Oh, hello there!

The department ran on organized chaos, and after enough years working in emergency medicine, you'd stopped noticing most of it. The noise became background. The constant movement became routine. Even the stress settled into something familiar.

You preferred it that way.

Busy meant there wasn't time to think.

It wasn't something you admitted out loud, not even to Jack, but somewhere along the way you'd realized that exhaustion was easier to manage than silence. Silence left room for thoughts. Silence left room for memories. There were parts of your life you had spent years carefully learning how to carry, grief you had folded into neat little boxes and stacked somewhere deep inside yourself where it couldn't interfere with your ability to function. Most days you were successful. Most days you could go entire shifts without thinking about any of it.

The trick was to keep moving.

As long as there was another chart waiting to be reviewed, another patient asking for help, another crisis demanding your attention, your mind stayed where it needed to be. Focus became its own form of self-preservation.

"God, if I have to take care of one more frat boy today, I'm quitting."

Santos practically dropped into one of the empty chairs near the nurses' station, dragging a hand down her face like she'd aged ten years in the last hour.

You didn't bother looking up from your charting.

"I thought you liked that demographic."

"I like making fun of them. That's different."

You could hear the offense in her voice.

"There is nothing I like about boys. Trust me."

A laugh escaped through your nose as you continued scrolling through lab results.

"That's a strong statement."

"It's an informed statement."

Now you looked up.

"Oh?"

Santos pointed dramatically toward the waiting room.

"One more twenty-year-old with alcohol poisoning tells me he's 'built different' and I'm personally escorting him back onto the sidewalk."

"You can't do that."

"A girl can dream."

The conversation settled around you as comfortably as an old habit. One of the things nobody told you when you started working in emergency medicine was how attached you became to the people beside you. You saw each other at your worst. At three in the morning. During trauma activations. During mass casualty incidents. During the moments that broke people and the moments that saved them. Eventually your coworkers stopped feeling like coworkers and started feeling like family.

A deeply dysfunctional family, but family nonetheless.

Santos suddenly straightened in her chair.

"Oh, hey, Huckleberry."

You glanced up just in time to see Whitaker speed-walking through the department, clutching a tablet against his chest. He looked exactly like someone who knew he was already behind schedule and was desperately trying to convince everyone else otherwise.

Santos immediately lifted a chart.

"Could you take this case off me? I'd owe you a big one."

Whitaker stopped so abruptly it was almost impressive. His eyes moved from Santos to the chart and back again, his expression shifting into the same look most people reserved for unexploded explosives.

"Uh..."

"I'm hearing hesitation."

"You should be."

Santos held the chart out farther.

Whitaker actually took a step backward.

"I'm sorry, I can't. Robby's waiting for me in Trauma One."

Santos groaned.

A loud, suffering sort of groan.

"And besides," Whitaker added, already retreating down the hallway, "you already owe me. A lot."

"I'm a generous debtor."

"You're a terrible debtor."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Whitaker disappeared around the corner before she could trap him in another conversation.

You turned back to your workstation and worked your way through a handful of charts, signed off on imaging results, answered a question from a nurse about discharge instructions, and approved a medication order without really needing to think about it. The rhythm was familiar enough that your hands often seemed to move ahead of your brain. Years in emergency medicine had a way of doing that. Eventually, after enough shifts, the workflow became muscle memory.

You were halfway through finishing a note when Dana appeared beside your workstation.

You noticed her immediately, not because she said anything, but because Dana had a way of making people notice her. Unlike most of the department, she never seemed rushed. The ER could be falling apart around her, stretchers lining the hallways, nurses getting pulled in six directions at once, residents asking questions over each other, and somehow she'd still move with the same steady confidence. You weren't entirely sure how she did it. Maybe nobody was. But there was a reason everyone looked for Dana when things got bad.

"Need you in Central Fourteen, hun."

You finished typing the sentence you'd been working on before glancing up.

"Sure. What've we got? Anything exciting?"

Dana checked the chart in her hand and snorted.

"Not unless you're excited by paperwork."

"Then definitely not."

"That's what I thought." She glanced back at the chart. "Six-year-old female. Poor thing took a tumble off the monkey bars. Forehead laceration."

You nodded automatically.

"Sounds good."

You pushed back from the workstation and stood, grabbing a pair of gloves from the dispenser mounted on the wall before heading toward Central Fourteen. Cases like this were usually straightforward. A worried parent. A frightened child trying very hard not to look frightened. Maybe a few stitches. Maybe some glue if you got lucky. A quick neurological assessment, discharge instructions, and home before dinner. The kind of patient you saw every day and rarely thought about again once the shift was over. As you made your way down the hallway toward the room, you didn't give the chart another thought. It sounded routine. Ordinary. The sort of case that blended into all the others by the end of the day.

At least, that's what you thought as you pushed open the door to Central Fourteen.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, alcohol wipes, and the unmistakable sweetness of grape popsicles.

The little girl sitting on the exam bed looked entirely unimpressed by her circumstances. Dried blood streaked down the side of her forehead, disappearing into blonde hair where a jagged laceration hid just beyond her hairline. Judging by the amount of blood staining her shirt and cheeks, the injury had probably looked much worse when it happened. Head wounds usually did. They bled dramatically, terrified parents, and then ended up requiring little more than a few stitches and a cartoon bandage.

Her mother, however, clearly hadn't gotten that memo.

She sat rigidly beside her daughter, one hand wrapped around the girl's ankle as if letting go might somehow make things worse. Her eyes kept darting to the cut, then to the monitor, then back to the cut again. Every few seconds she opened her mouth as though she wanted to ask another question before deciding against it. The little girl seemed significantly less concerned. If anything, she looked bored, which was usually how these visits went. Parents came into the emergency department imagining worst-case scenarios. Kids came in wondering how quickly they could leave.

You stepped into the room and offered a smile.

"Hi there."

Both of them looked up.

The mother immediately straightened.

The little girl barely moved.

"I'm Dr. Abbot, one of the attendings here. Mind if I take a look?"

The girl's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Am I getting stitches?"

The question came so quickly that you almost laughed.

Straight to business.

You crouched slightly so you were more at her eye level before answering.

"I'm afraid so, sweetie." You gave her an apologetic look.

She groaned dramatically and let her head fall back against the bed.

"Oh, come on."

Her mother sighed. "Honey."

"What?" the girl complained. "Nobody likes stitches."

"That's true."

She immediately pointed at you.

"See? She gets it."

You bit back a smile while her mother shook her head.

"I'm sorry. She's been talking nonstop since we got here."

"I'm not talking right now."

The look her mother gave her was enough to make the girl grin, and that finally earned a genuine laugh from you. The tension that had been hanging over the room since you walked in eased almost immediately. The mother's shoulders relaxed a little, and the little girl looked entirely too pleased with herself for successfully making a doctor laugh. Kids had a way of doing that. No matter how frightened the adults around them were, they somehow found a way to make things lighter.

You stepped closer to the bed and gently parted her hair, getting a better look at the laceration. It was a decent cut and definitely deep enough to need sutures, but otherwise she looked good. No active bleeding. No obvious skull deformity. She was alert, interactive, answering questions appropriately, and arguing with her mother, which was usually one of the most reassuring neurological signs you could ask for in a six-year-old.

"Okay," you said as you examined the wound. "Tell me what happened."

"I fell."

You nodded seriously.

"Excellent explanation."

The little girl beamed.

"I fell off the monkey bars."

"That makes a little more sense."

"I told her not to climb up the outside," her mother added.

"I didn't climb."

"You absolutely climbed."

The girl considered this carefully.

"Okay. Technically I climbed."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself as you continued the exam.

"Were you knocked out at all?"

The girl's eyes widened.

"No."

"Any vomiting?"

"Ew. No."

"Headache?"

"A little."

Her mother immediately leaned forward.

"She said it was worse in the waiting room."

The little girl rolled her eyes so dramatically it was almost impressive.

"Moooom."

"What?"

"It's because I hit my head."

"I know, sweetheart."

You couldn't help noticing the way her mother's hand automatically moved to smooth her hair back from her face. The gesture was completely instinctive, the sort of thing parents did without thinking about it. Protective. Familiar. A physical expression of love so ingrained it barely required thought.

"Everything you're telling me sounds reassuring," you said gently. "I don't see any signs that make me worried about a serious head injury. We'll clean the wound, numb the area, put in a few stitches, and make sure you're feeling okay before you head home."

The relief on her mother's face was immediate.

"Oh, thank God."

"Told you," the little girl said proudly.

Her mother laughed weakly and shook her head.

For a moment, the room felt warm. Normal. Familiar. Just another worried parent and another child who was far more concerned about missing recess than getting stitches. It was the sort of interaction you saw every day in emergency medicine, and standing there beside the bed, listening to the little girl chatter while her mother worried enough for both of them, everything felt reassuringly ordinary.

Satisfied, you stepped over to the computer to update the chart. Your fingers moved automatically across the keyboard while your mind stayed focused on the next steps. The wound would need irrigation, local anesthetic, a handful of simple interrupted sutures, and discharge instructions. Routine. The sort of case you saw several times a week and usually forgot before your shift was over.

Then your eyes landed on the demographic information.

Lily Allison.

Age: 6 years.

You stared at the screen.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

As if the words might rearrange themselves if you looked long enough.

Your throat tightened.

The cursor blinked patiently in the corner of the chart while the rest of the emergency department moved around you, utterly unaware that the ground had just shifted beneath your feet.

Lily.

Six years old.

You hadn't heard that name spoken outside your own head in years. Not really. Not beyond the quiet conversations you and Jack occasionally had in the dark when neither of you could sleep. Not beyond birthdays that nobody else remembered and anniversaries that existed only for the two of you. The grief had become private over the years. Carefully folded. Carefully contained. Most people probably assumed it was gone.

Most people were wrong.

The daughter you never brought home still existed in every corner of your life.

She existed in the way you automatically calculated her age every year without meaning to. She existed in the nursery that had sat untouched for months because neither of you could bear to dismantle it. She existed in the tiny hospital bracelet tucked inside a drawer that you had never once considered throwing away. She existed in the silence that settled between you and Jack every year on her birthday. She existed in every version of the future you had imagined and every version that never happened.

And now her name was staring back at you from a patient chart.

Lily.

Six years old.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at the screen. The realization didn't hit like a sudden blow. It settled into you slowly, heavily, the way a storm settles over a landscape, until suddenly there was no part of the sky untouched by it. You'd wondered what she might have looked like at six. Wondered what kind of laugh she would've had. Whether she would've inherited Jack's eyes or your smile. Whether she would've liked soccer or dance lessons or dinosaurs or books.

But six had never felt real before.

Now it did.

Because six wasn't an idea anymore. Six was sitting ten feet away from you on an exam bed with dried blood in her hair and grass stains on her sneakers. Six was arguing with her mother about monkey bars and insisting she didn't need stitches. Six had a teacher she apparently disagreed with on a daily basis. Six had favorite games and best friends and stories about recess.

Six had become a person.

And all at once, the future you and Jack had lost stopped feeling abstract too.

Your daughter should have been six years old.

The thought came quietly, but it cut deeper than anything else.

She should have been talking too much. She should have been asking impossible questions from the back seat of the car and leaving crayons in places crayons had no business being. She should have been bringing home drawings that looked nothing like what they were supposed to be and insisting they belonged on the refrigerator. She should have been losing teeth and scraping knees and complaining about homework. She should have been doing all the ordinary things that parents spent years taking for granted.

Instead, all you had were guesses.

You would never know what her laugh sounded like.

You would never know if she was shy or stubborn or fearless.

You would never know whether she would've loved animals or hated vegetables or driven both you and Jack absolutely insane.

That was the part grief never warned you about.

People talked about losing birthdays and holidays and milestones. They talked about anniversaries and empty nurseries and all the obvious things. Nobody talked about the smaller losses. The ordinary Tuesdays. The school pickup lines. The forgotten lunchboxes. The soccer games you complained about attending while secretly loving every second of them.

Nobody talked about how grief stole an entire lifetime of tiny moments.

And somehow those were the things that hurt the most.

Without realizing it, your gaze drifted back toward the bed. Lily was still talking, still smiling, completely unaware that she'd just cracked open a part of you that had spent years trying to heal. Her mother reached over and smoothed her hair back again, that same unconscious gesture you'd noticed earlier, and the sight nearly undid you.

Because suddenly you weren't jealous of the milestones.

You were jealous of that.

Of the hand automatically reaching out.

Of knowing how your child liked her sandwiches cut.

Of helping with homework.

Of arguing about bedtime.

Of all the thousands of small moments that added up to a life together.

Lily was in the middle of explaining some elaborate disagreement she'd had with a teacher over whether "speed walking aggressively" counted as running. Her mother looked exhausted. You almost smiled.

Almost.

Then reality reasserted itself.

You weren't standing in a nursery six years ago. You weren't sitting at home imagining what might have been. You were standing in an emergency department with a patient who needed you. There was a frightened mother depending on your reassurance and a little girl waiting for her doctor to stop staring at a computer screen.

So you inhaled slowly, forced the grief back behind the walls you'd spent years building, and reminded yourself of the role you had to play.

A patient didn't need a grieving mother.

She needed a doctor.

You returned to the bedside and slipped back into the familiar rhythm of medicine. Lily launched immediately into another story, this one involving recess,  and soccer. You nodded at the appropriate moments while reassessing her neurological status, checking her pupils once more and asking follow-up questions. From the outside, nothing had changed. You were still the same attending physician you'd been fifteen minutes ago. Calm. Attentive. Focused.

Inside, it felt as though you were trying to hold back a flood with your bare hands.

Every word out of Lily's mouth seemed to catch on something raw. Not because she was doing anything wrong, but because she was doing everything right. She was exactly what six years old was supposed to look like. Curious. Talkative. Dramatic. Entirely convinced that whatever happened at recess constituted breaking news. She had stories and opinions and little frustrations that would be forgotten by next week but felt enormous today.

She had a life.

You focused on the medicine because medicine made sense. Medicine had steps. Logic. Structure. The laceration was straightforward. No loss of consciousness. No vomiting. No concerning neurological findings. A simple forehead wound that would need irrigation and a few sutures before she went home. You explained the procedure to her mother, reviewed the risks, answered questions, and prepared the supplies while Lily watched with the suspicious concentration of a child trying very hard to pretend she wasn't nervous.

"Will I have a scar?"

You glanced up from the suture tray.

"Maybe a small one."

Instead of looking upset, she seemed delighted.

"My friend Tyler has one."

"Oh yeah?"

"He says it makes him look dangerous."

Despite everything, a smile tugged at your mouth.

The girl grinned back.

For one terrible moment, your mind filled in the blanks it had spent six years trying not to imagine. A little girl with Jack's eyes. Dark curls that refused to behave. A gap-toothed grin. Tiny sneakers kicked off in the hallway. Construction-paper artwork hanging crookedly on the refrigerator because neither of you could bear to throw it away.

The image felt so real it hurt.

Your hand faltered slightly while positioning the needle driver.

Only a fraction of a second.

Years of practice corrected the movement immediately, and nobody noticed. Lily certainly didn't. She was too busy informing her mother about her friend Sally.

But your chest ached.

With every stitch you placed, the grief seemed to sink a little deeper. Not because it was growing, but because it was being disturbed. Like sediment at the bottom of a river, untouched for years until something came along and stirred it up again, clouding everything around it.

By the time you tied the final knot and applied the dressing, you felt hollowed out.

"All done."

Lily blinked. "That's it?"

You smiled despite yourself. "That's it."

Her eyes widened. "I didn't even cry."

"No sweetie," you said softly. "You didn't."

You removed your gloves and turned toward Lily's mother. The rest came automatically. Wound care instructions. Concussion precautions. Watch for worsening headaches, vomiting, confusion, unusual sleepiness, or anything that seemed different from her normal behavior. Her mother listened carefully, nodding along as relief slowly replaced the fear she'd walked into the department carrying.

"So she should be okay?"

You glanced toward Lily, who was already proudly inspecting her bandage. "She should be just fine."

The woman let out a breath that sounded like she'd been holding it for hours. "Oh, thank God."

"Told you," Lily said immediately.

A small laugh escaped her mother before she shook her head and gathered their things. When she looked back at you, her eyes were shining with gratitude.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot. Really."

"Of course."

The woman thanked you once more before guiding Lily toward the door. Just before leaving, the little girl turned around and waved enthusiastically.

"Bye, Dr. Abbot."

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You forced yourself to smile.

"Bye, Lily."

The door clicked shut behind them.

For a long moment, you simply stood there staring at it.

The room wasn't silent. Hospitals were never silent.

Life continued exactly as it always did. And yet, the absence left behind by one little girl felt deafening.

You weren't sure how long you stood there staring at the closed door before Dana appeared in the room.

"Hey, hun."

The sound of her voice startled you enough that you turned too quickly. It felt almost guilty, as though she'd caught you doing something you weren't supposed to be doing, even though all you'd done was stand there long after your patient had left. Dana's eyes immediately moved over your face. Not in an obvious way. Not the way most people looked when they were trying to figure out what was wrong. It was quicker than that. More practiced. Years of running an emergency department had taught her how to assess people almost as efficiently as she assessed patients.

She held up the chart in her hand.

"Need you in Trauma Two."

The words were completely ordinary. A normal request on a normal shift. You'd heard her say it dozens of times a day. You nodded immediately, grateful for the excuse to move.

"Okay. Sure. Yeah."

You stepped toward the door and reached for the chart.

Dana didn't hand it over.

That was what made you stop.

When you finally looked up, she was still watching you.

Dana had worked beside you for years. Long enough to know the difference between tired and exhausted, between stressed and overwhelmed. She knew what you looked like after a bad trauma, after a difficult death notification, after one of those shifts that seemed determined to break everyone involved. Whatever she was seeing now clearly didn't fit into any of those categories.

"Everything okay, hun?"

The answer arrived automatically.

"Fine."

You barely thought about it. The word had become instinctive over the years. Fine was easier than explaining. Easier than trying to describe how a six-year-old girl with a playground injury had somehow managed to drag you backward through six years of grief. Easier than admitting that for the last hour it had felt like somebody had reached into your chest and reopened a wound you'd spent years learning how to live around.

Dana didn't look convinced.

Her gaze drifted past you toward the computer still glowing beside the bed. You watched her eyes move across the chart, toward the patient's information at the top of the screen, and saw the exact moment understanding settled over her face.

"Oh."

The single syllable landed harder than it should have.

You hated that word because it meant she understood. It meant someone else could see the connection. It meant this wasn't something you could dismiss as a bad moment or an overreaction. It was real.

For a few seconds neither of you spoke. When Dana looked back at you, there was so much sympathy in her expression that you immediately had to look away. "I didn't even notice that, sweetie," she said quietly. "I'm sorry."

And somehow that was worse than seeing Lily's name on the chart.

It wasn't the memories that threatened to undo you.

It was the kindness.

The quiet understanding in Dana's voice. The fact that she wasn't asking questions or demanding explanations. She simply knew. And kindness had always been dangerous when you were barely holding yourself together, because it made it harder to hide. Harder to keep all the broken pieces contained behind professionalism and routine.

"You need five minutes?"

You shook your head before she even finished speaking.

"No."

The answer came too quickly, too sharp.

Because five minutes meant stopping, and stopping meant thinking. It meant sitting still long enough for everything you'd been holding back all afternoon to finally catch up with you. You knew exactly what would happen if you gave yourself permission to breathe. The carefully constructed walls you'd spent years building would crack, and there were still patients waiting to be seen.

Dana studied you for another moment. You could practically see the argument forming behind her eyes, the concern, the temptation to push a little harder. But Dana understood emergency medicine. She understood the stubbornness of people who spent their lives taking care of everyone except themselves.

Eventually she nodded.

"Okay. Whatever you want."

The words weren't dismissive. They were an offer. A reminder that if you changed your mind, she'd still be there.

Then she handed you the chart and let you go.

So you went to Trauma Two.

And then another room.

And then another.

For the next three hours, you became exactly what the job required you to be. You reviewed labs, returned pages, started IVs, called consultants, explained treatment plans, and helped Robby intubate a patient. You taught a medical student how to work through a differential diagnosis. You reassured nervous family members. You cracked the occasional joke when someone looked frightened enough to need one.

Twice your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You already knew who it was before checking.

Jack.

Both times you silenced it without opening the messages.

Not because you didn't want to talk to him. The truth was exactly the opposite. You wanted to hear his voice so badly it hurt. You wanted him to tell you it was okay. Wanted him to wrap his arms around you and somehow make sense of a day that refused to make sense.

But you knew yourself too well.

The second you heard his voice, everything you were holding together would finally fall apart.

From the outside, you were functioning perfectly.

Inside, every spare second was spent fighting against memories that kept trying to surface. The delivery room. The silence afterward. The impossibly small blanket. Jack's hand wrapped around yours so tightly it hurt. The unbearable weight of walking out of a hospital carrying flowers and paperwork instead of your daughter.

Nobody would have guessed that every quiet moment felt dangerous. Santos certainly wouldn't have spent the afternoon making inappropriate jokes if she'd known what was happening inside your head, and Javadi probably would've stopped peppering you with questions every time she spotted you in the hallway. To everyone else, you looked exactly the same. Competent. Calm. Busy. Just another attending making it through another shift.

The problem was that every time the department gave you even a second to breathe, your mind drifted right back to Central Fourteen.

Back to Lily.

Back to the missing front tooth and the dried blood in her hair. Back to the way she'd smiled after the stitches were done, proud of herself for not crying. Back to her mother's hand automatically reaching out to smooth her hair away from her face.

And beneath those memories waited older ones.

Every time one of those memories surfaced, you shoved it away and focused on the next task in front of you. Review the labs. Call the consultant. Reassess the patient in South Seven. Answer the page. Sign the orders. Do something. Anything. As long as you kept moving, you could stay ahead of it.

For a while, the strategy worked.

Emergency medicine had always rewarded motion. There was always another patient waiting, another problem demanding your attention. Grief struggled to compete with a department that never stopped moving.

But eventually the shift slowed. The waiting room was still full. Patients were still arriving. Nurses were still moving through the hallways with armfuls of supplies and half-finished conversations. The emergency department was still alive.

There was just a little more space between crises.

A little more room to think.

And that was the problem.

Because the moment there was space to think, there was space to feel.

You found yourself walking before you consciously decided where you were going. One minute you were standing at a workstation reviewing a chart, and the next you were moving through the department on instinct. Past the nurses' station.

You didn't stop to question it.

Some part of you had already made the decision.

By the time you pushed open the rooftop door, your chest physically ached from holding everything in. The cool evening air hit your face immediately, carrying the distant sounds of traffic from the streets below.

Normally the roof helped.

Normally it gave you enough distance from the chaos downstairs to breathe again. A few minutes alone, a little fresh air, and then you could go back down and finish the shift.

Not tonight.

Tonight there was nothing left to distract you.

No patients waiting for answers.

No charts demanding signatures.

No monitors alarming.

No pages interrupting your thoughts.

Just silence.

And grief.

For six years, you'd learned how to live around it. You'd learned how to carry it to work, how to laugh despite it, how to build an entire life around an absence that never really left. Most days you were successful. Most days the grief stayed where you'd put it.

But grief was patient.

It didn't disappear just because you got better at avoiding it.

It waited.

And the moment you finally stopped running, it caught up.

By the time Jack walked through the ambulance bay entrance for his night shift, he already felt exhausted.

Not the kind of exhaustion that came from long hours or too many patients. He could handle that. This was older than that. Deeper. Sleep had been a problem for years now, long before the Pitt.

Afghanistan had taken care of whatever normal relationship he might have had with sleep.

The nightmares had changed over the years, but they had never disappeared completely. Some nights, he woke up convinced he could still hear explosions. Other nights, he reached for a leg that wasn't there anymore. Therapy had helped. Time had helped. Experience had helped. But some things never fully leave you.

Losing Lily had added an entirely different category of nightmare.

For a long time, he thought he'd experienced every kind of pain a man could endure. He'd survived a war. Lost friends.  Lost his wife. Lost part of himself. Watched relationships fall apart. Spent months rebuilding a life he hadn't been sure he wanted anymore.

None of it came close.

There was something uniquely cruel about losing a child because there was nowhere for the grief to go. It settled inside you and stayed there. It changed the shape of everything around it.

The hardest part hadn't even been his own grief.

It had been watching yours.

Jack still remembered those first months with painful clarity. He remembered waking up in the middle of the night to find your side of the bed empty. Sometimes he'd discover you standing in the nursery doorway, staring into the darkness. Sometimes you were sitting on the floor beside the crib, crying so quietly he almost couldn't hear it.

Other nights were worse.

There were nights when you'd wake up screaming. Nights when he had to shake you awake because you were trapped somewhere inside a dream. Nights when you'd cling to him afterward so tightly it felt like you were afraid he'd disappear too.

Even now, years later, those memories stayed with him.

In fact, they had become their own kind of nightmare.

Because every time he thought about Lily, he thought about you.

About the way your smile had disappeared for months.

About how laughter had become something you had to relearn.

About how every pregnancy announcement from a friend became a battle neither of you discussed afterward.

Therapy had helped eventually. More than either of you wanted to admit at the time.

When your therapist first suggested switching to day shifts so the two of you weren't constantly orbiting the same grief twenty-four hours a day, Jack had thought it was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard.

"You want us to spend less time together?" he'd asked.

"No," she'd replied patiently. "I want you to learn how to exist outside of this loss."

At the time, he'd hated her for saying it.

Looking back, she had probably saved both of you.

The automatic doors slid shut behind him as he entered the department. The familiar sounds of the ER immediately surrounded him.

"Hey."

Dana looked up from the nurses' station.

"Hey."

Jack dropped his bag beside a workstation and glanced around.

"Is Robby gone already?"

"No. He's talking with a patient's family."

Jack nodded absently, but his eyes kept moving through the department.

It wasn't even conscious anymore. After all these years, one of the first things he always did when he came in was look for you. Sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of you halfway down a hallway. Sometimes you'd already be buried in a patient room. Occasionally, you'd be sitting at a computer pretending to chart while actually scrolling through your phone.

Tonight, though, you weren't anywhere.

Dana noticed immediately.

Of course she did.

"Your wife's upstairs."

Jack's gaze snapped back to her.

Something in her voice made his stomach tighten.

It was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed it. But he'd worked with Dana for too long. He knew her rhythms. Knew the difference between casual information and information she was carefully choosing how to deliver.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Jack had worked with Dana long enough to know when she was choosing her words carefully, and the hesitation alone was enough to make something tighten in his chest. Dana wasn't someone who danced around bad news. She didn't soften things unless she thought the person standing in front of her genuinely needed it.

"Everything okay?" he asked quietly.

Dana looked down at the chart in her hands before answering. "There was a kid today. Playground fall. Nothing serious."

Jack waited.

Something in her expression told him that wasn't the important part.

"The kid's name was Lily."

The air seemed to leave his lungs.

Dana didn't need to explain why that mattered. She didn't need to remind him of a little girl neither of them had ever gotten to watch grow up. She didn't need to explain why his wife had disappeared to the roof instead of heading home after her shift. Still, after a moment, she added softly, "She was six, Jack."

His jaw tightened immediately.

Six.

His daughter would have been six years old.

The thought arrived with the same brutal certainty it always did, the same way it showed up every birthday, every Christmas, every first day of school season when parents filled social media with photographs of backpacks and oversized smiles. Six years old. Old enough to lose baby teeth. Old enough to read simple books. Old enough to come home from school excited about friends and teachers and playground drama. Old enough to be a person. Not just a memory. Not just a name. A child. A little girl who should have existed.

Jack looked away and rubbed a hand across his jaw, trying to push down the familiar ache rising in his chest. He wasn't thinking about the patient. He wasn't picturing some random six-year-old who had fallen off playground equipment. He was picturing you standing in that room, looking down at that chart, seeing the name, seeing the age, and feeling six years of carefully buried grief suddenly crack open beneath your feet. Because he knew exactly how your mind worked. He knew you would've smiled at the patient, reassured the mother, repaired the laceration, and done everything right. You would've been calm and professional because that's what you always were. And all the while, you would've been imagining the life your daughter never got to have.

"How bad?" he finally asked.

Dana's expression softened immediately. Not because of the patient. Because she knew exactly who he was asking about.

"She made it through the shift, which is honestly a miracle. Poor thing was like a walking ghost."

The answer hurt more than Jack expected because he understood exactly what it meant. It meant you'd spent hours pretending to be okay. You'd smiled at patients, answered pages, reviewed charts, taught students, and handled emergencies while carrying around a grief that had probably been tearing you apart from the inside. You'd done what doctors always did. You'd put everyone else first. You'd survived the shift.

But surviving and being okay had never been the same thing.

Without another word, he turned and headed straight upstairs.

The rooftop door creaked shut behind him.

Jack didn't move immediately. He stood near the entrance for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the fading evening light as he searched the rooftop. It didn't take long to find you.

You were standing at the far end, facing the city.

The skyline stretched endlessly before you, washed in gold and blue from the setting sun. Traffic crawled through the streets below, headlights beginning to flicker on as evening settled over Pittsburgh. The city was alive, moving forward the way it always did.

You weren't.

Your arms were wrapped tightly around yourself, shoulders hunched slightly against the wind. From where he stood, you looked small. Not physically. There was just something about grief that shrank people, made them curl inward around pain that nobody else could see. Jack felt his chest tighten because he knew that posture. He'd seen it before.

For a second, he wasn't standing on a hospital roof. He was standing in the doorway of the nursery six years ago, watching you stare into a crib neither of you could bear to dismantle. You hadn't been crying then either. That was the thing most people never understood. The moments that scared him most weren't the ones when you cried. They were the quiet ones. The moments when you became so still, it was like all the life had drained out of you.

Before Lily, you'd never been quiet.

You'd been loud laughter in grocery store aisles. Terrible singing in the car. Endless conversations that jumped from one subject to another so quickly he could barely keep up. You'd always been moving, always talking, always filling every room you entered with energy. Then one day, that woman disappeared, and Jack spent months wondering if she'd ever come back.

She had, eventually.

Mostly.

But there were still days like this.

You must have heard the rooftop door because your head tilted slightly, acknowledging his presence without actually turning around. You already knew it was him.

Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his scrub pants and started walking toward you. He didn't rush. After everything you'd survived together, he'd learned that grief couldn't be rushed. Sometimes the best thing he could do was simply show up and wait for you to let him in.

When he was close enough, he looked out at the city beside you and said, "You know, there are easier ways to avoid answering my texts."

The joke was weak, but intentional.

For a few seconds, you didn't respond. Then he heard you let out a small breath.

"I wasn't answering anyone's texts."

The roughness in your voice immediately told him what he needed to know. You'd been crying for a while.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Dana filled me in."

That was all he said. That was all he needed to say.

Jack stopped beside the railing, leaving just enough space between you that it didn't feel suffocating. One of the things grief had taught both of you was that comfort wasn't always touch. Sometimes comfort was simply presence. Knowing somebody was willing to stand beside you in the dark without demanding you come out of it immediately.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The silence wasn't awkward. It had never been between the two of you. Jack had always loved that about your relationship. He never needed to perform around you. Never needed to fill every quiet moment with conversation. The two of you could stand together without speaking and still understand exactly what the other was feeling.

Eventually, he glanced sideways.

Your eyes were fixed on the horizon, red and swollen from crying. It wasn't the tears that hurt to see. He'd seen you cry before. What hurt was the exhaustion. The defeated look on your face. The expression of someone who had spent hours fighting a battle they couldn't win.

"You should've called me."

The words came out before he could stop them.

You laughed softly, but there wasn't any humor in it.

"Why?"

Jack frowned.

"Because."

You looked at him for the first time.

"Because what?"

"Because I would've come."

The answer was immediate. No hesitation. No uncertainty. As if there had never been any other possible outcome.

Something in your expression cracked at that.

When you finally broke the silence, your voice was so quiet he almost missed it.

"She smiled."

Jack looked over at you.

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

"That's the stupid part. The name hurt. Seeing her age hurt. But I could handle that. I thought I could handle that." Your fingers tightened around your arms. "Then she smiled and I just kept thinking..." You stopped, swallowing hard. "God, our daughter could've smiled like that."

Jack looked away toward the city.

The pain in your voice was familiar. Not because he'd heard those exact words before, but because he'd lived with that same thought for years. There were moments when the grief was manageable, when it sat quietly in the background and let you both function. Then there were moments when something completely ordinary would rip it open again.

A little girl in a grocery store.

A first day of school picture.

A family at a restaurant.

You wiped at your face, frustrated by the tears that refused to stop.

"I just kept looking at her. Every time she talked, every time she rolled her eyes at her mom, every time she laughed, I kept wondering what Lily would've been like."

Your voice cracked around your daughter's name.

"I know she wasn't our daughter. I know that. But I couldn't stop comparing them."

"You don't have to explain that to me."

The answer came immediately.

You looked over at him.

Jack was still staring out at the city, jaw tight, hands shoved into his pockets.

"I've done the same thing."

You blinked.

"What?"

He let out a humorless laugh.

"You think you're the only one?"

For a moment he shook his head, almost embarrassed by the admission.

"There are times I'll see a kid somewhere and immediately start doing the math. Every birthday. Every Christmas. Every school year." He rubbed a hand across his face. "Hell, sometimes I don't even realize I'm doing it."

You stared at him.

Because Jack didn't talk about this.

Not often.

Not unless you dragged it out of him.

The silence stretched between you before he continued.

"I still wonder what she'd look like."

The confession sounded strange coming from him. Vulnerable in a way that felt almost rare.

"I still wonder if she'd have your smile." A small smile appeared briefly at the corner of his mouth. "Or your attitude."

You snorted despite yourself.

"My attitude?"

"Absolutely your attitude."

The smile disappeared as quickly as it came.

"I wonder if she'd like soccer. Or music. Or if she'd hate school." His eyes remained fixed on the horizon. "I wonder if she'd be smart enough to get into trouble and talk her way out of it."

A lump formed in your throat.

Because those weren't hypothetical thoughts.

They were thoughts he'd clearly had before.

Many times.

Thoughts he'd carried by himself.

"I thought I was doing better," you admitted quietly.

Jack finally turned toward you.

"You are."

"It doesn't feel like it."

"No." His voice softened. "It feels like today hurt."

You looked down.

"I spent six years trying not to think about what we missed."

Jack nodded slowly.

"I know."

"And then she walked into that room and suddenly all I could think about was everything our daughter never got."

The words spilled out before you could stop them.

"First grade. Birthday parties. Soccer games. School pictures. Stupid arguments about bedtime. All those little things everyone complains about." Your voice trembled. "We would've loved those things."

Jack's eyes burned.

Because you were right.

You would've.

You would've complained and laughed and argued over homework and worried about report cards. You would've picked her up from school, taken hundreds of pictures, and embarrassed her in front of her friends.

You would've had a daughter.

Instead, all either of you had were imagined versions of a little girl who never got the chance to grow up.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The wind tugged gently at your hair as you stared out at the city below. You closed your eyes for a moment and let the cool air wash over your face. Your chest still hurt. It felt like it had been hurting all day. Maybe longer than that.

Eventually, Jack stepped closer.

Not because he thought he could fix any of it. The two of you had learned that lesson years ago. There were some wounds love couldn't heal and some losses that never became smaller no matter how much time passed. After everything you'd survived together, Jack understood that sometimes the only thing you could offer another person was your presence. A reminder that they weren't carrying the weight alone.

His hand found yours automatically.

The gesture was so familiar neither of you seemed to think about it anymore. Your fingers slipped between his without hesitation, settling into a place they'd been finding for years. There was something painfully comforting about it. Six years later and your body still reached for him whenever things got bad. Six years later and his hand still closed around yours as though it belonged there.

"I miss her too," he said quietly.

The words nearly undid you.

Not because they were profound. They weren't.

There was no attempt to make things better. No reassurance. No careful speech about healing or moving forward. Just the truth. Simple and devastating in a way only truth could be.

I miss her too.

For a moment, neither of you looked at each other. You simply stood there holding hands while tears burned behind your eyes. Jack squeezed your fingers once, and somehow that hurt almost as much as the words.

You stared out at the city for so long that he was beginning to think the conversation was over when a quiet laugh escaped you.

It wasn't really a laugh.

More like a breath that got lost on its way out.

Jack immediately glanced over.

"What?"

You shook your head.

"Nothing."

His eyebrow lifted.

"That's never reassuring."

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched.

"Why?"

"Because every time somebody says 'nothing,' it's followed by something that's definitely not nothing."

For a second, you almost smiled.

Then the feeling disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

Your gaze dropped to your joined hands. Jack's thumb was moving absentmindedly across your knuckles, tracing the same small pattern he'd been tracing for years without ever seeming to realize it. The familiarity of it made your chest ache.

Because this was the part nobody saw.

The years afterward.

The thousands of tiny ways the two of you had kept each other alive.

You swallowed hard.

"I never told you something."

The change in your voice was immediate.

Jack straightened slightly.

"What is it?"

The question was gentle, but you could already see concern settling into his expression.

You looked away.

Suddenly the words felt impossible.

They had lived inside you for six years. Six years of therapy, sleepless nights, anniversaries, birthdays, and somehow you'd never said them out loud. Maybe because saying them would make them real. Maybe because part of you still felt ashamed of them.

But after today, after Lily and the missing front tooth and the smile you couldn't stop thinking about, you weren't sure you could keep carrying it by yourself anymore.

"After we lost Lily..." Your voice caught. "Those first few months were bad."

The moment the words left your mouth, Jack's expression changed.

Not because he disagreed.

Because he remembered.

God, he remembered.

There were entire stretches of those months that had blurred together over time, but some memories never faded. The nursery. The sleepless nights. The endless silence that seemed to fill every room of the apartment. The way both of you kept pretending you were okay because the other person looked worse. The way grief had transformed your home into a place neither of you wanted to be but couldn't bear to leave.

You laughed weakly and wiped at your eyes.

"I was sitting in her room one night."

The memory felt painfully clear.

You could still see the moonlight coming through the window. Still remember sitting in the rocking chair staring at a crib that would never be used.

"And I remember thinking..." Your throat tightened. "God, I remember thinking it wasn't fair that she was gone and I was still here."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

You didn't wipe it away.

For a second neither of you moved.

Jack was looking at you now.

Really looking at you.

The way he did when he knew something important was coming and was almost afraid to hear it.

Your voice dropped to a whisper.

"I thought about joining her."

For a moment, Jack didn't react at all.

The silence stretched between you.

You could actually see the impact of the confession settling over him, could see the exact second it landed. It was like watching the air leave his lungs. His face didn't change immediately. He didn't interrupt. Didn't argue. Didn't rush to reassure you.

He just looked at you.

Heartbroken.

As though six years later he'd discovered there was still a piece of your pain he'd never known existed.

"I never had a plan," you said quickly. "I wasn't going to do anything. It wasn't like that. Or maybe it was, I don't know."

Your voice cracked and you looked away, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

"I was just so tired, Jack."

The words felt inadequate. Ridiculous, even. How were you supposed to explain that kind of exhaustion to someone who had lived through it beside you? Every morning began the same way. For a few brief seconds after waking up, there would be peace. Then reality would return. Lily was gone. She was still gone. She was going to stay gone. And you would have to survive another day knowing it.

"I'd wake up and have to remember all over again," you said quietly. "Every single day. There were mornings when I genuinely didn't know how to keep doing it."

Jack didn't respond. He closed his eyes instead, and you knew exactly where he'd gone. Back to that apartment. Back to those months neither of you ever talked about anymore. Months that felt blurred together now except for the parts that didn't. The nursery. The sleepless nights. The sound of the shower running because it was the only place you could cry without feeling watched. The way grief settled over everything until even breathing felt like work.

Neither of you had survived those months gracefully. There was nothing noble about it. The two of you had stumbled through them half-broken, taking turns falling apart and pretending you weren't. Looking back, it felt less like surviving and more like refusing to die.

When Jack finally opened his eyes again, there was so much pain in them that it made your throat tighten.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

The question wasn't angry. If he'd been angry, you would've known what to do with it. Anger could be defended against. Anger had somewhere to go. This sounded heartbroken, and somehow that hurt more.

A shaky laugh escaped you.

"Look at you."

Jack frowned immediately.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you were barely holding yourself together too."

Your eyes dropped to your joined hands.

"I remember those months, Jack. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and checking if you'd slept at all. I remember finding you sitting in the garage for hours because you thought I didn't notice."

His mouth twitched.

"I was being subtle."

"You were absolutely not being subtle."

For a second, something almost resembling a smile passed between you before disappearing again. The memories were already there, crowding the space. The apartment that had become too quiet. The nursery neither of you could bear to touch. The endless cycle of pretending you were okay because the other person looked worse. You trying to protect him from your grief while he tried to protect you from his. Both of you failing. Both of you loving each other enough to keep trying anyway.

"You stopped eating," you continued softly. "You'd sit at the table and push food around your plate for twenty minutes and call it dinner. I'd wake up at three in the morning and find you staring at the ceiling or sitting on the couch in the dark."

Jack looked away.

"You looked at me like I was going to disappear."

The confession slipped out before you could stop it.

His jaw tightened immediately because he knew it was true. There had been mornings when he'd wake up and panic before he even opened his eyes. Mornings when he'd reach across the bed just to make sure you were still there. Times when he'd come home and find you sitting in the nursery and feel overwhelming relief that you were still breathing.

"You were all I had left."

His voice was so quiet it almost disappeared into the wind.

The words stole the air from your lungs.

Jack kept his gaze fixed on the city.

"I lost Lily," he said, his voice cracking around her name. He swallowed hard before continuing. "I lost Lily, and then I watched you disappear too."

The tears came back immediately.

"There were days I didn't recognize you," he admitted. "And I hated myself for thinking that."

You closed your eyes.

Because you remembered her too. The woman who couldn't walk through the baby aisle without crying. The woman who heard a newborn crying in public and immediately had to leave. Sometimes that version of yourself still scared you.

"I didn't know how to help you," Jack said quietly. "Which was a problem, because helping people is kind of the only thing I know how to do."

That finally pulled the smallest smile from you.

"That's your whole personality?"

"Pretty much."

"You couldn't even fix Robby’s dishwasher."

A faint laugh escaped him.

"I still maintain that wasn't my fault."

For a second the heaviness eased, just enough to breathe.

Then Jack looked back at you, and the humor disappeared.

"If you had told me..."

His voice softened.

"If you had told me you were thinking about something like that, I would've stayed."

The tears slipped down your cheeks.

"I know."

"No."

He shook his head immediately.

"I don't think you do."

There was no anger in his voice. Only grief. Regret. Love. The kind of love that had spent six years carrying the same loss and still hadn't learned how to put it down.

"I would've sat on that nursery floor with you every night if I had to. I would've stayed awake. I would've listened. I would've done anything."

And that was what hurt.

Because you believed him.

You always had.

The problem wasn't that you didn't trust him.

It had never been about trust. If anything, that was the problem. You trusted him completely. You trusted him enough to know exactly what losing Lily had done to him, even when he tried to hide it. You remembered the weight he lost, the sleepless nights, the way he stopped laughing for a while. You remembered the way he looked at you during those first months, as though he was constantly checking to make sure you were still there.

"I couldn't do that to you."

Jack frowned.

"What?"

"I couldn't give you one more thing to carry." Your voice broke. "You were already drowning."

The words seemed to surprise him. For a moment he just stared at you, and then a quiet laugh escaped him. There wasn't any humor in it. If anything, it sounded exhausted. Like the truth hurt too much to do anything else.

"That's exactly what I thought about you."

The words settled heavily between you.

For a second neither of you spoke, because suddenly so many memories looked different. All those nights spent lying awake beside each other pretending to be asleep. All the conversations that stopped just short of what you were really feeling. All the moments one of you had walked into a room and found the other crying, only for both of you to immediately insist you were fine. You had spent years believing you were protecting him. He had spent years believing he was protecting you. Somehow, despite loving each other more than anyone else in the world, you'd both ended up carrying parts of your grief alone.

Jack looked away first, out toward the city lights glittering beneath the darkening sky. His jaw tightened and for a moment you thought he wasn't going to say anything else.

Instead he swallowed hard and asked quietly, "You know what kept me here?"

You blinked.

"What?"

A humorless laugh escaped him as he rubbed a hand across his jaw.

"You."

The answer hit so hard you almost thought you'd misheard him.

Jack kept staring at the city.

"I wasn't staying alive for me back then."

His voice sounded different now. Raw. Stripped of all the things he usually hid behind. You had known Jack through some of the worst moments of his life. You had seen him after Afghanistan. Seen him after surgeries and physical therapy and nightmares that woke him in the middle of the night. You had watched him survive things that would've broken most people.

You couldn't remember the last time he sounded this vulnerable.

"There were days I didn't want to get out of bed," he admitted quietly. "Days when I couldn't think past the next hour. I wasn't doing any of it because I wanted to. I wasn't doing it because I thought things would get better."

He paused, staring out at the skyline.

"I was doing it because of you."

Your throat tightened painfully.

Jack shook his head, almost like he was embarrassed by the admission.

"I knew what losing her was doing to you. I saw it every day. I saw you stop sleeping. I saw you walk around our apartment looking like a ghost." His voice cracked. "And every time I thought about giving up, every time things got bad enough that I just wanted everything to stop, all I could think was that if I left too..."

He stopped.

For a second he couldn't finish.

"...you'd be alone."

The words nearly shattered you.

Jack looked down, blinking hard.

"And that scared me more than anything."

The confession settled between you with a weight that seemed to press against your chest. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't some grand declaration. If anything, it was devastating because of how simple it was. After everything that had happened, after all the pain and anger and grief, the thing that had kept him here was the same thing that had kept you here.

Each other.

You stared at him as memories rearranged themselves inside your head. Every meal he'd forced himself to eat. Every morning he'd gotten out of bed when neither of you wanted to. Every phone call. Every silent drive. Every night he'd sat beside you without saying a word because there weren't any words that could make it better. You had always thought he was being strong for you. It had never occurred to you that he was hanging on just as desperately.

Jack finally turned toward you.

His eyes were red.

There were tears sitting there now, and for once he wasn't trying to hide them.

"Lily is gone."

The words hurt.

They would always hurt.

Nothing was ever going to change that. Not time. Not therapy. Not surviving. There would always be a part of both of you that ached when her name came up. There would always be birthdays and anniversaries and random moments in grocery stores that knocked the air out of your lungs.

But Jack looked at you anyway.

"But you aren't."

A tear slid down his cheek.

He didn't wipe it away.

"And I'm really damn grateful for that."

That was what finally broke you.

Not because you suddenly missed Lily more than you had five minutes ago. Not because the grief was any worse. But because after six years, you finally understood something neither of you had ever said out loud. You had spent all this time believing you survived for him. Believing every impossible day had been endured because you couldn't leave him behind.

And all along, he'd been doing exactly the same thing.

The sob escaped before you could stop it.

Jack didn't try to say anything else. There wasn't anything left to say. Instead, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, and you went immediately. His arms tightened around you the second you buried your face against his shoulder, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. For a long time neither of you moved.

Up here on the roof, there was only the two of you.

Two people who had spent six years carrying the same loss.

Two people who had spent six years keeping each other alive.

And the daughter you would spend the rest of your lives missing.

“—and that brings us to the Q3 deliverables,” your boss continued, oblivious.

You forced a nod, trying to keep your face neutral while Dick slowly lowered himself into a full split on the floor, then rolled into a smooth back handspring. He landed silently, shot you a cheeky wink, and immediately launched into a series of pushups on your kitchen counter.

Your cheeks burned. You muted your microphone for a second and hissed under your breath, “Dick, I swear—”

He blew you a kiss, walked over to the door of the room, and did a one-armed pull-up on the doorframe, shirtless back muscles rippling. The audacity.

You unmuted just in time to answer a question about timelines. Your voice was steady, but your leg was bouncing under the desk. Dick noticed and grinned wider. He dropped down and started doing slow, deliberate push-ups right in your line of sight, counting them out silently while maintaining eye contact with you.

One… two… three…

You were going to kill him.

After the meeting dragged on for another fifteen agonising minutes, you finally closed your laptop with a sigh of relief. The second the camera turned off, you spun in your chair.

“Dick Grayson, I am going to murder you.”

He was mid-handstand again, grinning upside down. “But you looked so cute trying to stay professional. I couldn’t help it.”

You stood up, crossing the room. He flipped down gracefully and caught you around the waist before you could swat him.

“You’re impossible,” you grumbled, but you were smiling despite yourself. His skin was warm from the exercise, and he smelled like citrus soap and that faint scent of sweat that always made your brain a little fuzzy.

“I was lonely,” he said, nuzzling into your neck. “You’ve been in meetings all morning. I missed my favourite coworker.”

“You’re not my coworker,” you laughed, letting him pull you closer. His hands slid under your work blouse, palms warm against your bare back. “You’re my very distracting boyfriend who almost made me blush on camera.”

Dick’s grin turned mischievous. “Almost? Damn. I’ll have to try harder next time.”

You swatted his chest, but he just laughed and lifted you effortlessly, spinning you once before setting you on the kitchen counter. He stepped between your legs, hands resting on your thighs.

“I’m serious,” you said, poking his chest. “I have another meeting in thirty minutes. Behave.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Thirty minutes is plenty of time for me to behave… or misbehave. Your choice.”

You shivered at the low tone in his voice. His hands slid higher on your thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just under the hem of your skirt. The touch was teasing, affectionate, full of promise.

“You’re going to be the death of my productivity,” you murmured, but you were already tilting your head to give him better access to your neck.

He kissed the spot just below your ear, soft and lingering. “Worth it.”

For the next twenty minutes, Dick was the perfect distraction — sweet kisses, gentle touches, whispered compliments that made your cheeks warm. He never pushed too far, always checking in with soft eyes and a playful smile. When your next meeting reminder pinged, he groaned dramatically but stepped back, hands raised in surrender.

“Fine, fine. Go be responsible. I’ll be here, waiting patiently.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Patiently?”

He grinned. “Mostly patiently.”

You kissed him one last time — quick and sweet — and returned to your desk. The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings, but every so often you’d catch Dick doing something ridiculous in the background just to make you smile: juggling oranges, balancing on one hand while reading a book, or doing slow, dramatic somersaults across the living room.

By the time you finally closed your laptop for the day, you were exhausted but happy. Dick was waiting on the couch, arms open.

“Come here,” he said softly.

You crawled into his lap, letting him wrap you up in a warm hug. He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then your lips — slow and sweet, like he’d been saving it all day.

“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth. “Even when you have to work and I have to be patient.”

You smiled, nuzzling into his neck. “I love you too. My very distracting, very acrobatic boyfriend.”

He chuckled, hands stroking your back. “I’ll take that title.”

The two of you stayed like that for a long time — tangled together on the couch, the city humming far below, the afternoon light turning golden through the windows.

Dick Grayson might be the golden boy of the Titans team, the charming Wayne boy, the hero who saved everyone else.

But with you, he was just Dick — the man who did handstands in the living room to make you laugh, who waited patiently when you had to work, and who loved you with a bright, unwavering joy that never dimmed.

And you?

You were exactly where you wanted to be.

With your favorite distraction.

Except the tightness in his chest had gotten worse. And the cough drops weren’t doing a damn thing. Every time he tried to take a deep breath, it felt like an invisible band was squeezing his lungs. His voice had taken on a rougher edge and he’d start wheezing if he tried to say more than few words at a time.

“You look like shit,” said a familiar voice behind him.

Jack turned to find Robby standing there, coffee in hand, ready to start his shift. “Good morning to you, too. Some of us have been up all night.”

Robby hummed. “And some of us are clearly coming down with something. Seriously, Jack, you don’t look good. Are you okay?”

Jack waved a hand through the air in dismissal. “Fine. Just a little under the weather.”

“Is that why you’re breathing like you just ran a marathon?” Robby took a step closer. “You’re wheezing and I’m not the only one that noticed. I got three texts from night shift.”

“It’s just a cold.” Jack tried to take a deep breath to prove his point but it caught in his throat, triggering another coughing fit. This one was worse than the others and had him gripping the edge of the counter for support.

When the coughing subsided, Robby’s gaze was stern. “That doesn’t sound like a cold to me.”

“It’s nothing,” Jack insisted, though the pain in his chest suggested otherwise. “Probably just moved to my chest is all.”

Robby sat his coffee down and crossed his arms. “That is not nothing. I want labs and a chest x-ray.”

“Christ, Mike. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“I’m not asking, Jack. You’re a doctor. You know better than to ignore stuff like this.” His tone left no room for argument.

Jack recognized the look his friend was giving him. He wasn’t getting out of this. He sighed. “Fine. One x-ray. Then I’m going home to sleep.”

“Deal,” Robby said, already putting in the order for the portable chest x-ray into the system. He glanced at Dana who hadn’t even pretended she wasn’t listening.

“Eight’s open.”

“A room, man? Come on,” Jack complained but headed in that direction.

“Quit complaining,” Robby said as he trailed behind him, signaling the radiology tech with the machine to follow him. “Shirt off, Abbot.”

“Buy me dinner first,” Jack snarked even as he did as told. He laid down and the machine was positioned over the top of him.

“Take a deep breath and hold it,” Marcia the tech instructed.

The first time he attempted to follow instructions, he devolved into a coughing fit. “Sorry,” he apologized once he caught his breath.

“It’s fine. Just do the best you can.” The tech took three shots from different angles.

Robby slid on his glasses and stepped up to the machine while Jack put his t-shirt back on, forgoing the scrub top since his shift was over anyway.

“Let me guess. Nothing but a little inflammation. Can I go home now?”

“Leave us for a minute,” Robby said to Marcia, voice low.

Jack’s head snapped up, his gaze darting from his friend to the screen he was looking at and back again. “What is it?”

Robby turned the screen toward Jack so he could see for himself. Even from across the room, he could see the large white mass shadowing his right lung.

He swallowed hard. “That could be pneumonia. Or an abscess or something.”

“It could be,” Robby agreed but his tone suggested he didn’t believe it. “I’ve sent it up to pulmonary.” His phone rang before he could say anything else. He glanced at the screen. “That was fast.”

Jack shifted his weight as he listened to Robby’s one-sided conversation with pulmonary. When he hung up, he turned to look at Jack.

“Dr. Tanaka wants to see you immediately.” He paused and looked at Jack as if the name should mean something to him. It didn’t. After a moment, Robby took a breath. “He’s sent an order to CT. You’re to report there and then head to his office.”

“Right now?” Jack’s voice was little more than a whisper. The words having to be forced past the lump in his throat. This was all happening too fast. One moment he’d been dismissing his persistent cough and the next he was being scheduled for immediate appointments with pulmonary. “It’s probably nothing. Just a weird artefact in the imaging or something,” he said more to himself than Robby.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Robby agreed, but the worry in his eyes said something else entirely. “But you’re going to get checked out thoroughly just to be sure.”

Within half an hour, Jack was laying on the table in a gown as the CT hummed around him. The contrast dye made him feel warm and vaguely nauseous, but it was nothing compared to the cold fear settling in his stomach.

The tech entered the room. “All finished. By the time you get changed and to his office, Dr. Tanaka should have the images.”

Jack cleared his throat. “That’s fast.”

“You’re a VIP patient today, Dr. Abbot.”

There was nothing Jack wanted to be less. He didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to be doing this. He wanted to go home, go to bed and pretend none of this ever happened.

He made his way to the pulmonary floor trying to prepare himself for whatever Dr. Tanaka might say. He’d delivered bad news to patients and their families plenty of times, but he hadn’t been on the receiving end since Mari died.

The waiting room was empty when he arrived, the early hour meaning most patients hadn’t arrived for the appointments yet. The receptionist smiled as he approached. “Dr. Abbot? Dr. Tanaka is ready for you. Third door on the right.”

Jack took a deep breath, or tried to, and headed down the hall. Whatever was waiting for him, he would face it like he did everything else. Head on. Even if, for the first time in years, he was truly afraid.

When he entered the room, Jack was surprised to find himself in an office instead of an exam room. Tanaka rose to greet him. “Dr. Abbot,” he held out a hand to shake Jack’s.

“Just Jack,” he said with a nod before taking one of the chairs in front of the desk.

“Very well. Jack, then.” Tanaka stayed standing and pressed a couple of buttons on his computer and the large screen behind him lit up with an image of what Jack assumed were his lungs. He pointed at the mass that seemed to branch out from the right lung. “Do you know what you’re looking at here?”

Jack studied the image noting the abnormal density, the way it seemed to branch through his lung tissue like the roots of a plant. The mass was larger than it had appeared in the x-ray, more defined.

Jack swallowed. “A tumor. Probably malignant given the irregularities and the rapid growth.” He’d seen the symptoms enough in his patients to recognize the pattern. The cough, the tight chest, the fatigue. Classic presentation for lung cancer.

Tanaka shook his head. “I had my suspicions from your x-ray but the CT confirms.” He used a finger to indicate several areas on the scan. “Do you see these fine lines extending from the main mass?”

Jack leaned forward. Now that the doctor pointed it out, he could see delicate lines spreading through his lung tissue. “Vascularization?” he guessed.

“Not exactly.” Tanaka took a seat at his desk. “What you’re seeing is consistent with the presentation of Hanahaki disease.”

Jack physically jerked back in his seat. That wasn’t… “That’s impossible. I want a second opinion.”

“You are certainly entitled to one, but I am the leading expert in Hanahaki in the state.” He wasn’t bragging, just stating a fact.

The look Robby had given him when he’d said the name suddenly made so much sense. “I’ve only ever loved my wife, and she’s dead. Has been for years.”

Jack had seen Hanahaki before, of course he had. The condition was rare and still not well understood. Unrequited love manifesting physically with the growth of flowers in the lungs. But it was something that happened to young romantics or the occasional middle-age yearner, not to someone like him. Not to an old, broken ER attending who’d buried his heart with his wife six years ago.

“I’m sorry, but the blood tests confirm.” He clicked on his screen and Jack’s results populated the screen.

Jack shook his head, unable to process what he was hearing. “Run more tests. There has to be a mistake.”

“Dr. Abbot, Jack, we can run additional tests, but given your symptoms and the findings, Hanahaki is our working diagnosis.” He paused, studying Jack’s face. “I suggest you do some soul searching. You’re in love whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.”

Jack opened his mouth to argue but another coughing fit seized him, doubling him over. His lungs burned as he struggled to draw breath. When it finally subsided, he was surprised to find Tanaka standing in front of him holding a tissue. Only when he took it did he understand why. Delicate pink petals filled his palm.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, staring at the evidence in his hand.

“That’s confirmation enough for me,” Dr. Tanaka said quietly. “The small petals are consistent with early stage Hanahaki. They’ll become larger and more numerous as the disease progresses, until you are expelling full blooms.”

Jack couldn’t tear his gaze away from the petals. Each one was perfect, like they’d been plucked from some unseen garden growing inside him. And he supposed in a way they had. “How long?” he managed to ask.

“Hard to say without knowing how fast it’s progressing. We’ll do another scan in a week and go from there.” Tanaka paused then added, “I assume you are aware of your options.”

Jack nodded once. “Surgery or…death.” He had to force the last word past his lips. He’d engaged in reckless behavior, volunteering for SWAT, standing on the edge of the roof while he thought about how easy it would be to just not have to deal with it all anymore. To not be alone every fucking day of his life. But now that the very real possibility of his death was looming in the shadows he suddenly found he didn’t want it.

“As you are aware, the surgery would remove any feelings for the person in question. You may forget them entirely though that is very rare. There is also always the possibility that the person you love will return your affections. Then no intervention would be needed,” Tanaka said, voice soft. “The matter would resolve on its own. It’s quite remarkable really.”

Jack looked down at the petals again. The idea that his body had somehow conjured flowers from a love he wasn’t even aware of seemed impossible. Yet the evidence was literally in his hand.

“You have a lot to think about,” Tanaka said, standing. “I’ll schedule another scan for next week and we can talk about options.”

“Thank you,” Jack said as he stood as well.

“You should take it easy until then. The coughing may worsen, particularly if you’re stressed or physically exerted. I’d recommend time off work.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jack said, but the thought of sitting alone at home with his thoughts was not one he wanted to contemplate at the moment.

Dr. Tanaka seemed to sense his turmoil. “This is a lot to process. Many patients find it helpful to talk to someone. A therapist or a family member. And I suggest a discussion with the person—”

“There is no person,” Jack cut him off sharply. “My wife has been dead for six years. There’s been no one since.”

The other man didn’t argue, but his expression made it clear he wasn’t convinced. “I’ll see you next week. Call if you have any questions or concerns before then.”

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” Jack turned and hurried from the room, closing the door behind him. In the hall, he pressed his back against the wall. He took the deepest breath he had since entering the office. The tightness in his chest reminded him of the flowers blooming where they had no right to be.

Love.

The word echoed in his head. He’d buried that part of himself when Mari died. The idea that his body had somehow betrayed him, had grown flowers for someone else…It was too much. He couldn’t accept it. Wouldn’t.

He pushed off the wall and headed for the elevator. One foot in front of the other. That’s how he’d gotten through the worst days after Mari’s death and that’s how he would get through this.

Jack made it back to the ER on autopilot, his mind still reeling. Day shift was in full swing. Jack just stood for a minute, trying to orientate himself, feeling oddly disconnected from the familiar chaos.

“Jack!”

He turned to find Robby hurrying toward him. His face was creased with worry, eyes scanning Jack’s features as if searching for visible changes.

“Well? What did he say?”

Jack opened his mouth, then closed it again. How did he possibly explain he was coughing up petals for someone he was supposedly in love with? It was stupid. Ridiculous. And just the sort of thing that would happen to him. Of course it was.

“It’s not possible,” he finally forced out. “It’s not…Mike, I…” His voice cracked, another cough building in his chest.

“Okay, okay,” Robby said, his tone shifting from urgent to soothing. “Let’s sit down, huh? You look like you’re about ready to fall over.”

Before Jack could protest, Robby led him through the department toward the breakroom. He deposited him in a chair at one of the tables, then turned to fill a cup with water. “Here, drink,” he instructed as he sat it in front of Jack.

Jack obeyed mechanically, the cool liquid soothing his raw throat. The simple act centered him somewhat, anchoring him to the present moment.

Robby pulled out a chair and sat down. “Now, what did Tanaka say?”

Jack stared at the cup in his hands. “Hanahaki,” he said finally.

“Shit. I thought it might be when they said Tanaka wanted to see you.” Robby sighed and ran a hand over his mouth. “He’s the best, so there’s that at least.”

Jack shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense, man. I haven’t been in love with anyone since Mari died.”

An expression he couldn’t place flicked across Robby’s face before shifting to disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”

Jack frowned. “What’s with the tone? Why are you making it sound like I’m stupid?”

“Because you are,” Robby said without hesitation. When Jack just stared at him, Robby pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, then crossed his arms over his chest. “You really don’t know?”

“Know what?” Jack demanded, irritation briefly overriding his confusion.

Your name was the only thing that left Robby’s lips.

Jack blinked and repeated it like a question. Like your face hadn’t just appeared in his brain. Like he didn’t instantly think about your smile, hear your laugh.

“Yes!” Robby threw his hands up in exasperation. “The woman you’ve been staring at with a besotted expression for the past eight months? The one you look for anytime you enter the department? The one whose coffee order you have memorized?”

No, no. That couldn’t be right. “But she’s—”

“Brilliant,” Robby stated. “Funny. Kind. Beautiful. Should I continue to list off everything you said to me the last time we went out? You talked about her all night, man.”

“I mean…I respect her.” The words felt inadequate even as he said them. Images of you flashed through his mind. The way you laughed at your own jokes even if no one else did, how you always remembered small details about people, that furrow that appeared between your brows when you were concentrating.

“She’s dedicated,” he continued. “Compassionate. She doesn’t take shit from anyone, but she’s never mean about it. And she’s…” He trailed off, suddenly realizing he could continue talking about you for the rest of the day.

“She’s what?” Robby prompted, a knowing look on his face.

Jack shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t love her. I can’t.”

“Why not? Because you loved Mari? Loving someone else doesn’t erase what you had with her.”

“It’s not that simple,” Jack argued, though he couldn’t have explained why if someone pressed.

“It actually is,” Robby replied, not unkindly. “You loved your wife. She died and it broke you. For a long time, I wasn’t certain you’d ever put yourself back together. But you have. And against all odds you found someone who makes you feel something again. Instead of being grateful, instead of grasping it with both hands, you’re literally making yourself sick denying it.”

“It’s not…I haven’t—”

“You have,” Robby interrupted. “Everyone knows you’re in love with her except you and her, apparently.” He sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Just think about it, okay? Really think about it.”

As if on cue, another coughing fit seized Jack, this one stronger than the last. He doubled over, hand braced against the table as his chest contracted painfully. When it finally subsided, he found his palm filled with more petals, the edges tinged with blood.

“Holy shit.” Robby stared at the evidence in front of him.

Jack closed his hand around the petals, as if hiding them from view would make them cease to exist. “I need to get out of here. I need to go home.” He pushed himself to his feet. The room titled slightly, his vision blurring at the edges.

“You’re in no condition to drive,” Robby said standing as well, typing on his phone. “Let me have someone run you home.”

“I’m fine,” Jack insisted though the wheeze in his voice undermined his claim. “I just need some sleep. I need to rest.” He needed to get you out of his brain.

“You need to figure this out, Jack. Finding out you have Hanahaki would throw anyone for a loop, especially when you didn’t even realize you were in love. But this isn’t something you can ignore. It won’t just go away, it will only get worse.

Robby was right, Jack knew he was. He’d been ignoring what was happening for weeks, dismissing symptoms, making excuses. And now he was paying the price.

“I know. I’ll think about what you said. I promise.”

“Good. That’s a start. Now get your things together. Your ride should be here in a minute.”

Now, when Robby said ride, Jack assumed he meant an intern. An uber perhaps. What he did not expect to see when he stepped through the doors was you. You’d pulled your car to the side where it wouldn’t impede any ambulances and you leaned against it. It took him longer than he’d admit to realize you were waiting for him.

Jack spun on his heel to glare at his former best friend. “What the fuck did you do?” he hissed.

Robby gave him a look of feigned innocence. “Got you a ride.”

“You asked her?”

At that he grinned. “Actually, I sent a message to the group chat. She volunteered.”

“Oh.” He looked over to find you in the same position, your gaze moving between the two attendings. He lifted a hand in greeting and to let you know he’d be right there.

You nodded, waved at Robby and got behind the wheel.

“What do I do?” Jack asked, suddenly at a loss.

Robby rested a heavy hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You don’t have to do anything, brother. Just let her take you home. Think about how you really feel about her. That’s all.”

“Yeah, yeah, I can do that,” Jack agreed with a nod of his head. “I’ll see you later.”

“Not tonight you won’t,” Robby corrected. “You’re off until Friday at the earliest. Doctor’s orders.”

Jack didn’t bother to argue. Knew there would be no point. And honestly, he could use a few days to get his head straight. He held up a hand in goodbye as he made his way to your car, his mind churning. What if Robby was right? What if he’d fallen in love without realizing it, what then? You had never given any indication you felt the same. The idea of confessing feelings that might not be returned…

Another cough built in his chest as if his body was responding to the thought. He swallowed hard, forcing it down. One problem at a time. First, he needed to get home. Then he needed to figure out if Robby was right.

As if sensing Jack was lost his head, you didn’t attempt to make conversation after your initial greeting once he got in the car. When you arrived at his house, he finally turned to look at you. “Thanks for the ride. I would have been fine driving but Robby insisted.”

“I didn’t mind, Jack. However, I’m afraid you can’t be rid of me just yet.”

His brows shot up into his hairline. “Excuse me?”

“Bossman said, and I quote, ‘get his ass inside and into bed with a glass of water and trashcan nearby.’ So that’s what I’m going to do. Let’s go.” You climbed out of the car and waited for him to exit before locking the doors.

“I assure you that his is not necessary,” Jack argued. More than that, it could be catastrophic. Having you in his house, where he’d now be able to picture you clearly instead of relying solely on his imagination? That sounded like a horrible idea. Not that he’d ever pictured you in his house. Sitting across from him at the table, nestled into his side as you watched TV. That would be absurd.

You took his bag from his loose hold and ignored his protests as you carried it up to the door. Jack stared at you hopeless for another moment before sighing and following after you. “Keys are in the front pocket.”

You pulled them out and handed them over. He unlocked the door, leaving it open for you to follow after. He gestured at the hooks just inside the door. “You can hang the bag there.”

You did and kicked off your shoes, nudging them to line up against the wall. “Robby didn’t exactly say what was wrong with you.” You paused, but Jack didn’t offer any clarification. No, that would be a monumentally stupid thing to do. You cleared your throat. “Are you hungry? I could make you something.”

“No, sweetheart, I’m fine.” The endearment slipped out without thought. He suddenly wondered when the first time was he had called you that. And when had that become the norm instead of your name? Christ. He wiped a hand down his face. “I’m fucking exhausted. I just want to go to bed.”

You nodded. “Sure. Let me get you that water at least.”

Jack just nodded and headed down the hall toward his bedroom to fish out something to change into after his shower. You stepped into the doorway just as he finished taking off his leg. He froze and swallowed. “Sorry. Forgot you’d be coming back here.”

You smiled and Jack had to glance away. “It’s your home, Jack, and I’ve seen you without the leg before. It’s not like you were nude. Here.” You sat the glass on the nightstand. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No. I’ve got it. Thank you.” You had seen him without the leg precisely once when it started rubbing wrong on a shift and you’d made him sit down and get an exam. You’d also bullied him into supervising from a wheelchair for the rest of the night when you saw his red, raw flesh by threatening to call Robby and tattle on him.

Your gaze ran over him, assessing. He could feel it. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

His eyes found yours again but he said nothing.

“You just seem off.” Worry shone in your eyes and he forced himself to look away once more.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

After a moment, you stepped toward the door. “Call me if you need anything, okay? Anything at all.” When he only nodded, you added, “Promise?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat when he heard the gravel in his voice. “Promise.”

“Okay. Bye, Jack.” And with that, you left without waiting for a response.

Tension immediately flowed from Jack’s entire body. Jesus, Robby couldn’t have found literally anyone else to bring him home? He pushed thoughts of you from his head as he finished stripping. Using his crutches, he moved into the shower, ready to rinse the night off so he could get some sleep.

Not thinking of you lasted approximately two and a half minutes after he turned the water on. He’d turned the temp up on the water hoping it would help clear his lungs. His chest ached with each breath, a constant reminder of the flowers blooming in his lungs.

Flowers.

For you.

It was ridiculous. Yes, he enjoyed working with you. You were competent, smart, quick to smile and to make others laugh. You had a way with patients that made even the most difficult cases manageable. And so what if he’d noticed the way your eyes crinkled at the corners when you smiled, or that you tapped your fingers when you were thinking?

But that didn’t mean he was in love with you. Love was what he’d had with Mari. All consuming, life-altering, the kind that left you devastated and broken when it was no longer yours. What he felt for you was…appreciation. Admiration, perhaps. Friendship. That was it. He loved you like a very dear friend.

Except friends didn’t keep mental lists of your favorite foods, or notice when you changed your shampoo, or come in on their nights off because you were working. Friends didn’t feel their mood lift the moment you walked into a room or find themselves replaying conversations long after they’d ended.

Jack groaned, rinsing the last of the shampoo out of his hair. This was insane. He was a grown man, not some teenager with a crush. He’d been married, for fuck’s sake. He knew what love felt like.

Or he had once. Before Mari died, leaving him hollowed out and certain he would never feel that way again. He’d adjusted to his solitude. To the bed being too big and the house too quiet.

But lately…

He sucked in a shaky breath as he finally admitted to himself that he’d been pursuing you without even realizing it. No wonder Robby had looked at him like he was an idiot. He was.

“I’m fond of her,” he said aloud, testing the words. “That’s all it is. A fondness.” It couldn’t be love, because if it was that meant—

His chest contracted sharply, another cough building. This one came on faster than the others, stealing his breath before he could prepare. He curled forward, one hand pressed to his sternum as his lungs spasmed. The coughing fit seemed to last forever, each breath harder than the last, until finally, blessedly, it subsided.

When he could breathe again, he opened his eyes to see dozens of petals swirling toward the drain. Proof, if he’d needed it that Tanaka was right. That Robby was right.

He was in love with you. For far longer than he cared to admit.

Tears mixed with the water running down his cheeks as his shoulders shook in a silent sob. He’d fallen in love with you and hadn’t even realized because it was so subtle, so quiet, compared to what he’d had with his wife. He’d lost out on so much time with you because he was too afraid to examine his feelings. To admit to himself what everyone else had known all along.

But what difference did it make really? Because even if he loved you, what then? You’d never given any indication you felt the same. No lingering looks or soft touches. Nothing to suggest you saw him as anything more than a colleague.

And why would you? He was damaged goods. A widower with a missing leg and more baggage than most people would want to deal with. You were vibrant, fully engaged with life in a way he had long forgotten. You deserved someone whole, someone who could love you without reservation or complication. Someone who didn’t still wake reaching for a wife that would never be there again.

Jack closed his eyes and took another shaky breath as he turned off the water. As he dried off and headed for bed, he considered his options. He’d meet with Tanaka and schedule the surgery. But he should talk to you first. He knew he should. But he was so fucking scared.

He reached for his phone, thumb hovering over your name in his contacts. You’d told him to call if he needed anything, but what if he only needed you? He could hear your voice, ask you to come back. He could tell you everything and hope maybe you felt the same.

He moved to the call button, then stopped. He needed to sleep first. Needed to be fully about himself before he decided how to approach this. It took hours of tossing and turning before he finally found rest, but even that was fitful.

He glanced at the clock when he woke to find it nearing seven. At least he’d managed a few hours. You were working, so his grand confession would have to wait. Maybe he could meet you after shift and take you to breakfast.

He was so lost in his head when he opened the bedroom door that he almost disregarded the rich aroma filling the air and the soft sounds from his kitchen. He frowned and moved into the other room, calling a soft “Hello?” as he went.

As he stepped into the doorway, you glanced at him over your shoulder and he sucked in a breath. You were here. In his home. Making dinner.

“You stayed?” he asked, voice rougher than intended.

You shrugged and turned back to the stove. “You didn’t look okay. I wanted to be close, crashed on the couch. I hope I didn’t overstep.”

He swallowed down the words that rose in his throat. No. Never. Stay the night. Stay forever. “Don’t you have to work?”

“Bossman gave me the night off. Told me to take care of you if I was that worried. I wasn’t going to argue with him. Thought I’d make you some soup.” You didn’t look at him, but he could hear the concern in your tone, the worry that he would be upset with you for taking care of him.

He just watched you move in his space like you belonged there.

Finally, you glanced at him again and gave him a small smile when you found him watching. “Where’s your bowls?”

“I’ll get them,” he said, suddenly desperate to do something.

It was a simple task but before he could even open the cabinet, he was seized by another violent coughing fit. He bent over the sink, bracing against the edge for support. His chest burned and his vision blurred at the edge. He vaguely registered you saying his name and a hand landing on his back, warm even through the fabric of his shirt.

When the fit finally subsided, he was horrified to see the petals that littered the sink.

You went completely still beside him. “Jack, are those…”

“It’s not…” he started then trailed off. There was no explanation he could give you beside the truth.

“Oh,” you said softly, your fingers curling in as you removed your touch from his back. You took a step away. “Who is it?” You sounded resigned, maybe even a little hurt.

The question hung between you. Jack remained braced against the sink, unable to look at you. “When my wife died, I thought I would never love anyone again. That it would be impossible. So, when it happened, I didn’t even realize it. Or I suppose it’s more like I ignored it.” He risked a glance at your reflection in the window above the sink. “I guess my body didn’t like that. It’s making me face it.”

“That wasn’t my question, Jack.” Your voice was smaller than he’d ever heard it.

He turned to face you then, his hip leaning against the counter to take his weight. “Don’t you know, sweetheart? According to Robby, it’s obvious to everyone in the department that I’m crazy about you.”

Jack watched your face for your reaction. Anything. But your expression remained carefully blank aside from a slight widening of your eyes.

“Me?” you finally said, the word barely audible.

“Yeah.” Jack pushed off from the counter, using his crutches to move over to one of the chairs and dropping into it. He kept his gaze on anything but you. “But I don’t expect anything. You don’t owe me anything. I have options. I’ll be fine. I see the doctor again next week and I can get the surgery scheduled.”

 “Jack Abbot, if you have that surgery, I will never forgive you.” Your sharp tone had his head immediately snapping over to follow you as you stepped toward him.

“What? Why?”

“Because it is completely unnecessary, you idiot. I have been in love with you for ages.”

Time seemed to stop. Jack stared at you, certain he’d misheard. “What?”

You came to a stop in front of him. “I’ve loved you for months, probably longer. I just didn’t think that you would ever…that you could ever…”

The rest of your sentence was lost as Jack pulled you forward into his arms, one hand coming up to cradle your face. His thumb traced your lips as your eyes searched his. He leaned in, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His lips found yours hesitantly at first, then with growing certainty as you responded. He laughed against your mouth as you turned and sat sideways in his lap. When he finally pulled back completely, the first thing he noticed was your wide smile and the joy in your eyes.

The second was, that for the first time in weeks—in six years, really—he could finally, simply, breathe.

And when Superman came home from saving the world he became just your Clark. You remember the day he told you he loved you. It was late. About 2 in the morning. He had come back from his Superman duties and you were making him pancakes. He just watched you for a while. You were tired but still you insisted on him getting some food in his stomach.

It's not like it hit him like a truck, he knew he loved you for a while now but this just solidified the fact. I love you He blurted out causing you to freeze. In that moment home had become something more to the two of you. This was home.

So of course Clark would ask you to be his date at a hometown wedding and of course you accepted. You had met his parents a couple times but you hadn't met the town of Smallville. Gossip spreads like wildfire and you knew that Clark Kent's city date would be on the list of town gossip.

It was terrifying.

You were stepping into the unknown. Seeing a side of his life that you hadn't been apart of. It felt silly to be so worried about it. The Kent's loved you and so did Clark so nothing else should matter. But that poison seeped into your head the more you let yourself think about it.

You glance at the mirror of the Kent's guestroom for the hundredth time this morning. The dress you bought just for today laying on the bed as you work up the courage to put it on. You're wasting time and you know it. The ceremony is supposed to start in an hour and the drive was 10 minutes and you know that the Kent's are going to get stopped to chat which adds another 30 minutes before you can even get into the venue.

"Honey? We're leaving soon." Clark calls through the door. The door twists open and he peeks his head in.

"Oh!" He blushes as he covers his eyes with his hand when he see's your state of undress. You let out a laugh as you pull him into the room.

"Clark you don't have to cover your eyes, you've seen me naked before." You tease as he keeps his hand firmly over his eyes.

"That's different." He argues and you just shake your head.

"Not to rush you, but we do have to get going soon. Ma loves to chat and I already know that Mrs. Baker is going to stop us and that conversation is going to be very embarassing for me." Your smile falls slightly as you turn away.

"Just, a little nervous is all." You pick the dress up off the bed and step into it.

"Nervous for what? They're all gonna love you." Clark says with such confidence you almost believe him. What could possibly be nerve-wracking about going to a wedding in your boyfriends childhood hometown where everyone is going to gossip and grill you about your relationship with him?

"Can you help me?" You ask, dodging his question as you stare into the mirror.

Clark finally puts his hand down, grinning like a fool as he walks up behind you. His hands ghosting your hips as he kisses your cheek.

"You know it's rude to outshine the couple honey." He teases as his warm hands gently trace your back. The blush on his face still burning through his skin as he zips up your dress.

"Oh please, you've shown me the engagement photos I don't think that's possible." You say as you turn to adjust Clark's tie.

"Well, you outshine anyone in the room to me."

Kids! Come on we gotta go!" Martha calls from the kitchen.

"Coming Ma!" Clark calls back.

With a flash of his smile he grabs your hand and leads you down the stairs. Thank god for Mrs. Kent's ability to talk because she kept Clark busy the whole car ride. It was so sweet how happy she was to have Clark actually home for more than just a quick visit. He slipped back so easily into that charming farm boy persona that you had only seen glimpses of back in Metropolis. It suited him.

It seems this wedding was a whole town affair as you saw the group of people standing outside of the church. With a deep breath you tell yourself to calm down as the truck came to a stop. Clark hops out of the car first and jogs over to the other side before you can even think about opening the door.

He never let you open doors anymore, that was his job now. He holds his hand out to help you out of his dad's truck. Smiling as he offers you his arm to take as you walk towards the group who's eyes had turned to you and Clark.

"Well I'll be, Is that Clark Kent?" An older lady calls, a big smile on her face as she walks over.

"Told you." Clark mumbles in your ear before flashing a smile. Ah, Mrs. Baker.

"Yes Ma'am it is."

"I haven't seen you since you were a little boy." She grabs Clark's face and squishes his cheeks. You laugh as he gently pries her hands off his face.

"And you must be his date! Oh aren't you a pretty thing." She turns her sights to you and you smile nervously.

"I used to look after Clark when he was just a baby. Oh he was just the cutest thing. When he was three he had this blue blanket that he would refuse to let go of and cried when Martha tried to wash it." You laugh as you look at Clark who has turned bright red. She leans in closer to you winks at Clark.

"He swears he got rid of it by 5 but between you and me he slept with it till he was 10."

"Okay thank you Mrs. Baker, We should really be finding our seats soon." Clark interrupts, gently guiding you away from the woman before she could reveal any more embarassing things.

"She's exaggerating." He says as he tries to calm his burning face. You look over at him and nod, though your face smiling too wide for it to be sincere.

"I'm sure she is. So what did you name it?" You ask jokingly and he just huffs.

"Blankie..." He mumbles and you pinch his cheek teasingly.

He takes your hand and guides you through the crowd of people. It seems everyone knows him as they call his name and try and drag him into a conversation. He does his best to evade them but right as you're about to sit Martha calls his name.

"Clark! You remember the Lang's right? Come over and say hi." He groans and looks at you sadly.

"Go say hi honey, I'll be here." He hesitates, clearly wanting to stay here with you.

But you knew this was going to be a part of the day so you push him towards his mother. You could survive a few minutes alone and frankly it also means you can let yourself breathe for a second.

"Hi there!" A perky blonde woman appears in front of you. Her smile scares you a little as you reach out and shake her extended hand.

"Hi…" You look over and Clark was deep in conversation. Shit. She follows your line of sight and gasps as she puts two and two together.

"So you're Clark's date! Well aren't you just a lucky duck." She looks you over and you start to feel uncomfortable.

"So so glad you could make it, ever since Martha let it slip that her son was seeing someone we've all been dying to meet them. I mean after Lana what other great love story could Clark have?"

"Lana?" You ask and her expression turns curious.

"Lana Lang? Clark's old girlfriend. Oh they were so good together. We all thought they were going to be together forever but then she got accepted to a school on the other side of the country. Brillant one she was. And then Clark left for Metropolis and well." She sighs as she fails to notice the growing unease on your face.

Clark had never told you about Lana. Sure you never asked and it really wasn't your buisness either but seeing the way this lady was making them out to be some epic fairytale romance, it made you wonder why you hadn't even heard her name.

"I always thought they'd meet down the road one day. Right person wrong time kind of thing you know? But it seems I was wrong and you seem lovely!" She flashes that smile again and you let out a strangled hum. Was it hot in here or was it just the ugly feelings brewing in your stomach.

"Well I better go, nice to meet you." As she leaves Clark slids into the pew right next to you barely giving you time to breathe.

"Jeez am I glad to be out of that conversation." He mumbles as he takes notice of the woman you were speaking to.

"That's Mrs. Haroldhaus. She is the leader of the PTA and as my ma put it, a very unkind woman."

"Wow, those are some harsh words coming from her." You try and joke back. Clark looks at you for a moment.

"Did she say something? Because whatever it is is complete nonsense." You dig your nails into your palm but Clark locks his fingers with yours the moment he sees it.

"No she didn't say anything, it's just a lot of people I don't know who all seem to know me already." You tell him.

"That's Smallville for you, but I promise it's nothing but town gossip. Seeing your beautiful face is probably the most exciting thing to happen in weeks." He leans in to kiss your forehead and for a moment all the voices in your head are silenced.

He doesn't let go of your hand for the whole ceremony. His thumb brushing the back of your hand soothingly throughout it. Clark swears he's not a crier but you saw him wipe his eyes as the vows were said. And you almost cry when he leans over and whispers that he loves you as they say I do. The bells ring and everything that woman said has left your mind. Clark's very presence doing enough to quiet the doubt that's been growing in your heart.

It's no surprise that the reception is held at a barn just down the road from the Kent's. It's the biggest venue in town after all. It barely feels like a barn with all the decoration and the distinct lack of animal smell. It was interesting watching Clark almost revert back to his Smallville self. A southern drawl even slipping its way out now and then.

He looked so free. So natural back here. Free from the weight of Superman and the deadlines of the planet. Was this what his life was like before?

You meet his eyes and his body seems to relax. His smile becoming more natural as he sends you a small wave. You wave back and take another sip of your drink. You decided it was best to stay planted at your assigned seat. Making small talk occasionally but nothing more than complimenting the couple or admiring the decoration. The people of Smallville were still watching you.

Maybe not literally but there's a lot of people here and as you've witnessed, they love to talk. The music slows as couples start to move to the dance floor. Clark finally breaks from a conversation with an old high school friend to make his way back to you.

"Can I have this dance honey," Clark beams as he holds his hand out.

"Of course." You take it and he leads you to an emptier spot. He rests his hands on your waist as you wrap you place your hands on his shoulders.

"You look beautiful. Gosh I am the luckiest guy here." He hums and you look away. Compliments from Clark always made you so flustered.

"Oh please, I'm the envy of everyone here. I'm Clark Kent's date." Now it's his turn to get all nervous as he shakes his head.

"Careful, my ego can only handle so much." You snort as you pull him in closer, hands now around the back of his neck. You look into his eyes and everything just feels so right. Like you are meant to be here dancing with him. There's a ripple of whispers and excited voices as the barn doors open.

"I'm so sorry I'm late. My flight got delayed and I only just landed and came straight here." An angelic voice floats through the room. Cutting through the music and the noise of everyone around you. Clark's eyes widen as his head snaps in the direction of all the commotion.

"Lana?" Clark whispers. Your heart drops. Lana…Lang? Clark's high school sweetheart Lana Lang? Clark looks back at you, then at her. The crowd of people part like a fucking movie so that it's just Lana and Clark.

Lana and Clark and You. His arms fall to their side and so do yours. People go back to talking, the music never even stopped but to you it was like your world had completely frozen. You could feel a million eyes on you and you wanted to puke.

"I'm going to get a drink." You mumble. Clark's head whips back to face you. His eyes wide as he starts to stutter out something. His hand reaches for yours but you dodge it.

"Honey?" He asks, frowning as you refuse to look hin in the eye.

"Clark? It's been forever!" Lana's soft voice fills your ears.

Echoing across your head until its all you can hear. Clark looks at a loss. Torn between you and his former love. You take a step back from them. Shooting Lana a weak smile as she smiles at you. God you wished she was cruel about it. It would be so much easier if she was. But no. She was completely sincere in the way she introduces herself to you. She's beautiful. No wonder everyone in town seems to love her.

Your eyes shift towards Clark who was staring at her. Not you. Her.

"I'll let you two catch up," You blurt out before you can stop yourself.

God even Clark looks confused as you walk away. Why would you say that? Why would you leave your boyfriend to speak to his high school fucking sweetheart. It's like you want him to be as cruel as he is in your head right now.

"Oh Clark and Lana, still as perfect as they were in high school." Someone says with a sigh. You should keep walking. Tune them out and go but your feet feel like they're tied down. Forcing you to listen to words you know will only hurt you more.

"I always thought he was soo dreamy but even I couldn't deny the connection they had." Someone else says.

You refuse to turn around, afraid that if you do you'd see what everyone else sees. That Clark belonged to someone who isn't you.

You walk right past the refreshment table. Slipping past people until you were finally out of that barn. The cold air helps as you feel tears threatening to fall. Maybe you should have grabbed a drink before coming out here. You really need one.

"It's too cold for you to be out here alone hon." You wipe your eyes as you turn to see Clark's mom has followed you outside.

"Hi Mrs. Kent, I'll be back in a moment." You say but she doesn't seem convinced. She see's right through you and the look on her face says it all.

"I told you to call me Ma." She scolds and you let out a tired laugh. She looks sadly at you before grabbing your hand.

"Did Clark ever tell you that he called us after your first date?" She asks and you shake your head.

"He sounded so giddy, told me Ma, I think I'm gonna marry this girl one day." She brushes your cheek as a stray tear falls down.

"He loves you more than anything in the world. Now I'm not saying he's perfect, he is his fathers son after all and you and I both know boys can be a little foolish sometimes." You let out a real laugh this time and she pulls you into a hug. You see where Clark gets his warm hugs from. You try not to get your tears on her dress as she squeezes you tightly.

"Thank you, really." You reluctantly let go of her. Wanting to stay in her safe embrace for longer.

But you can hear the laughter coming from inside and you suddenly feel so silly for getting so upset. But in truth you don't think you could go back in there and pretend everything was okay. But today isn't about you and your black hole of insecurity. It was about that happy couple inside.

"I think I'm going to head back to the house, if that's okay with you." You say quietly.

"Let me go get-"

"No no, you guys stay here." You interrupt her before she can finish.

"Please I don't want this to ruin anyones night. Besides its just down the road I swear I won't get lost." Smallville was as safe as you could get and you refused to let anyones night be cut short because of you. She looks like she doesn't want to let you go but to your surprise she relents.

"Call as soon as your home alright and tell Clark the spare key's still under that one rock." She gives you one last hug before disappearing back inside.

"Mrs. Kent what…ah nevermind." You kick off your shoes and start down the dirt path towards the Kents.

The stars shined so bright they almost lead the way back to the farm. They're never this clear in Metropolis. You wonder if Clark ever stargazed when the sky was the clearest. He probably did, perched up in that barn on the hay past his bedtime watching the stars and knowing that's where he came from.

Then your brain wonders if he ever brought Lana with him and the thought sours. You curse yourself for letting your mind wander to that again. But you'd be a fool to pretend like all of yours and Clark's firsts hadn't happened with someone else. You were unbelievably and embarassingly jealous.

Clark…he'd never hurt you on purpose. You know that. He loves you, you know that too. But the idea that he could have settled for you haunts every step. He loves you, but did he love her more?

Was your relatonship something easy for him? Were you just the consolation prize because he couldn't be with his high school sweetheart?

A literal blur stops you in your tracks. You let out a scream as Clark suddenly stands before you. His tie is undone and he looks upset.

"Clark! I told you I hate when you super speed right next to me!" You huff as you try and walk past him. His hands grip your waist, stopping you from leaving.

"What are you thinking?! Walking back alone?? In the dark?? With no shoes on??" His hands move to cups your face, he quickly checks over you.

As if you could have sustained any injury in the 5 minutes you were walking. The barn is still in view yet he's acting like you went around the streets of Gotham.

"Clark I'm fine, what could even hurt me on the 10 minute walk back to your house anyways?" You ask and he thinks for a moment, his hands not leaving your face.

"A…bear?"

"A bear. In Smallville, Kansas." You repeat.

"Clark go back to the party, I'm fine." But he doesn't budge.

"You walked away in tears. I don't mean to push but I don't think that means your fine."

"Clark please. I really don't want to talk about this. Just go back to the party and back to Lana." The last part comes out much more venemous than you intend.

The guilt hitting as soon as the words leave your mouth and the way Clark's face falls only makes it worse.

"What?" He asks and you feel bile rise up your throat.

"Nothing, forget I said anything." You mumble as you're able to get out of his hold. He grabs your wrist firmly, not in a way he could hurt you but in a way that tells you he isn't letting you run. Not this time.

"No. I won't."

"Clark." The tears in your eyes break his heart.

"I won't because you're upset and I know you think it's easier to push me away but I'm not going to let you this time." He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to where you have to put your hands on his chest to steady yourself. His blue eyes silently begging you not to run anymore.

"Please honey, talk to me. I'm here. There's nothing you could say that I can't take."

"Sometimes I forget that you're more than just my Clark." You say quietly. Your eyes are trained on the top button of his shirt. On the tie that you helped straighten this morning that was now undone.

"It's so stupid and I hate that I feel this way but seeing you today, Seeing the way you looked at Lana…I don't know it was like I was…nothing." Clark nearly whimpers hearing you say that. Nothing? In what world could you ever be nothing to him.

"All day I've watched you fit back into Smallville like a puzzle piece. I don't. I get stares and whispers and-and people talking about how they thought you'd end up with someone else. It's like im the side character in some movie that gets tossed aside once the hero realizes they don't belong."

"Stop." Clark says firmly. He can't take it anymore.

"You are not nothing. You could never be nothing. Not to me, not to anyone. So please. Don't say that." He frowns as he sees your face tightens like it's trying not to cry.

"I am so sorry I didn't see you were hurting. That I made you feel like you don't belong in my life." His lip wobbles as he sees the hurt in your eyes. "Lana is in my past. It's been a long time since I've seen her and I was just surprised. I swear." His stomach twists remembering the look on your face.

Guilt eating him alive at the very thought that something he did could cause you so much pain. He should have stopped you from leaving right there in that barn but he was too shocked. Too confused by your sudden exit. Then he saw his Ma follow you outside and it made him relax just a little bite. Still he believes he's failed you by letting you think for even a moment he doesn't love you.

"I won't deny that I loved her a long time ago. But that's when I thought love was just butterflies in your stomach and holding hands." He explains. One of the greatest things about humanity is love. Clark learned that multiple times throughout his life.

"Don't get me wrong honey, you give me butterflies every day but I didn't understand what it truly felt like to love and be loved until I met you. I promise on every star in the sky that you're the only one I want."

"You just seem so happy here. So at peace. What if Smallville and…everything that comes with it is where you're meant to be. You could be Superman anywhere. So why Metropolis?"

"I'm happy because you're here with me. Because I get to share this part of my life with the love of my life. And why Metropolis? Because where else would I find a bossy photographer who makes me pancakes in the middle of the night?" He presses a soft kiss to the corner of your lips.

"Smallville is the place I grew up and I love it here, but you're my home now. Where ever you are is my home." He presses another kiss to the other corner.

"I'm sorry for letting you feel like you're not. Even if it was just for a second. I can't stand the thought of you not knowing how much you mean to me." He presses a final kiss to your lips.

It's gentle and loving and so careful and so Clark. You feel yourself relax into his embrace. You drop your shoes and tangle your hands in his hair. Ruining the slicked back hair he messed with all morning. He lets out a small relieved laugh when you part.

"It's not just your fault. I let the worst parts of my head get to me tonight when I should have just talked to you." You admit.

It's embarassing to face your worst parts head on. It's ugly and irrational and something you wish Clark never has to see again.

"Hey, I am always here to talk to. I love everything about you. The good parts and the not so good parts. You've seen both sides of me so please, trust that I can handle both parts of you too."

"Okay…Okay." You want to cry again. You were expecting the worst and here he comes to break every horrible thing your mind has already built up. He's too nice you swear it'd be annoying if you weren't so in love with him.

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"Now, let's get you home." He reaches down and grabs your shoes, holding them in one hand as he picks you up in his arms.

"But the reception Clark." He silences you with a look.

"Like I'd force you to go back in there with those vultures." He huffs, still upset at all the pointless town gossip.

"That's not very Supermany to say." You tease, used to his goody-two shoes attitude and he shrugs.

"They made you cry. If they apologize then maybe I'll consider taking it back." You bury your face in his neck, laughing as he walks you back home. Could he have used his powers to get you back faster? Yeah, but why would he when he could spend an extra 5 minutes with you in his arms.

The insecurities haven't gone away. In fact they'll probably live there for a while. But you don't have to fight them alone anymore. He can't fix it with his super speed or heat vision, but he can hold your hand and kiss you until your brain goes fuzzy.