’ll still be awake at midnight. If she says she’s not hungry, she’ll steal whatever you’re eating. If she says she wants Mommy…” He stops.

Whitaker, to his credit, doesn’t try to jump in. He just waits.

Jack scrubs a hand over his jaw. “If she says she wants Mommy, you tell her soon. You tell her Daddy said soon. Got it?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Jack exhales through his nose. It’s not enough, but it will have to do.

“You got outlet covers in that house?”

“Already covered. Mohan bought them last week when she knew my niece was visiting.”

Jack tilts his head, suspicious but not unwilling to believe it. “Good. Because if I walk in and see one socket, you’re all on probation.”

Whitaker tries to laugh—it comes out like a hiccup. “Noted.”

“And food. What do you have in that kitchen?”

“Groceries.”

“Name them, Whitaker.”

“Uhhh—eggs. Yogurt. Cereal. Bananas. Grapes.”

“All right. Juice?”

“Yes. Apple. No added sugar. Mel's favorite.”

“Milk?”

“Yes.”

“Naptime plan?”

Whitaker falters. “Stories. We have picture books. And—Bean can sleep in my room. It’s quietest back there.”

“Good answer.” Jack leans on the counter, gripping it hard enough that the edge bites his palm. “She sleeps with Duck. Don’t wash him. Don’t try. He’s got his own ecosystem at this point.”

Bean looks up from the table, cheeks shining with syrup. “Duck stinky,” Jack ruffles her hair. “Duck’s loyal. That’s better.”

Whitaker chuckles softly at that, and Jack almost lets himself soften, almost. Then he pushes again.

“You understand she’s not an assignment, Whitaker. She’s not a rotation. She’s my kid. If something happens, anything, you call me first. Before Robby, before Dana, before God himself.”

“Yes, Abbot. I promise.”

Jack stays silent. Lets the weight sit. Lets Whitaker squirm.

“I mean it,” Whitaker says finally, voice lower, steadier. “We’ll take care of her. All of us.”

Jack closes his eyes. He knows it’s true. Knows Mel’s the type who will sit on the floor with Bean and build towers just to watch her laugh, knows Santos will posture like she doesn’t care and then guard the kid like she’s breakable glass, knows Mohan will plan snacks like a military operation. Knows Whitaker will hover and apologize too much but never let Bean feel alone. He knows all of it.

Jack clears his throat. “Text me when you’ve childproofed the knives.”

Whitaker nods audibly. “Got it.”

Jack ends the call, stares at the phone like it’s a traitor, and finally exhales.

Bean's backpack rides shotgun. She insisted. Buckled it into the seat like a passenger, Duck’s head sticking out the zipper. Jack didn’t argue. He doesn’t have the energy to win or the heart to deny her.

Bean herself is in the back, humming. It’s tuneless, as usual. The road is familiar: every crack in the asphalt, every traffic light that stalls longer than it should. Jack knows these streets. He takes them every night when the shift ends, when adrenaline vanishes and silence washes in. But today, the silence is different. It’s mixed with Bean’s chatter.

Jack exhales, a sound that fogs the glass. He thinks again of last night—her trembling lip, her small voice saying I don’t want Daddy—and he feels the wreckage all over again. The stoplight turns red at Forbes. Jack drums his fingers against the steering wheel. The backpack stares back at him like a co-pilot.

“You ready to meet the wolves, bug?” he asks over his shoulder.

Bean giggles, half a hiccup. “Wolves go howwwwwwl.”

Jack makes a sound that's almost like a laugh. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”

But his jaw sets again. Because it’s not really wolves. It’s Whitaker with his nervous politeness, Mel with her careful steadiness, Santos with her bite that hides too much tenderness, Mohan with her quiet plans. He trusts them in an ER bay. He’d stake patients’ lives on their hands. But trusting them with Bean feels like a different kind of triage.

The light turns green. Jack presses the gas too hard; the car jerks, calms. Bean doesn’t notice. She’s humming again. He clears his throat. “Okay, bug. Rules for field trip. One—you listen to the grown-ups. Two—you eat what they give you. No bargaining for cookies.”

“No cookies,” Bean echoes, then adds under her breath, “Maybe one cookie.”

“Three—naptime means naptime. No negotiations. Four—” Jack hesitates. He wants to say don’t miss Mommy too hard, don’t ask for Daddy when I’m not there, don’t look so small without us. Instead: “Four—you call me if you need me. Always.”

Bean nods.

Jack glances at her in the mirror again. The house looms up at the end of the block. Too many cars in the driveway, curtains crooked, the kind of place that looks like life hasn’t slowed down long enough for anyone to fix the little things. Meredith Grey’s intern house, only with worse taste.

Jack pulls to the curb, kills the engine, and sits for a beat. He stares at the front door, at the chipped paint, at the faint glow of a lamp inside. His stomach knots.

Bean pipes up, oblivious. “We here, Jack-Jack?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “We’re here.”

He doesn’t move yet. Just sits with it, fingers tight on the wheel, the air thick with everything he doesn’t say. “Daddy? Why not go inside? You ‘fraid?”

Jack exhales through his nose. Of all the questions. “No, Bean. Not afraid.” He twists in his seat, meets her gaze. She considers this, then nods as if she understands.

Jack finally unclips his belt, leans back to free her from the straps. “Alright,” he says quietly, mostly to himself. “Let’s go see if the wolves did the dishes.”

Bean laughs. “Wolves make mess.”

“Yeah,” Jack mutters, lifting her into his arms. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Before he knocks, he pauses. Lets Bean settle against his chest, lets the air cool the back of his neck. He hates this. Hates leaving her anywhere that isn’t with you. He tells himself it’s one day, tells himself it’s the right move, but the words don’t stick.

Bean lifts her head, presses her palm against his jaw. “Daddy. It’s ok."

Jack closes his eyes, just for a second. She says it like it’s simple. Like it’s enough. And maybe it is. He knocks. The door opens before he can knock a second time. Whitaker looks like he’s been pacing since Jack called. He looks younger than he is—twenty-six going on sixteen.

“Dr. Abbot,” Whitaker says quickly, too quickly. “We baby proofed. Kind of.”

Jack raises a brow, doesn’t move. “Define ‘kind of.’”

Behind Whitaker, the house hums with life: voices overlapping, the faint squeak of a chair dragged across tile, something that sounds suspiciously like Mel narrating rules in bullet-point form. The smell of burnt popcorn tries to escape through the doorway.

Bean wriggles in Jack’s arms. “Hi, Huck!” she chirps, sticky hand waving in Whitaker’s face.

Whitaker melts. “Hi, Bean.” He looks at Jack again, sheepish. “She, uh… still calls me Huck?”

Jack’s mouth flattens. “You gonna correct her?”

Whitaker shakes his head fast. “No, sir.”

“Good,” Jack says, finally stepping inside.

The house is exactly what he expected and worse. Shoes piled at the door. A stack of textbooks on the couch like a fortress. A whiteboard in the kitchen corner with a scrawl of shifts and grocery lists: milk, coffee, Band-Aids. A half-assembled IKEA chair leans against the wall like it lost the will to live.

Jack’s eyes rake the space. He doesn’t do it subtly. He doesn’t care. Outlets: covered. Cleaning supplies: under the sink. A loose cord dangles near the TV; Jack clicks his tongue. “Tape that down before she finds it. She’ll pull the whole system down on herself.”

Mohan is already reaching for duct tape.

Santos appears in the hallway, hair damp like she’s just showered. She takes in the scene, smirks. “Wow. Homeland Security really does house calls.”

Jack levels a look at her. “You planning to watch my kid with that attitude?”

“Relax, Abbot. I’m great with kids.” She crouches to Bean’s level. “Hey, Commander Bean. Want to help me teach Huck how to fold laundry like a grown up?”

Bean giggles. Whitaker groans, flushing. “I can fold.”

“Sure, buddy,” Santos says, already walking away.

Mel emerges from the kitchen, hair tied back, dish towel over her shoulder. “I cooked. Real food. No one’s living on cereal all day.”

“Appreciated,” Jack says, voice clipped. He doesn’t add that it’s the first thing that’s eased the knot in his chest.

Bean tugs at his jaw. “Daddy? I stay here now?”

Jack swallows. This is the part he hates—the handoff. He kneels, sets her down gently. He smooths her hair back, memorizing the shape of her face in this light, in this house that isn’t theirs.

“Remember the rules,” Jack says, voice low but firm. “You listen to them. You eat what they give you. No climbing on furniture.”

“Even the chairs?” Bean tests.

“Especially the chairs.”

“Even the table?”

“Bean.” His voice dips warning. She grins. He presses his forehead to hers. Jack straightens, scans everyone again. His gaze lingers on each of them like a warning: Whitaker, pale but earnest. Mohan, already taping down the cord. Santos, tossing a grape in the air like she’s daring him. Mel, steady.

“You break her, you buy her,” Jack says finally.

Santos snorts. “Don’t worry. We’ll return her in one piece.”

Jack doesn’t smile. But something in him calms.

The walk from the car to the hospital doors feels longer than it should. Jack takes the side entrance he’s walked a thousand times because it cuts minutes, and minutes matter. He signs nothing, flashes no badge. The Pitt knows him by gait alone.

He checks his phone once more before pocketing it—no calls from Whitaker. Bean’s fine. She’s in one piece. He knows it. The nurses tip their chins in a quiet greeting. One of them offers to wave him through, but Jack doesn’t slow down enough for thanks. When he pushes open your door he means to come in with control, to take stock the way he always does. Instead, he stops.

You’re propped carefully, there’s joy in your face he hasn’t seen in days. Both twins are settled against you—one tucked under your chin, the other sprawled across your chest. You’re humming, uneven but steady, the same tune Bean mangles when she thinks no one’s listening.

He clears his throat, suddenly unsure. His voice comes rougher than he means. “I’m sorry. I’m later than I said.”

You lift your eyes and it undoes him. The kind of undoing he can’t stop, even if he tried.

“You’re here now,” you whisper.

Jack steps closer and sits carefully on the edge of your bed. His eyes keep moving between you and the twins, like he’s cataloguing every detail to make up for the time he missed.

One of the twins stirs, tiny fist pressing against your collarbone. Jack’s hand hovers, then settles, massive in comparison. He lets out a breath he’s been holding since the house, maybe even since Afghanistan.

“See?” you murmur, as if reading him. “We kept breathing without you.”

Jack shakes his head, barely. “Not the same.”

For a moment he doesn’t speak, just watches you with them, like the sight itself is medicine. Then he leans down, presses his forehead to yours, careful of the little weight between you.

“I missed this,” he admits, voice breaking low. “Missed you.”

"You didn’t miss it. You’re in it. Right now.”

Jack exhales against your skin. He thinks about Bean’s invisible kiss in his pocket, about her whisper in the dark. He thinks about the house three blocks away and the bed that feels wrong without you in it. And then he thinks about this room, the way you look with both babies pressed to you, and how maybe, just maybe, it’s enough to hold him together for another night.

“So,” he says. “Bean’s with Whitaker, Santos, King, and Mohan.”

You blink. “All four?”

Jack nods once, serious. “All four.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “You mean to tell me you left our daughter with your hospital ducklings.”

“They’re not—” He stops, scowls. “Okay, yes, some of them are ducklings. But Mohan’s solid. King’s brain could probably run a daycare on color-coded post-its. Santos pretends she doesn’t like anyone, but she softens for Bean. And Whitaker—”

“—still turns blotchy red if anyone above him says good morning too directly,” you finish, smiling. He scrubs a hand over his jaw. You tip your head, enjoying this more than you should. “I like them. They like you. They’ll watch her like she’s classified material.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jack mutters. “She’ll come home knowing how to intubate a Barbie.”

“Better than filing her taxes,” you tease. “That’s my influence.”

Jack sighs, long and low. “You’re too calm about this.”

“And you’re too Jack Abbot about this,” you counter gently. “Protective to the point of chewing glass. She’s fine. They’re fine. You trust them with crashing patients... trust them with grapes and crayons.”

Jack shakes his head, but the fight in him has already softened. He smiles. “You’re dangerous when you make sense.”

Day of Discharge — Langdon (and Abby) at the House

The house is full. It's the kind of full that feels temporary, like a coat borrowed from someone taller.

Abby has made herself at home the way only she can. Not overstepping but filling gaps without asking. She’s barefoot in your kitchen, rolling up sleeves, opening drawers like she’s memorized where you keep the cutting boards. She slices apple wedges, arranges crackers, pours Bean a cup of milk without ever having to ask where the cups are. She’s always had that kind of maternal intuition.

Bean hovers close to her side. She clutches Duck under one arm, eyes tracking Abby’s hands. “Can I cut too?” she asks.

“Not with this one,” Abby says gently, tapping the knife. She swaps it for a butter spreader and sets it in front of her. “But you can be my assistant chef. Apples need arranging.”

Bean takes the job seriously, tongue poking out in concentration as she lines the slices. Tanner leans in from the other side of the counter, stealing a cracker when he thinks no one is looking. Abby catches it anyway, giving him the sort of half-smile that says I saw you but I’m not picking the fight.

Their younger one isn’t here—Abby’s mom kept her back at the Langdon house for the day. “Too many little bodies under one roof,” Abby had explained on the drive over, smoothing Tanner’s hair while Frank loaded their puppy into the backseat. It’s practical, but the absence hangs a little in the air; Abby’s phone buzzes now and then with check-ins from her mom, pictures of a naptime face pressed against a blanket. She tucks the phone aside each time, eyes returning to Bean and Tanner like she’s balancing all three kids in her head regardless of distance.

Frank drifts through the doorway, not restless exactly, but carrying an edge that makes the room tilt around him. He lingers at the frame, crossing his arms, watching the kids like they’re training for a mission. Tanner catches his eye and beams, juice on his chin, and Frank gives him a nod in return, a flicker of pride that softens for a heartbeat before his shoulders notch back up. The bracelet Tanner made him with beads spelling out ♡dad♡ rides loose on his wrist. He twists it once, absent, and checks his phone.

A new text. Not Jack. Not you.

MEL KING

10:02 — Board’s stacked like Tetris. Walsh says you owe her a lunch if she doesn’t drown. 10:03 — Don’t answer if you’re off. Sorry.

Frank exhales through his nose, thumbs back a reply anyway.

off. don’t drown. tell walsh to get her own lunch.

Abby presses her palm briefly to his back as she walks past with Bean’s snack plate. “You should eat something,” she says softly.

“I’m fine,” he clips back, sharper than he means to. Then he catches himself, glances at her, and adds, “Yeah. I’ll grab something.”

Abby doesn’t push, just sets a protein bar on the counter in his line of sight. The kids tumble into the hallway now, Tanner leading the charge, Bean trailing with Duck bouncing at her hip. “We’re building a fort,” Tanner announces. “Bean’s in charge.” The puppy follows, a chew toy dangling from his mouth, drooling across the hardwood. Abby sighs, already moving to grab a towel, but she’s smiling.

Frank rubs a hand across his face, palm dragging over stubble. It’s not exhaustion exactly, not the way it looks on him after night shifts—it’s thinner, edgier. Abby doesn’t call it out. She just meets his eyes once and he looks away first.

Her phone buzzes. She wipes her hand on the towel and checks. A text from you:

10:19 — They’re finishing up paperwork. If Jack doesn’t drive my car like it’s made of glass, we’ll be home soon.

Abby’s mouth tilts. She thumbs back:

Bean is running a kitchen like Gordon Ramsay. Tanner is her sous chef. Everyone’s alive.

She sets the phone down, and for a second the house is just sound; Bean and Tanner arguing about pillow placement, the puppy barking. Domestic noise. Noise that means normal.

Frank watches Bean marshal Tanner into hauling couch cushions like it’s a military campaign. Tanner obeys without argument, dragging pillows twice his size across the rug. “God help Abbot and his wife,” he says. “That kid’s gonna be running the world before they get her to middle school.”

Abby doesn’t miss a beat. “Middle school? Try seven. Bean doesn’t wait her turn.”

Frank lets out a laugh. It cracks something open in the room. Just two kids wrecking a living room, and two adults watching the inevitability of it all.

Jack kills the engine but doesn’t move right away. He sits for a second, watching you in the passenger seat, his hand already on the door handle like he’s preparing to sprint.

“Stay put,” he says quietly, eyes steady on you. “I’ll get the kids inside, then I’ll come back for you.”

You arch a brow. “Jack—”

“Not up for debate,” he cuts in, then slips out into the afternoon light.

The front door opens before he’s halfway up the walk. Abby is wrangling the puppy by its collar, her expression equal parts hospitality and exhaustion. Frank lingers just behind her. He doesn’t step forward, just props a shoulder against the wall, watching Jack heft the carriers out of the Jeep.

Inside, Bean’s voice ricochets off the walls. “Daddy, Daddy, come see!” There’s a crash of couch cushions toppling, Tanner’s high pitched laugh cutting through.

Jack brings the carriers up onto the porch, glances at Frank whos jaw ticks once, twice.

“You okay, man?” Jack asks low so Abby can’t hear over the puppy’s yipping. It's not necessarily confrontational. It's just a flat check-in, the way one soldier might check another for bleeding.

Frank exhales through his nose. “Fine.” Too quick, too thin. His hand flexes once against the doorframe before he pushes off to make room.

Jack doesn’t press. He just nods, a tiny flicker that says I see it, I won’t call it. Then he angles past into the living room, setting the carriers down where Bean and Tanner are already kneeling, eyes wide at the twins.

“Alright,” Jack says, “I need you guys to guard these two for a minute. No touching, no tipping, no feeding them. Clear?”

“Clear!” they shout in unison.

Jack’s shoulders ease, just a notch. He straightens, ready to turn back for you—

And then the door creaks, and you’re there.

You’ve braced yourself on the frame, stubborn enough not to wait, steadying each step with that measured caution Jack knows too well. He’s on his feet instantly, closing the distance in two strides, his jaw tight.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay put?” His voice is low, urgent but not sharp, hands already hovering near your elbow, your hip, as if he can shield you from your own body.

“I didn’t want to wait,” you murmur, eyes already cutting toward the twins.

Jack exhales through his nose, half exasperation, half relief. “You’re supposed to let me play bad guy, not make me watch you barrel in like nothing happened.”

“She made it, Jack. No barreling involved,” Abby notes.

“Mm,” Jack says, not buying it, though his hand lingers warm against your back as he guides you fully into the room. Jack leans closer to you, voice softening in a way it never does for anyone else. “Alright. You’re home. Let’s sit you down before these three start union negotiations.”

One Month Home

The house is crowded but alive, humming with a rhythm that’s only just beginning to make sense. Bottles rattle in the sink, laundry piles multiply, and the soundscape shifts from Bean’s play-by-play narration to the twins’ cries echoing.

You didn’t think Jack could become more Jack than he already was. But one month home with three children has carved something new out of him: sharper vigilance, softer edges. He doesn’t just notice things, he anticipates them.

Mornings begin in fragments. Jack is always first awake, though “awake” is generous. His hair sticks up like he’s fought through a storm, grey threading the edges. He checks bassinets before he even brushes his teeth, fingertips ghosting over tiny chests. He props one twin against his shoulder, bottle balanced like second nature, while nudging the coffee maker on with his elbow.

Bean pads out from her room, Duck under one arm, and climbs onto a kitchen chair. “Daddy, I need cereal. Mommy cereal too.”

You come in slower, still sore, the other twin nestled against your chest. He catches the wince you try to swallow down and frowns before you can get a word out. “Sit,” he says, firm enough to leave no space for argument. When you roll your eyes, he mutters, “I mean it. Don’t make me pick you up in front of our children.”

You smile.

Bean, watching the exchange, furrows her brow. “Daddy, Mommy boss.”

“That’s right, Bean. Mommy’s the boss. But I’m the assistant boss, and I enforce the rules.”

Bean considers this, then points her spoon. “Duck’s boss too.”

“Obviously,” Jack says.

Midday the hours fold into each other. Diapers, feedings, Bean’s endless questions. Jack watches you like a hawk: the way you sit, the way you carry yourself, the way your stomach tugs when you reach too far.

“Jack,” you sigh once, when he takes the laundry basket from your hands. “I’m not made of glass.”

Jack looks at you like he’s trying to fix you in place with his eyes. “You gave me three kids in four-ish years,” he says. “You’re not glass. You’re a diamond. Cut, unbreakable, sharp enough to take skin off if someone isn’t careful. But even diamonds need a break. That’s me. That’s my job.”

Bean bursts in then, demanding someone come admire her tower of blocks. Jack goes willingly, lowering himself onto the rug like it’s the most important task of the day.

Naptime is a negotiation. One twin settles quickly, the other fights. Jack paces, murmuring nonsense stories about grocery lists and weather forecasts, his voice soft until eyelids finally droop. He returns to the living room where you’re curled on the couch with Bean.

She rests her head on your shoulder, whispering, “Mommy not forget me?”

Your chest aches, but Jack is in the doorway, silent witness. Later, when Bean runs off to fetch crayons, he sits beside you, hand catching yours. “She knows,” he says softly. “We’re making sure she knows.”

You nod, and when you lean your head on his shoulder, he kisses your hair like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Dinner is chaotic. Jack lets Bean pour the pasta, catches her before she tips the whole box in. He wipes sauce from your cheek with his thumb, pretends not to notice when you laugh at him for burning the garlic bread.

Afterward, he bathes Bean while you nurse, and you hear her giggling down the hall as he makes Duck stage an opera. His baritone is absurd, and you wonder how the same voice that calms trauma patients can make her squeal with delight.

Night is the hardest, but it’s also where Jack shines. He moves with military precision: bottle, burp, swaddle, repeat. He hands you water before you ask, warms the heating pad before you realize you need it. When you tease him for being overbearing, he shakes his head.

“You gave me everything,” he says, raw, not for the first time.

Later, you find Jack in the rocker. One baby on his chest, the other in the crook of his arm. His head tips back against the cushion, eyes half shut, whispering into the dark. Not words, not really... just the cadence of a man who can’t stop loving out loud.

You slip down beside him, your hand covering his. His eyes open, and the look he gives you is the kind that almost ruins you.

“This is it,” he murmurs, as if confessing a secret. “This is all I ever wanted to be right about.”

You nod, listening hard. “Dizzy? Perfect. Means it’s working. Good sign.”

Jack spins, keys in hand, eyes wild. “Perfect?! Syncope is not fucking perfect.”

You frown into the phone. “Okay, listen carefully. Don’t sit down. You want to keep the blood moving. Do twenty jumping jacks. Minimum.”

Jack barks a humorless laugh, throwing his jacket over one shoulder. “No. No, no, no. She did not just tell someone in cardiac distress to do fucking jumping jacks. This is it. This is how I lose my license. Not malpractice, not a board complaint, not even the Joint Commission. Marriage.”

You pace to the window, nodding solemnly. “Yes, even if you feel faint. Push through it. Sweat is how you know it’s working.”

“Sweat is not diagnostic!” Jack explodes, pointing at you. “You’re not Rocky training for a fight, you’re dying! Sit the fuck down!” He’s shouting toward the phantom patient now, gesturing wildly with his keys. “Sir... ma’am... whoever the hell you are, ignore my wife! Put the tequila down, sit your ass on the floor, and call 911.”

You wave him off again, lowering your voice. “Okay, now if you have a cat, put it right on your chest. The purring will regulate your rhythm.”

“A cat? You’re putting an animal in charge of defibrillation now? Babe, I swear to God—”

“Don’t listen to him,” you tell the 'caller.' “Doctors overreact. You’ll be fine.”

Jack’s voice drops into something dangerous, low and sharp. “I’m going to be an accessory to homicide via marriage vows.”

You turn, glare at him, still dead serious. “Honey, stop being so rude. I’m on the phone.”

Jack stares at you, slack jawed, like he might actually combust. “On the—baby, you’re telling someone in VFib to cuddle a fucking cat. You’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

You put a finger to your lips. “Shh. They’re concentrating.”

That’s it. He lunges across the room, snatches the phone out of your hand, and stares at the screen.

Silence.

You smile sweetly. “Trend.”

Jack just stares at you, breathing hard, chest heaving like he just ran. “You—” he chokes out, half laughing, half horrified. “Oh, fuck me. You had me packing a go-bag. Over TikTok.”

You’re already giggling so hard you can’t stand upright. “Your face—”

“My face? Babe, my soul left my body.” He drops the phone on the couch like it’s toxic, dragging a hand down his jaw. “That’s it. No more TikTok. Ever. It’s a public health hazard.”

You’re laughing so hard you almost topple. Jack catches you by the waist, steady and exasperated all at once, pulling you in against his chest. His voice is muffled against your hair. “Scared the absolute shit out of me,” he mutters, but his arms tighten like he’s never letting go.

“I’m sorry,” you giggle.

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay, maybe not.”

He groans, pressing a kiss to your temple like he’s punishing you with tenderness. “Christ, don’t ever do that again. My blood pressure’s in orbit. I just shaved years off my life.”

You grin, breathless. “Good thing you’ve got me. I know what to do with chest pain.”

Jack groans again, burying his face in your neck. “You’re sleeping on the couch.” But he’s still holding you like he’ll never put you down.

✧ 'Don't you wish you were more athletic?'

The twins are upstairs, monitor humming quietly on the counter, but Bean has decided the living room carpet is an Olympic arena. She’s in pajamas, hair sticking up, shrieking every time she leaps from couch to pillow pile.

You’re filming on your phone, barely holding in laughter, when you angle it toward Jack. He’s on the floor, one arm braced to keep Bean from actually toppling over the ottoman, the other holding his coffee. He looks maddeningly handsome, because of course he does.

That’s when you say it. Soft, teasing. “Don’t you wish you were more athletic?”

Jack freezes. Slowly turns his head toward you. His eyes narrow, just slightly, that Abbot patented I-know-you’re-fucking-with-me look. “More athletic?”

You bite your lip, trying not to grin.

He sets his coffee down on the table with care, like a man preparing for battle. Then he flexes his arm and the muscle jumps, defined even under the faded cotton sleeve. “You see this?” he asks Bean, ignoring you completely.

Bean nods, eyes wide. “Strong.”

“That’s right,” Jack says, deadpan. He turns back to you. “I carried a car seat in each hand yesterday while your eldest held onto my back. That’s not athletic enough for you?”

You choke on a laugh. “Jack—”

“And last week,” he goes on, over Bean’s delighted squeal, “I loaded two packs of Costco diapers, a bag of groceries, and the stroller into the Jeep.” He gestures with a finger. “That’s conditioning. That’s training. That’s—”

“Daddy’s strong!” Bean interrupts again, bouncing like she’s his hype man. Jack nods seriously. “Daddy is strong.” Then, to you: “But apparently not athletic.”

You’re laughing outright now, phone trembling in your hand. He narrows his eyes further, then, without warning, lunges across the carpet and plucks the phone out of your hand in one clean move. He angles the camera toward his face, raises a brow. “You want proof?”

“Jack—”

“Baby,” he says, voice low now, enough to make your cheeks warm. “My athleticism made three kids. Pretty sure that’s peak performance.”

You swear your face is on fire. Bean cackles like she knows something she absolutely shouldn’t.

“Stop,” you hiss, grabbing for the phone, but Jack holds it just out of reach, smirking, letting you flail. He finally drops it back into your lap and pushes himself up, stretching his shoulders like he’s just finished a set at the gym.

“Don’t you wish you were more athletic,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head, but there’s a grin tugging at his mouth.

+

You tiptoe down the hall and find Jack in the kitchen rinsing bottles. His forearms flexing with each movement, a vein catching the low light. It’s unfair, really.

You’re halfway past him when he catches your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop you. “Remember earlier?”

You blink. “Earlier?”

His mouth curves slow, dangerous. “When you said I wasn’t athletic.”

You feel heat crawl up your neck instantly. “I didn’t say—”

“You did,” he cuts in, stepping closer. His eyes glint. “And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You laugh, nervous. “Jack, it was a joke.”

“Mhm,” he hums, leaning down just enough that his breath brushes your ear. “You still think I’m not athletic enough?”

You make the mistake of stepping back. His grin widens.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, trying to pull away, but he’s already moving, fast in that way he always is when he decides on something. You squeal and dart down the hall but he’s on you in seconds. Training, conditioning, caring for three kids daily giving him stamina you can’t outrun. He scoops you clean off the floor and hauls you over his shoulder before you can even gasp.

“Jack!” you whisper shout, smacking his back. “Put. Me. Down!”

“Not very athletic of you,” he says. His arm tightens around your thighs as if you’re weightless. He climbs the stairs like it’s nothing, not even winded. “Meanwhile, I could carry you and all kids at the same time. Want me to prove it?”

You bury your face in your hands, laughing too hard. “You’re impossible.”

He adjusts you higher, smirking. “Impossible, but athletic. And, for the record…” His voice dips low, teasing, but threaded with something that makes your chest ache. “I’ve got enough stamina to give you another kid.”

You go silent. Your heart stutters.

He chuckles, presses a kiss to the back of your thigh. “Relax. Half joking.” A pause. “Half.”

Your face burns hotter. You can’t look at him. He laughs, full and quiet, carrying you straight into your room. Sets you down gently on the bed like it was all a game. Then he leans over, eyes sharp but so tender you feel like you’ll break.

“Still think I’m not athletic?” he asks, voice low.

And all you can do is shake your head, hopelessly flustered, because Jack Abbot has won. Again.

✧ 'Current husband'

The cart wheel squeaks every third rotation, and Jack already looks like he’s one bad turn away from filing a maintenance request with Costco corporate. He pushes it anyway as if a faulty cart can’t throw him off pace.

There are no diaper bags, no Goldfish crumbs, no Bean narrating Abbot family business to strangers like she’s got a press badge.

A few weeks back, after a night that stretched forever—Bub screaming with gas, Peanut refusing to settle unless she was on your chest—you’d collapsed face first on the bed. Bean had abandoned Duck on the pillows hours earlier, and the stuffed duck ended up squashed between you and the blanket, caught in the wreckage. Jack stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that soft, fond look he never gives anyone else. He leaned down, pressed a kiss to your hair, and murmured, “Duck’s lucky, they get to sleep next to the prettiest girl in the house.”

You’d swatted him for it, cheeks hot even through the fatigue. Bean had stumbled in half awake right as he said it. She froze in the doorway long enough to hear the words, long enough to file them away in that sharp little memory of hers.

Now it’s become a slogan.

Target last week, in the toy aisle, a stranger bent down and asked if Duck was her favorite. Bean nodded solemnly, patted Duck’s head, and declared: “Duck sleeps with the prettiest girl in the house.”

You nearly choked. The stranger’s eyebrows flew up. Now it’s a routine. At the park. At the pediatrician’s office. At checkout lines. Every time she introduces Duck, she tacks it on. Jack refuses to look even remotely embarrassed. He just smirks, shrugs, and says, “She’s not wrong.”

So today, with Bean and the twins at home under Dana’s watch, the aisles of Costco feel like quiet. No toddler announcing to strangers that her stuffed duck has the privilege of sharing your pillow. Just you, Jack, and rows of bulk everything.

Jack is parked in front of the wall of Premier Protein. He’s got one hand braced on the cart, the other tapping the boxes with his finger. Chocolate. Vanilla. Caramel. Cookies & Cream. He’s comparing labels like this is life and death.

“Alright,” he says finally, glancing over at you. “Which one do you want?”

You blink at him. “None. I don’t like them.”

Jack actually laughs, disbelieving. “Bullshit.”

You lift your chin. “I don’t.”

He straightens, one brow arched, expression cutting right through you. “Then tell me why every time I open the fridge, my vanilla stash has mysteriously dropped by two and there’s a half empty bottle shoved behind the ketchup.”

You feign innocence. “Coincidence.”

“Coincidence my ass.” He picks up the vanilla box, shakes it once like proof. “You drink them every morning in your coffee. Like it’s your own personal creamer supply.”

You shrug. “They’re… tolerable. In coffee.”

Jack smirks, the kind of smirk that says he’s already won. “So vanilla, then.”

“I’m not saying vanilla.”

“You don’t have to. Your caffeine habits already confessed.” He drops the box into the cart with a satisfying thunk. Then, softer, teasing: “Which flavor, honey?”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.” He nudges your hip with his. “Vanilla, final answer.”

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head as he starts pushing the cart again. He’s smug in that quiet Jack Abbot way. Not loud, not cocky, just the man who knows you too well to bother letting you squirm.

You walk a few steps in silence, passing stacks of vitamins and giant tubs of protein powder, before you say it. Casually. Like it’s nothing.

“Well, since you’re my current husband and all—”

Jack stops dead. Cart wheels squeak in protest. He turns his head slowly, like he needs to make sure he heard you right. “I’m sorry. Current?”

You keep your face neutral, inspecting the label on a bottle of vitamins. “That’s what I said.”

“Do you… have another one lined up? Should I be worried about Costco Husband Number Two swooping in with a better protein shake deal?”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. “Maybe.”

Jack steps closer, crowding into your space with calmness that always makes your stomach flip. He leans just enough so his words ghost your ear. “Say current again. I dare you.”

You glance up at him, finally letting the grin slip through. “Current.”

“Unbelievable.” He shakes his head, pushing the cart forward again with a muttered, “You’re lucky I love you.”

You laugh, trailing after him. “Lucky?”

“Yeah.” He shoots you a look over his shoulder. “Because otherwise I’d return you to customer service and ask if they’ve got a wife that doesn't steal my protein shakes.”

You shove his arm, still laughing. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t even stumble. He just smirks, eyes warm, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than here, aisle seven, Costco, with you.

✧ 'You said you didn't want any!'

The table looks like a McDonald’s ad and a war zone at the same time. Bean is perched on her booster seat, Happy Meal nuggets lined up like surgical instruments on a tray. The twins are down for the count upstairs, the baby monitor silent for once, which means you and Jack have a rare stretch of semi peace.

Jack sits across from you, fries in their red carton parked directly in front of him. He guards them with the same intensity he uses in the trauma bay. His phone is facedown beside them.

You reach across the table.

He reacts instantly—combat reflex, doctor reflex, dad reflex, all rolled into one. His hand slams down over the carton.

“ABSOLUTELY THE FUCK NOT!” he bellows, voice so sharp it rattles Bean’s juice box.

Bean shrieks with laughter. “Daddy, you’re loud!”

“Damn right I am,” Jack says, eyes narrowing at you. “You think I didn’t see that hand creeping? You swore, swore, you didn’t want fries.”

“I was reaching for your phone, mine is dead,” you snap back.

Jack squints, unmoved. “Phone, fries. Doesn’t matter. Betrayal looks the same from this side of the table.”

“Oh my God.” You roll your eyes and grab the phone anyway, snatching it from beside his elbow. “Paranoid much?”

Jack doesn’t even flinch. He lets you take it, posture still hunched over his fries. “You can have my phone. I’ve got nothing to hide. Half the photos are you, the rest are you with the kids, and—” he smirks, “maybe one or two you’d kill me for taking. But the fries Untouchable.”

You shake your head and scroll through his phone. You weren’t even going to look long... until something makes you pause. Your finger hesitates, just a second too long, and Jack notices. Of course he notices.

“What’s that?” His tone sharpens immediately, eyes narrowing. “That pause. That guilty little hover.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.” His mouth curls, slow and dangerous. “That was the gym pic.”

Your stomach drops. “It was not.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He leans back, arms crossed, smug as hell. “It was.”

Bean squints at you. “Mommy’s red!”

You want the ground to swallow you. “Jack, stop—”

He grins, feral and delighted. “Say it. Out loud. You think I’m hot.”

“Jack!”

“Come on.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Current husband privileges. Say it.”

You shove the phone back across the table at him. “Of course I think you’re hot, you psycho. You’re my husband.”

He takes it, smug as ever, and taps the screen like he’s filing evidence. “Exactly. My hot wife does my taxes, gives me three beautiful children, and apparently blushes like a teenager over my six-pack. God, I hit the jackpot.”

Your face burns hotter. “Can you not say that in front of our daughter?”

Bean pipes up: “Duck thinks Daddy’s hot!”

Jack slaps the table, triumphant. “See? Duck gets it.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “I can’t do this with you.”

Jack doesn’t let you hide. He reaches across, hooks a finger under your wrist, pulls your hands down until you’re looking at him. His grin softens at the edges.

“Don’t hide from me,” he says quietly. “I love watching you get flustered. Makes me feel like I'm trying to impress you all over again.”

You take a desperate sip of your Diet Coke, straw squeaking at the bottom. Then, without hesitation, you slide his drink toward you and start in on that too.

His face goes full betrayal. He throws his hands in the air. “UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLE! You finish mine AGAIN? I can’t have shit in this house!”

“You ordered Diet for me, don’t even.” Bean practically falls out of her booster from laughing so hard.

“Only because you drink all of mine anyway! For years I’ve ordered Coke like a normal man, but no—my wife drains every single one, bites the straw to death, and now I’m a Diet Coke guy for relevancy because my wife can’t keep her mouth off my stra—”

Your cheeks flame. “Jack!”

Bean throws her nugget like a mic drop. “Daddy wins!”

Jack slams his palm on the table in victory. “Damn right I do!”

✧ 'Babe, I can't pay the mortgage this month'

You’re on the couch with Bub draped across your chest, his tiny fist curled in your sweatshirt. Jack’s beside you, half reclined, Peanut settled in the crook of his arm.

The TV’s on low but neither of you are watching it. Every hour, you switch babies, because Jack read something on PubMed at three in the morning about equal distribution of tummy time preventing favoring and how with twins you need to rotate caregivers for early development. You think he’s out of his mind, but you do it anyway, because he looked so excited explaining it with Peanut in one arm and the medical journal pulled up on his phone.

Bean is with Heather and Robby today, off on some grand adventure to the National Aviary. The house feels both too empty and too full without her.

You lean your head against Jack’s shoulder, voice soft. “Babe… I can’t pay the mortgage this month.”

Jack doesn’t even look up. He huffs a quiet laugh, stroking Peanut’s back with his thumb. “That’s fine.”

“No, seriously,” you say, fighting to keep your tone straight. “Like… I can’t. It’s not gonna happen. Is that okay?”

That gets him. He turns his head, slow, one brow arching like you just told him the sky is green. “You can’t pay the mortgage.”

“Mhm.”

“You’ve—” he stops, squints at you. “You’ve never paid the mortgage. Ever.”

You blink innocently. “I could, though.”

“Sweetheart.” He shakes his head, grinning now. “You’re out here doing my taxes, color coding our deductions, building spreadsheets like they’re national security, and now you’re telling me you can’t pay the one thing you’ve never actually been responsible for?”

You try to suppress a smile. “So you’re saying you’ve got it?”

Jack chuckles, low, warm. “I’ve always had it. Mortgage, lights, heat, all of it. That’s the deal. You keep us out of jail with the IRS, I keep a roof over our heads. Division of labor.”

Bub shifts against your chest, making a soft squeak. You adjust him carefully, patting his back. Jack watches, his smirk gentling into something softer. “Look at you,” he murmurs. “Can’t pay the mortgage but you’re over here running a NICU rotation in our living room.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms anyway. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leans over, presses his lips to your temple. “Yeah, but I’m your ridiculous,” he says, voice low. “Current mortgage-paying, baby-swapping, still-madly-in-love ridiculous.”

Peanut stirs then, her tiny mouth opening in a sleepy protest. Jack shifts her higher on his chest, tucks his chin down like he’s shielding her from the world. “Shhh,” he soothes, hand spanning almost her whole back. “You’re fine, babygirl. Daddy’s got the mortgage. Daddy’s got everything.”

You bite your lip to keep from grinning. “You’re kind of hot when you’re spiraling, you know.”

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t distract me.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you’re serious,” he mutters, rubbing Peanut’s back with big, slow circles. “You married me. That’s proof enough you’ve got a kink for chaos.”

“Maybe I just like the way you handle it.”

Jack looks at you then, eyes soft but sharp around the edges like they always are when he’s letting you see more than the sarcasm. “I handle it because you’re here. Don’t get it twisted.”

✧ 'We listen and we don't judge'

Jack’s on the couch in sweats, hair damp, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows. His prosthetic is leaned against the wall, like even it is grateful for a break.

You curl up across from him, legs tucked under you, and announce, “Okay. We listen. We don’t judge.”

Jack side eyes you. “Sounds like you’re about to interrogate me.”

“It’s a game.”

“It’s a trap,” he says immediately.

“It’s not a trap.”

“Fine. What’s the premise?” he mutters, but there’s a twitch of a smile at his mouth.

“We confess things. Stupid little things. The other person listens and doesn’t judge.”

Jack leans back, arms crossed. “So it’s Catholic confession but in our living room.”

“Exactly.”

“I knew being with you would eventually end in penance.”

You kick his shin lightly. “Do you want to go first or me?”

“You,” he says. “Ladies first.”

You pretend to think, finger on your chin. “Sometimes… when Bean wakes up at six and yells for pancakes, I pretend to still be asleep just to see how long it takes you to break.”

Jack barks out a laugh, too loud for someone with sleeping kids upstairs. “Oh, that’s fucked.”

“No judgment,” you say.

“You can’t hide behind the rules after admitting you make me the sacrificial lamb for a toddler.”

“Bean loves you more in the mornings.”

“She loves whoever makes the syrup flow fastest.” He shakes his head, still laughing. “Fine. My turn.”

Jack shifts, elbow on the back of the couch. “Sometimes when Bub won’t burp, I fake it. I pat his back, go, ‘ah, there it is,’ and hand him to you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Jack.”

“What? I said sometimes.”

“That’s—” You point accusingly. “That’s medical malpractice in your own home.”

“Delegation,” he corrects smoothly.

You groan, but you’re laughing. “Okay. Sometimes I use your razors.”

Jack’s head snaps toward you. “What?”

“They’re sharper.”

“They’re mine.” He sits up straighter, affronted. “Jesus Christ, that explains why I keep nicking my jaw. You’re dulling the blades on your—” he waves a hand at you, voice climbing, “—on your legs!”

“We listen, we don’t judge.”

“I’m judging the hell out of this,” Jack mutters, but his mouth twitches. “Fine,” he fires back. “Sometimes, I hide candy in the freezer so Bean won’t find it.”

“That’s not even a confession, that’s survival,” you shoot back.

He holds up a finger. “Let me finish.” His grin turns feral. “Sometimes I hide it from you too. And sometimes… I eat the last piece in the car before I come inside, and then I kiss you so you think you’re tasting your own imagination.”

You’re gaping at him, horrified. “Jack—”

He’s already laughing, doubling over. “You should see your face right now.”

You grab a throw pillow and hurl it at him. “That is actual psychological warfare!”

He catches the pillow with one hand, still laughing. “No judgment!”

“No judgment my ass—you’ve been Pavlov-dogging me for years!” you yell, but you’re laughing too hard to be angry. “Every time I thought wow, he tastes like chocolate, you were just covering up your crime spree!”

Jack wipes his eyes, still grinning like a menace. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You groan into your hands. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“Not after that.”

“Bullshit,” he says softly, smug but with that undertone of warmth he can’t hide.

You shake your head, still laughing. “Sometimes I take your T-shirts for pajamas because they smell like you and—”

Jack interrupts, smug as hell. “Sometimes I leave them out on purpose so you’ll take them.”

You blink, thrown.

He smiles softer now, brushing his thumb along your knee. “Because I like knowing you’re wrapped in me when I’m not there.”

Your chest goes warm. Quiet. For a second the room softens around you, the hum of the monitor, the low lamplight. You lean against him.

“Also sometimes,” Jack says, “I’ll drive the long way home from the grocery store. Even when I’ve got cold stuff in the back. Just to keep you in the car with me a little longer.”

You blink at him.

He shrugs, looking almost boyish in his shamelessness. “You talk different in the car. Softer. Like the world can’t get to you if the doors are shut. And I… I like having that to myself.”

“Honey,” you murmur, caught between fondness and being completely undone.

He grins, smug, because he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “We listen. We don’t judge.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

You sigh dramatically, but you’re already curling into him, blanket slipping as his arm comes around your shoulders. “Unfortunately.”

You blink. Your head turns toward the shadowed hall.

Little feet shuffle against hardwood. A soft thump. Then the shape of her, Bean, emerging from the shadows with Duck dangling in one hand and the other fist rubbing sleep from her eyes. She’s in her long sleeved pajamas, the ones with the yellow suns and lavender clouds. One of the buttons is undone at the top, and her curls are frizzy from sleep, clinging to her forehead.

You smile without thinking.

“Hey, baby girl.”

Bean walks to you like the shadows appear bigger when Jack isn’t home. There’s a caution in her steps, a quiet suspicion… like even the walls miss him. She looks impossibly small in the low light. When she reaches you, she doesn’t say a word. She just climbs into your lap with the certainty of someone returning to a place that’s always been theirs. Like she belongs there. Like she never left. Duck ends up squished between you, and she lets out a dramatic little sigh, equal parts tired and theatrical.

“Jack-Jack’s not home.”

“Nope,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Not yet. He’s at work.”

“The doctor place?”

“Yeah.”

She frowns into your hoodie. “I like it when he’s home.”

You chuckle softly. “Me too, sweetheart.”

She shifts in your lap, her small hand resting on your stomach without realizing it. One of the twins kicks, and Bean pulls back a little, eyes widening.

“They have a party?” she says, deadly serious.

You laugh again, fuller this time. “Yeah. They’re practicing their dance moves.”

Bean narrows her eyes. “Tell them to stop.”

“They’re not very good listeners.”

She hums and burrows back into you, her cheek pressing against you. Duck flops over the curve of your belly.

“Jack-Jack gonna be home after the moon?”

“After the moon,” you promise. “He’ll sneak in and kiss you on the forehead. Like he always does.”

She nods. She believes in the consistency of her dad’s love like she believes in gravity.

“Can I sleep in your bed?”

You glance down at her. Her lashes are already fluttering, heavy with sleep. She smells like toothpaste and toddler shampoo and the last traces of graham cracker.

“Of course,” you whisper. “Go get comfy. I’ll come tuck you in.”

She yawns and slides off your lap, bare feet pattering toward the bedroom. You start to stand, but the pressure returns. A strange, low wave of discomfort that takes your breath for a second. Not painful. Just…off. You pause at the edge of the couch, one hand braced on the cushion, the other resting low over your belly.

“Just tired,” you whisper to no one in particular. “Just tired. Not time yet.”

Still, your heart’s stuttering in your throat.

You make your way to the bedroom slower than usual, following the faint sounds of Bean. She’s already in bed when you get there. On your side, facing the door. Duck is tucked under her arm. You sit beside her on the edge of the mattress, brushing the hair away from her forehead. She blinks sleepily at you.

“Tell the babies to be nice,” she murmurs. “You’re my mommy first.”

Tears spring to your eyes with no warning. “I always will be, bug,” you say. “Always your mommy first.”

She closes her eyes but opens them again a few seconds later. “Do they know I’m big sister?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “They already love you.”

She hums, thoughtful, like she’s not quite convinced. “You love me too?”

You lean down, kiss her nose. “More than anything.”

She considers that for a long time. Her voice is just a whisper now: “Even more than Jack-Jack?”

You pause. Smile. “Different kind of love. But just as big.”

Bean nods again, and this time her lashes stay still. She’s falling asleep fast. You run your fingers through her hair in soft, absentminded strokes. The way Jack does when she’s sick, the way you did that night she wouldn’t stop crying and you two sat in the rocking chair till dawn. You lie beside her for a few minutes, just watching her drift off. You don’t want to move. You want to stay in this small, steady moment a little longer. You press a kiss to her temple, whisper goodnight.

Then you pull yourself up slowly. One hand to your back, the other to the bedroom wall to steady yourself.

And just before you reach the bathroom, it happens.

A sharp drop. The sensation of warmth. You freeze.

Then look down.

Your water has broken.

Your hands are shaking too hard to type Jack’s number right the first time. Bean is curled into the sheets, one hand still wrapped around Duck, breathing deep. Oblivious. Safe. You glance down at the slow trickle soaking into the carpet under you.

You are not safe.

The first call rings. No answer.

The second. Still nothing.

Third. Voicemail.

Fourth. Still no answer.

By the fifth, you’re gasping.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up, Jack, please—”

You hang up on the sixth unanswered call.

Jack’s contact still glows across the screen: Jack 🩺💕, the little stethoscope emoji something you’d added almost four years ago without thinking, in a moment of softness. You stare at the screen until it fades to black. He’s on a trauma case, you keep reminding yourself. That’s what he said when he texted you last, 30 minutes ago—“big wreck on 376, probably gonna be messy.”

Your throat is dry. You’re cold, even though you’re sweating. The pressure has shifted lower. Something feels wrong. You try to breathe around the ache of that. Of him not here. You press the next name in your Favorites list.  Robby picks up immediately.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he says immediately, already alert, like he felt the urgency before you even said a word.

“My water broke,” you get out. “And Jack’s not… he’s not answering, I’ve been calling him and—Robby, something’s wrong.”

There’s a sharp inhale on his end, then a shift. Keys jingling, movement. He’s already getting up. “I’m on the way,” he says. “Heather’s grabbing her coat. We’re coming to you now. Is Bean with you?”

“She’s asleep,” you whisper. “In our bed. I didn’t want to wake her.”

“Okay. That’s good. That’s perfect. Stay with her. We’ll be there in ten.”

But now that you’ve said it, now that someone else knows, it breaks something loose inside of you. You choke out another breath. “Robby… this doesn’t feel like last time.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s not just the water breaking. It’s like… I feel flushed. Cold, but not. My stomach’s tightening but not like contractions, more like everything inside is being pulled down. And my back hurts in this really sharp way… like my body’s folding inward.”

You pause, another wave of tightness rolling low and deep through your abdomen. You have to sit down. Or fall down. You don’t know which.

“I feel… off. Like, not-right off.”

Robby doesn’t say anything at first. But it’s the kind of silence that isn’t casual. The kind where you know he’s processing, not because he doesn’t believe you, but because he does.

“I’ve got you,” he says finally. “Heather’s calling 911 now. We’ll beat the ambulance there. But I need you to keep breathing for me, okay?”

You nod, voice cracking. “Okay.”

You can hear Heather’s voice in the background. Steady, calm, giving your address. You hear the words “possible complications,” and it makes your throat close.

“I don’t want Bean to wake up and be scared,” you whisper.

“She won’t,” Robby says. “I’ll get to her. We’ll bring her to our place. I’ll tell her everything you want me to. She’ll have Duck with her. We’ll keep her safe. I promise.”

“I didn’t even pack a hospital bag yet,” you admit, the tears starting again. “I thought I had more time.”

“You were supposed to,” he murmurs, gently. “You were supposed to have time. But we’ve got you. Me and Heather, we’ll get you there. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

You press your hand to your belly again, feeling another strange ripple across your skin. “I haven’t even thought of their names yet,” you whisper, voice breaking.

Heather must hear you from the passenger seat. “Then you get to meet them and tell us,” she says, kind and soft. “You tell us when it’s time.”

Your throat aches. Not from pain, but from the force of holding yourself together. “Jack would know what to do,” you murmur. “I keep thinking that he’s probably elbow-deep in a chest tube right now. He doesn’t even know.”

“He’ll know soon,” Robby says. “And he’ll be there. But right now, you don’t have to be okay. You just have to stay steady. We’re almost to your street.”

You press your forehead to your knees, curling into yourself while your daughter sleeps. The air feels thick. Not dramatic. Just real. You’re scared. More scared than you’ve been since that night in the hospital with Bean when her fever wouldn’t come down and her breathing turned shallow, ragged, wrong. You hadn’t let yourself cry then, not until Jack held her to his chest and said she was going to be okay. But now, he’s not here. And all you can think about is whether someone else will be the one holding her, telling her Mommy will be okay soon.

“I don’t care what happens to me,” you say, barely above a whisper. “But don’t let her be scared.”

“We won’t,” Heather says, her voice a balm. “You’re not going anywhere. And Bean’s going to wake up in our bed with Duck tucked under her arm and Robby reading her that ridiculous dinosaur book Jack keeps doing the voices for.”

You laugh, broken and small, but real. “He does the worst voices.”

“He does,” Robby agrees. “God-awful. It’s like British Elmo meets an aging sea captain.”

The call ends right as you hear it: the crunch of tires on gravel, then doors slamming shut, fast footsteps on the walkway. The keypad beeps once. You’d almost forgotten you ever gave them the code. It must’ve been months ago… one of those just-in-case things you never thought would matter. Until now.

“Hey! We’re here.”

Your voice comes thin from upstairs. “Up here, hallway.”

They take the stairs in practiced silence, steps in sync. They both know this house well enough to know where everything is. They know the way the stairs creak near the third step from the top. They know which light switch hums. And when they see you, they know something’s wrong.

Not just early labor wrong. Something-else-wrong. Robby’s face flickers, just once. A brief crack before he softens his voice.

“Okay. Hey. You’re good. Just breathe. Look at me.” His hand comes to your wrist, fingers light. “Pulse is up. Tell me everything.”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “It’s different than last time. There’s this pressure, and I feel… dizzy. Like my limbs aren’t mine. And I haven’t had real contractions.”

“You trust your gut?” he asks, already nodding before you can answer.

You nod once. “I trust it.”

“Then I trust it.”

Heather slips into your room. You hear the gentle shushing and the rustle of a blanket. Bean’s sleepy little voice: “Jack-Jack?”

“Not yet, baby,” Heather murmurs. “You’re coming with me tonight. Like a sleepover.”

Robby guides you into the bathroom, lowers you onto the seat of the toilet slowly, like he doesn’t care that he’s still in joggers and a hoodie and probably didn’t expect to triage his best friend's wife tonight. Heather reemerges with Bean, who’s half asleep on her shoulder, her face pressed into Heather’s scarf, Duck flopping against her side.

“She okay?” you ask hoarsely, eyes locked on your daughter.

“She’s fine,” Heather says gently.

You nod, too overwhelmed to say much. Robby pulls out his phone, glances at the time, and swears under his breath. “We need EMS now. This isn’t something we can drive through.”

You look down at your belly, your hands trembling. “I didn’t want this to go like this,” you whisper.

Robby kneels in front of you again, steadying your hands. “I know.”

“I don’t want her to be scared—Bean.”

“She’s not,” he promises. “She’s sleepy. She thinks it’s an adventure. Heather’s got her.”

You nod again, tears catching at your jawline. EMS is there within the next four minutes. It’s fast. Robby helps relay vitals. Heather tucks Bean into the back seat of his car, checking the car seat twice. She kisses the top of Bean’s head, adjusts Duck, and brushes a curl from her forehead.

The paramedics have you loaded onto the stretcher now, easing you down with steady, practiced hands. Quick but careful, like they’ve done this a hundred times before. Your breath catches with every jolt, your grip tight on the side rail. By the time they guide you into the back of the ambulance, Robby’s already climbing in behind you. As the doors swing shut, he pulls out his phone and hits Call.

It barely rings once.

“Robby,” Jack says, too casually. “Make it quick. I have six missed calls from my beautiful most amazing wife, and if this is about your post-op from this afternoon then yes, he’s fine. I just got out of Trauma Three.”

He’s smiling when he says it. Robby can hear it. 

And it guts him.

“Jack,” Robby says, quiet. “It’s about her.”

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it’s enough.

“...What?” Jack’s voice drops immediately. “What happened?”

“She called us,” Robby says, settling into the back of the rig beside you as the ambulance hums to life. “She couldn’t get through to you. She didn’t want to call EMS until she knew Bean would be okay.”

Jack breathes in hard. “Is she in labor?”

“It started, yeah. But it’s not smooth. She said something feels wrong. Pressure, nausea, pain she can’t map. Dizzy… She’s scared, Jack.”

Jack is already moving. Robby can hear the sound of a door swinging open, his shoes on the hospital floor. They’re bringing her here?”

“Yeah. I’m with her now. In the rig. Heather’s taking Bean back to our place. She wouldn’t let herself get loaded in until she was sure Bean was safe. You know how she is.”

Jack lets out a breath. It’s not relief. Not even close.

“She shouldn’t be delivering yet,” he mutters. “It’s too early.”

“I know. But she needs you calm when she gets there.”

Jack doesn’t say anything else for a moment. Then he inhales once, slow and tight. “You think it’s placental?”

“I don’t want to guess until I get her there.”

“Keep her talking. Tell her I’m waiting. And Robby?”

“Yeah?”

Jack’s voice goes thin. Not shaky, never shaky. Just raw. “Don’t let her be scared.”

Robby glances at you, your hand gripping the rail, your face gone pale, your jaw locked like you’re trying not to cry.

He softens his voice. “I won’t.”

Jack ends the call.

And Robby leans in, adjusting the blanket over your legs as the siren kicks up overhead.

“Okay, you’re doing good,” he says, voice gentler now. “Jack’s waiting. You’re going to see him in just a few minutes, alright?”

You nod, barely. Your fingers twitch where they search the space beside you, like they expect Bean’s duck to be there. Like you’re still not used to letting go.

February 27th — 10:00 PM 

The gurney rocks slightly beneath you as EMS pushes through the sliding bay doors of The Pitt. It’s too bright inside. Every overhead light feels like it’s burning directly into your eyes, like the hospital has never been louder, never been more alive with urgency.

Jack is there.

He’s waiting at the entrance to trauma, still in his black scrubs, a streak of dried something near his jaw, probably from the last trauma he walked out of. But the second he sees you his face changes. Like he’s been sucker punched.

“Oh my God,” you whisper when you spot him. “Jack—”

He’s at your side before you can say more. “I’m here,” he says, gripping your hand. “I’m here. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

The gurney doesn't stop moving. The paramedics are urgent but steady, wheeling you through the ER. Jack walks beside you, holding your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him. His voice is low, close to your ear. “Bean’s okay. Robby told me. You did the right thing.”

You nod shakily, breath catching. “She was so sleepy, Jack. She didn’t understand.”

Jack swallows hard, jaw clenching. “I know. I know. But she’s okay. She’s safe. You took care of her.”

You’re crying now, full body sobs that shake your shoulders even as they move you toward Bay 4. “I don’t feel right. Jack, I don’t feel right.”

He hears it in your voice. The terror. The truth. And even though he’s trained to keep calm, even though he’s seen worse his pulse spikes. Because this is you.

John Shen is waiting with a trauma nurse just outside Bay 4. “Vitals are unstable,” Shen mutters to Jack after scanning the EMT’s notes. “BP’s dropping. Possible abruption. We’re prepping for OR now. Walsh is scrubbing in.”

Inside the room, nurses move fast around you. IV bags. Monitors. The blood pressure cuff squeezes your arm too tight, and someone’s asking you to breathe slower, but it’s impossible.

“I thought I was just tired,” you whisper to Jack as he pulls the hair back from your damp forehead. “I thought I just… maybe I didn’t drink enough water.”

“You’ve been carrying two people inside you for thirty five weeks,” he murmurs, voice cracking. “It’s okay to be tired. I’m not going anywhere.”

Shen steps forward, holding your chart. His tone is calm but serious. “We need to get the babies out. Now. For their safety, but especially for yours.”

Your face twists. “No. No, that’s not—this wasn’t the plan.”

“I know,” Jack says, his voice soft but firm, eyes locked on yours. “But this is what we need to do. I promise you, we wouldn’t be making this call if there was any other option.”

Your voice breaks as you stare at him, wide-eyed and terrified. “I don’t want to be put under.”

Walsh walks in, already gloved and masked. “You have some early signs of preeclampsia. Spinal’s too risky. We don’t want to lose time. General anesthesia is safer for your body and for them.”

Your hand tightens on Jack’s. “Don’t let them do this. You’re a doctor. Jack, you know what this is. Don’t let them.”

Jack leans in, his forehead resting against yours. His voice is low, breaking open. “If we wait… we risk losing you.”

He lets that truth hang there, even though it shatters something in him to say it out loud. “I need you to be here,” he whispers. “I need you to wake up. I need you to yell at me for folding the burp cloths wrong. I need you in that room, holding them. Not just in pictures.”

Tears slip down your cheeks. Your voice is barely there. “I wanted to hold them first.”

“You will,” he promises, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. “You will. But I can’t hold any of them without you.”

You nod slowly, the smallest motion. He kisses your forehead. “If anything happens—”

“Stop.” Jack’s voice sharpens. “Don’t talk like that.”

You pause. Then murmur, “Just… just promise me they’ll have your heart. And your patience.”

A flicker of a smile crosses his face. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “If we’re lucky, maybe they’ll get your stubbornness.”

A nurse steps closer. “We’re ready.”

You let go of his hand slowly. And it feels like the air leaves the room. He kisses your hand once. Then lets it fall gently back to your side. Shen and Walsh exchange glances, nod. They wheel you away. And Jack doesn’t breathe until the doors close between you.

Robby appears a beat later. “Hey.”

Jack turns, blinking rapidly.

“She okay?”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the swinging doors. “She will be. She has to be.”

Robby glances down the hall. “Heather’s at the apartment. Bean barely woke up in the car.”

Jack nods. “Thank you.”

“You should sit down.”

“I can’t,” Jack says, jaw tight.

Robby places a hand on his shoulder. “Then I’ll stand here with you.”

February 27th — 11:07 PM 

Jack doesn’t sit. He stands outside the OR, arms crossed tightly over his chest, spine pressed against the wall, as if anchoring himself to something solid is the only way to keep from unraveling completely.

The double doors stay shut. The hall is too bright, too quiet. A trauma attending shouldn’t look like this.

But Jack’s not a trauma attending right now. He’s a husband. A husband who knows exactly what a rapid onset placental abruption looks like. A husband who’s seen what happens when mothers don’t wake up. A husband who’s trained medics to move faster than this… so why the hell is everyone moving so damn slowly?

His hands are still stained from his last case. He hasn’t washed them. He doesn’t remember if he did. It doesn’t matter. He can’t stop picturing your face: terrified, trying to be brave for him, for Bean, for the two babies that aren't supposed to be here yet.

His knee won’t stop bouncing. His jaw aches from how hard he’s been clenching it. You weren’t supposed to be in that gurney. You were supposed to be standing in the nursery tomorrow morning, paint roller in hand, bickering with him over whether the trim needed a second coat. You were supposed to be texting him updates from the baby store about how ridiculous the prices were but still grabbing the lamb-print swaddles because they made you smile. You were supposed to be upstairs right now, curled up on your side of the bed, safe. Warm under the covers. And he was supposed to come home from the night shift and find you there, kiss your temple in the dark, whisper something soft against your skin.

Not this. Not like this. Instead, you’re behind those doors. Under anesthesia. Cut open.

And he’s useless.

“Abbot.”

Robby’s voice cuts through the static. Jack doesn’t look away from the door.

“She’s in good hands,” Robby says quietly.

“I know,” Jack says, his voice so low it’s nearly a growl. “I trust Shen. I trust Walsh. I just…”

His throat closes. Robby nods. He gets it.

Jack exhales hard. “I’ve seen them done before. The emergency C-section. I’ve helped with them a hundred times. But it’s not the same when it’s her. It’s not the same when I—”

He stops. Can’t say it.

Robby doesn’t push. He just steps closer.

“I keep hearing her voice,” Jack whispers. “Telling me not to let them put her under. Begging me to stop it. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t protect her from this.”

“You did,” Robby says gently. “You gave her the reassurance she needed.”

Jack shakes his head. “It wasn’t reassuring. It was a gamble.”

Silence.

Then Jack turns, like he can’t hold it anymore. “You know what the mortality rates are in crash-section with general anesthesia and preeclampsia? You know what I’ve seen? Women coding on the table before they ever even push. I’ve held hands that went cold mid surgery. And now she’s in there, and I’m just supposed to wait out here like—like it’s not the love of my f—”

He breaks off.

Robby doesn’t flinch. He just lets him speak.

Jack’s chest rises and falls too fast now.

“She told me she wanted them to have my heart,” he says finally, softer. “But what if they don’t get hers? What if they never know her voice? What if—” He swallows. “What if she doesn’t get to see them grow up… see Bean grow up?”

A beat.

“I’ve survived a war. I’ve lost patients. I lost a leg. And none of it, not one goddamn second of it, felt as terrifying as watching them take her into that OR without me.”

There’s nothing to say to that. Robby places a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You’re allowed to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Jack says, voice thin. “I’m f— I’m paralyzed, Robby.”

“You love her,” Robby says. “Of course you are.”

The hallway is quiet again.

Then: the intercom clicks.

“OR 2, baby boy delivered. 11:09 PM.”

Jack freezes.

“OR 2, baby girl delivered. 11:10 PM.”

He closes his eyes.

They’re here.

They’re here.

But the announcement ends there.

No mention of you. No mention of your vitals. No update on your status. Jack’s breath stutters. The silence is worse than anything else.

“Why haven’t they said anything?” he mutters.

“Because they’re working,” Robby says. 

Jack presses his fist to his mouth. He turns his back to the door, just for a second, like if he looks away, it’ll change something. But it doesn’t.

He waits.

Two more minutes.

Five.

Until finally—

The doors swing open with a groan.

Jack is already moving. Shen steps out, surgical cap still on, the edge of his mask hanging from one ear. His scrubs are soaked to the elbows. His eyes land on Jack with the kind of weight that makes Jack brace his entire body.

Jack doesn't speak. He just waits. It's the only thing he can do without breaking. Shen exhales. “We’ve got both babies out. Vitals are strong. Girls got a good pair of lungs too, already let us know how she feels about the fluorescent lights.”

Jack lets out a sound. Somewhere between a laugh and a choke.

Shen keeps going. “But your wife—” Shen shifts, tone sobering. “She lost a lot of blood. We’re still working. Walsh is in there now. Garcia is closing with her. I’ll let you know as soon as we’re stable.”

He should move. Should go to NICU. Should thank Shen. Should do anything other than stand here with his heart in his throat and his hands twitching at his sides like they’ve forgotten how to hold anything steady.

“I need to…I should go,” he says, not really to Shen, not really to anyone.

But Shen puts a hand on his shoulder. “She’s strong, Jack. You know that better than anyone.”

Jack gives a faint, broken laugh. “Yeah. She is.”

A beat passes.

Then Jack takes a breath that hurts to hold and turns toward the NICU.

Every hallway in this hospital looks different tonight. Brighter, harsher. Too clean. Like it’s mocking him for how close he came to losing everything in the building he’s walked a thousand times.

At the NICU window, he hesitates. He’s not scrubbed in, not a doctor right now. He’s just a man trying to hold himself together with nothing but the sight of two tiny humans swaddled in sterile white and soft blue.

The girl is on the left. She’s smaller than he thought she’d be. Her nose, maybe, is yours. No, definitely. That slope he kisses every morning.

The boy’s chest rises and falls like he’s been doing this for years. Confident little thing. Fists balled at his sides like he’s already ready to fight.

“You don’t know me yet,” Jack murmurs, barely audible. “But I’ve been yours for months.”

He leans his head against the glass for a second. Just to breathe. Just to stay standing. “You’ve got her strength,” he whispers. “You have to. ‘Cause she’s... she’s the reason I get through anything. So you both just hold on because you also got an older sister back at home who’s excited to meet you”

Behind him, the hallway stays quiet. Jack presses two fingers to the glass, one for each of them. And then, quietly, because there’s no one here to hear him fall apart, he breaks.

But only a little. Just enough to keep going.

Behind him, a familiar footstep. A voice.

“Thank god they look like her and not you.”

Jack smiles softly but still doesn’t look up. Then, after a beat: “You should go.”

“I’m not—”

“Go be with her,” Jack says, a little rougher now. “You’ve got Heather. Bean’s gonna wake up in the morning, and she needs someone who’s not cracked open.”

Robby’s quiet. “I’ll come back,” he says eventually.

“I know.”

Then he steps back. And Jack is alone.

He leans slowly into the glass, “ I hope you never know what this part feels like.” His voice is hoarse. “But if you do… I’ll be here.”

February 28th — 2:32 AM

Room 12.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t need to.

The nurse had said it soft, “She’s out of surgery. You can go in.” Jack had just nodded. No “thank you.” No “how did it go?” Just moved.

The room is dimmed low, the only sound the slow rhythm of the heart monitor and the hum of machinery filtering in from the hallway. You're still under, IVs taped to your arm, lips dry and parted. Jack steps in quietly, like the floor might give out beneath him.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks.

You’re here. Alive. Intubation tube gone. Still unconscious, but breathing on your own. That alone nearly undoes him.

He pulls the chair close to your bedside, prosthetic clicking against the tile like a dull metronome. Settling down, he exhales slow, scrubbing a hand down his face. He leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees.

“Hey,” he says softly, like you might answer. “So, you missed some stuff.”

His voice is hoarse. Wrecked. But he's trying, trying to hold onto something like normal. “Shen said our daughter came out screaming. Real diva about it, apparently. She’s got lungs. The kind that get you kicked out of restaurants.”

A small smile flickers across his mouth, but it doesn’t quite stay. “And our son? Yeah, he’s already in trouble. Kicked a nurse while she was swaddling him. Not even five minutes old and already assaulting staff. We’re probably gonna have to post bail before he can walk.”

He leans back just slightly, tilting his head like he's talking to a conscious you. “You and them really couldn’t wait a few more weeks, huh? I mean, I know we said late March. But apparently February was like... an aggressive suggestion.”

The joke lands flat in the quiet, but he keeps going, voice a little less steady now.

“You scared the shit out of me.” He swallows hard. Looks down. When he glances back up, he’s pulling his wallet from his pocket. He flips it open, pulls out a worn ultrasound photo.

“I was gonna update these,” he mutters. “You know, once they were born. This was the plan. You and me doing it together. New photos. New names. You sitting next to me while I tried to spell things correctly.”

He sets the ultrasound down beside you, then pulls out a tiny photo of Bean—Bean on her second birthday, icing on her nose, holding Duck like he’s state property. He lets out a breath that’s more ache than air.

“Bean’s doing good. She woke up and asked if the babies were here yet. Told Heather she wants to teach them the duck song.”

His voice cracks slightly at that. Jack leans forward again, resting his hand gently on your arm. His fingers brush over your skin like he’s checking again that you’re real. He pulls out the last photo. The one of the two of you. You’re laughing, and he’s half-smiling, like someone caught him off guard. It was a summer day. You were still working at the firm. Before Bean. Before all this.

“I don’t know what possessed me to put all these photos in my wallet. Like I’m eighty years old and don’t have an iPhone. But I like having you on me. Even when you're already on my lock screen. I like carrying you. The whole damn life.”

He blinks hard. Runs a hand through his hair. “I kept thinking… if you didn’t make it…” His voice drops, thin. “I don’t know how to do this without you.”

His thumb strokes over the inside of your wrist. “Come back, babe. Please. Just… just wake up. Call me dramatic. Tell me I’m being ridiculous. Ask me if I paid the water bill and highlighted it for completeness. Anything.”

He closes his eyes for a long moment.

Then: “They’re beautiful, by the way. You made beautiful babies. I mean, I helped. But let’s be honest… that’s all you.”

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple, his voice just a breath.

“Don’t you go anywhere. You’re the reason I come home.”

February 28th — 6:45 AM

It’s early. Not sunrise, not quite,  but the world’s already moving around you.

You awake slowly, blinking past the haze of medication and the soft pulse of IV drips, and the first thing you feel isn’t pain.

It’s weight.

Not crushing, not uncomfortable but warm.

Jack.

He’s asleep, hunched in the chair beside your hospital bed, slouched forward with one forearm braced on the mattress and the other crooked protectively near your side. His head is turned toward you, cheek resting on his bicep. His body curls in like instinct, like a man trying to make himself as close to the person he almost lost as the world will allow.

And for a moment, you just look at him.

His lashes, pale against his skin. The fine lines carved beneath his eyes, softened by sleep. His wedding band catching a sliver of morning light. You shift, just slightly, your hand brushing through his hair. He flinches awake with a soft grunt, blinking rapidly. “Shit—sorry—Jesus, I didn’t mean to—”

Then he sees you.

His whole face changes.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice like gravel in sunlight. “You’re awake.”

You nod, lips parting. “Barely.”

Jack exhales, the sound rigid, like he’s letting go of something he’s been holding in for hours. He straightens up but doesn’t move far, one hand reaching for yours, thumb tracing across the bones of your knuckles.

“I thought about duct-taping my eyelids open,” he mutters. “But Shen said you’d probably prefer if I wasn’t banned from the ICU.”

“Shen always knows me best.”

He gives you a look. “Funny. I thought I held that title.”

You smile and Jack melts like it hurts. He shifts his chair closer, dragging it just enough so he can lean in and press a kiss to your temple. You’re quiet for a moment. Listening to the machines. Feeling his breath against your skin.

And then: “The twins?”

Jack nods, easing back just far enough to see you. “Yeah. You made two actual humans. And get this, they already have opinions.”

Your heart thuds hard. 

He starts with your daughter. “Nothing is delicate about our daughter. If she’s cold, she lets you know. If she’s bored, she lets the entire neonatal unit know. Pretty sure she glared at me when I leaned too close.”

You blink, tears pricking. “Oh.”

He nods solemnly. “She’s got your attitude. And possibly your hairline.”

You let out a soft laugh. “And the boy?”

Jack leans in, lowers his voice. “I swear to God, I watched him grip the side of the bassinet. Like a man with a plan. He made eye contact with one of the nurses while getting his heel stick and I could see it in his face… full betrayal.”

You giggle through your tears. “Jack.”

“Bean’s gonna eat them alive,” he says softly. “They don’t even know what’s coming.”

You go quiet. Your hand finds his again. He leans in, brushing his lips to your knuckles. “They’re beautiful. They’re safe. And you—”

His throat tightens. “You’re here. And I’m still trying to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to thank the universe for that.”

There’s a long pause. Then Jack’s phone buzzes. He checks it, reading silently. His brow softens.

“Robby,” he murmurs. “He’s downstairs with Bean.”

Your eyes widen. “Is she—?”

“She’s okay,” Jack assures gently. “He said she was full meltdown until Heather told her they were going to Daddy’s work. Then she stopped crying. Said, ‘If I can’t see Mommy and Daddy, at least I can breathe the same air.’”

You smile through a sob.

“She’s terrifying,” Jack says. “Like, emotionally gifted beyond reason. I don’t know how we made her.”

“You love her so much.”

Jack nods, blinking hard. “I do.”

You exhale. “Can I see them?”

“I’ll bring her and the twins in when you’re ready.”

You take a breath, trying not to cry. “I don’t feel ready for anything.”

He cups your cheek, voice low. “You don’t have to be. You just have to let us be near you.”

You nod and shut your eyes, the tears slipping down.

Jack leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he whispers. “More than I know how to carry sometimes.”

The moment you have Jack inside the house, you’re on him. He doesn’t even have time to kick off his shoes or put his keys down before you’re pressing him up against the door with an enthusiasm that has him rock hard within seconds. For the first time, the two of you are giving in, and Jack can barely handle it. His hands grab at your tiny velvet dress, bunching it up so that he can feel your bare thighs. His hand roves up and over to your ass and he groans, low and primal, when he feels how bare your skin is. “Are panties this small even legal?”

You gasp as he snaps it against your thigh, making you giggle, “In some jurisdictions.”

“God bless Pennsylvania,” he chuckles darkly. He mouths down your neck, tongue dragging along the off-the-shoulder velvet strap across your collarbone. “And god bless this stupidly small dress.”

At the sudden flood of hormones, a stab of pain goes through your chest and you wince.

Jack notices immediately, his expression turning to concern. Heart pounding underneath your hand on his chest, Jack catches his breath and asks, “What is it, sweetheart?”

You’re reluctant to tell him that your chest is agonized on one side from a clogged duct that’s been bothering you since yesterday when you forgot to pump on Riley’s usual feeding schedule. So you just sigh and say, “Just, um, we need to put a pin in this for, like, half an hour, okay?”

“Everything alright?”

“Everything is really, really good,” you correct seriously, leaning forward to nip him with another kiss. “I want you so bad, Jack, I swear.”

“But?”

“But I- I need to pump.” You roll your eyes and then your shoulders, wincing a bit at the discomfort in your chest. “Riley’s not here and it’s getting uncomfortable and if you’re going to be touching my boobs and don’t want me leaking all over you then-”

“It, um, it wouldn’t bother me if- if you did end up-” Jack stares directly at his shoes, definitely not prepared to reveal that he would kill to have you leaking all over him and has fantasized about exactly that more than once, and quickly rephrases: “I mean, I’m not going to judge you for any, ah, anything like that.”

“Thank you, Jack, you’re so sweet, but I have this fucking clogged duct right now that I’ve tried everything for already and my lactation consultant texted me that I should try to keep pumping and give it time even though it blows and-

“I, ah, I could help with that, actually.”

As your lips fall open in surprise, you realize that you’ve never seen Jack’s face so red. “Are you- are you offering to-”

“If you’ve already tried out the more, um, traditional remedies, having another person suck out the blockage is incredibly effective. Doctors recommend it all the time.”

“Most of the time they recommend husbands do it, though.”

He rolls his eyes and laughs, “I can guarantee the relationship between sucker and suckee doesn’t change the effectiveness or strength of mouth suction.”

You screw your face up in skepticism. “What if it turns me on?”

He snickers, blush fading at your relatively equal level of embarrassment. “What if it does? I was trying to turn you on a second ago anyway.”

“Well, succeeding, yeah, but-”

“It’s not like I’d be able to tell,” he points out. “I’m the one with the visible equipment here.”

You tease, “Then what if it turns you on?”

“It probably will, but that doesn’t have to mean anything. Basic biological reaction to stimulus.” He cups your face in his hands and searches your eyes. “Look, sweetheart, we’ll go as fast or as slow as you want physically, alright? There’s no rush on my end. We can go on dates and we can talk and none of it’s ever going to feel wrong for me because it’s you.” He kisses you softly and insists, “Just let me help with this today; I know I can, and I hate the idea of you hurting when I can do something so simple to fix it.”

It’s impossible not to believe him. Not with such honesty in his beautiful eyes. “Okay. I’ll try anything at this point.”

“Good girl,” he replies easily, like that’s not the hottest thing he could’ve possibly said. While you’re reeling from it, he offers, “How about I put some towels down on my bed and we figure this thing out together?”

You nod slowly and follow Jack to his bedroom, where he strips his shirt off nonchalantly, tucks into the closet briefly, and reemerges in a pair of athletic shorts. It’s not like this is the first time you’ve seen him without a shirt – in fact, you see him half-naked or fully naked more days than not – but all of a sudden it feels very different. He’d look awfully pretty with bite marks all over his pecs.

Jack’s clearly entered doctor mode, which is as comforting as it is even goddamn hotter than before. There’s something so sexy about the way his eyes change when he goes from wanting to clinical, especially wearing nothing but shorts and beckoning you to join him on his bed. He takes out a few of his dark blue towels from the bathroom and lays them over the covers. Then he sits back against the headboard on top of one, legs crossed (have his calf and thighs always been this muscular?), and waves you over. “C’mere, bird, let’s get this thing handled so we can go back to making out.”

With a chuckle and a deep breath, you shimmy out of your dress and sit on the bed in front of him in only your bra and panties. Jack’s eye contact is full of restraint and tenderness even though he absolutely could be eye-fucking you right now.

His shaky fingers hover above the front clasp of your strapless black bra. “Alright if I take this off ?” When you nod hastily instead of giving him verbal consent, he reminds you, “If you’re uncomfortable, all you have to do is tell me to stop. I’ve got you.”

“I know, Jackie,” you breathe. “I trust you. You can skip the whole ‘don’t forget I’m a doctor’ speech.”

He smiles a little and undoes your bra, guiding it off and placing it on the bed next to you so you can easily grab it after. And he doesn’t say anything about your quick shaky breathing, raggedly turned on and embarrassed at the same time. You’re trying to remind yourself that there’s absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about here, but it’s not easy.

Your breath hitches as soon as Jack’s hands touch your chest. His fingers are nothing but professional as he gently massages over your breast to locate the offending duct, but there’s an inherent affection that comes just based on the fact that it’s you and him, not patient and doctor.

His thumb drags over the mildly painful, hard bump just above your nipple. It’s really, really difficult for him not to say anything about how fucking pretty your tits are. Doctor mode. Not ‘I wanna fuck you so back’ mode. He confirms, “Right here?”

You nod and cringe. “That’s the bastard.”

“You haven’t felt feverish at all, have you? Chills, sweating?”

“Nope, mostly just annoyed.”

“Good. It’s not red or swollen, so I think we’re good to take care of this here.” Then Jack takes a deep breath, places one hand on the curve of your waist, and says tentatively, “I think this would be easier if you got into my lap.”

You don’t wait for him to give you the ‘if that’s okay with you’ segment because your letdown reflex is starting, tingling and building, after him massaging your breasts, and you need to get moving before it becomes overwhelming. You scoot forward and straddle him as he straightens out his legs to get you into a better position. Both of you pretend not to notice the intense heat radiating from between your legs, undoubtedly creating a blotch on his thigh.

Jack closes his eyes as he suckles, slow and short, getting a feel for it, tasting the first sweet drops as your body adjusts to him. It takes a few tentative sucks for the clog to move forward.

You groan, “Just like that.”

Of course, that particular order goes straight to Jack’s cock. He savors the next pull from your breast, knowing it might be his last, until the small clot falls on his tongue. He grabs a nearby burp cloth and spits it out, folding it away. Immediately, he stops letting himself look at your chest, focusing on your flushed face instead. “Feel better?”

“Jesus, so much better.” Then you take a deep breath and admit, sounding whinier and needier than intended, “You have to finish the job, though, Jackie. I’ll be uncomfortable if I can’t get everything out and it’s already started now. If you’re uncomfortable with that, I can go and get my haakaa thing set up, but-”

“I’ll take care of it, sweetheart,” Jack interrupts. His voice is closer to a growl than you’ve ever heard it, restraint slipping away by the second. "I'll always take care of you.

Sighing in relief, you murmur, “Thank you.”

He nods like a soldier, the way he does sometimes when he’s giving himself reassurance. He readjusts slightly beneath you and you can tell it’s not because he’s uncomfortable. In fact, you can feel his cock growing to full attention beneath you.

This time, when he wraps his lips around your nipple, it feels entirely different. Combining a storm of oxytocin with your raw desire for Jack has created the perfect cocktail of arousal. A moan leaves your throat when he presses his hand to your lower back to hold you closer, long draws of his tongue emptying your fullness.

At your outburst, Jack pulls back right away, milk dribbling over his lip. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, no, it’s- ah-” You offer a shaky smile and tell him, “What was that thing you said? Basic biological reaction to stimulus?”

He stares up at you with big hazel eyes that absolutely burn through your resolve. There’s a moment – agonizingly long – where you’re both saying so much without saying a word. You wonder if he can see your heart beating under your ribs. You feel his cock twitch even between both your layers of clothing.

Jack reminds you gently, “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“We both know it means something.”

“I don’t want it to feel like I’m taking advantage of the moment.”

“The thing is, though, Jack,” you breathe, voice low and soft and careful, “I’m so in love with you I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Jack’s heart grows so big so fast it bursts into light that shocks through his veins. “You love me?”

You laugh and kiss him, holding his face between your hands, pressing your foreheads together and making searing eye contact. “How could I do anything else?”

“Then I guess I should finish what I started here, huh?”

Rolling your hips against him, you beg, “Please.”

Without dropping the eye contact, Jack drops his mouth to your other breast and sucks. No hesitation, no pretense. And his right hand goes to the other side to roll your nipple again and you shiver as happy chemicals flood your brain. You’re embarrassed by the mess cascading out of you but it’s really, really fucking hot the way he wants you, the way he’s literally devouring you, the way his hand is- Oh, god, fuck, his hand is going between your legs.

Your thoughts turn off completely. Every insecurity, every fear, every anxiety goes out the window when Jack’s big hand cups your pussy through your thin cotton underwear, so wet they've become translucent. His thumb toys with the waistband and he comes up for air to kiss you. You taste your own sweetness on his tongue as his hand goes beneath your panties, millimeters from your clit. Against your lips, he breathes, “You sure?”

And you honestly want to cry because he’s asking. You kiss him hard and knot your fingers in his curls and tell him, true and real, “This is the first time in my life I’ve been completely sure I want to have sex with someone.”

“Oh, my love,” he murmurs. He kisses along your cheekbones soft as butterfly wings. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

You whimper his name again and kiss him hard. Then, in response, you slide off him and onto your back, guiding him to come with you, and reach down to take off your underwear.

Jack props himself up on his side and strokes his fingers down from your neck, between your breasts, over your stomach without any judgment, and then into your pubic hair. “I need you to tell me if anything hurts; I know you haven’t done this since you had the baby, so I don’t want to assume-”

“I’ll tell you, I promise. Stop worrying.” You place your hand over his and guide him lower, pushing your hips upward slightly so that he can feel your gathering wetness. Your voice is breathy and needy. “I trust you.”

Jack kisses your temple as he parts your lips, dipping into you, dragging the pads of his middle two fingers back up to your clit. “Say that again.”

“I trust you, Jack,” you repeat, tilting your head to the side so that you can kiss him again. Your tongues trace each other. Your hand traces the line of his jaw and you go on, “I trust you and I love you. I’m yours. You’re stuck with me now, babe.”

He smiles into the kiss. “No place I’d rather be.”

Then Jack adds pressure to his fingers and it’s exactly what you need. It’s been so long that you’ve been touched like this – you haven’t even masturbated since Riley was born – that you’re worked up ridiculously fast. Your back arches upward and it takes everything in you not to clamp your thighs shut and grind against his hand to get yourself off in a matter of seconds.

Jack catches on quickly and chuckles at your desperation, “You really need this, don’t you?”

“So bad,” you mewl pathetically, chasing him until he kisses you again. “I’ve needed you for so long. Longer than I realized. Keep- Fuck, fuck. Keep doing- Jack.”

“There you go,” Jack murmurs, low and sweet. High-pitched moans, more like squeaks, trail from your mouth over and over, unstoppable because of his insistent touch. His lips stay with yours for a while, firm and seeking, as he keeps the pace around your clit consistent. But when he speeds up, eager to get you to make more of those delicious sounds, his mouth goes down your neck. His kisses turn from adoring to desiring. No, to claiming.

Jack stops just long enough to strip his shorts off and readjust so he’s pinning your thigh down between his knees. He plunges two fingers inside of you and you gasp out in a way that makes him want to check in, but you follow the sound with a needy string of ‘yes, yes, yes’ that turns it to a laugh instead. And you can’t get your eyes off his cock. Of course Jack Abbot has a perfect dick, curved just right, thick but not intimidating, absolutely leaking for you.

At your fuck-drunk expression and constant squealing moans, Jack chuckles, “You’re so fucking cute, you know that?”

You giggle and cover your face with your forehead, unable to stand the adoration in his unwavering gaze in combination with his fingers working you open. “I don’t think I’ve been called cute in a decade, actually.”

“That ends today,” he coos, dropping his other hand down so his thumb can work your clit as he finger fucks you, curling back toward himself deep and hard, “because you are the goddamn cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You’re thrashing beneath him now, thighs twitching and hips squirming and noises getting so pathetically cute Jack can hardly stand it anymore.

“Yeah, you definitely need more compliments if that’s how you’re gonna react, makin’ those pretty sounds for me.” His eyes go from your face to between your legs, total attention trained on the way your walls are gripping him over and over, reacting to his every pulse and stroke. “God, look at this cute little pussy taking it so well. Those cute fuckin’ tits bouncing. You’re perfect.”

Then his voice goes gravelly and wanting as you drop into silence, legs tightening and breaths racing. “Fuck, you gonna cum for me already, sweetheart? I can feel you clenching down on me. All I’ve ever wanted is to make you feel good, to have you spread out in my bed like this. Let go for me, gorgeous, please.”

And how could you possibly deny it when he’s asking so damn nicely? You couldn’t hold back if you tried. Your pleasure boils over and your pussy practically eats Jack’s hand alive with the force of your orgasm. It’s been so long that it’s like months of orgasms are ripping through you at once. When you look up at Jack’s downright gleeful expression, you swear he’s got an angelic glow around his silver and auburn curls because he’s making you feel so damn good.

Jack works you through it slow and steady, memorizing every single second of your rapture until you’re a sweaty mess who can barely breathe.

Your glassy, horny eyes rove up to meet his, happy to find his pupils blown dark, overtaking the hazel. You wrap your legs around his hips and tug him close to your body, close enough that you can rub your drenched sex along his hips and his perfectly hard cock. Every glorious muscle in his stomach and chest clenches at the sudden erotic contact. He throws his head back a second and feels you. Then you bring him back to earth by asking, “Do you wanna fuck me?”

“Honey, I definitely want to fuck you.” Jack grabs your thighs and frots up against your clit, letting his head bump into your pleasure center for a few seconds just to hear your overstimulated panting. He stills his own motions but doesn’t stop yours as he goes on, “And I’m not necessarily saying no here, but I don’t have any condoms and I don’t wanna assume anything. Not exactly been getting a lot of action for the past, ah, while.”

“I’m not ovulating,” you rasp, grinding your slick folds unapologetically along his shaft. “I finished my period, like, a couple days ago. Need you inside me, Jack.”

“There’s always some level of risk,” he groans, struggling to stay clearheaded at the intoxicating thought of having you exactly as he wants right the fuck now. “Is- is that- Do you-”

You still your hips, look him dead in the eyes, and say, “If by ‘risk’ you mean Riley getting a ginger little sister, then I’m telling you, clear and sober and in my right mind, that I want you to fuck me.”

Jack’s heart pounds in his chest as he looks down at you. That’s definitely not just your cunt talking; you want him. All of him. Always. He holds onto your hips and thrusts into you at a pace that makes your toes curl. Your name falls off his lips and plays in harmony with your moans. He practically collapses forward with the need to be kissing you again. You’re safe between his arms, holding his surprisingly toned ass beneath your fingernails to encourage him to drill into you as deep as he needs.

Fucking Jack is so different than fucking anyone else you’ve been with. You can taste the love in his every kiss, can feel it in every thrust, can smell it in the sex scenting the whole bedroom. Tears bite at your eyes when you feel his body flush against yours, as much of you touching as possible. You wrap your fingers in his hair, pull him close, and whimper against his ear, “I love you.”

“Thank you,” he whispers into your cheek, pressing his forehead to yours. He’s kissing your face everywhere he can as his balls start to tighten up. “Thank you so much. I love you.”

Before he can ask, you meet his eyes and breathe, “Inside, Jackie. It’s okay, I promise. Cum inside of me.”

It shudders out of him. Years of his love, so quiet and so loud, always in the background and bursting to the forefront, all consuming, spill into your body. A tear does manage to break through your shared ecstasy, streaming down your cheek before you can stop it. Jack doesn’t say anything about it; he understands. He’s overwhelmed with it too. He kisses the tear’s track as he softens inside of you and shakes his head and laughs with pure delight.

There’s nothing to say.

Nothing more has to be said.

Jack holds you so long that you start to drift to sleep. You get the sense that he’ll never be the person to break the hug first. Then he cleans you off with a warm cloth and throws the towels in the wash. As you play with his hair and kiss along the top of his back, he doffs his prosthetic and can’t stop smiling. You tug on one of his shirts and nothing else. He curls up behind you in only his boxers.

And you sleep in the same bed.

You’re standing at the sink watching the whole thing unfold like it has every night this week. Her in tears. Him halfway gone. You trying not to say the wrong thing and make it worse.

Jack turns, just in time for her to hurl herself into his leg.

It’s the right one. The one that isn’t real.

She doesn’t know that yet.

“Jesus,” Jack mutters under his breath. He drops to a knee, balancing on the other like muscle memory. “Hey. Hey. Come on, bean.”

She’s sobbing now—small body shaking, cheeks red and hot, tiny fists grabbing at the front of his scrub top like she can keep him from vanishing.

“Dada don’t go,” she whispers. “No go. No go.”

He wraps his arms around her. Sinks the rest of the way to the floor.

You exhale and kneel beside them, placing a steadying hand on Jack’s back. You feel the tension in him—how he holds her like she’s a patient coming apart in his arms, like every second of this is costing him something.

“I can’t keep doing this to her,” he says hoarsely.

“You’re not doing anything,” you say. “You’re going to work.”

“She thinks I’m dying.”

“She thinks you’re gone. That’s different. And she’s one, Jack. She doesn’t know how to name it yet.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Then he leans down and murmurs something into her hair. You can’t hear what. Just that his voice shakes at the edges.

By 7:22PM, he’s supposed to be gone.

Instead, he’s lying on the couch with her draped across his chest, her hands tangled in the collar of his fleece. He still hasn’t put on his boots.

“I’ve got five minutes,” he mutters. “If I’m late, Robby can start the shift with less sarcasm for once in his life.”

“She’s going to wake up the second you move,” you warn.

“I know.” His hand moves gently up and down her back. “She always does.”

You sit on the arm of the couch and stroke your fingers through her hair. “Want me to take her?”

“No,” he says. Quiet but firm.

A pause.

“Jack…”

He looks up at you.

And it hits you—how tired he is. How deep under the surface this ache runs. The discipline keeps him standing. The darkness keeps him working. But this? This small body asleep against his chest? It’s the only thing that unmans him.

“She didn’t cry like this before,” he says. “Before she knew what ‘bye’ meant.”

“She cries because she does know.”

He swallows. “That’s worse.”

“Not to her.”

He nods. Doesn’t say anything.

At 7:39PM, he finally lifts her.

She stirs but doesn’t cry, nose wrinkling as she blinks up at him like she can’t remember whether he’s staying or going.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “I’ll be back before you even know I’m gone. Okay?”

She stares. Says nothing.

Then—like clockwork—she bursts into fresh tears.

Jack clenches his jaw, sets her down on the ottoman, and crouches to lace up his boots.

You hover behind her, one hand braced on her back.

She screams when he opens the door.

“Dada!” she sobs. “No. Dada stay. Dada stay.”

Jack freezes in the threshold.

His shoulders curl forward like someone’s punched him.

Then, without looking back, he pulls his phone from his pocket.

The door closes.

By 8:15PM, she’s asleep in your arms—still sniffling, exhausted, the front of your shirt damp from tears.

You get a text just as you’re lowering her into the crib.

I should’ve handled that better. I made it worse.

She calmed down. She always does. You made it worse by being someone she loves so much she doesn’t know what to do with it.

I’ll be back before sunrise. Will you tell her that?

She knows. It’s why she screams.

I’d rather get shot again. This hurts worse.

He comes home at 6:56AM.

You’re already dressed—button-down tucked into slacks, second cup of coffee half-finished on the bathroom counter. The bedroom light is off, hallway dim in the early winter gray. You hear the door close, then the heavy sound of his boots being eased off.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just walks in slow—scrub top wrinkled, fleece half-zipped, exhaustion written in the slope of his shoulders. His bag drops by the bench. You meet him at the doorway, socked feet on the hardwood.

But he doesn’t stop.

He walks right past you and into her room.

You follow, quietly.

He kneels beside the crib and reaches one hand through the slats.

She doesn’t wake. But her body shifts instinctively toward the warmth, toward him, like something cellular inside her recognizes he’s home.

He stays there like that for a long time. Silent. Steady. Palm resting gently on her back like he’s holding something together—something fragile and unseen.

You watch from the doorway, still holding your travel mug.

After a while, he looks over at you.

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

You cross the room, set your coffee down, and open your arms.

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER doc, man who finds comfort in the darkness but still comes home to the light—lets himself be held.

You wrap your arms around him like scaffolding. Let him breathe.

You hold him the way he held her.

Quietly. Fully. As the sky over Pittsburgh begins to pale.

Phase Two: The Nap Strike

Where Jack learns you can’t negotiate with toddlers—only surrender on your knees with crackers

The plan was simple: You’d sleep in. Jack would keep her occupied for the morning. Then you’d trade, and he’d crash until dinner. A peaceful, domestic arrangement—civilized, efficient.

But at 5:06AM, the plan dies.

Jack gets home early, for once—just before dawn, fleece zipped to his chin, exhausted but functional. The shift was unusually light. Just one drunk college kid, a laceration, a call that turned out to be a false alarm. He’d left before the sun came up, driving through a foggy Pittsburgh quiet that felt like it belonged to him. Like maybe he’d sneak in two hours of sleep before she woke.

But the second he walks through the door, he hears it.

Not crying. Not fussing.

Just one word, clear as a command: “Dada?”

He freezes. Keys in hand.

Then again: “DADA WAKE. DADA UP NOW!”

He glances at the monitor on the hallway table. Bright green bar bouncing. You’re still fast asleep, curled under the duvet, face soft, peaceful. Jack exhales, rubs a hand down his face, and nods like he’s accepting deployment.

“Copy that,” he mutters. “I’m up.”

By 5:18AM, he’s on the nursery floor with her in his lap, eating Cheerios dry from a plastic bowl.

She’s wide awake. Radiant with mischief. Hair like static. Onesie already unzipped halfway down her chest.

“You didn’t even try to go back to sleep,” Jack mumbles. “Didn’t even pretend.”

She offers him a Cheerio. He takes it. She laughs like it’s hilarious.

You don’t stir. You’ve been working ten-hour days, two audits back-to-back, and this was the deal: he takes the morning, you sleep until ten. She usually doesn’t wake until eight.

Today, she’s a menace.

At 6:01AM, Jack sends the first text.

target acquired status: hostile woke up demanding crackers and Bluey currently brushing my kneecap with her toothbrush

also i love her more than oxygen but i’m scared

By 6:47AM, he’s on his second attempt at a nap wind-down.

Bottle. Dark room. Soft hum of the ceiling fan.

She drinks three sips, fake yawns, and then—grinning—claps and yells “I WAKE NOW!”

Jack sighs and tries not to take it personally.

she is refusing to sleep just said “no nap daddy” and kicked her duck across the room i fear she’s possessed or worse toddler

You wake to twelve texts.

It's 9:13AM.

You stretch, blink blearily, and pad downstairs in your robe and socks.

The living room looks like a war zone: blankets piled like barricades, board books scattered like casualties. The TV is frozen mid-Bluey. A sippy cup lies abandoned under the armchair.

And Jack?

Jack is sitting cross-legged on the rug, hair wild, t-shirt stained with what might be applesauce. The baby is climbing him like a jungle gym. He’s not moving. Just letting her.

You lean against the doorframe.

“She didn’t nap?”

Jack looks up. Blinks slowly.

“She screamed the word ‘no’ at me twenty-eight times,” he says. “I counted. Then she told me ‘Dada go to work.’ Like she was firing me.”

You snort. “That’s brutal.”

“She called duck a traitor. Then kissed him and apologized.”

“She’s learning emotional regulation.”

“She’s learning psychological warfare.”

You reach for your daughter. “My turn.”

“No.” Jack stands, lifting her off his shoulders. “I’ll try again. If I don’t come back in twenty minutes, I’ve joined her cause.”

At 9:52AM, she finally falls asleep.

Jack manages it by holding her in the glider for a full 23 minutes—just rocking and breathing, watching her eyelids flutter and fight before finally dropping.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even shift his weight. Just sits there in the soft morning light, hands steady on her back, like he's still in the trauma bay, keeping vitals steady.

When you poke your head into the nursery, he just glances up.

“Got her,” he whispers.

“You okay?”

He nods, but doesn’t answer.

You kneel beside the chair. Press your cheek to his shoulder.

“She told you to go to work?”

Jack exhales. “Twice. Then smiled and said ‘bye-bye dada.’ Like I was already gone.”

“She doesn’t mean it.”

“She does,” he says quietly. “In that moment, she does.”

You reach up, tangle your fingers with his.

“She always wants you again after.”

“I know.”

He looks down at her—soft breath, small body, warm weight.

“She always comes back,” he murmurs.

You kiss his jaw. “That’s because you do, too.”

He falls asleep an hour later in bed, one hand still curled like he’s holding her. You slide in beside him, wrap your arm across his chest, and match your breathing to his.

Phase Three: “I Do It Myself”

Where Jack learns the real grief of fatherhood is not chaos—it’s watching her not reach for you

It starts with the shoe.

Saturday morning. You’re finishing dishes in the kitchen, the windows open to a Pittsburgh breeze that smells like wet concrete and spring.

Jack’s at the bottom of the stairs, crouched, holding her sneakers. She’s sitting on the fourth step, legs swinging, watching him with a look that’s already defiant.

“You wanna help me?” Jack asks, gently, holding out one Velcro shoe.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Okay.” He nods. “We’ll do it together.”

She snatches the shoe from his hand and slams it on the wrong foot.

Jack raises his eyebrows. “You sure that’s how it goes?”

“I DO IT,” she snaps, voice high and serious.

Jack lets out a long breath through his nose. “Alright. You do it.”

You lean against the doorframe, towel in hand, watching this unfold with careful silence.

She starts working the Velcro. Tongue sticking out. Absolute focus.

Jack waits.

And then, when she finally gets it on—upside down, strap crooked, toes curled—she beams.

“I DID it, Dada!”

Jack nods once. “Yeah. You did.”

He smiles. But you see it—the flicker. The quiet ache behind the pride.

That afternoon, he’s quiet.

You’re folding laundry on the bed while he reads the paper beside you, still in black sweatpants and a t-shirt from some long-ago charity 5K. But he hasn’t turned the page in twenty minutes.

You don’t push. Not yet.

It’s only when you come back with the second load that you catch him standing in the hallway outside her door, just… watching her.

She’s on the rug. Putting stickers on her duck. Quiet. Focused.

“She asked me to leave the room,” he says, not looking at you.

“What?”

“When I offered to help with the puzzle. She said, ‘Dada go. I do it myself.’”

You step up beside him. “Jack.”

“She said it twice. Not angry. Just… like a fact. Like she’d already decided.”

You rest a hand on his back. “She’s growing.”

He nods. “I know. That’s the job.”

A long pause.

“She still needs you,” you say.

He breathes out, slow and quiet. “Yeah. Just not all the time anymore.”

Later that evening, you catch him in the garage.

He’s standing by the workbench, holding one of her old shoes. The tiny white pair with the pink stripe she wore when she first learned to walk. You kept it because she scuffed the toes dragging them down the driveway after him.

He brushes a thumb across the sole.

You walk up behind him. Slide your arms around his waist.

“I didn’t expect it to feel like this,” he says.

“Like what?”

“Like she’s already running. And I’m not supposed to follow.”

You hold him tighter. “You built her to run.”

He closes his eyes. “Yeah. But I thought I’d carry her a little longer.”

The next morning, she asks him for help again.

It’s small. Just a zipper. Her coat caught on the hem, stuck halfway up.

Jack kneels down, hands calm.

“You want me to—?”

She nods, silent this time. “Need help, Dada.”

He fixes it slowly. Carefully. Then stands.

“Thanks,” she says.

He nods, blinking hard. “Anytime, bean.”

You watch from the door as she slips her hand into his. Just for a second. Long enough to steady herself on the step.

Long enough to remind him:

She’ll always come back.

Even when she’s learning to go.

Phase Four: The Sick Day

Where Jack learns that the scariest moment isn’t watching someone code—it’s seeing “she’s not okay” on your phone when you’re twelve minutes away from home

You almost didn’t go.

It had been one of those weeks. You were late every day to work, and Jack had picked up a last-minute double on Thursday that ran until dawn. You both looked like people hanging on by threads—but he came into the bathroom that morning, caught you half-dressed and towel-drying your hair, and said:

“We need a night.”

You looked up, tired. “You’re gonna fall asleep in the booth.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But I’ll be across from you while I do it.”

You smiled.

And that’s how you ended up here, in heels you haven’t worn since before her first birthday, brushing your fingers through your hair in the passenger seat of Jack’s truck while he drives you into Shadyside. He’s in dark jeans, a black dress shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Clean-shaven. Warm-eyed. His prosthetic shifts as he drives, but he doesn’t wince. He hasn’t said much since you left the house—just glanced over at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Say something,” you finally murmur, brushing your fingers over the hem of your dress.

He exhales through his nose. “I’m trying to be respectful,” he mutters. “But you wore that on purpose, didn’t you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “This? It’s from before I even met you.”

“Doesn’t mean you didn’t know what it’d do to me.”

You grin, lean back. “You could say you like it.”

“I could. Or I could spend the next hour trying to focus on what you’re saying while imagining getting you out of it.”

You laugh. He does, too—quiet and real, the kind he only gives you.

The night is soft. Pittsburgh spring chill, but tolerable. The restaurant is warm. You share bread, clink glasses. He watches your hands when you speak. Brushes his knuckles against your wrist when he wants you to keep going.

“Your voice changes when you’re not exhausted,” he says suddenly, over dessert. “Like—lighter.”

“You saying I sound like a gremlin most days?”

“I’m saying you sound like you tonight.”

You blink. He’s watching you like he’s storing you in memory.

You can feel it—the weight of his want. It’s not loud. Not overt. It’s Jack. So it lives in the way his hand stays over yours too long. The way he watches you laugh like it’s a privilege. The way his voice drops when he says, “I love seeing you like this.”

You lean closer. “Do I really look that different?”

“No,” he says. “You look like the girl I married. Just… undistracted.”

You kiss him across the table, slow and steady.

He grins into it. “You’re not gonna make me wait ‘til we’re home, are you?”

“Oh, I am.”

“You’re cruel.”

“You like it.”

He exhales, drops his head, grinning.

That’s when your phone buzzes.

You glance at the screen.

EMILY - BABYSITTER