Lost in his eyes, embraced by his arms~

A pause. “…No.”

His eyes crack open just enough to catch you immediately, chin propped on your forearms, elbows planted on his bare chest, hovering over him like you’ve been waiting for hours.

“Uh-huh.” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “And you’re definitely not vibrating with excitement either.”

“I am not vibrating.” you protest, though your smile gives you away instantly.

He lets his head sink deeper into the pillow, studying you properly now, amusement warming his expression. “You hate mornings. More than once I've feared for my life whenever I had to wake you up.”

“That’s different.” you insist, pouting, leaning closer, eyes bright. “This is camping.”

Caleb huffs softly, one hand coming up to rest lazily at your waist. “We’re not even there yet.”

“I know, but we will be—if someone gets up.” you poke his side, his muscles punching under your finger.

He chuckles and arches a brow. “Someone?”

“Yes. Someone who said he’d take me to a national park and show me all his ‘elite survival skills.’” You wiggle your fingers in mock emphasis.

He snorts, tugging you down just enough, so that your weight settles more fully against him, like a warm human blanket. Caleb loves this, feeling your weight press down on him, your heart beat against his chest, mingling with his own pulse as they sync. He presses a few slow and lazy kisses to your temple and cheeks.

“You mean the skills that are going to keep you from freezing the second we get near that lake?” he teases, nuzzling your nose with his.

“I won’t freeze!” you pout childishly.

“You will absolutely freeze.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but the grin never leaves your face. “Get up.”

“Bossy.”

“Caleb.”

He sighs dramatically, though his arms tighten around you for a brief second before he finally relents. “Alright, alright. I’m up.”

“You’re still lying down.”

“Mentally, I’m up.”

You swat his shoulder. He laughs, fully awake now, and rolls, taking you with him easily in a tangle of limbs and blankets before either of you can overthink the moment.

“Five minutes.” he bargains into your hair, his arms like a warm cage around your ribs.

“You said that ten minutes ago.”

“Then I’m consistent.” he murmurs, kissing your nape.

Driving out of Lincoln feels like peeling away layers. Concrete gives way to open roads and glass towers give way to expanses of greenery that seem to breathe more easily than anything back in the big cities you live in. You both shed your roles as the skilled hunter and the stern colonel, and are left with your true selves. The inseparable pair you have been ever since you were able to form thoughts. You know each other better than your own reflection in a mirror.

With your feet tucked up in the passenger seat and the music low, your fingers tap restlessly against your leg while Caleb drives with one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh. He squeezes it occasionally just to check you’re still there.

You keep pointing things out. Trees. Clouds. A bird that might’ve just been a smudge.

He hums along to the songs on the radio, smiles when you sing with all your heart.

By the time you reach the trailhead, your excitement has only gotten worse.

Caleb shoulders most of the gear before you can even argue, adjusting straps with practiced ease.

“I can carry something.” you say, hands on your hips.

“You are carrying something.”

“What?”

He taps your forehead lightly. “Enthusiasm.” Caleb taps the small backpack holding toiletries, clothes and your sleeping bag. "And that."

You gape at him. “That’s both not heavy!”

“Debatable.”

You try to grab one of the bags anyway. He lifts it just out of reach without looking, already starting down the trail.

“Caleb—!”

“Keep up.” he calls over his shoulder.

The hike is, more intense than you expected. Quite steep in places and rocky.

Not impossible, but enough that you’re breathing harder than you’d like to admit. Caleb notices, of course he does, but says nothing, just slows his pace subtly, adjusting to match yours without making a big deal of it. You feel your backpack lifting subtly halfway through the hike, and realize he's using his evol to lighten your already small load. You don't say anything, the two of you just keep hiking, until finally you find the spot Caleb was aiming for.

The forest wraps around you, quiet and alive all at once. Sunlight filters through leaves in soft, shifting patterns. Somewhere nearby, water moves, steady and inviting.

“You hear that?” you ask.

“Lake’s close.” he replies with a nod.

You pick up your pace immediately, motivated again. He laughs under his breath.

The lake stretched out far before you. Like a blue mirror glistening in the sun. Still and calm. A few geese swim in the distance.

"Lets go for a dip!" You say excitedly and drop your backpack, already starting on shedding your clothes.

"It'll be cold, Pips." Caleb says with a sigh, but starts undressing too.

The water is colder than you imagined. But it feels embarrassing to admit that now. You dip a toe into the edge of the lake and shudder.

“I told you.”

“It’s not that bad." you argue, just to be right, even as you retreat another step.

Caleb pulls off his shirt with a smirk. “You coming in or just going to negotiate with it?”

You glare. “Give me a second.”

He doesn’t. He walks straight into the lake, barely reacting as the water rises around him. Show-off.

You take a breath, count to five and follow.

The cold hits all at once, sharp and shocking, and you gasp, half-laughing as you wade deeper.

“It’s freezing! Fuck.” you glide, half doggy paddling to get warm, flailing around. "Oh fuck."

“You’re fine." he calls, already a few steps ahead.

You splash water at him in retaliation. He dodges most of it, but not all.

“Oh, you’re starting something now?”

“You started it by being smug!”

He closes the distance in a few quick strides, water rippling around him, and suddenly you’re both laughing like kids, splashing, dodging, slipping in the shallows until doesn’t matter anymore. You barely feel it with Caleb's arms wrapped around you as he tries to pull you under the water with him.

For a moment, everything else fades. Its just you and him, like it always was, and the safety you only ever feel in his arms.

Setting up the tent is less than graceful.

“You said you knew how to do this.” you say, holding a pole at what is definitely the wrong angle.

“I do.” Caleb replies, crouched on the other side, trying not to laugh. “You’re just not following instructions.”

“You said ‘hold it steady!’”

“That is not steady.”

“It is steady!”

The tent collapses halfway through assembly. You both stare at it. Then at each other. Then you both start laughing.

“Okay.” Caleb says, wiping at his eyes. “We’re regrouping.”

“Your fault.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Your fault. By default.”

He steps closer, taking the pole from your hands, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Come here." he says more softly. “I’ll show you, Pips.”

You stay close this time. Closer than necessary. The tent goes up properly on the second try. You roll out your sleeping bags in the small space, making it cozy. "Are you sure you'll fit?" You ask, looking up at him through the tents opening as he chops vegetables. "Won't your legs stick out?"

Caleb rolls his eyes, he doesn’t look up from the potato he's peeling. "I think I'll be just fine. I have Linkons best hunter to keep me warm after all." He replies.

By evening, the forest shifts again, its colors deepening, the air cooling.

Caleb builds the fire with practiced ease, his movements efficient and controlled. You watch him from where you’re wrapped in a blanket, still damp from the lake, trying to warm up.

“Show-off.” you mutter.

He smirks without looking up. “You love it.”

The fire catches. The scent of smoke and earth fills the air.

Soon, there’s a pot set over the flames, something warm and savory bubbling gently inside. Caleb sits beside you, pulling you closer without asking, your side pressed to his.

“You’re cold.” he notes.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m… lightly vibrating.”

He huffs a laugh, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you fully into his lap and against his chest. “There it is again, that stubbornness I love.” he presses a few kisses to your cold hands, blowing on them while holding them in both of his. "Let me warm you."

You relax into him, smiling softly. Melting in his familiar care.

The stew simmers. The fire crackles.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Later, with sticky fingers from melted chocolate and marshmallows, you lie back on the grass beside him, staring up at a black sky scattered with bright stars.

“There,” Caleb says, pointing. “See that cluster? That’s—”

“I don’t see it.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

He shifts closer, guiding your gaze with his hand, his arm brushing yours. “Follow the line from that bright one. Then up.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah?”

“Okay, that’s kind of cool.”

“Kind of?”

He launches into an explanation anyway, names, patterns, stories tied to constellations you’ve never cared about before.

"That's Polaris, the north star. Brightest in the sky. It's part of Ursa Minor, the Little Dipper." He explains and you listen closely, following his finger. "And you see that underneath it? Thats the Big Dipper."

Caleb turns to look at you, smiling. "Just like us. Big and small. Inseparable." He presses a soft kiss to your temple

The night deepens.

The air grows cooler.

The space between words disappears.

At some point, you stop pretending to look at the sky.

At some point, he stops talking about constellations.

The world narrows to warmth, breath, the quiet pull of closeness that neither of you resists.

His hand finds yours.

Your fingers lace together.

And when he leans in, it feels inevitable.

The fire crackles softly nearby.

The stars keep watching.

Everything else fades.

Before you know it youre both naked underneath the stars. It'd be cold, if Caleb weren't settled over you, his heat radiating off him. His lips and tongue trail along the column of your throat. Leaving own marks and constellations in their wake. His hands grip your hips while he grinds against you, his growing erection pressing against your heated core.

"Want you so bad, Pips." He rasps, suckling at your pebbled nipples. Worshipping each one with his lips and tongue, alternating between long, slow licks and quick, teasing flicks of his tongue over your sensitive peaks. "Beautiful... so perfect..."

One hand drifts lower, palming the curve of your ass before slipping lower to stroke the smooth skin of your inner thigh, inching higher with maddening slowness.

"Tell me what you need. How can I pleasure you?" Caleb's pupils are blown wide with pleasure as he looks up at you from the valley between your breasts. Like a puppy.

"Want you." You whisper, hand wrapping around his hard length, stroking maddeningly slow.

"Fuck-" he hisses. "Right here or... the tent?"

You give his cock another tug and he doesn't care about being out in the open anymore. With a low, almost animalistic growl, he captures your lips in a searing kiss, plundering your mouth with his tongue as he grinds his rigid length against your core.

"Gonna make you feel so good baby." He rasps against your lips, nipping at the bottom one.

Settling between your thighs, he notches the broad head of his cock against your slick entrance, teasing you with shallow thrusts that barely breach you.

Finally, he thrusts deeply, sheathing himself to the hilt in one big thrust. A moan tears from his throat at the exquisite sensation of your tight heat engulfing me.

The stars double in the sky as you look up at them, your vision swimming. Your nails dig into Caleb's shoulders, and he grunts in response. Like always, he gives you a moment to adjust to his length and girth, before he starts to move.

"Fuck- so warm and tight." He moans, his hips grinding against yours with each forceful thrust. His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, bruising, pulling you impossibly closer to him while he sets a relentless pace.

You whimper every time the head of him slams against your cervix, back arching off the grass, your toes curling. "Good girl. Taking me so well." He praises, pressing sloppy kisses to your lips.

He grunts, angling his hips to ensure he hits the right spot over and over again until you're spasming from pleasure. "You're doing so well, taking me so perfectly." He mumbles, babbling on and on, talking you through it.

He reaches between your sweat slicked bodies, finding your clit, circling the swollen nub with the pad of his thumb as he continues his brutal pace.

He can feel his climax building rapidly along with yours, your walls fluttering around him, squeezing and pulling him in deeper. He grunts, his thrusts turning erratic and sloppy as he nears the edge. "So close. Look at me. C'mon baby." Caleb cups your cheek with one hand so you look up at him while you come.

He buries himself to the root one last time, grinding against your cervix as he explodes, painting your insides white with thick ropes of his hot cum. Stars spark before your eyes. You moan and ramble about how much you love him and how good Caleb is to you, while he fucks both of you through your orgasms.

As the aftershocks of your intense lovemaking subside, Caleb slows inside of you, pulling out after a few more languid thrusts. He collapses onto the grass beside you, gathering your limp form into his arms and holding you close. His breathing gradually evens out as he peppers soft kisses across your sweat-dampened brow and cheeks. 

"You ok?" He rasps, fingers threading through your hair while he cradles you against his chest. You hum in response, spent, sleepy and content.

"Lets get you into the tent." He suggests, and lifts you effortlessly, carrying you over to your humble abode for the night.

You're already drifting to sleep while Caleb gently cleans you, wiping down your thighs and delicate folds with a wet cloth. "My perfect girl." He whispers, kissing your soft skin everywhere he can reach.

He settles beside you in the sleeping bag, skin to skin, his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. Caleb buries his nose deep into your hair.

At the nape of your neck you still smell like you did years ago. Always like home. Now your scents are mixed, you smell partly like him, and that almost gets him hard again.

"I love you. So so much." He whispers against your neck. "More than you could ever realize."

Morning comes too soon.

“Wake up.” Caleb says softly, caressing your cheeks.

You groan, burying your face deeper into the sleeping bag. “No.”

“Come on.”

“It’s illegal to be awake right now.”

You feel him shift beside you, hear the soft clink of something being set down.

Then... coffee.

The smell alone is enough to drag you halfway back to consciousness.

“…You made coffee?”

“Obviously.”

You crack one eye open. He’s sitting just outside the tent, silhouetted against a sky painted in soft oranges and golds, a steaming cup held out toward you.

“You’re ridiculous.” you mumble, but you take the metal mug anyway.

“Drink.”

You sit up slowly, still wrapped in warmth, and follow his gaze.

The sun rises over the forest, light spilling through the trees in quiet, breathtaking waves.

For once, you don’t complain about the morning. You lean against him instead. And he leans back.

It had been perfect, in that wonderfully chaotic way things always seemed to be when the Pitt’s staff was involved.

Almost everyone had shown up.

The apartment, and somehow even the barren little garden outside, had been transformed into something between a celebration and a controlled disaster. A long table had been set up for gifts, already piled dangerously high by the time you arrived, plastic bending under the weight. Diapers, clothes, blankets, bottles, more than you could have ever imagined needing. You were pretty sure you could have two more babies and still not run out of supplies.

Dana had taken charge of the food like it was a shift assignment, organizing everything with practiced efficiency. She’d ordered a giant two-tiered cake from a friend of hers, a baker, she’d said proudly, and it sat at the center of everything, a baby pink, bow-clad masterpiece.

Somehow, Robby had managed to bring an entire grill and set it up in the garden with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. He calmly flipped burgers while shooing away anyone who came too close.

“This isn’t my first barbecue,” he’d said simply.

Everyone else had filled in the rest, containers of food, drinks, snacks, homemade and store-bought alike, until it became less of a baby shower and more of a full department gathering that just happened to revolve around you and your daughter.

You remember standing there for a moment, overwhelmed, Dennis’s hand warm at your back as you tried to take it all in.

Six months ago, these people had been strangers. Now they were here. For you. Family.

The usual centerpiece of a baby shower, the gender reveal, had already come and gone in the most unexpected way possible. You’d wondered what Trinity had planned instead.

She hadn’t disappointed.

“Alright!” Trinity had announced at some point, clapping her hands to gather attention. “Game time!”

A collective groan had followed.

“You don’t get to complain,” she’d added. “I organized this entire thing.”

“What kind of games?” Samira had asked suspiciously.

Trinity’s expression didn’t change. “Educational.”

“That’s worse.” Mel had muttered.

The first game had been Guess the Baby Photo. Trinity had somehow collected childhood pictures from everyone in the department and forced them all to match faces to names.

And then there had been the quieter moments. Victoria hovering near you, carefully handing over a small gift bag, her excitement barely contained. Dana adjusting things at the table, making sure you had space, had food, had everything. Matheo joking with Dennis, trying and failing to make him relax.

And Trinity...

Trinity, who had pretended the entire time that this was just another thing, another task, even as she hovered close, always within reach of you and the baby.

At some point, she’d taken her from your arms without asking, holding her with surprising ease, her usual sharp edges softened into something almost unrecognizable.

“I just want it on record,” she’d said, glancing around the garden, “that I am clearly her favorite.”

“She’s asleep.” Dennis had pointed out.

“Exactly.” Trinity had replied. “She always falls asleep extra quick in my arms.”

The memory lingers there for a moment, the warmth, the laughter, the hum of voices blending together, the feeling of being held up by something bigger than just the two of you.

Then your baby cries louder in your arms, pulling you back into the present. The apartment is dim now, quiet in a completely different way. No laughter. No voices. Just the soft creak of the floor beneath your feet as you pace, trying to soothe her.

“It’s okay.” you murmur, though your voice wavers. “It’s okay, sweetheart…”

But she keeps crying.

And the warmth of that memory slips, replaced by something heavier.

How has Trinity not kicked us out yet?

Your grip tightens around your daughter as guilt settles deep in your chest.

How does she put up with this?

She hadn’t signed up for sleepless nights. For crying at all hours. For a newborn taking over the space that used to be quiet and predictable.

None of this had been part of the plan.

Not for you.

Not for Dennis.

And certainly not for her.

You press your cheek gently against your baby’s head and close your eyes for a brief second.

“I’m sorry.” you whisper, though you’re not even sure who you’re apologizing to.

She doesn’t settle. No matter how gently you rock her, no matter how softly you hum, the crying doesn’t fade into the usual sleepy fussing you’ve started to learn. It stays sharp. Insistent. Different.

You pull back slightly, brushing your fingers over her cheek.

“Hey… hey, what’s wrong?” you murmur.

Her face is flushed. At first you think it’s just from crying, but when your hand lingers against her skin, something in your chest tightens.

She’s warm.

Too warm.

Your breath catches, fingers moving instinctively to her forehead, then the back of her neck. The heat is unmistakable.

“No, no…” you whisper. “That’s not right.”

Babies can get fevers. That’s normal. Right?

But she’s so small.

Too small.

The apartment door opens behind you.

“Hey.” Dennis says softly. “I’m home. How are my favorite girls?”

You turn immediately. He looks exhausted, faint shadows under his eyes, hair slightly mussed from a long shift, but the moment his gaze lands on you and the baby in your arms, something shifts.

“Hey,” he repeats, stepping closer. “What’s going on?”

“I—she won’t stop crying,” you say quickly. “And she feels really warm, Dennis, I think— I think something’s wrong.”

That’s all it takes. The exhaustion disappears from his face, replaced by sharp, focused attention.

“Okay.” he says, voice calm and steady. “Let me see her.”

You pass her over carefully, your hands lingering for just a second before letting go. Dennis adjusts her instinctively, one hand supporting her head, the other cradling her small body close as he studies her. His thumb brushes over her cheek, then her forehead, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly.

“She’s warm.” he confirms quietly.

Your stomach drops.

“It’s okay.” he adds immediately, glancing at you. “We’re going to check properly, alright? Don’t panic.”

He presses a soft kiss to the top of her head before moving toward the bedroom.

“Thermometer’s in the drawer.”

You follow close behind, your chest tight, every sound she makes setting your nerves on edge.

Dennis moves with practiced efficiency, pulling open drawers, grabbing what he needs. It’s familiar, this version of him. Focused. Certain. Grounded in a way that makes everything feel just a little less like it’s slipping out of control.

He settles onto the edge of the bed and takes her temperature. The seconds stretch. You watch his face more than anything else, searching for any hint of what he’s thinking.

The device beeps.

Dennis glances at it.

There’s a pause. Not long. Barely a second. But you notice.

“What is it?” you ask, your voice smaller now.

He exhales softly, looking back up at you.

“She’s got a fever.” he says gently.

The words land heavy.

“How bad is it?” you whisper.

“It’s not dangerously high. Not immediate-ER bad,” he reassures you quickly. “But it’s enough that we need to keep an eye on it.”

He shifts her again, holding her a little closer now as she fusses, his hand moving in slow, soothing motions along her back.

“We’re okay.” he adds, meeting your eyes. “Alright? We’re okay.”

You nod, even though your chest still feels tight. “She’s so small...” you say, the words barely audible.

Dennis’s expression softens immediately.

“I know.” he says quietly.

He presses a brief kiss to your temple before pulling back again, already thinking ahead. “We’ll bring it down,” he says. “I’ll get some infant Tylenol, we’ll keep her cool, monitor her. If anything changes, we go to the ER. No hesitation.”

You nod again, holding onto his certainty like it’s the only solid thing in the room. In his arms, your daughter lets out another unhappy sound. Dennis rocks her instinctively. “I’ve got you, darling.” he murmurs.

He doesn’t rush. Even in his exhaustion, there’s something deeply steady in the way he moves, controlled and deliberate, like if he keeps everything measured enough, nothing can spiral too far out of reach.

“Okay.” he murmurs softly. “We’re going to bring the fever down a bit.”

You nod, your gaze fixed on her small, flushed face. She looks so different like this, unsettled, uncomfortable, her tiny sounds no longer soft and sleepy but sharp and strained.

Dennis notices. He always does.

“Hey.” he says gently, glancing up at you. “Look at me for a second.” You do, even though it feels difficult to pull your attention away from her.

“We’re okay.” he repeats quietly. “She’s okay. We just need to help her a little.” The words don’t erase the tightness in your chest, but they anchor you just enough.

You stay close as he measures out the medication, watching the careful precision of his hands.

When he lifts her again, he softens immediately. “I know.” he murmurs to her, brushing his thumb gently along her cheek. “I know, sweetheart…”

“Could you get me a cloth? Lukewarm water, please—not too cold.”

You know it’s because he doesn’t want you in the room when he gives her the medicine. It’s just a little plastic syringe, but you both know she’ll squirm and cry. Dennis wants to shield you from that.

You nod and leave the room, feeling heavy-hearted. Anxiety coils tightly in your stomach. You run a washcloth under the sink and wring it out, trying to squeeze your frustration out with it too. It doesn’t help.

When you return, Dennis is stepping from side to side with the baby in his arms. She’s fussy, weak, and usually this little dance of his would settle her quickly. Not today.

You gently wipe the cloth over her heated forehead and neck. She cries in response.

“Yeah.” Dennis says quietly, trying to soothe you and the baby at the same time. “That’s perfect.”

For a while, the world narrows. It’s just the three of you, small movements, quiet reassurances, the soft rhythm of trying.

But nothing really changes. The fever lingers. The crying doesn’t settle.

And then the front door opens. “Hey!” Trinity’s voice carries in, light and easy, threaded with something warm and unguarded. “I’m back— You would not believe the shift Garcia had. She had the craziest cases in the OR today, and then we—”

She rounds the corner.

Stops.

It’s subtle, but you see it happen. The way the warmth drains from her expression, replaced by something sharper, more focused. The way her eyes move quickly, taking in Dennis, the baby, you, and piecing it together in seconds.

“What’s going on?” she asks, already stepping closer.

“Fever.” Dennis says. “Started a few hours ago. Not dropping much.”

Trinity is already shrugging out of her jacket. “How high?”

Dennis tells her.

She’s beside you before the number has even fully settled in the air. “Let me,” she says, softer this time.

Dennis hands the baby over without question. It’s seamless. Trinity adjusts her instantly, one hand supporting her head, the other steady against her back, her movements practiced and familiar.

“She’s still warm.” Trinity murmurs.

You hover closer without realizing it, your voice catching. “She won’t settle.” you rasp, tears welling again. “I tried, and Dennis tried, and she just—she’s been like this for hours and I don’t—”

“Hey.” Trinity’s voice cuts through, firm enough to stop the spiral before it builds. “You did everything right.”

Not soft. Not hesitant. Certain.

Dennis shifts closer to you, his hand finding yours. “You did,” he agrees quietly.

For a moment, the three of you fall into place. Dennis beside you, Trinity holding the baby, the two of them moving almost instinctively in sync.

“Did you give her anything?”

“Tylenol.” Dennis answers. “Weight-based.”

“Good. Any change?”

“Not really.”

A pause. Not empty, just shared. You can sense the quiet agreement forming between them before it’s even spoken.

“She’s not crashing.” Trinity says, trying to inject some levity into the situation. “That’s good.”

Your breath catches slightly at the wording. But then she looks at you again, her expression softening just a fraction. “We’re not taking risks, though.”

Dennis nods. “No.”

Your voice is small when it comes out. “We should go into the ER. Right?”

Both of them look at you immediately. And the decision settles.

“Yeah.” Dennis says gently. “We should.”

Trinity adjusts her hold on the baby, protective without even thinking about it. “I’ve got her.”

Dennis is already moving, grabbing what you’ll need. You stay where you are for just a second longer, watching them, how naturally they fall into this, how easily they carry part of the weight you thought was yours alone.

The guilt is still there.

But it’s quieter now.

Trinity’s car feels smaller than it ever has before. Not physically, but the air inside it feels thicker, heavier with everything unspoken. The soft hum of the engine fills the silence as Trinity pulls out onto the street.

You sit in the front seat, hands clasped tightly in your lap, your gaze flicking to the backseat again and again.

Dennis is in the back. He hadn’t even hesitated, just slid in beside the car seat, one hand already reaching for your daughter before the door had fully closed behind him. Now he’s leaned slightly forward, one arm resting along the edge of the seat, the other tucked inside the blanket where her tiny fingers have curled around his.

“Hey… hey, sweetheart.” he murmurs softly.

His voice is different like this. Quieter. Softer than you’ve ever heard it. Something meant only for her.

“I know.” he whispers, thumb brushing lightly over the back of her hand. “I know, it doesn’t feel good, huh?”

She fusses weakly, her cries no longer sharp but tired and uneven. Every sound still pulls at something deep in your chest.

Dennis doesn’t let go. “You’re okay.” he tells her quietly. “We’ve got you.”

You turn back again, watching. He looks exhausted, but there’s something else there too. Focus. Care. A kind of quiet determination that settles over him completely, like this is the only place he needs to be.

Trinity glances at the rearview mirror just long enough to take in the scene. Something in her expression softens.

The city moves past outside in blurred lights and quiet streets.

“She’s still warm?” you ask after a moment, unable to keep it in.

“Yeah.” Dennis answers softly. “But she’s breathing fine. Color’s good. She’s responsive.”

You latch onto the words. “She is?”

“Yeah.” he says, glancing up at you briefly. “She’s holding onto me, see?”

As if on cue, her tiny fingers tighten slightly around his. Your chest aches at the sight.

“She just doesn’t feel well.” he continues gently. “That’s all.”

“That’s all.” Trinity echoes from the front, quieter this time. “Relax.” She takes one hand off the steering wheel and squeezes your thigh.

Your mind doesn’t follow. She’s so small.

“I should’ve noticed sooner.” you say before you can stop yourself. “She’s been fussy all day and I just thought— I thought it was normal and I—”

“No.” Dennis’s voice is immediate. Not harsh. But firm.

You turn again. He’s looking at you now, properly, his expression soft but unwavering. “You didn’t miss anything,” he says. “Babies get fussy. That’s normal. You acted when something felt off. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”

From the front, Trinity adds, just as steady, “If anything, you caught it early.”

The two of them, so different usually, sound almost identical in that moment.

Certain.

On your side.

Behind you, your daughter lets out a small, tired sound, her grip on Dennis’s finger still firm. He leans closer immediately.

“I know.” he whispers. “We’re almost there, my love.”

The ER is exactly as you remember it. Too bright. Too loud. Too full of movement that never settles into anything predictable. Voices overlap, monitors beep, stretchers roll past in quick succession. It’s chaos, but a familiar kind.

And tonight, it parts for you.

The moment Trinity pushes through the doors, it’s like a ripple moves outward.

Recognition.

“Hey—” one of the receptionists starts, already standing. “Is that—?”

Dennis doesn’t slow, his voice calm but urgent. “Infant, fever. A few hours, not responding much to Tylenol.”

That’s all it takes.

They wave you to the back immediately. “Go. Triage 3 is open.”

You barely have time to process it before you’re moving again, Trinity guiding the path forward with steady certainty, Dennis close behind with the baby, his hand never leaving her.

“Dana!” someone calls.

And then there she is. Dana looks like she’s halfway through wrapping up her shift, a clipboard in hand, posture already easing into the end-of-day rhythm, but the second her eyes land on you, everything changes.

“Alright. What’s going on? What’ve we got?”

Dennis answers without hesitation. “Fever, persistent. She’s been fussy and not settling for hours.”

Dana is already moving, gesturing toward a bed. “Let’s take a look.”

Mel appears at her side almost instantly, tying her hair back as she walks, energy snapping into place.

“Oh my God, is that—” she starts, then catches herself. “Okay, okay, we’re good. We’re good.”

“You’re not panicking.” Dana mutters under her breath.

“I’m not panicking.” Mel insists, already reaching for supplies.

Robby steps in a moment later, his presence quieter but grounding in a different way, eyes scanning the situation with practiced calm.

“What’s going on?”

“Baby Whitaker.” Dana replies shortly. “Fever.”

Robby’s gaze softens just slightly before settling back into focus. “Alright. Let’s take a look.”

You’re guided onto a chair beside the bed, your legs feeling unsteady now that everything has slowed just enough for it to hit.

Dennis doesn’t let go of the baby until the last possible second. Even then, his hand lingers, his finger still caught in her tiny grasp until Mel gently takes over.

“We’ve got her,” she says, softer now.

Samira slips in next, already pulling on gloves. “Vitals?”

“On it.” Princess replies, appearing at the other side with a small smile that’s meant more for you than anything else. “Hey, mama. You’re okay.”

Perlah is right behind her, setting things up with quiet efficiency as she helps position the baby properly.

“Why are there so many people here? Is it that serious?” you ask Dennis, anxious at the sudden tense atmosphere.

He shrugs. “Word must’ve spread fast that it’s our baby in here. I think they’re just all worried and want to take a look. I promise, it’s not because this needs this many doctors and nurses.”

He takes your hand and squeezes gently, checking your pulse subtly, worried about you just as much as he is about his baby.

It happens fast, but not rushed. Hands working, voices steady, everything falling into place. “She’s warm.” Mel murmurs, glancing at the monitor. “But she looks good otherwise.”

“Breathing’s fine,” Samira adds. “Color’s good.” You cling to every word. Dennis gently squeezes your hand again.

“See?” he murmurs. “She’s okay.”

Across from you, Trinity stands close, arms crossed, eyes never leaving the baby. Dana steps back just slightly, taking it all in.

“Probably something viral.” she says after a moment, tone more measured now. “We’ll confirm with tests, but she’s stable.”

The word lands like a release.

Stable.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding your breath until now.

Mel glances up at you, her expression softening completely. “She’s doing really well.” she adds gently. “Promise.”

“Well,” Samira says, a small smile tugging at her lips, “I think this officially makes her the cutest patient we’ve had all week.”

Princess laughs quietly. “Easily.”

The room doesn’t slow down.

Even after the initial reassurance, even after the word stable settles somewhere deep in your chest, things keep moving, because that’s what the ER does. It doesn’t pause for relief.

“Alright,” Dana says, gentler now but still efficient. “Let’s get some meds on board and fluids started.”

You don’t fully process what that means until you see it. The supplies. The movement. The way Mel reaches for something small and precise, the way Perlah adjusts your baby’s arm, trying a tiny tourniquet, the way Princess murmurs something soft as she prepares everything.

Your stomach drops. Dennis feels it before you say anything. His hand tightens around yours.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “They’re just going to help her.”

And then your baby cries. Not the tired, weak fussing from before. Sharp. Startled. Pained. It cuts straight through you.

“No—” The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, your body instinctively leaning forward. “Wait—she—”

Dennis is already there. His arm wraps around you, pulling you gently but firmly back against him before you can move any closer.

“Hey,” he says again, softer this time, right by your ear. “I know. I know, baby.”

You can’t take your eyes off her. She’s so small on that bed. So impossibly small, surrounded by hands and equipment and people who know exactly what they’re doing, but it doesn’t make it any easier to watch.

“They’re poking her,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Dennis, they’re—she’s crying—”

“I know.” he says, holding you tighter.

His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, gently turning your head just enough so you’re not seeing all of it at once.

“Look at me for a second." he murmurs.

It takes effort. But you do.

“She’s okay.” he says, steady and grounded. “What they’re doing is going to help her feel better, alright?”

A tear slips down your cheek anyway.

“She doesn’t understand that.” you whisper, lip quivering. “She just knows it hurts.”

Dennis’s expression softens, something aching flickering in his eyes. “I know. But it’ll only hurt for a second. She’s probably more startled than anything else.”

Behind him, you can still hear the soft reassurances from the nurses.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” Princess murmurs gently.

“Almost there.” Perlah adds softly.

“Hang on, little one.” Mel says under her breath, focused but careful.

They’re being gentle. So gentle. And it still hurts to watch. Dennis’s thumb brushes away another tear.

“Listen to me.” he murmurs. “They’re placing a small IV. Just a tiny tube, so we can give her fluids and medication without having to keep poking her, okay?”

You nod weakly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“It’s one of the best things we can do for her right now.” he continues. “It’ll help bring the fever down faster. Help her feel better.”

Another cry from her, smaller this time, but still enough to make your chest tighten painfully.

“I should be holding her.” you whisper. “I should be the one—”

“And you will.” Dennis says immediately, firm but gentle. “But right now, this is what she needs.” His forehead presses briefly against yours.

“You’re taking care of her.” he adds quietly. “This is you taking care of her.”

The words settle deep in your chest, and you take a shaky breath.

Behind him, the sounds shift. The crying softens.

“Got it." Mel says after a moment. “Nice and secure.” Perlah confirms.

Dana steps back in, checking everything over with a practiced eye. “Good. Let’s start fluids.”

The tension in the room eases just slightly.

Dennis exhales softly, his hold on you loosening just enough for you to breathe more freely again, though his hand never leaves yours.

“She did really well.” he murmurs. “Our brave girl.”

You blink, your vision still blurred with tears, your gaze instinctively finding her again. She’s still small, still fragile, but calmer now. And surrounded, not just by doctors, but by people who care.

Your grip on Dennis tightens again, but this time it’s different. Less desperate. More grounding. “She’s okay.” you whisper, like you’re testing the words.

Dennis presses a soft kiss to your temple. “She’s okay.” he repeats.

And slowly, shakily, you begin to believe it.

Once everything is set up, the room finally begins to quiet. Not completely, the Pitt never truly does, but enough that the sharp urgency softens into something more manageable. The monitors hum steadily, fluids drip in slow, measured rhythm, and your daughter settles.

Her cries fade into soft, uneven breaths, her small body relaxing inch by inch until she drifts in and out of sleep.

Dana lingers the longest, arms crossed but her expression softer than you’ve ever seen it. “She’s doing good.” she says finally. “We’ll check in, alright?” You nod.

One by one, they step out. Mel with a quiet smile, Samira brushing your shoulder gently as she passes, Princess giving you one last reassuring look, Perlah adjusting the blanket just slightly before leaving. Even Robby pauses in the doorway, giving Dennis a small nod.

They don’t say it, but you know. None of them are going far. Not tonight. Not until she’s okay.

The door closes softly behind them, and for the first time since you arrived, it’s just the four of you again. The quiet feels different now. Less heavy.

“Can I… nurse her?” you ask softly, cheeks still damp from tears. “She must be hungry.”

Dennis looks at you immediately, his expression softening. “Yeah.” he says gently. “Of course.”

He helps you adjust without needing to think about it, careful and attentive in the way he always is, making sure the lines and cables aren’t disturbed, that she’s comfortable, that you are.

Trinity lingers for a moment longer, watching the two of you, her usual sharpness muted into something quieter, more protective. “I’ll be outside.” she says simply. And then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.

Your daughter latches easily. Easier than she did all day. The tension in your chest loosens just slightly as you feel it, the steady rhythm, the quiet contentment replacing earlier distress.

“She’s already drinking better than this noon.” you murmur, a faint, fragile smile touching your lips.

Dennis lets out a soft breath beside you. “That’s a really good sign.”

But the quiet stretches. And in that quiet, your thoughts begin to slip again. “I didn’t know.” you say suddenly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dennis stills slightly beside you.

“I carried her for almost nine months and I didn’t even know she was there.” you continue, your gaze fixed somewhere distant now, though your hands remain steady around her. “Nine months, Dennis… and I just missed it.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“I should’ve known.” you go on, the words coming faster now. “I should’ve noticed something. I should’ve prepared. Read things. Learned what to do, what not to do, what to eat, what to avoid—”

Your voice breaks. “I didn’t do any of that.”

Dennis’s hand finds yours again, warm and grounding, but you keep going.

“And now she’s here and she’s sick and what if—” You swallow hard. “What if something happens and I don’t notice again? What if I miss something important? What if I’m just not… enough for her?”

The words hang there, heavy and raw. Your daughter shifts slightly in your arms, still nursing, completely unaware of the storm building around her.

Dennis moves closer, sitting on the arm of your chair. “Hey.” he murmurs softly.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, guiding your gaze back to him. “You need to listen to me now, okay?”

There’s no sharpness in it. Just certainty. You nod weakly.

“You didn’t fail her,” he says quietly. “Not then. Not now.”

A tear slips free anyway. He wipes it away with his thumb. “I should’ve known—”

“No.” he interrupts gently, but firmly enough that the words don’t continue unchecked. “You couldn’t have known.”

His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching another tear before it falls. “Cryptic pregnancies happen.” he continues softly. “I’ve seen them. No symptoms, or symptoms that don’t look like anything obvious. Especially with everything we’ve been going through—stress, exhaustion…”

He shakes his head slightly. “This wasn’t something you missed. It was something that hid. And it’s no one’s fault.”

You inhale shakily, your grip tightening just slightly around your daughter. “But now—”

“And now,” he says, softer again, “you noticed.”

“You noticed she wasn’t okay. You trusted that. You told me. You decided we should bring her in.” His forehead rests briefly against yours. “That’s what a good mother does.”

Your breath catches. “I don’t feel like one.” you whisper.

Dennis’s expression softens in a way that almost hurts to look at. “I do.” he says simply. He glances down at your daughter, still nursing, calm now, safe. “She does too.” he adds quietly. “And I wish you could see yourself through our eyes. The strong woman you are, raising this child so wonderfully even though you were unprepared. Loving her so fiercely.”

He kisses your cheek, tasting the salt on your skin. “I love you. And I couldn’t be more thankful for this incredible gift you brought into our lives.”

Dennis gently caresses your daughter’s downy head, her tiny hands grasping your shirt while she suckles happily.

Silence settles again, but this time it’s different. Not empty. Not heavy. Just still.

Your thoughts don’t disappear completely. But they quiet enough not to crush you. You look down at her again, watching the small, peaceful movements.

“She’s okay.” you murmur, calmer now.

Dennis presses a soft kiss to your temple. “She’s okay.” he echoes. And this time, the words feel real.

The room stays quiet for a while. Not empty, but calm in a way that feels almost unfamiliar after everything that came before. The steady hum of the monitors, the soft rhythm of your daughter nursing, Dennis’s hand still loosely wrapped around yours.

You don’t realize how much time passes until the door opens again. It’s soft. Careful.

Trinity steps back inside, quieter than usual, like she’s aware she’s walking into something fragile.

Her gaze flicks immediately to you, then to the baby, then to Dennis, checking, assessing, the way she always does.

“She good?” she asks.

Dennis nods. “Better. Fever’s coming down a bit. She’s feeding.”

Something in Trinity’s shoulders eases. “Good.” she murmurs.

She lingers by the door for a second, like she’s giving you space, but her eyes keep drifting back.

You shift slightly, adjusting your hold. “Do you… want to hold her?” you ask softly.

The question seems to catch her off guard for half a second. Then she recovers. “Obviously.” she says, stepping closer.

Dennis helps you reposition carefully, making sure the lines are still secure, guiding the transfer with quiet precision. Trinity steps in, her hands steady as she takes the baby from you, supporting her head without even needing to think about it.

This time, there’s no teasing comment. No joke. She just holds her. Carefully. With a bit of reverence.

Your daughter stirs slightly in her arms, then settles again, her tiny fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of Trinity’s shirt.

“Hey, little girl.” Trinity murmurs, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

Her thumb brushes lightly over the baby’s cheek, a slow, absent motion. You watch her, something warm settling in your chest.

“You’re good at that.” Dennis says quietly.

Trinity snorts, but it’s quieter than usual. “Yeah, well. I’m her godmother after all.”

She shifts slightly, adjusting her hold, more comfortable now, more certain. “Still my kid.” she mutters under her breath with a soft smirk.

Dennis raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I said what I said.”

You laugh softly, the sound light for the first time in hours. The tension in the room dissolves a little more.

Trinity rocks gently on her heels, the movement slow, almost absent, humming something under her breath.

As you watch her, Dennis at your side, his hand steady in yours, you think back to the baby shower. The noise. The laughter. The overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by people who had chosen to show up for you.

Back then, it had felt almost unreal. Too much. Now, sitting here, watching Trinity sway gently with your baby in her arms, knowing that just outside this room are people who refused to leave until they were sure she was okay, it feels different.

Real. Solid.

You’d thought, once, that community was something fixed. Something you were born into. Something defined by shared belief, by rules, by expectation.

But this—this is something else entirely.

People who stay because they want to.

People who step in without being asked.

People who hold you up when you don’t even realize you’re falling.

Your gaze drifts back to your daughter, safe and warm in Trinity’s arms.

And the word comes easily.

Home.

Dennis’s hand squeezes yours gently, like he knows exactly where your thoughts have gone. Trinity glances up at you then, catching your expression. “What?” she asks.

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing.” you say softly. But your eyes linger on both of them.

The apartment feels different when you come back. Quieter than before, but not heavy. Not tense. Just peaceful.

Trinity had barely said a word when you returned, just a quiet, “I’m ordering pizza.” before building a comfortable nest on the couch.

The three of you spent the rest of the evening in front of the TV, taking turns cuddling the baby and eating greasy pizza while watching some dumb reality show you could laugh about. The combination of it all made you feel lighter than you had in a long time.

Now, your bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Your daughter sleeps in the small crib beside the bed, bundled up, her breathing steady and even, like nothing had ever been wrong.

You’ve checked on her three times already. Of course Dennis noticed. He always does.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor.” he murmurs softly from behind you.

You pause mid-step, glancing back at him.

“I just—” you start quietly. “I want to make sure she’s okay.”

“She is.” he says gently.

You nod, but your eyes drift back to the crib anyway, watching the small rise and fall of her chest.

Dennis shifts, sitting up a little more, his hand reaching out. “Come here." he says softly.

You hesitate for half a second, then go. He pulls you down beside him, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, tucking you in close against his chest. You melt into him more easily than you expected, exhaustion finally catching up now that everything has settled.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

It’s quiet. Safe.

“I scared you today.” you whisper after a while, your voice muffled against his skin.

Dennis’s hold tightens slightly. “No." he murmurs. “You didn’t.”

“I did.” you insist softly. “I didn’t notice she was getting worse and I just— I thought it was nothing and—”

“Hey.” He gently tilts your chin up so you have to look at him. “You don’t get to rewrite what happened. Not like that.”

Your throat tightens.

“You noticed.” he continues. “You trusted that something was off. You told me. You got her help.”

His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek.

“That’s not failure. That’s you being a good mom.” He presses soft kisses all over your face. “And I’ll tell you that as often as you need. Until you believe it.”

Your eyes sting again, but the tears don’t fall this time. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I’m so proud of you.” he murmurs. “So, so incredibly proud.”

The words settle deep.

“I mean it.” he adds softly. “You’ve handled all of this—everything—with so much strength. More than you think.”

You shake your head slightly, but there’s no real argument left in it.

“I didn’t even know she existed.” you whisper.

“And now you’re here.” he says. “Loving her. Taking care of her. Showing up for her.”

His hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together. “That’s what matters.”

You breathe in slowly, the tightness in your chest easing just a little more. Dennis glances toward the crib, his expression softening into something almost awed.

“She’s lucky." he says quietly.

You follow his gaze. “She is.”

He shakes his head, looking back at you.

“No,” he says gently. “She’s lucky because she has you.”

Your breath catches.

“And I am too.” he adds, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I get both of you.”

He leans in again, this time pressing a soft kiss to your lips, lingering just a moment longer than usual.

“I love you.” he whispers.

Your hand tightens in his. “We love you.” you murmur back.

Behind you, your daughter shifts slightly in her sleep, letting out a small, content sound.

You both turn instinctively. Dennis lets out a quiet breath, something warm and full settling in his chest as he watches her.

“Hey, my love.” he whispers softly, almost like she can hear him. “You did really good today.”

You rest your head against his shoulder again, your eyes finally growing heavy.

And finally, you let yourself sleep.

Warm, safe, and loved.

A/N: Everytime I read the "Baby Whitaker" line I hear it in the same way Dana says "Baby Jane Doe."

Saving lives gives him a rush like nothing else. That moment when vitals stabilize, when breathing evens out, when a pulse comes back, it fuels him. It doesn’t erase the losses, but it makes them bearable. Worth it.

He’s exceptional under pressure. Even when cases are bad, his voice stays calm, his movements precise. He compartmentalizes effortlessly on scene, emotions are something he’ll deal with later.

Caleb has incredibly steady hands. Because of that, he’s often the one staying in the back with patients while Gideon drives. IVs, airways, sutures, even with the ambulance swaying and braking, he doesn’t miss.

He’s genuinely loved by his colleagues. Easy to work with, kind, competent and funny. People feel safer when he’s on the rig.

He never judges mistakes. Never criticizes coworkers in front of patients. If something goes wrong, he steps in smoothly, redirects without a scene, and fixes it.

Later, in private, he explains what went wrong, calmly, clearly and without condescension. The kind of correction that makes people better instead of smaller.

ER staff love seeing him roll in. He’s always prepared, always organized, rattling off patient info cleanly and efficiently, vitals, meds, timelines, mechanisms of injury. Everything they need, nothing they don’t.

The nurses trust him. Doctors listen to him. Techs know that if Caleb hands them a patient, they’re already halfway stabilized.

Patients flirt with him constantly. It doesn’t matter the age or gender, but elderly women and drunk girls are especially bold.

Phone numbers are slipped to him at least once per night shift. Sometimes directly. Sometimes handed to Gideon with a wink and a “give this to your partner.” Caleb always thanks them politely… and throws the scraps away the moment they’re out of sight.

He’s hard to gross out. Blood, exposed bone, puke, traumatic injuries don’t faze him. But anything involving eyes or having to put his fingers in someone’s mouth? Absolute nightmare. He hates it every single time.

He drinks his coffee black, forgets to finish it, reheats it three times, and still keeps drinking it.

-> Caleb at home / with you

Coming home to you is his anchor. After hours of sirens and chaos, you are his quiet. His safe place.

Some nights, he wants to talk. He’ll sit with you and recount things carefully, stopping the moment he feels it’s too much for either of you.

Other nights, he doesn’t want to speak at all. He just needs to be held, his hesd on your chest while you play with his hair, his arms wrapped tight around your waist to ground himself.

Sometimes, the only way to calm the storm in his head is by taking care of you. Cooking. Cleaning. Making sure you’re warm, fed, and okay.

Caring for you never feels like work to him. After caring for strangers all day, one might think he’d be exhausted, but with you, it’s different. It’s a privilege. A choice. A relief.

He loves listening to your heart, especially after hard shifts. It’s the most important sound to him. Sometimes the two of you just lie on the couch, his stethoscope pressed to your chest, eyes closed while he listens like it’s grounding him back into the world.

He’s attentive in quiet ways: refilling your water glass, warming leftovers, reminding you to take your meds, adjusting the lights when you look tired.

He washes his hands the moment he gets home. Every time. It’s a ritual, for hygiene, but also as a way to leave the shift behind.

The gym is his second safe space. Somewhere to exhaust his body, burn off leftover adrenaline, and clear his mind. Training is how he processes what he can’t put into words.

On days off, he loves slow mornings with you. Cooking breakfast. Reading. Letting his body and mind recover.

If you’re sick or hurt, he goes into a softer version of work mode, gentle, careful and deeply protective. He knows when to treat and when to just comfort.

You’re the only person who sees how heavy the job can be. And the reason he keeps doing it anyway.

-> off duty habits & contradictions

Caleb loves and hates watching medical shows with you. He’ll call out inaccuracies within seconds, sigh dramatically, and mutter things like “that’s not how that works. You can't shock flatline.”

But he also loves answering your questions, explaining procedures, conditions, and anatomy in a way that’s easy to understand.

He’s frighteningly educated, far beyond “just” paramedic knowledge. Sometimes it borders on doctor-level understanding, and you catch yourself staring at him like how do you know all this?

He’s constantly calling you out on unhealthy habits.

“You’re slouching.”

“You haven’t had water all day.”

“Coffee is not a meal.”

The irony is that he’s just as bad. Skipped meals, energy bars instead of dinner, falling asleep on the couch still wired from a shift.

You started meal prepping for him. Nothing fancy, just good food. Balanced and familiar. Every time he opens his lunchbox on shift and finds one of your meals, especially when there’s a little note tucked inside, it genuinely warms him. It carries him through the whole night.

Gideon notices immediately.

“You’re eating better. You're less grumpy.” he says once.

His lips curl slowly into that infuriating, confident smirk as his gaze drags over you, unapologetic, reverent. The floor-length dress catches the light when you move, fabric shimmering like starlight, clinging to your curves in a way that feels magical. The makeup, the careful styling, it all feels suddenly very seen under his attention.

“I’ve seen you.” he murmurs, stepping closer, hands settling on your hips like they belong there. “But you look like a goddess.”

You scoff softly, but his grip tightens just a fraction.

“You always do.” he continues, voice lowering, breath warm against your skin, “but—” He exhales, a shaky sound he probably doesn’t mean to let slip, and dips his head to press a gentle kiss to your temple. Then he leans in, lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “This makes me want to stay right here. Not go at all. Take that dress right back off you.”

His hands flex at your waist. “I can’t have people stealing you.” he adds, teasing but possessive, “They’ll see treasure and think it’s theirs to take.”

You giggle and give his chest a light smack. “Just a few hours.” you say, smiling up at him. “Show them their Colonel is present. Then we come back here and have our fun.”

Your hands rise to his tie, sleek black, tugging it into perfect alignment even though it doesn’t need it. Your palms smooth over his chest anyway, lingering.

“You clean up quite well yourself, Colonel Xia.”

His grin widens, pleased and unmistakably smug.

He slips an arm around you and dips you effortlessly, like you’re already on the dance floor, before claiming your lips in a slow, lingering kiss that tastes faintly of anticipation. When he pulls back, he glances at the mirror, at the two of you together, polished, powerful, untouchable.

“Lipstick stain anywhere?” he asks.

You shake your head, but still swipe your thumb across his mouth just because you can. “I chose smudge-proof.” you say sweetly. “So I can kiss you as much as I want.”

Caleb hums approvingly. “That’s my smart woman.”

You grab your clutch, and he helps you into your coat with practiced care, fingers lingering at your shoulders. Then, together, you head out, bound for the Farspace Fleet headquarters and its annual ball, hearts already half left behind in the bedroom.

The Farspace Fleet headquarters is radiant tonight. What’s usually all sharp lines and disciplined efficiency has softened under warm lighting and drifting holographic constellations. Music carries easily through the wide hall, laughter threaded between glasses clinking and low conversation. Officers mingle without ranks weighing quite so heavily, though respect still hums beneath every interaction.

Especially when he walks in.

The moment Caleb steps through the doors with you at his side, the atmosphere shifts. Conversations falter for half a second, then resume, brighter, more animated.

“Colonel!”

A group of officers approaches, uniforms pristine, expressions openly delighted. Their salutes are crisp, respectful, but the smiles that follow are genuine.

“It’s good to see you, sir.” one says. “We were starting to think command had chained you to your office again.”

Caleb huffs lightly. “I escaped. Barely.”

Then their attention turns to you.

And somehow, immediately, you’re the center of it.

Introductions blur into warm compliments. Someone tells you how much they’ve heard about you. Another thanks you for 'keeping the Colonel sane' earning a laugh from the group. Caleb watches it all with folded arms and a polite smile.

A tight polite smile.

When someone laughs a little too hard at something you say, he leans down toward you, voice low. “They like you more than me.”

You grin. “You’re intimidating.”

“I am charming." he mutters. “They should be grateful.”

You accept a drink from a passing server, then another for him, the two of you drifting easily from group to group. Conversation flows, stories from recent deployments, playful teasing, soft awe at the decor. Caleb is relaxed in a way you don’t often get to see at work, shoulders looser, gaze warmer.

Still… you catch him watching.

Not the room.

You.

You feel it every time you turn toward him, the way his eyes linger, dark and appreciative. And when you finally let yourself look back properly, it hits you all over again.

His dress uniform.

You’ve always loved seeing him in uniform, the authority, the sharpness, the faintly terrifying edge he carries so effortlessly. But this… this is something else entirely. The sleek black fabric fits him perfectly, gold and red accents catching the light when he moves. The stars on his shoulders gleam beneath the drifting constellations, unmistakable, earned.

The youngest Colonel in the Fleet.

And devastatingly handsome.

“You’re staring.” he murmurs, amusement threading his voice.

“Can you blame me?” you reply lightly, eyes still tracing the clean lines of him. “You look unfair.”

His mouth quirks. “Funny. That’s exactly what I was thinking about you.”

The music shifts to something slower. Caleb doesn’t ask, he simply offers his hand, fingers warm and steady. On the dance floor, his presence is grounding, familiar. One hand at your back, the other guiding yours, his movements confident without being showy.

You fit together easily.

As you sway, you feel his gaze dip again, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“You know... ” he says quietly, “they’re all going to talk about you tomorrow.”

You smile. “Only me?”

He exhales softly, something between pride and mock irritation. “Apparently I’ve been demoted to ‘handsome escort.’”

You laugh, leaning closer. “Jealous, Colonel?”

He tilts his head, brushing his nose against yours. “A little.”

His thumb presses gently into your side, possessive but playful. “But they can look. That’s all they get.”

The music swells, lights glimmering off metal and fabric and stars beyond the windows.

The two of you dance for a while, reminiscent of your wedding, swaying easily to the slow orchestra music. Caleb's gaze doesn't leave yours. While everyone's world may revolve around the sun, he knows his revolves around you, and he won't let himself lose sight of that fact.

By the time you finally sit, plates piled with good food and glasses sweating faintly against the table, the night has settled into something easy and relaxed. Everything has been softened and eased by the alcohol and ranks barely matter anymore.

Caleb loosens just a touch in his chair, jacket still pristine but his posture relaxed, one arm resting behind you like a quiet claim. Across from you, one of the other Colonels’ wives smiles as she joins you, her youngest tucked securely against her chest. The baby is bundled in soft fabric, cheeks round, eyes wide and curious as she takes in the glow of the hall.

The conversation flows naturally, nothing stiff or rehearsed. She tells you about the challenges of fleet life, about juggling postings and parenthood, about how tonight is the first time she’s worn something other than a uniform-adjacent outfit in months. Caleb listens attentively, responding with the same calm warmth he gives his officers, but softer somehow.

The baby giggles.

Caleb’s eyes flick down instinctively. “She’s very alert.” he says, almost to himself.

She laughs. “Too alert. Won’t let me eat unless someone else holds her.”

Before either of you can respond, she shifts, already half-standing. “I’ll be quick—”

And then the baby is in Caleb’s arms.

Just like that.

There’s the briefest pause, barely a second, during which his body stills, surprise flashing across his face. His hands hover for a fraction of a moment, recalibrating.

Then something clicks.

He adjusts his grip naturally, one arm supporting the baby’s head and weight, the other hand steady at their back. He draws them in close, instinctively finding the right balance. The baby squirms once, then settles as Caleb begins to sway, slow, subtle, like it’s muscle memory rather than thought.

You stop mid-bite.

Oh.

He looks down at the baby, expression utterly transformed. The sharp edges of command soften, eyes warm and focused, voice dropping to a low murmur as if the child can understand every word.

“There we go.” he murmurs quietly. “You’re alright.”

The baby blinks up at him, calm and trusting.

Your chest tightens.

Caleb doesn’t even seem to realize what he’s doing, rocking the baby girl gently, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the fabric near her shoulder, perfectly secure. The uniform that usually makes him look formidable now somehow makes the moment even more surreal: the stars on his shoulders glinting while he cradles something impossibly small.

When he finally glances up at you, it’s almost sheepish.

“…she's heavier than she looks.” he says softly.

You swallow. “You’re… really good at that.”

His mouth quirks, a little self-conscious. “I didn’t think I would be.”

The baby lets out a quiet sound, nestling closer.

"It's alright." Caleb coos softly.

And that’s it.

That’s the final blow.

Something blooms low and warm in your chest, an ache you hadn’t been prepared for, impossible to ignore. You imagine him like this without trying, at home, sleeves rolled up, cradling your child in his strong arms.

The baby’s mother returns, smiling instantly at the sight.

“Well," she says warmly, “looks like I chose the right person.”

Caleb hands the baby back with care, lingering just long enough to make sure she's settled, his expression thoughtful even as the child leaves his arms.

When you’re alone again, he reaches for his glass, clearing his throat.

“… Don’t look at me like that.”

You smile, soft and helpless. “Like what?”

“Like you’re planning a future.”

You lean closer, voice light but honest. “Too late.”

He exhales through his nose, a quiet laugh betraying him. “Dangerous night.” he murmurs.

You glance around, the lights, the music, the stars beyond the glass, and then back at him.

Yeah.

Very dangerous.

“Let’s go home.” you say softly, but there’s no mistaking the insistence beneath it. Your fingers curl around his sleeve. “Right now. And make one of our own.”

Caleb lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as if indulging a playful thought. He lifts his glass, taking a casual sip of wine... and nearly chokes.

He lowers it slowly, eyes snapping back to you as the realization lands. “You’re… you’re serious?”

Heat rushes to his cheeks, a flush blooming so vividly it creeps all the way to his ears. For once, the unshakable Colonel of the Farspace Fleet is completely, utterly flustered.

You smile, warm and unwavering, and take his free hand in yours. “I am.” you say gently. “We’ve talked about it here and there. Joked about it. Probably thought about it even more than we ever admitted. At least I have.”

His throat works as he swallows, gaze searching yours, measuring, grounding himself. Slowly, deliberately, he sets his glass down, fingers lingering on the stem as if anchoring himself to the moment.

“This isn’t…” he starts, then stops, exhaling softly. His expression shifts, something resolute settling in beneath the blush. “This isn’t just the wine talking?”

“No.” you whisper. “It’s not new. Just… stronger now.”

He nods once, jaw tightening with emotion he doesn’t bother hiding. Then he stands, pulling you up with him, his grip steady but reverent.

“Then,” he says quietly, voice low and sure, “let’s go home.”

The music swells behind you, lights glimmering across polished floors and distant stars, but none of it matters anymore. Not the ball. Not the Fleet.

Just the two of you, and the future that suddenly feels closer than ever.

The door barely has time to slide shut before Caleb’s hands are on you again, warm, sure and familiar. He exhales a quiet laugh under his breath, before lifting you with effortless strength. You gasp softly, arms instinctively looping around his neck.

“Caleb—”

“I’ve got you.” he murmurs, already moving, carrying you through the apartment like you weigh nothing at all. His steps are unhurried, steady, as if this moment deserves nothing less than his full attention. The lights are low, the city beyond the viewport a distant shimmer, but all you feel is him, solid, grounding and real.

When he reaches the bedroom, he slows even more. He settles you onto the bed like something precious, hands lingering as if to make sure you’re truly there, truly safe. For a moment, he just looks at you, really looks, eyes dark, soft, full of a devotion that steals your breath.

His fingers find the fastenings of his uniform next, movements deliberate as he sheds each layer. The jacket comes first, placed carefully aside. Then the gloves. The weight of command slips from him piece by piece, until it’s just Caleb standing before you, not the Colonel.

He pauses, searching your face.

“Are you sure?” he asks quietly.

The question is gentle, not hesitant, but protective. It makes something flutter in your chest, warm and fragile all at once.

A flicker of uncertainty blooms anyway. “Do you… not want to?” you ask softly, hating how small the question sounds.

He’s with you instantly.

Caleb cups your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if grounding you. “No.” he says firmly, eyes locking onto yours. His voice softens, steady and certain. “My love for you, and wanting this, might be the only things I’m completely sure of.”

The words settle deep, anchoring you.

You breathe him in, fingers curling into his shirt as he leans his forehead against yours, the world narrowing to the space between your hearts.

Caleb leans in first, slow enough that you feel the intent before the contact.

His lips brush yours like a question, soft and unhurried, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you. When you respond, he exhales, relieved, almost grateful, and the kiss deepens just a little. Nothing rushed. Nothing desperate. Just warmth and certainty and the quiet awe of being here together.

His hands cradle you with the same care he used earlier, thumbs tracing along your jaw, your cheek, your collarbone. Every touch feels deliberate, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

“I don’t say this enough,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and steady, “but I need you to know.”

He kisses you again, your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, each one slow, lingering, almost reverent.

“I love you.” he continues softly. “Not just in the way that’s easy or familiar. I love you in the way that makes everything else make sense. In a way that's so all consuming. In a way my thoughts and desires mingle with you. Knowing me is knowing you. You're a part of me, inseparable from my soul.”

His forehead rests against yours now, breath warm, hands splayed over your back as if holding you close anchors him.

“I spend my life making decisions that affect entire fleets.” he admits quietly. “Carrying responsibility, weighing outcomes.” His thumb brushes gentle circles against your skin. “But choosing you was never a decision. It was instinct.”

You feel his chest rise with a careful breath.

“I’m lucky.” he says, and there’s no pride in it, only sincerity. “To be loved by you. To be trusted like this. To even be considered worthy of a future with you.”

He kisses you again, slower still, like a promise rather than a spark. When he pulls back, his gaze is open, vulnerable in a way few ever see.

“I don’t take that lightly.” he whispers. “I never will.”

You don't reply, you're not sure you'd even find the right words, instead, you pull him down by the nape, into another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue slipping between your lips, exploring what he already knows by heart.

"No protection? You're sure?" He asks softly, breathless, his forehead resting against yours. You nod, gaze fixed on his.

"OK, then let's make a baby, my love." He murmurs, before his lips press to yours again, his hands slipping behind your back, tugging down the zipper of your dress. The sparkling fabric falls away to reveal your matching lacy underwear. Caleb is left speechless, inhaling sharply at the sight of your curves clad in black lace.

"I feel like you planned for this." He says, dropping the dress onto the pile of his discarded clothes on the floor.

You shrug, smiling. "I did plan for sex to be fair... the unprotected part... was not planned until an hour ago."

Caleb's hands skim along your sides, his touch causing a shiver of anticipation to run down your spine. You want him. So bad.

His hands slip behind your back again, fingers at the clasps of your bra. He looks at you questioningly, asking for permission. You nod and a second later he lets it fall away.

"You're so beautiful." He mutters, breathless, his head dipping down to press gentle kisses to your breasts, sucking on your nipples. "My perfect wife."

You arch into his touch, moaning as he alternates between biting, sucking and licking your nipples until they feel raw. One hand squeezes your supple flesh while the other glides down, rubbing circles into your clit.

"You're so wet, baby." He remarks, one finger slipping in effortlessly, curling against your walls.

"Mhh, Leb. More."

Immidietly, he slips a second finger inside, marveling at how easily his fingertips sink between your folds, parting you, and thrusting slow at first, back and forth as be picks up speed, preparing you, stretching you. You buck up into his hand, eager for more.

"Shhh. You'll get what you want in a minute love." He soothes, his fingers curling inside you. Caleb tilts your chin up, his lips eager to meet yours in another heated kiss. "Will you come for me?" He raps against your mouth, sharing your breath. You nod and moan, already lost in the throes of pleasure.

Caleb knows exactly what spot to hit to make you see stars, to make your toes curl and cause you to moan his name. Your nails claw at his back, leaving long red marks as his fingers thrust into you fast and reckless.

Pleasure drowns you like ocean waves, washing over you in an all consuming storm of heat and wetness. You mumble incoherent things, muttering about how much you love him and want to carry his baby, while his fingers fuck you through the orgasm, cooing softly, one hand at your cheek, thumb swiping gently at the tears rolling down.

"I love you more." He whispers, his hands stilling inside of you. "So so much."

As he pulls his fingers out, licking them clean, and you're left feeling utterly empty. "Should I ask again if-" Caleb breaks off as you shake your head insistently.

His fingers slip into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down until they fall to the floor, his cock hanging proud and large between his legs.

You can feel his heart pounding rapidly against your chest as he aligns himself, nudging his head against your opening, and slipping inside in one easy, languid thrust. He grunts low, the noise reverberating through his broad chest.

"Just say the word, love." He whispers. His lips press to your neck, sucking at your racing pulse, leaving his mark.

You take a moment to adjust, to enjoy the feeling of being filled so deliciously, to the brim. The incredible closeness and intimacy of it. Then you nod.

"I'm ready." You whisper, and not even a second later Caleb starts to move. Slow and gentle, one hand at your hip, to steady and ground you.

His gaze finds yours, beautiful purple with orange swirls staring down at you with love and adoration. His lips curl into damn cocky smirk of his you love, as he thrusts shallowly, picking up speed, finding his rhythm.

"Our babies are gonna be so beautiful." He murmurs, his other hand gripping your nape, tangling in your hair. "I hope it'll look like you."

You shake your head, fingernails raking over his chest. "No, I want a mini Leb!" You protest and Caleb chuckles.

He grips one thigh, throwing it onto his broad shoulder, the new angle allowing him to thrust deeper, eliciting a breathless moan from you.

"Good?" He asks, hips grinding against yours.

"The best." You reply breathless.

Caleb grunts and thrusts harder, his tip slapping against your cervix. A string of profanities spills from his lips at the feeling, while you blink away stars.

He's so beautiful on top of you. His beauty never lost it's effect on you, not even after years of this sight.

His brown hair is a tousled mess on top of his head, his bangs damp with sweat, sides freshly cropped for the event. You scratch at his sideburns, then at his nape, pulling at his hair. Caleb groans, leaning into your touch, his eyelids fluttering closed to savor every single point of contact between the two of you.

"My beautiful Colonel." You murmur.

Caleb shakes his head. "Not right now... not here." He grunts, eyebrows furrowed as he pistons into you. "Here I'm... your man. Just yours." His voice is shaky, as if he's about to snap from the pleasure. Crack wide open. "Oh fuck. You feel so good. Gonna put a baby in you and it's gonna be so fucking perfect, just like it's mommy."

Heat blossoms everywhere. In your chest, because of his words, and low in your belly, because of his deep thrusts.

Caleb grips your other thigh, swinging it over his shoulder and pressing you down into the mattress, your knees folded against your chest.

His movements are deep and fast now, almost relentless, bridging pleasure and pain in a delicious tightrope that makes you moan so loud the sounds echo throughout the room.

His gaze doesn't leave yours. The purple of Caleb's eyes is swallowed almost completely by his black pupils, blown with pleasure. He wants to see the exact moment you come for him. See you unravel because of his dick once again, savor the expression you always make, like he's a man starved and he feeds off of it.

You come, like so often, with his name on your lips. Pleasure explodes within you and for a moment you feel like a kaleidoscope of sensations. His twitching tip deep inside, as he grunts and fills you up, his hands on your face, calloused thumbs caressing your cheeks, his soft lips pressing to your temple, your nose, then your lips. And the incredible heat behind it all.

Caleb breathes heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly, pressed against your thighs. You close your eyes, floating in the aftershocks of pleasure.

"Are you ok?" He rasps, one hand massaging your scalp. You nod weakly, eyelids fluttering open to stare up at him again. He presses a long, soft kiss to your lips. No hunger behind it, just appreciation.

Slowly, as if afraid to break you, even though he'd you folded into a mating press just moments before, he pulls out.

“I’ll, uh… get something to clean you.” he murmurs, starting to shift off the bed on slightly shaky legs.

“Shh.” you coo softly, catching his wrist and tugging him back down. “No. Stay. Just a moment.”

You curl closer. “I want cuddles.”

He chuckles, the sound low and tired, and pulls you into his chest without hesitation. “How could I ever say no to that?”

Your cheek rests over his heart. You can feel it, still fast at first, a wild rhythm, gradually slowing beneath you, transforming from a rapid drum into something deep and steady, a soothing lullaby.

“I love you.” you whisper, pressing a few lazy kisses to his sternum.

“I love you.” he replies quietly, the words vibrating through his chest. “So much.”

His arm tightens around you just a little. “I’m so incredibly thankful… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

His lips press to the crown of your head, lingering there as he inhales your soft, familiar scent like it anchors him.

For a while, there’s nothing but breathing and warmth and closeness.

“How about a shower?” he murmurs. “Maybe… a round two?”

A pause.

“Would that double our chances of twins?”

You snort softly against his chest. “I don’t think that’s how that works, Caleb.”

He hums thoughtfully. “But it’d double the chances of the good swimmers making it, wouldn’t it?”

You lift your head just enough to look at him, eyes heavy with sleep and affection. “You’re a highly decorated Colonel in the Farspace Fleet.”

“And currently running on, wine, zero sleep and too much emotion.” he admits, smirking faintly. “So my science might be… optimistic.”

You laugh quietly, pressing a kiss to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Hopelessly in love.” he corrects gently, kissing your hair. “There’s a difference.”

He holds you a little tighter, protective, content.

So when you left for Pittsburgh after graduating high school, with little more than a few possessions and each other, it felt less like stepping forward and more like falling through the world. Your family cut ties, while Dennis only stayed superficially in touch with his. Everything you had known dissolved behind you. Nothing was as you’d been taught it would be.

You learned quickly that love alone didn’t pay bills. Being each other’s rock made the hardship bearable, but student life was still ruthless. Dennis pushed himself through medical school with relentless determination, while you worked your way into a public school classroom, standing in front of children who had never had to choose between faith and ambition. Still, the debt piled up, and the money never quite stretched far enough.

That was how you ended up living in the abandoned wing of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Quiet hallways, unused rooms, borrowed time. And that was how fate seemed to intervene once more, in the form of Trinity Santos, who found the two of you and, for reasons you’d never quite understand, chose kindness. She offered you a spare room in her apartment.

A moment that felt like another string of fate pulled tight. Another person that would become a home.

Six months later, life finally felt… steadier. You and Dennis were saving, planning, building something fragile but real. You were creating friendships, routines, a future that felt like it might actually hold.

You had no way of knowing just how completely that future was about to change.

The apartment is quiet, the type that settles deep into your bones. Only the steady sloshing of the washing machine and the low hum of the dishwasher fill the silence. You hum a song you used to sing in church back in Nebraska as you fold the warm, freshly dried laundry, muscle memory guiding your hands.

It's been an uneventful day so far. You'd come home from teaching at noon, and had started right away on household chores so everything would be tidy once Dennis and Trinity return from their shift at the ER.

But, then pain suddenly spears through you.

It comes sharp and sudden, like an arrow driven straight into your abdomen. Your knees buckle before you can even think, and you curl in on yourself, fingers scrabbling for the edge of the dryer to keep from collapsing.

“Oh—oh God.” you whisper, breathless.

You’ve never felt pain like this. It isn’t the dull ache you know from your period, isn’t something familiar and manageable. It’s cramping so intense it steals the air from your lungs, leaves you with nothing to do but fold inward and wait for it to pass.

Oh, it hurts.

With heavy, unsteady steps, you drag yourself down the short hallway to the bedroom you share with Dennis. You lower yourself into the chair by the desk, where a stack of tests still sits, untouched, waiting to be graded by tomorrow. Mocking. Patient. You swallow hard and blink rapidly, willing the sting behind your eyes to fade.

It’ll pass.

It has to.

It’s probably just your period, an especially bad cycle this month. It’s been irregular for a while now anyway. Spotting. Cramping. Little warning signs you’d brushed off as stress or hormones, things you never looked too closely at and never quite mentioned to Dennis. Old habits are hard to break. Being raised not to talk about periods at all, especially not with men, is one of them. And Dennis is busy. Exhausted. Too wrapped up in the hospital to notice subtle changes in your health, even if he wanted to.

You slump forward in the chair, bending over the desk, and reach for a red pen with trembling fingers. Maybe work will help. A distraction. Something orderly and familiar.

You start sorting the papers, telling yourself that if you can just focus, just for a few minutes, everything will settle back into place. Everything will be ok.

But the pain doesn’t fade the way you expect it to.

It loosens its grip just enough for you to breathe again, leaving behind a dull, aching pressure that settles low in your abdomen. You sag forward over the desk, forehead nearly touching the wood, counting slow breaths. One. Two. Three. Your hands are clammy, the red pen slipping in your fingers.

Maybe you were right. Maybe it is just a bad cycle.

Then it comes back.

Stronger this time. Deeper. A heavy cramp that coils tight inside you, squeezing until your vision blurs at the edges. You gasp, instinctively bracing your feet against the floor, shoulders tensing as if you could ride it out if you just stayed still long enough. The wave crests, holds, then finally ebbs, leaving you shaky and damp with sweat.

You glance at the clock without really knowing why. The seconds tick by, distorted, stretched thin.

When the next one hits, you barely manage not to cry out.

That’s when the unease settles in, quiet but insistent. This isn’t right. This isn’t something you can ignore and grade papers through. Your hands are trembling now as you fumble for your phone, thumb hovering over Dennis’s name for half a second before pressing call.

He answers on the second ring.

“Hey.” he says, voice warm, tired. “What’s up, baby?”

“I—” You break off as another cramp rolls through you, breath hitching. “I don’t feel good. My stomach really hurts.”

The shift in him is immediate. You can hear it even without seeing him.

“Okay.” he says, calm and steady. “Tell me more specifics. Where exactly does it hurt?”

“Low.” you manage, curling forward again. “Low in my abdomen. It—it comes and goes.”

“Alright. How strong would you say it is, on a scale of one to ten?”

You swallow, pressing a hand against your stomach as the pain tightens again, unforgiving. “Eight. Maybe nine when it’s bad.”

There’s a brief pause on the line, so short you might have imagined it.

“Do you have a fever? Nausea? Dizziness?”

“I feel kind of lightheaded.” you admit. “And sweaty.”

“Okay.” His voice stays even, reassuring. “I want you to come to the ER. It could be your appendix, and I don’t want you sitting at home with that. That'd be urgent.”

Relief flickers through you at the decisiveness. At him taking over. “Okay.”

“Can you get there safely?”

“Yes.” you say, even as another wave curls through you, forcing you to breathe shallowly until it passes.

“Good. I’m going to finish up here and meet you there, alright?”

“Alright.”

Only after he hangs up does the concern bleed through the edges of his calm, setting professionalism aside as he lets himself worry about you, before swallowing it all down with a deep, steadying breath and getting back to work.

As you brace yourself against the desk, waiting for the next cramp to hit, you realize with a quiet jolt that the pain seems to have a rhythm now. You try very hard not to think about that.

The bus ride blurs together in fragments, your fingers locked around the metal pole, the city swaying too much, each stop stretching endlessly as another cramp rolls through you. You breathe through them the only way you know how, shallow and controlled, forehead resting briefly against the cool glass of the window. Somehow, impossibly, you stay upright until the doors finally hiss open in front of the hospital.

Inside, everything moves quickly. You barely manage to say your name at reception before the pain spikes again, sharp enough to steal your breath and forces you to fold forward with a low, involuntary sound. That’s all it takes. A wheelchair is rolled out toward you. Hands steady your shoulders. Someone is already calling for triage as you’re wheeled out of the waiting room, its noise fading behind you.

The triage bay smells of antiseptic. It's too bright. Too white. You’re helped onto a bed, legs trembling as you curl slightly inward. A blood pressure cuff tightens around your arm.

“Deep breaths for me.” the nurse says gently. “I know it hurts. We’re going to take good care of you.”

Your vitals are taken one by one, heart rate fast, blood pressure elevated, temperature normal. Sweat beads along your hairline as another wave builds, forcing you to grip the edge of the mattress while you breathe through clenched teeth.

“It comes and goes?” the nurse asks.

“Yes." you manage. “In waves.”

“When was your last period?”

You hesitate. “I’m… not sure. It’s been irregular.”

She nods without judgment, scribbling something down. “Alright. We’re going to get a urine sample—standard procedure, okay?”

You nod, too tired to question it.

You're asked to change into a gown for further exam, then escorted to the bathroom to pee in a cup. It all feels so overwhelming, faintly humiliating.

When she leaves with the cup and returns a few minutes later, something about her expression has shifted. It’s careful now. Measured.

“Do you have someone we should notify?” she asks. “Family? A partner?”

“My husband.” you say quickly, another cramp curling tight inside you. “He works here. In the ER. Dennis Whitaker—he’s a resident.”

Relief flickers across her face. “Okay. We’ll let him know.”

The pain surges again before you can say anything else, stronger than before, ripping a cry from your throat despite your best efforts to stay quiet. The curtain is pulled back. The bed starts moving.

“Possible ectopic.” someone says nearby.

“Pain worsening.”

“Let’s get her to an ER bay.”

The word ectopic lands heavy and cold in your chest, fear blooming fast and unfamiliar. You don’t have time to ask what it means before the bed stops and hands are adjusting monitors, voices overlapping around you.

Then—

“I’m here.”

Dennis’s voice cuts through the noise like a lifeline. Your head turns sharply, tears blurring your vision as he steps into view. He looks pale beneath the harsh lights, concern etched deep into his face, but his eyes soften the moment they find yours.

“Hey.” he says quietly, moving to your side. “Hey, love.”

Relief crashes over you so hard it nearly hurts. Your fingers fumble for his, clutching onto his gloved hand like it’s the only solid thing left in the room.

“I’ve got you.” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your knuckles. Then, gently but firmly, he shifts into motion. “We’re going to take care of you.”

He glances up at one of the nurses. “Princess, can you hook her up to the monitor?”

She nods, already peeling back adhesive pads. Dennis turns back to you, voice low and steady.

“She’s just going to put some stickers on your chest so we can keep an eye on your heart, alright? You don’t have to do anything. Just breathe for me and try to stay calm.”

Cold fingers press briefly against your skin as the electrodes are placed. You flinch when another contraction hits, curling slightly inward.

“I know.” Dennis says softly, one hand warm and grounding at your shoulder. “I know it hurts. You’re doing really well.”

He reaches for your arm next, disinfecting it. “Okay—this is going to be a little pinch.”

You barely register the needle as it slides in, pain elsewhere demanding all your attention. Dennis tapes the IV down with careful, gentle movements, smoothing the edges as if he’s afraid even that might hurt you.

“There we go.” he says. “Now we can give you medication.”

His thumb lingers against your skin for a moment longer than necessary before he straightens, jaw tight. “They’re concerned it might be ectopic.” he explains quietly, meeting your eyes. “That’s when a pregnancy implants outside the uterus. We’re going to do an ultrasound to check, okay?”

The word pregnancy barely registers before the next wave hits, stronger, deeper, forcing a strangled sound from your throat. Dennis is instantly back at your side, grounding you through it, breathing slow and even so you can match him.

The ultrasound machine is rolled in. Gel spreads cold across your abdomen, making you gasp. The doctor presses the probe down, adjusting, frowning slightly.

Seconds pass.

Then—

“Wait.” Dennis says, voice barely above a whisper.

The image sharpens.

You don’t understand what you’re seeing at first. Shapes. Movement. Then a rhythm, fast, unmistakable.

“That’s… not ectopic.” the doctor says slowly.

Dennis’s breath leaves him in a shaky exhale. His grip tightens around your hand.

“Oh my God.” he murmurs.

“That’s a fetus.” the doctor continues. “And she’s contracting regularly.”

The room seems to tilt. You look at Dennis, searching his face, your voice barely more than air. “Dennis…?”

His eyes shine with shock, fear, and something overwhelming and unguarded as he leans closer, pressing his forehead briefly to yours.

“Love.” he whispers, voice breaking. “You’re... you're in labor.”

Another contraction crashes through you, undeniable now, and Dennis doesn’t let go, not for a second.

“I’m right here.” he says fiercely. “I’m not going anywhere.”

After that, everything blurs.

There are hands everywhere, voices layered over one another, the sharp sting of medication and then the way the pain shifts, still there, still immense, but dulled at the edges, like it’s happening to someone else. Time stops behaving normally. Minutes stretch. Then vanish.

Dennis stays with you through all of it.

You hear him more than you see him, his voice a steady thread you cling to as the world tilts and contracts around you. He tells you when to breathe, when to push, when to rest. He keeps one hand anchored in yours, the other warm and constant at your shoulder, as if he’s afraid you might drift away if he lets go.

You don’t remember when it ends.

Only that suddenly, impossibly, there is a sound.

Thin. Insistent. Alive.

“Oh.” Dennis breathes.

Your eyes flutter open properly then, the fog lifting just enough for you to see him as he turns back toward you, something small and pink cradled carefully in his arms. His hands are shaking.

“She’s… she’s small.” he says softly, wonder and disbelief threading through his voice.

He brings her closer, settling her against your chest with reverent care. Her skin is warm, impossibly real, her tiny fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of your gown. The weight of her knocks the breath from your lungs in an entirely different way.

There’s a baby on your chest.

Your baby.

You sob, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it, forehead dropping forward as Dennis presses a kiss into your hair.

“It’s okay.” he murmurs, voice thick. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good.”

He stays close, one hand resting over yours and hers together, the other smoothing slow, grounding strokes along your arm. When you finally find your voice, it breaks immediately.

“We don’t even have a bed for her.” you whisper, tears soaking into the thin hospital pillow. “Or a name.”

Dennis leans down until his face is level with yours, eyes soft and fierce all at once.

“That’s alright.” he says gently. “Don’t worry about that right now. We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

You sniff, nodding weakly, eyes never leaving the tiny rise and fall of her chest.

“She’s okay.” he continues quietly, slipping instinctively into explanation, into reassurance. “This happens sometimes... cryptic pregnancies. No symptoms, or symptoms that get mistaken for other things. Especially with stress, irregular cycles…” His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The door opens quietly.

“Well." Trinity says, voice pitched low but bright with awe. “I leave you two alone for one shift.”

You look up to find her hovering near the doorway, expression caught somewhere between shock, pride, and outright joy. She steps closer, peering down at the baby with something dangerously close to reverence.

“God.” she murmurs. “She’s perfect.”

Dennis lets out a shaky laugh. “Apparently you’re an aunt now.”

Trinity straightens immediately. “Excuse you.” she says. “I’m a godmother. I’ve decided.”

Despite everything, despite the fear, the exhaustion, the impossible reality settling into place, you laugh, soft and wet and disbelieving, as your daughter shifts against your chest.

After a flurry of checkups for both you and the baby, you’re finally brought upstairs to your own room. The noise fades, replaced by a hushed stillness that feels almost sacred. Dennis never leaves your side, his hand always wrapped around yours, grounding and warm.

The baby, your baby girl, you have to keep reminding yourself, has been dressed in a tiny onesie and a soft pink hat. She sleeps soundly now in the clear plastic crib beside your bed, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that feels impossible to look away from.

Dennis watches you watch her.

He wants to tell you how incredible you are. How impossibly proud he is. How overwhelming it feels to suddenly be a father, to have his entire world rearranged in the span of a few hours. But he knows those words would come too fast, too heavy.

So instead, he asks quietly, “How are you coping?”

Your gaze drifts from the crib back to him. He’s sitting in the chair on the other side of the bed, shoulders slumped with exhaustion, eyes soft and searching.

“Some pain.” you admit quietly. “But the medication’s helping. And I’m exhausted. And hungry.” You swallow. “And I can’t stop thinking about how… how I didn’t know. How I probably ate things I shouldn’t have and—”

Dennis is on his feet in an instant. He cups your cheeks in his calloused hands, thumbs brushing gently beneath your eyes.

“Shhh." he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

His forehead rests against yours as he speaks, voice low and steady. “My mind’s telling me the same things. That I should’ve known. That I would’ve, if I’d paid more attention. If I hadn’t been so buried in work.” He exhales softly. “But none of that changes what’s true right now.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you properly. “What I wanted to ask is… are you... okay with this? This isn’t what we planned. We wanted to wait. Until I’m finished with my studies... until... it's all stable.”

You nod slowly, eyes drifting back to the crib. She looks impossibly small. Peaceful. Real.

“Yeah." you say. “But… that’s just how it is now, isn’t it?” Your voice softens. “Maybe it’s fate.” You hesitate, then whisper, “Do you think we’ll be good parents?”

Dennis doesn’t hesitate.

“I know without a doubt that you’re already the best mom.” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You talk like that for a while, voices hushed. About what you’ll need. What you’ll figure out as you go. How terrifying and strange and oddly right this all feels, even though it wasn’t part of the plan.

A soft knock breaks the quiet.

A moment later, Trinity slips into the room, already smiling.

“Hey, roomies.” she says. “Can I take a proper look at my new roommate?”

She’s already crossing the room, peering down into the crib with unmistakable awe.

“Sure." Dennis says. “You can hold her, if you want.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice.

Trinity scoops the baby up with practiced ease, one arm supporting her head, the other cradling her tiny body. She rocks her gently, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Living with both of us was already more than we ever could’ve asked of you." you say quietly. “A debt we might never be able to repay. But a baby…”

“Oh, hush.” Trinity cuts in immediately. “I’m not making you move out.”

She glances over her shoulder at you. “I’ve gotten used to it. Besides, who’s going to cook dinner for me? Or meal prep? Or make that ridiculous sourdough that keeps me alive through twelve-hour shifts?”

“I could still make you bread.” you offer weakly. “Even if we didn’t live together.”

Trinity frowns. “You’re not leaving. End of discussion.” A beat. “I like having you two idiots around.” She looks back down at the baby, softening. “Three now, I guess.”

The baby squirms slightly in her arms, letting out a tiny sound, and the room feels warmer for it.

“The others asked when your baby shower will be." Trinity says after a long moment of silence, smiling at both of you while she still cradles your daughter.

“Baby shower?” you echo quietly.

You barely know what that is. Only fragments, really, over-the-top parties from social media, balloon arches and elaborate decorations, gender reveals that feel unnecessary now, almost funny. There’s no mystery left there. She’s here. She’s real.

“Yes.” Trinity says easily. “The whole staff downstairs wants to come. Gift you things. Honestly, we probably won’t even need to buy much ourselves.”

The word we hits you harder than anything else she’s said.

We.

She isn’t speaking as a bystander. She isn’t offering help from the outside. She’s placing herself firmly within the circle of this new, fragile little family. Your throat tightens.

“No...” you whisper, tears welling up. “That’s… that’s too much—”

“It’s exactly what all of us are willing to give.” Trinity cuts in gently, smiling. “And you don’t get to decide whether that’s too much.”

She adjusts the baby in her arms and continues, casual as if she’s listing groceries. “Anyway, Dana already called her husband, he’s bringing their old stroller that’s been sitting in their attic. I hope they clean it first. Can you imagine the spiders on that thing?” She wrinkles her nose. “And Princess raided the supply closet. Diapers. Onesies. A truly impressive haul.”

She keeps going, telling you how people you’ve grown quietly fond of over the past months, the nurses you brought home-cooked meals to, the residents you dropped off sandwiches and desserts for during long shifts, have come together without hesitation. How no one asked whether they should help. They just did.

You listen, stunned.

In this moment, it isn’t just one string of fate pulled taut. Not just your daughter bending reality into something new. It’s more than a dozen threads tightening all at once, each person stepping forward, ready to hold you up.

You’d always believed the community back in Nebraska was as close-knit as it could be, bonds forged beneath the roof of God, held together by tradition and obligation. But now, sitting in this quiet hospital room, surrounded by care freely given, you realize you were wrong.

This feels bigger.

People choosing you. Choosing to stay. Choosing to help, not because they have to, but because they want to.

And for the first time since everything changed, the future doesn’t feel so frightening after all.

A/N: This request was a very specific one, basically laid out from start to finish and I simply got to put it all into a proper story, and I quite enjoyed that progress.