Mads

Everyone in the room knows what that was the sound of - your skull cracking.

“Fuck me!” “Fucking shit!” “Holy fuck!” “Oh god!” “Was that her fucking skull?” Verbalized reactions fill the air from Robby, Dana, Heather, Mel and Santos, respectively. Jack is silent. He’s not even sure he’s breathing. He’s frozen as he looks at you, both struggling to process what has happened and already understanding what has happened at once, hearing dulled as he focuses on you. 

Things have now gone from really fucking bad to somehow a lot fucking worse in a matter of seconds.

A head injury was the last thing you needed. And it was preventable. He should have prevented it. He should have stayed with you, told Robby to handle the code on his own, kept holding you, actually looked you over before letting you go but he didn’t. 

“Somebody get a fucking gurney in here!” Dana yells out the door. 

“Collins, you handle this. Mohan, you’re with me!” Robby orders. Once your neck is secured in a c-collar and you’re on a gurney you’re rushed into trauma two, the team swarming you just like they do any other unfortunate soul who ends up here. 

Jack suddenly finds himself again, hearing no longer dampened and follows your gurney into trauma two. “Mannitol-”

“Get out Jack!” Robby shouts at him amid the chaos of getting you hooked up to monitors and IVs going. “You can’t be in here!”

“And yet here I fucking am.” Jack almost snarls back at him as he takes a place on the other side of you. 

“Dana.” Robby shoots her a look and she steps back and away from you, peeling her gloves off and tossing them to the floor. 

“Jack,” she says softly to him, rests a hand on his bicep and squeezes gently. “Let’s step out.”

He shrugs her hand off. “No. No fucking way. Somebody…” He trails off as he looks down at you, freezing again. More blood pours from your mouth, and now your nose. He looks down and sure enough, it’s dripping out of your ear too, not unsurprising given the head trauma, but still. The image is seared in his brain.  

“Fuck!” Robby yells. “She’s in DIC.” He takes a look at your vitals. To say they’re abysmal would be a gross understatement. “Okay, massive transfusion protocol now, people! I wanna do two to one to one with how much blood she’s lost. Set up for a central line.” 

“Push etomidate and roc!” Mohan yells into the chaos. “7.0 ET please.”

“Jack, you have to move, okay? They need access to her.” Dana grabs Jack’s arm again and is able to pull him to the side. “Once she’s intubated you can sit by her, okay?” 

He gives a single nod in response, sits automatically when Dana pushes the stool into the back of his knees. It doesn’t take the team long to get you intubated and Dana helps him move so that he sits at the top of your head. 

Everything and everyone else fades away as he looks down at your face, your beautiful blood smeared face. He leans in towards you a little. He has so much he wants to say and yet he can’t get a word out. 

“We’re taking her up to surgery, Jack.” Robby is suddenly leaning down next to him. “We have to stop the internal bleeding before we can image her head.” 

“She’s in DIC. She has a subdural from the fall, I’m sure. Fractured skull. We have to address it.” Jack almost mumbles it as he watches them put the bed rails up and start to move you. 

“I know,” Robby tells him gently, “but if the major source of bleeding isn’t stopped, you and I both know that the skull fracture and subdural aren’t going to matter.”

Jack just nods and stands, follows your gurney in silence up to the OR floor. He hates it but he has to take one last look at you before turning to go into a locker room to grab a fresh pair of scrubs. He changes fast, finds Garcia and Shamsi in the scrub room. 

“What are you doing Jack?” Garcia asks him, sharing a look with Shamsi. “You’re not coming in the OR.”

“Yes I am.” He ignores her, grabs a pack and starts to scrub. The door opens again and Jack doesn’t need to turn to know it’s Robby. 

“You guys go.” Robby nods at Garcia and Shamsi. “Jack, come on. Let’s go to the gallery or waiting room.”

“Fuck that!” Jack yells as they walk in. He’s still scrubbing furiously. “I’m not going to watch them hack her-”

“You and I both know they’re not going to ‘hack her’ and that there’s nobody else you’d rather have operating on her. You need to let them do their work.” Robby stops next to the sink Jack is scrubbing at. “That is the best thing you can do for her right now. Let them work.”

Jack keeps scrubbing for a minute, jaw clenched tight. But then he stops. He knows Robby is right. Knows that scrubbing in and being in the OR isn’t going to fix you. It isn’t going to let him make up for not noticing you were shot earlier, before you were already half dead on the floor with a broken fucking skull he could have prevented. 

The combination of emotions is crushing. He throws the soap at one of the doors in the scrub room and yells a “fuck!” There’s a moment of silence and then a whispered “fuck,” that his voice crack on half way through. 

“Come on.” Robby picks up the soap and throws it away, throws a towel at Jack for his hands. “Let’s get some air.” 

“I’m going to obs.” Jack tells him. Robby tries to speak. “No. If I don’t get to be in the OR with her I at least get to fucking watch over her from obs.”

“No, Jack! I’m not letting you fucking torture yourself by watching this. She wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t want you seeing her like this-”

“You don’t fucking know her!” Jack seethes, getting up in Robby’s face, chests touching. “So stop fucking acting like you do.”

A tense silence passes, a staring match before Robby holds his hands up in defeat and looks away. “Alright. I’m sorry.” 

“I have to watch her die, Robby. I have to have been there for her. Been there with her. I am not letting her go alone.” Jack shakes his head, eyes red rimmed and glassy but more serious than Robby has ever seen him before. 

“I know.” Robby opens the door of the observation suite for him. “If something happens and they get close to calling it you can go be with your girl, okay?”

“No.” Jack huffs, treading water more and more to try and stay above the flood of emotions. “No it’s not fucking okay! None of this is fucking okay! She’s not okay! I’m not okay!” Jack takes in a shuddery breath and turns his back on Robby. “None of this is okay,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion and tears that can no longer be held back. 

Robby lets Jack have a minute to try and pull himself together. He knows that right now is not the time to have some sort of heart to heart with Jack. Instead he puts the intercom on so that they can hear what’s happening in the OR but the OR can’t hear them. 

It’s not good but it’s not bad, you’re not dead. There’s no conversation between the two men, just Jack up almost pressed into the glass to watch while Robby observes him more than the surgery.

“So,” Robby says casually after a couple of minutes. “Peter?”

Jack huffs, shaking his head and coming to sit next to Robby. “Don’t ask.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I really like this little routine, you know?” You smile at Jack as he peruses the shelves, coffee in one hand and your hand in the other. You’re back at the bookstore where you met, off in the back shelves where it’s quieter, fewer people. You’re alone in the aisle. 

“Coming here?”

“Mhmm.” You nod at him. “It was a really good idea.” 

Somewhere between dates number three and four Jack had suggested you guys go back to the bookstore once a week. Make it a thing. Get coffee, pick out books together. Just walk around. How could you ever say no?

“I have one every now and then.” He smiles at you. 

You point to a book, say the title. “That looks interesting.” 

Jack looks at the book. It’s on the bottom shelf. You didn’t ask for him to bend down and get it for you but he will anyway. And you knew when you said it that he would. He’s just a gentleman like that. And so he does. Sets his coffee on the shelf and bends down to get it for you. 

“Why is it that every book you want is always on the bottom shelf?” He feigns a huff.

“Because I like making you bend down so that I can check out your ass.”

He freezes for a second. It was so not the answer he was expecting. He’s not sure he was expecting an answer. But then you come out with that. Always keeping him on his toes. 

He grabs the book and stands back up, smirking as he hands it to you. His fingers find the belt loops of your jeans and pull you close to him, lips brushing against yours. “You like my ass?” 

You giggle against his lips and kiss him. “I do.” 

“You’re terrible, woman.” He gives you another kiss. 

“More like your terrible woman.” You can feel his jaw clench at that and he holds you a little tighter. Oh he liked that. A lot. It makes you smirk. 

“Damn right you are.” One last kiss and then you break apart.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Peter.”

He cocks his head at the name. “Peter? Should I be concerned you can’t keep your men straight?” He doesn’t mean it, nor does any anxiety roll through him. He knows you, knows it was deliberate, and knows you’re about to give him some ridiculous explanation. 

“Rabbit,” you grin. “Peter Rabbit. Abbot. Jack Abbot always makes me want to call you Jack rabbit. Ergo, Peter.” You run the back of your second knuckle on your index finger over his shirt. “Inspired by the book.” You nod and look to the side. He follows your eyes to the display you look over at where, sure enough, a copy of Peter Rabbit sits.

He groans and makes a face. “Really?” He grimaces. But you both know it’s fake. His eyes are too sparkly and the ghost of a smile is too present on his face. It’s so ridiculous. If anyone else dared to call him that he would hate it and they would know it.  

“Really, Peter. Better get used to it.” You wink and start walking down another aisle. 

“I think I’ve already fallen in love with you, Doll.” Jack whispers to himself. “You’re not allowed to go anywhere on me.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake with a start, your body jerking for a second before pain rips through your stomach and head. It’s bright. So so bright. Your eyes instinctively close and you pull your head back, trying to get away from the tube that feels like it’s down your throat but it follows. You start panicking. 

It filters back in. What happened. Passing out in the trauma room. Jack’s face. The pain. The bullet hole you’d felt on your skin.

“Honey?” A voice you can’t place calls out your name. A woman’s voice. “It’s okay.” You know she’s trying to be reassuring but at the moment it’s not. There’s only one voice you want to hear and it’s not hers and you panic more when you don’t hear his because where is he? Did something happen to him? Maybe he’s here and you just can’t hear him. One way to find out. 

Your eyes blink back open to an unfamiliar face above you. After you adjust to the light you quickly look around as much as you can without moving too much. 

Jack isn’t here. 

The woman above you smiles down at you. “I’m Dana. Jack just stepped out to shower and I said I’d stay with you. He’s going to kill me for convincing him to go and you waking up while he wasn’t here. It was his nightmare. He’s on his way. Knowing him he’s liable to just have a towel wrapped around him and soap in his hair because god knows if he wasn’t finished showering he wasn’t going to finish when he heard you’re awake.” 

You blink a few times, start to calm. Dana. She has a calming presence. Jack told you about her. You trust her. “Good, that’s good. He’s going to be here any second. And I’m going to get your doctor and see what we can do about getting this tube out of your throat, yeah?” 

You can hear Jack before you see him. Hear him running down the hall towards you. He’s panting when he runs into your room, looks at you, your vitals, Dana and then back to you. “You’re awake.”

All you can really do is look at him with wide eyes. He’s over by you in a second, taking Dana’s place as she goes to find your doctor. One of his hands finds yours, squeezes reassuringly. “I’m here. God I’m so sorry I wasn’t when you woke up, I didn’t want to go but they convinced me and-”

You squeeze his hand and then let go, make a motion like writing. “You want to write? Hopefully you can be extubated soon, you might be breathing over the vent already, I can look.”

You squeeze his hand again and it focuses him back on you. “Shit. Yes, um…” He feels all the pockets on his scrub pants until he finds the little notebook and pen. He gives you the pen and holds the book for you. 

Scared.

A piece of his heart shatters when he reads the word. 

“I know Doll, I know. It’s okay.” He strokes your hair gently. “I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I love you.” Jack’s eyes bore into yours and in the moment you’re so grateful for his need for direct eye contact. It’s reassuring in a way you can’t describe. Even if he hadn’t said anything. If he had just looked at you like he is now it would have been enough to calm your fears. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay?”

“I heard she’s awake?” Your eyes leave Jack’s and look over at the man who entered, but Jack’s eyes never leave you. 

“Yeah, she is. This is Robby, sweetheart.” You blink slowly. 

It’s a lot. Everything is a lot and there’s a tube in your throat and more people walk in, Dana again and your doctor, a nurse. You’re overwhelmed. You just want it to be you and Jack and you want to be at home cuddled in bed together, both of you perfectly fine. You don’t want this. It makes you kind of dizzy. And your inability to express yourself makes it all that much more difficult.

You focus on Jack’s eyes, try to block everything else out. Focus on his touch. His hand holding yours, the other stroking your hair. There’s a faint buzz of the others talking together and you know it’s about you but you remain centered on Jack. “That’s right, Doll,” he murmurs, voice low, just between the two of you. “Just focus on me. I’m right here. You’re okay. We’re okay.” 

“She’s breathing over.” Robby says quietly. “We can pull it.”

Jack raises his eyebrows at you and nods his head a little. “That’s good. We’re going to get the tube out, okay? Then you’ll be able to talk.” 

Your eyes widen a bit and you move your hand towards the notebook again, point at the word. 

Scared. 

“I know. I know it’s all scary, and I know thinking about having the tube out is scary. But you’re safe, okay? If you need it back in then we will put it back in okay?” He squeezes your hand. You give the smallest nod. 

Jack explains what will happen to you and then they do it. It hurts and is uncomfortable and you panic for a minute after it’s out because you’re coughing and it feels like you can’t breathe. Jack puts an oxygen mask to your face. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe. You’re just coughing, it’s okay. It’ll be better in a minute. I promise.” 

And just like he promises it does get better. “How about we switch this,” he takes the oxygen mask from your face and hands it to Dana while taking the nasal cannula from her, “with this.” He gets the cannula adjusted under your nose and over your ears and then smiles at you. 

You still haven’t spoken. You can’t find words. You don’t know what to say. 

Robby hands Jack a cup of water with a straw silently before he, Dana, your doctor and the other nurse slip out. 

“Here, I’m sure your throat is dry.” Jack holds the straw for you. “Small sips.”

You take a few before pulling back a little. “Thank you.” You’re quite hoarse and make a face at the sound of your voice but Jack. Jack beams. It makes you smile, makes everything start to melt away. You’re here and awake and Jack is here and everything is okay. “I love you too.” 

You press your lips out a little and it hits him. He can kiss you now and he does, soft but lingering. He never wants to pull away. 

“How long was I out?’’

“Since surgery?” Jack glances down at his watch. “Sixteen hours and thirty seven minutes. Give or take ten seconds.”

You smile. It’s a little weak which shoots a bit of a pang through him, but it’s okay because you’re smiling at him. “Not that you were counting.”

He laughs and rolls his eyes at you, eyes watery. “I’m really fucking glad you’re okay.” 

You get a little teary. “I’m really glad you’re here. I was really fucking scared Jack.” You let out a breath and a few tears. 

“There is nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side.” He leans back in, kisses you again, kisses all the tears away. “There is nowhere else I will be, okay?” 

You nod a little. You want to ask him what happened, what your injuries are but you can’t bring yourself to. You don’t want to know. Not now. 

Jack doesn’t volunteer anything. He figures that you’ll ask when you’re ready. He knows what it’s like to have it shoved in your face when you’re scared and drugged out on morphine and other medications and overwhelmed and not in a mental place to process it. 

You can’t have been awake for more than thirty or forty minutes but you’re already so tired again. Jack can tell.

“Sleepy?” 

“A little.” You pause. Then, a whispered admission. “Kind of scared to go back to sleep.”

Jack’s heart squeezes. “That’s understandable,” he nods. He knows the answer is no but he asks anyway. “Can I do anything?”

“Hold me.” Your words are out before he finishes his questions. His eyebrows raise. He wasn’t expecting that. 

You can see him thinking. Thinking about how to say no. His face is pained and he tilts it. You know he’s afraid to hurt you. “Please.” He bites his bottom lip. “I need this Jack,” you whisper. “You need this.” 

“If I hurt you at all you have to tell me, okay? If anything feels like it’s tearing or pulling or ripping, you have to tell me immediately.” He gives you a serious look, fear blazing in his eyes.

“I promise.”

He nods. “Okay.” It takes a while for him to help shift you over a bit and move all the wires and lines but eventually he’s in bed with you, holding you. 

“Thanks Peter.” It’s completely sleep garbled but so precious and he has to laugh because even with all that’s happened you’re still calling him that name.  

“You’re welcome, Doll.”

Once he’s sure you’re asleep Jack sobs as quietly as he can as he holds you. Lets himself process the emotions that he has tried to keep himself walled off from since you went down in the trauma room. He doesn’t want you to see, doesn’t want you to have to deal with him right now when you need to focus on yourself and recovering. He doesn’t want you to feel guilty, because he knows you and he knows you already feel bad about all of this. Like it’s your fault. 

Jack doesn’t know it but you wake when you feel him start to tremble. You hear and feel every sob. A little piece of you dies inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack leans against one of the windows in his apartment, stares out into the dark city and alternates watching the rain fall under the light of the street lamps and tracking drops that slide down the window. The bedroom is dark, only illuminated by the light of the city that pours in. He’s half dressed, shirtless, a pair of flannel pajama pants. The window is cold against his arm but he likes it. It reminds him in the moment that he can still feel. 

You watch him from the bathroom doorway. You’ve been together seven and a bit months now.

You’re struck by how beautiful he looks in the backlighting. Struck by how sad and conflicted he looks. 

You walk over to him quietly, but making your footsteps just heavy enough so that you don’t startle him when you wrap your arms around him from behind, rest the side of your head on the smooth skin of his back. Always so warm, your Jack, even now in the chill of the rainy night. 

He leans back into you for just a second, just long enough to acknowledge that he knows you’re there, appreciates it. 

Neither of you say anything for a few minutes before his voice interrupts the patter of the raindrops hitting the window.

“I’m sorry.”

Your brows furrow. “For what?”

“Being like this,” he shrugs. “It’s been so long. It shouldn’t still affect me like this.”

“Well first, should is a stupid word. Nothing should or shouldn’t be. Things just are. And it’s okay for them to be as they are. It’s okay for this to be as it is.” You lift your head from his back and gently pull at his torso a bit to get him to turn and look at you. He tries to avoid that eye contact he normally needs but you don’t let him. “Second, you have nothing to apologize for. And third, I don’t know Jack, I’d almost be more concerned if the anniversary of the day you lost a piece of yourself, literally, and woke up alone and terrified in a hospital bed ever stopped affecting you.”

As difficult as it is to hear, he likes that you just say it, say what happened. You don’t shy away from it, don’t avoid talking about it or speak about it without actually saying it. You never have. You’ve always just accepted it as part of him. He takes in a deep breath and then grabs your hand, leads you over to bed with him and waits for you to get in. 

But you give him a look, a slight raise of your eyebrows and nod. He sits on the edge like you wordlessly asked. You kneel before him and it makes his heart pound, blood rush towards his groin even though he knows this isn’t going there. It’s just instinctual. 

Jack watches you with glassy eyes as you push his pant leg up and remove his prosthetic for him, set it aside. You don’t have to ask if it’s hurting, of course it is. It’s the anniversary of losing his foot. Even when there’s no real reason for it to be causing him pain it is anyway. You know it. He knows you know it. 

You open the drawer of his nightstand and pull out the balm he has, get a little bit and warm it between your hands before placing them there. You glance up at him. You always do. Always make sure it’s okay. You know how hard it can be for him to have you touching there sometimes if he’s too in his head. He just barely narrows his eyes before letting them go back to being wide and round as he watches. An unspoken please. 

You start massaging gently and he takes another big breath in and holds it for a moment before letting it out and leaning into your hands slightly. “Mirror?”

He knows you’re asking if the pain is bad enough for him to want to do mirror therapy. He shakes his head. “No. It’s not that bad.” He gives you a small smile, cups your face with a hand. “Especially not now. You make it better. You always make it better, make everything better.” 

A slow smile spreads over your face. You work on him a little more before his hands are on yours and pulling you towards him a little. He slides into bed and you follow. 

You lay on your sides looking at each other. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not right now, no.” He swallows hard, looks like he’s waiting for you to be upset. “Is that okay?”

“Course it is. I’m never going to force you to talk about it with me.” You already have talked about it. You know everything, every detail he can remember and was told about what happened. About his hospital stay at Landstuhl, transfer to Walter-Reed. How depressed he got, the survivor’s guilt, the wishing he had just died instead.

But he knows what you mean. You don’t have to talk about it now, about his feelings, what he’s carrying in his chest and mind at the moment. You lean in and kiss him. “We can whenever. If and when you’re ready. Or you can talk to your therapist. It doesn’t have to be me.”

The way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. Like you’re the most important thing in his world, like you hung the moon and stars for him, like he’s amazed by you. Like you’re helping to heal him.

He reaches out to cup your face again, runs a thumb over your cheek. “I want you.”

You smile at him, soft and small, befitting of the moment. “You have me. You’ll always have me. No matter what.”

He gives you a look that acknowledges your words. “You know what I mean.” His hand starts to wander down to the hem of his shirt you wear. “I need to turn that part of my brain off. Get lost in you.”

“God, what a tough ask,” you click your tongue, voice teasing and full of feigned exasperation. “Such a real hardship for me.”

He laughs a little. “I’ll make it up to you.” 

“Oh no Dr. Abbot,” you move closer to him and push at his chest so he rolls on his back, straddle his hips and bring your chest to his, lean in to kiss him but stop short, just let your lips move against his, “this is all about you.”

Jack groans from somewhere deep in his chest. “You know what doctor does to me,” he murmurs before he kisses you hard, possessively, holding the back of your head with one hand so you can’t move away, not that you’d ever want to. 

“Indeed I do, sir.” Another groan from him and a smirk from you as you sit up and push the covers back, pull his pajama pants and boxer briefs down all at once. 

Jack swears you spend hours lavishing him in attention, kissing every inch of him, every scar. Even that one. 

By the time you guide him inside of you you’re the only thing on his mind. You ride him slow, just fast enough to not be teasing, at the rhythm and pace you’ve learned he loves, let him watch as he slides in and out of you because you know how much he loves it. 

You lean back at one point, rest your hands on both his thighs and something about the move and the way you’re not afraid to get close to the missing part of him heals him and makes him lose it. 

After, you lay on his chest, absentmindedly draw random shapes on his skin while he runs a hand up and down your back. “This part always feels just as good but in a different way,” you murmur. 

“Cuddling releases oxytocin. Oxytocin makes you feel happy, helps you heal, reduces stress, bonds you to the one you’re snuggling with. It’s called the love hormone.” Jack always makes you laugh when he does that, explains something medically, biologically. You like him sharing his knowledge, little pieces of his job with you, and you like that he’s not condescending about it, just tells you it like you’re a student.

You laugh a little. “That tracks then.”

You sit in a comfortable silence for a bit. Jack thinks about everything you’ve done for him tonight, over the past seven months, how you feel laying here on his chest. A surge of oxytocin hits him and he’s overwhelmed by it, how much he loves you, how much you do for him, care for him.

“I don’t deserve you.” He says it quietly, almost like he doesn’t mean to speak the thought out loud.

You stop tracing shapes, furrow your brows and lift yourself up to look down at him sternly, eyes burning with love. “I’m not even gracing that absolute bullshit with a reply tonight Peter.” You kiss him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Four days pass. Things are simultaneously getting better and increasingly harder. 

You meet everyone, the entire ED, you swear, everyone Jack has ever talked about. They’re all lovely and genuine. You hit it off with them all despite the circumstances. Part of you worries though, that they only like you because they pity you and because you’re in the hospital and what else can they do. Jack reassures you that you’re one of them now, you’re Pitt family, that even when they didn’t know you or about you and had never met you, you already were.

Jack helps you shower. Really Jack showers you. Does it all for you. It’s one of those most intimate things you’ve experienced with him. Him taking care of you like this, when you can’t take care of yourself. He takes his time washing your hair and body gently, like you’ll break if he touches you just a little too hard. He makes sure your stitches and central line stay dry. Makes sure you don’t lean your head back too far and aggravate your skull fracture. 

Physically you’re doing okay. Improving. Maybe not as fast as everyone, Jack especially, would like. But you’re not getting worse. 

Mentally, however, things are devolving. Rapidly. 

Once the initial shock and happiness at being alive wore off you’re left with reality. 

A nurse from the floor comes in to take vitals like they do a couple of times a day. Jack steps out to go grab a drink from the vending machine while you and the nurse chat a little. You ask her if you can move into the chair, go sit by the window. She says of course, unhooks you from some monitors and helps you move over. She takes your dinner and sets it on the table in front of you. You thank her and wait for Jack to come back.

Dusk is falling over the city. It’s easier to sit and look outside when it’s not so bright. You keep the lighting in your room low to help with the headaches you’re still fighting. You suppose a broken skull will do that to you.

You haven’t felt well all day, have slept more than usual. You’re sure it’s just depression from being here and all the changes and mostly, probably, seeing what all of this already has done and continues to do to Jack, physically and mentally. Your stomach turns at the thought and you shiver despite your cheeks burning. You’re so uncomfortable and there’s no end in sight and you don’t want to keep doing this to Jack, keep asking him to be here and sleep here. The logical and rational part of your brain knows that you’re not asking him to do anything. He’s doing it because he wants to, because he loves you. 

“You need to eat,” Jack reminds you as he walks back in the room. 

“I’m not hungry,” you murmur, continue to look out the window. 

“I know, Doll, but you’ve gotta eat to keep your strength up.” Jack says softly as he pulls up a chair to sit across from you. You nod a little at him but don’t move to start eating. “What’s wrong?” he finally whispers. 

It takes a moment but eventually you shrug. You don’t want to burden him with it. 

“Talk to me. Please. Even if just a little.” 

“I don’t know… I’m just tired, I think.” 

He tilts his head at you, eyes appraising and clinically evaluating you. Something is off, something has been off, he’s just struggling to figure out what. 

“Don’t look at me like that, please,” you whisper. 

He furrows his brows. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a patient who needs to be evaluated.” 

“I can’t help it. It helps reassure me that you’re okay.” He lets out a bit of a breath. “I’m worried about you right now. Is everything okay? Do you feel okay?”

You take in a big breath of air and fight back the wince before letting it out. “I’m just… I don’t know Jack. I’m sad. I’m fucking sad. All the time.”

Ah. Depression. 

He knows it intimately and chastises himself mentally a bit for not realizing it sooner, not recognizing it. Not anticipating it from minute one. He gives you a moment to see if you want to say more. 

“I… I feel sorry for myself, yes, but it’s more than that. I see what it’s doing to you, the pain it’s causing, I’m causing you. Physically, having to sleep here. I can practically see your back and hip hurting, Jack. I can see the overcompensation when you walk. I know you cried. I was awake. And I didn’t want to make it a thing and pressure you into talking to me. But I see how scared and on edge you are, all the time. Because of me-”

“No.” He doesn’t mean to interrupt but he has to right there. “Not because of you. This is not your fault. None of this is. This isn’t because of you, it’s because of what happened to you.”

You shake your head. “No, Jack, it’s me. It is me. I feel like I’m sucking the fucking life out of you. Dealing with me is exhausting. I can’t keep asking you to do this, be here and take care of me. It’s not fair.” You sniffle and wipe some tears you didn’t know fell with the back of your hand. “I mean, Jesus, Jack, I’m exhausted and all I have to do is sit in bed all day. I hate it.” The tears fall a little faster and he gives you space to let it all out. Your emotional brain takes his silence as some sort of tacit and silent agreement. That you are hurting him, that it is exhausting him, that you are sucking the life out of him. 

The rational part of your brain is right there but you’re too exhausted to listen to it, to fight your emotional brain on it. So it all consumes you. 

“I sit here and sometimes I just wish it would stop, wish it would be over, for both of us. Wish I had never even made it out of the OR, fuck out of the courthouse. You could be properly grieving already and working towards mo-”

“What the fuck?” It falls out of his mouth before he can even stop it. “Are you for fucking real?” He knows this reaction is wrong, that he should be validating your feelings. He knows far too well what it’s like to be depressed in a hospital bed wishing that you had died instead. But it’s too much for him because he already lived so intimately with the possibility of that reality. Of you dying. And so to have it brought up and brought up by you. All rational thought and ability to control himself disappears. “Properly grieving? You think I’d be properly grieving? Jesus fucking Christ, Robby would have had to beat me to the fucking roof or they’d be burying us together!”

You shake your head, tears falling harder. “I don’t want that, I would never want you to do that. I’d want you to take care of yourself! I’d want you to live for me. For us. Find-”

“No.” He shakes his head, runs both of his hands over his face, heel of his palms pressing into his eyes for a moment. “No. I can’t fucking-” He has to swallow hard through the intense nausea that threatens to make him dry heave. Just thinking about this, let alone living it. He knows this is not his finest moment, not a good reaction, that it’s a really really fucking bad one, but he can’t think about it right now, about an alternate reality where you died, where he was anywhere other than right next to your side in this moment. It’s too much. And so he reverts back a bit, starts to completely emotionally shut down. You’ve never seen him like this before. “I can’t fucking talk about this right now.” 

A knock on the door interrupts you and you both look up and over at a smiling Robby. “Hey! Look who’s awake! How are you feeling sleepy? You’ve been asleep every time I’ve come to visit today.” He starts making his way closer. 

“We can talk about this more later,” Jack mutters at you under his breath. His tone is a little sharper and more brusque than he means or even realizes. 

But with your emotions where they are already it feels a little like he’s pulled a piece of your heart away. You wonder if this is it. If he’s finally had enough of all of this. Of you. 

He didn’t sign up for this. There haven’t been any vows of sickness and health. 

The adrenaline runs icy through your fingers and toes and sits like a rock in the back of your throat, hugging tightly around your stomach so much that your incision burns and itches. It gets hard to breathe. It’s panic, you tell yourself. You nod silently, fidget with your fingers and whisper the smallest “okay.”

You’re thankful for the low lighting and the cover it gives you and your tears. “Sorry about that,” you force a small laugh at Robby. “Just one of those days I guess.” You force a yawn this time. “Honestly I’m actually a little sleepy again,” you admit sheepishly. “I think I might get back in bed.” 

There’s a pause as Robby waits for Jack to react. But Jack says nothing, and the look on his face tells Robby he’s a million miles away. You getting up is what brings Jack back to himself somewhat and he’s up and hovering behind you to make sure you don’t fall in an instant. 

“Um, well.” Robby runs a hand through his hair and over his beard. “Jack, if you wanted we’re pretty backlogged down there, we could use someone for even just a few hours to help out. I just wanted to offer. We’ll be fine if you don’t.” Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you. “Thought it might be a good way to help transition back to full shifts eventually.” He coughs awkwardly. 

Jack looks at you with his eyebrows slightly raised, like he’ll do whatever you say as opposed to what he actually wants. Despite looking at you it’s like he doesn’t consciously take in your face at the moment, how hurt you look, how small, the tears lining your eyes, how scared you look, how anxious, how questioning. 

“Up to you.” You give him a strained smile. “I’m just going to sleep, so it’s not like you’re going to miss much here. Robby is right, might be a good way to help transition.”

Jack nods. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”

“Fuck, thank you so much,” Robby sighs in relief. “It’s pretty bad honestly.” He looks at you with a soft smile. “Sleep well and I’ll keep an eye on him for you.” 

You give him a forced smile back and nod, waiting for Jack to come say goodbye before following Robby out the door. But Jack is so shut down and on autopilot he doesn’t even give you a kiss or say anything other than an absent, “sleep well,” before he follows Robby out of the room. The sound of the door closing behind him may as well be the sound of your heart shattering.

Hours pass. 

Hours you do not in fact spend sleeping but instead wide awake feeling like you’ve got the flu. Everything hurts, you shake, you’re sweaty because you’re so hot but you feel so cold. You just feel so weak. You’re so miserable you’re not even aware of the way breathing takes more effort and seems less effective, how much it hurts. Hours enough for you to miss Jack and wish he was here and want to call down and beg him to please come back up. But not quite enough hours for the next vitals check.

The hours are quick for Jack. Work helps him. It keeps his mind busy. The more and more he comes back to himself fully and opens back up with clear eyes the more desperate he is to get up to you and apologize. He feels awful about actually deciding to come down here. How could he leave you? He knows he didn’t react well. It just caught him so off guard and he reverted back to a previous version of himself. All he can do is hope you’ll forgive him, but he knows you well enough to know that you’ll understand and be able to put yourself in his shoes and forgive him and you guys can talk. 

He volunteers to take one last ambulance coming in. He goes outside to wait for it, to get some fresh air. To be out of the hospital if only for a moment.

Mel runs through the automatic door, head on a swivel to find him. She starts running to him when she sees him. “Dr. Abbot!” 

Jack turns his head, thinks Mel’s voice is off, but he guesses it’s been a bit since he’s heard it down here. But when he sees her face, the way she’s running towards him, his heart speeds up and he shakes his head a little as she approaches him. Mel’s eyes are wide, just the slightest bit wet.  

“Dr. Abbot,” Mel breathes. “She’s crashing. Robby went up to see her and she crashed.”

“What?” It’s whispered. Jack’s whole world stops again. He doesn’t even wait for an answer, is sprinting inside and screaming to hold the elevator because he knows it’ll be faster than he can take all the flights up to your room. He tries to hold onto hope. Mel had said crashing not coding.

This would fucking happen. This would fucking happen. He leaves you and then you crash. The realizations hit him when he gets in the elevator and presses the door closed button over and over. That the last thing you said to him was that small, barely audible “okay.” That your last interaction was an almost fight in a way, was him upset when you were telling him what was on your mind when that’s what he has been begging you to do. That he walked out of your room without saying goodbye, without giving you a kiss, without telling you he loved you.

Sleep well.

That could be the last fucking thing he ever said to you. Sleep well. He pictures your face when he looked at you that last time, near tears, scared, small, anxious, questioning. Probably questioning whether he was going to come back or whether he loved you or whether he still wanted to be with you after so clearly hitting a nerve with him. Especially on top of all the guilt you were already feeling before that conversation. The guilt you were telling him about when he shut down. 

The world already gave him a second chance with you and he fucked it all up in a minute. Somewhere deep in his bones he knows “sleep well” will be the last thing he ever said to you, that your last interaction together will be a quasi-argument. Because if you’re crashing at this point, this far out from surgery, something bad is happening. Differential diagnoses flip through his mind. Pulmonary embolism, having somehow reopened one of your internal wounds and bleeding out, sepsis, delayed collapsed lung, drug reaction, the list goes on and on. None of them are good. All of them would require you to fight hard to pull through. 

And with fucking “sleep well” as the last thing he said to you after he practically jumped in your shit you probably think you have nothing left to fight for. 

You’re vaguely aware of Robby coming into your room and talking to you even though you can’t make out any words at first. But then you become acutely aware of him screaming about you crashing and somebody call Jack. 

Jack. 

Robby says something about intubation but you get a hand up, cling to the fabric on the arm of that blue sweatshirt he always wears. “Wait,” you choke out, wondering when it got so hard to breathe and how you’re just noticing. “Jack,” you force out in a wheeze, “want to talk,” you look up at Robby with terrified eyes he’s seen hundreds of times in patients who think they’re about to die, only yours have a slight look of determination. “Please.” 

He hesitates for just a second. “Okay,” he nods, looking down at you. “Okay. But only if he’s here within the next two minutes. I’m counting.” He grabs an oxygen mask and holds it over your mouth and nose. Your eyes say ‘thank you’ in the most heartbreaking of ways. You both know he’ll be there with one minute and fifty six or seven seconds to spare. 

The elevator door opens on your floor and Jack’s sprinting out of it to your room, praying that maybe you’ll still be alive when he gets there. He could talk to you, tell you he’s sorry and he loves you and please fight. He’s panting when he runs into your room, looks at you, your vitals, and then Robby. “Why the fuck isn’t she intubated yet?!”

“She wanted to be able to say something to you,” Robby tells him as he pushes drugs, barks out orders and gets ready to intubate you. “She’s totally fucking septic Jack, out of fucking nowhere,” he calls back over his shoulder. “She must have thrown a septic PE.” Robby pulls the oxygen mask away from your face.

Jack looks back at you as he moves closer. You lick your lips and rub them together a little, trying to get them wet and unstuck from each other. You look terrified but try to offer him a brave smile anyway. “I love you,” you manage to mouth before everything is consumed by black and quiet.

Where everything goes black and quiet for you, Jack’s senses are overwhelmed by the look on your face, the way your eyes shut, the way Robby’s hands so gently turn your head back so he can intubate you and seconds later by the high pitched whine coming from your patient monitor announcing you’ve flatlined and Robby yelling for someone to start compressions. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s not exactly looking for it when he spots it as he walks down a street to pick up the take out you ordered on his way home. But it’s there and it makes him think of you. It’s almost perfect. Almost. 

He slips inside, gets in a conversation with the store owner. They can customize it for him. He thinks you’ll love that, the idea that nobody has the same engagement ring as you. The owner says he’ll get him some sketches. Jack puts down a deposit. You text asking if he’s okay. 

He says a quick goodbye to the owner and that he’ll be back and runs to get the food and back to you. He’s known for a while now that he wants to ask, wants to marry you. You just get him in a way he can’t describe and knows he’ll never find again. 

That night in bed he lays awake spooning you and thinking about how to propose. You wouldn’t want something too big and flashy. But he doesn’t think you’d hate it being in public necessarily. God, what if you say no? What if you’re not ready or it’s too fast or he’s too old, too broken? 

No. He knows you don’t think he’s too old or broken at all. He knows you’ll say yes, knows you’ll cry. But how to do it. Where to do it. 

The bookstore with the ring in the book feels like too much, a little too on the nose. You wouldn’t hate it by any means but it doesn’t feel right. 

He thinks about a conversation you had in the travel section at the bookstore. 

“I love travelling.” You say it as you look over the shelves. “Especially internationally.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmmm,” you hum. “We should go somewhere.” You hand him a book on Paris. “I love Paris. Have you been?”

Jack shakes his head, starts thumbing through the book. “Can’t say that I have.”

“I would love to show you around. It’s just so pretty. The Eiffel Tower sparkles and they light up all the buildings at night and I swear almost every building looks so beautifully historic. And the Louvre. I love the Louvre. I don’t even really know why, I just do. I like the inverted pyramids by the entrance and I like how you just get lost in there.” You’re flipping through your own book, this one about France in general. “We could do a France tour. Start in Nice or somewhere and work our way up.” You look up at him, and when he looks up from his book at you he’s surprised to see nerves. “If you would want to, of course. Obviously. There’s no pressure. I know you’d have to take time off from work and you love work and it would waste a lot of time off, probably depending on how long we went for. If we did. So it’s okay. I could go by myself or with a friend if I got desperate enough.” You give a breathy, anxious laugh and fiddle with the book. 

Jack gives you a little smile and puts the book back where it belongs. “It might shock you to hear this but I have maxed out the amount of annual leave time off I can accrue. I donate everything I have leftover at the end of the year. I’ve donated all of it for a couple of years now because I can’t accrue it anymore.”

“Oh, well,” you clear your throat and it would almost be funny and adorable if he didn’t hate seeing you in distress. “That’s very nice of you. You’re a very good man Peter.”

“I want to go with you.” Your lips twitch up and eyebrows raise. “I want us to do that.”

“Yeah?” You beam at him and it’s straight sunshine. You’re too good for him, he swears. 

“Yeah,” he nods, returns your smile, kisses you quickly. “Robby might try to kiss you like that for getting me to go. He’s always on me about taking a vacation.” 

Yes. In Paris. That would be perfect. You haven’t started planning the trip because life has gotten busy for both of you, but he mentions it enough to make sure you know he hasn’t forgotten, you talk about when you’ll start planning it some nights but often fall asleep mid conversation, exhausted from your day. 

In front of the inverted pyramids at the Louvre. He can hire a photographer and they won’t even look suspicious. Just like someone taking photos of the Louvre. 

He starts planning it, the France trip. Doesn’t tell you. Reaches out to your boss who he has met to make sure you can get the time off. He’ll surprise you with it soon, he tells himself. He’ll tell you soon now that he has the ring hidden away in a box in a closet that you can’t reach easily. 

Soon. He knows he can’t keep putting it off, can just hear Dana and Robby in his ear if they knew, telling him to grow a pair and do it, that tomorrow isn’t promised, that he should do it here at the hospital so they can finally fucking meet you. That, while they don’t know you, Dana would give him a sharp look then, they know you’ll love it. 

You’ll be at the courthouse tomorrow. It’s not too far from his place. He could surprise you and pick you up, take you out somewhere nice. He has the day off too so he could go get the book you handed him, put the tickets and copy of the itinerary he’s planned so far in it. 

He smiles to himself as he imagines the shock on your face, the way you’ll struggle for words and repeat a bunch of one syllable ones for thirty seconds before the ability to form real sentences comes back to you. Yeah, that’ll work. 

Tomorrow. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a perfect day. Not too hot and not too cold. Like that Miss Congeniality bullshit that you made him watch and he secretly and surprisingly enjoyed.

It’s your perfect day. 

Jack thinks that’s real fucking ironic. 

Sleep well. 

Jack was right.

Those were in fact the last words he ever spoke to you. 

While you were conscious anyway. It’s all he can think about as he sits here in his dress blues at your fucking funeral. He couldn’t bring himself to buy a plain navy suit for the occasion. 

No, that day he had said a lot more words to your unconscious self up by your head as Robby and the team tried and succeeded at stabilizing you enough to get you to the OR. And he had said a lot more words when they let him in the OR so that he could hold your hand and talk to you for just a bit longer before they called it. Somehow in the moment he had managed to block out Garcia standing on the other side across from him with her hand in your chest, manually beating your heart to give him more time with you. 

And then he had said a lot more words to your dead body.

He must have sat in that stupid operating room with you for hours just holding you once they had closed your chest and sat the OR bed up a bit for him. He thinks he must have cycled through every stage of grief with you in his arms. 

Denial. All he could do for a while was mumble to himself that this couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. You weren’t really dead. This is some twisted fucking joke you’re trying to play. To see if you could get him to cry. You can stop playing now, Doll, you got me to cry. Okay so not an elaborate joke. Well, you’d wake up in his arms any second now, shock everyone, the whole medical community with your recovery. Because this simply could not be fucking happening.  

Anger. He yelled at you to wake up and not do this to him, to think about how unfair and selfish you were being, how fucking dare you. How dare you leave him here alone. How dare you for talking about him properly grieving. Does it look like he’s properly fucking grieving to you? And he knew, he fucking knew you were about to say moving on, that he could be working towards moving on as if he’s ever going to fucking move on, fuck you for that. He was supposed to propose and you ruined it. You left him How. Fucking. Dare. You.

Bargaining. He negotiated with himself. He should have looked you over before stepping away from you, should have taken you right into an exam room and checked every inch of you for injury before leaving you. If he could go back he would. He would do it all differently. He wouldn’t let you out of the house, would have insisted you skip work that day. He’s not a particularly religious man but he’s praying, bargaining with a God he’s not sure he believes in to bring you back to him. Take his other foot, take his hands, take his ability to be a doctor, take anything and everything that’s enough to bring you back. 

Depression. Crushing and all consuming. The reality that this was happening. A sadness so deep in his soul and causing so much physical pain in his heart that for one glimmer of a second he thought maybe he was suffering from broken heart syndrome, that maybe if he could keep himself worked up and sobbing it would kill him. A sadness so consuming he’d never pull himself out of it. There would never be enough tears shed or enough therapy or enough anything to make any of it better. 

Acceptance. Eventually it washed over him. You were dead in his arms. He was holding your lifeless body. This was his new reality. One without you in it.

But mostly he just sat there and cried over you. Cried for you. Buried his face in your neck at times to muffle the screaming sobs that made him shake. Rocked you and held the side of your face against his when his sobs became so deep they were soundless.

For a while he thought Robby and Dana were going to have to drag him out of there, drag you out of his arms. But at some point he just broke in a different way. Became some sort of numb. Resigned. So he forced himself to leave.

The only thing he could think to do at the end as he laid you back down was to try and make them better. Those two words. 

Brushing some hair back from your face and running his thumb over your jaw he had told you that he loves you and that he always will. He whispered for you to rest now, gave you one last unreciprocated kiss, and then murmured “sleep well.”

He had to damn near drag himself out of the OR after that. Robby knew it. Dana knew it. They were both right there waiting for him. He had needed to get the fuck out of the hospital and to somewhere he could just send himself into oblivion because he had no fucking idea how to deal with the pain, with the loss of you. 

Dana’s hand on his arm grounded him a little. Enough that he heard Robby say quietly, “let’s get you home.” 

Home. 

Jack had realized in that moment that he didn’t have a home. You were his home. Your heartbeat. The one that was now gone. That simply no longer existed. That had been thrown away by the universe like it meant nothing when it meant everything to him. 

Yes, he realized he had an apartment, he had somewhere to go. But that was the apartment that he was supposed to have shared with you. The apartment with all of his things, all of your things, still in boxes. You had been planning on spending the weekend unpacking and painting and getting furniture where you wanted it. You had been planning on making it your home. Together. And then you got shot.

And now, Jack had realized, there was no more together. There was simply an apartment full of boxes of shit and furniture haphazardly placed just to get it in. 

He had had to laugh about it, it was so fucked up. He had barely even realized that he, Dana, and Robby had made it outside somehow, through a side door so that he didn’t have to walk through the entire Pitt. And so out there on the sidewalk in the sun - because of course it couldn’t have been night, he couldn’t have had one thing to give him comfort - he’d broken down in a fit of laughter for a moment that quickly devolved into sobs. 

Big wracking ones that required Robby to hold him up until he had let Jack slide down the side wall onto the ground where the sobs came so hard they were silent. It hadn’t been just you he was weeping for at that point. It had been for you and for himself and for the future you should have had together. For the apartment whose lease would be broken and the trip to Paris he had planned to surprise you with that would never be gone on. For the engagement ring that would never grace your finger. For everything that could have been. For everything that already was.

He’d stopped crying at some point. Dana had gotten her car and driven him and Robby to Robby’s place. Everything since then had more or less blurred together. 

Schedules had been changed so that Dana and Robby worked opposite shifts so that one of them could always be with him. Always watching him. Acutely aware what was likely to happen if they didn’t.

You had no family so everything had been left to Jack, which meant it really had been left to Dana because Jack was barely functioning. Funeral planning. Burial or cremation. Dealing with all of your things.

Unsure of your preferences Dana had picked burial, found a cemetery, bought a plot, gotten it all arranged. Unbeknownst to Dana the one thing Jack had managed to do during all of this was purchase the burial plot next to yours. Only time would tell how long that space next to you would remain empty. Not long if Jack had it his way.

And so here they all were. At the cemetery. On your perfect day.

The funeral was to be held graveside and then back to somewhere for the celebration of life, Dana told him where at one point but he doesn’t remember. Somewhere in his mind he notes that it feels like the entire damn department is here and he can’t help but wonder who the fuck is staffing it right now. As if it matters. As if he’ll ever bring himself back to that hospital. 

Jack’s completely zoned out, unaware of what’s being said, if anything is being said. Your casket is right there. With you in it. He wants to climb inside with you and let them bury you both with him alive. He wants to let your grave smother him to death. He realizes it already is in its own way. So then he might as well be with you, right? No. You’d specifically told him you wouldn’t want that. You said you’d want him to take care of himself and live for you, for the two of you.  But he doesn’t fucking want to. He just wants to be with you.

He tracks your casket as it lowers six feet down. He wants to dive in after you. After a moment Dana nudges him. Right. It’s time. Time for him to throw a flower and some dirt on the top of your grave. 

He forces himself to stand, takes the two daffodils from Dana and approaches your grave. One for him and one for you. They’re your favorite. He stops for a second and just stares down at the wooden box that houses you. Some sort of broken and raw moan slips out before he can stop it, a whimper just a second long, just enough to prove to himself that he’s alive and you’re not standing next to him and there to comfort him and make it all better. He can’t cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all of these people. 

He brings a shaky hand up and reaches under his overly pressed shirt until he finds the chain, pulls his dog tags up and over his head, wraps them around the stems of the two daffodils. His chin trembles as he tosses them on top of your casket before following with a little dirt. He thought about tossing the ring he bought you in too, but instead he wears it on a different chain around his neck for now. 

The symbolic burial of himself with you through his dog tags doesn’t escape anyone’s notice and if anyone present wasn’t crying already they were now. Robby and Dana share a heavy tear blurred look with each other. He still can’t be alone. 

Jack just stares down. Can’t bring himself to move. To go sit back down. So the funeral ends with him standing there, looking down at you. 

Robby and Dana give him a few minutes. As he senses people leave he lets the tears slide down his face silently but copiously. His shirt is darkened by his tears quickly. Eventually Robby clears his throat and steps up behind him. 

“Jack?” Robby says his name softly at first. Jack doesn’t respond. “Jack, come on.” It’s a bit louder this time, but still nothing. Robby grabs his shoulder and gives it a little squeeze, is much louder now. “Jack!” 

“What? What happened?” Jack’s head snaps up, the rest of his body following and pushing him out of the chair in seconds. His neck twinges from the awkward angle as his two fingers curl over your wrist automatically, finding your pulse as his vision clears and the patient monitor showing your vitals becomes readable.

All your vitals are normal. Stable.

Your eyes remain closed. Comatose. 

“Nothing,” Robby says quietly, squeezing his shoulder again. “You fell asleep. It didn’t look comfortable. You’re going to fuck your neck if you’re not careful.”

“Jesus fucking christ,” Jack pants, the sheer amount of adrenaline spreading through his system so fast making him shake. He closes his eyes as he tries to bring his heart rate and breathing back to normal. He takes a second to focus and it’s there, under his two fingers thumping along in time with the reading on the patient monitor. Your heartbeat. 

“Fuck.” Jack brings his free hand up and uses it to wipe away the tears itching his face. His chest is wet, shirt undoubtedly darkened by his tears. 

“Another one?” Robby gives him a knowing look. “Funeral again?” 

Jack just nods. It’s not the first nightmare Robby has woken him from in the last three days. It’s not the first time Robby has woken him up from that nightmare. 

“You talked to your therapist recently?” Robby asks as he sits in the other chair near your bed. 

“I don’t have fucking time for the psych-bullshit right now, Robby.” Jack huffs as he sits back in his chair, stretching out his neck. “And I don’t need therapy. I need her to wake the fuck up and come back to me.” He leans forward to kiss your hand, gives it a squeeze and holds his breath that you’ll squeeze back. You don’t. “It’s been five days Robby. Five fucking days.”

Robby nods slowly. “I know. Her body has been through a lot. Sepsis on top of a gunshot and skull fracture is a lot and brain bleed is a lot. And she had a PE, and they had to crack her chest, Jack.” You got lucky and didn’t need surgery to fix the brain bleed. And nobody had wanted to do a thoracotomy on you, not while you were septic, but with your other injuries they had to be careful with blood thinners and the thoracotomy quickly became the only real option. The last ditch option. “All of that is a lot. She needs time. And it’s not bad news. She’s been extubated. That’s a big thing, you know that.” 

“I know,” Jack sighs. It’s small and as exhausted as he sounds and makes him deflate into the chair. “I just… can’t Robby. I can’t keep having that nightmare. I need to hear her voice. I need to know she heard something from me other than fucking ‘sleep well.’ I need this to have never fucking happened!”

Robby doesn’t reply immediately, gives Jack a few minutes to come back down. “She knows you love her, Jack. She knows that you guys would have worked through whatever it was. Deep down she knows that, even if in the moment she was having anxiety.” 

“You don’t even fucking know her. You can’t say that.” Jack shakes his head at Robby “You have no fucking idea.” 

Robby just raises his eyebrows and gives him a resigned look, lets the silence take back over. 

“I need to get back down there, but Dana is going to come up in a bit,” Robby tells him as he stands up. 

“I don’t need babysat.” Jack huffs. 

Robby walks by and squeezes Jack’s shoulder again. “There’s a difference between being babysat and your friends wanting to sit with you to be with you through a difficult time, Jack. We just want to help and right now all we can really do is be here. It’s not babysitting. It’s being a friend. It’s loving a friend. Let us do it, okay?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before walking out. 

And so here you are again. Just the two of you. Only one of you conscious. Jack runs a hand through his hair, moves his chair back closer to your bed and holds your hand. He’s exhausted but terrified to sleep. It always ends the same. 

He’s hardly aware of time passing but knows it must because Dana walks in, hands him a cup of tea. “How’re you?” Jack shrugs. Dana lets him. “Drink the tea.”

He takes a sip, if for nothing more than to get her off his back about it. They sit mostly in silence. Sometimes Dana volunteers a funny story or tells him about some ridiculous patient they had, keeps him up to date on the Pitt gossip. 

“You should shower,” she suggests to him. She’d gone over to your guy’s place at some point and brought in toiletries, fresh clothes for you both. “I’ll sit with her.”

“I’m fine. It’s not like I do anything other than sit here.” 

“Still, it’s a good place to take a minute to yourself. Clear your head.” Dana tilts her head at him. “Look at me.” 

After a second he does, tears his eyes from you to look at her. “She’d want you to take care of yourself.” 

Her words are a little too close to what you had said to him and he bristles, looks back at you. “Nerve there,” Dana observes, always perceptive. “I know I’m right. I know she must have told you that at some point or it wouldn’t have pulled whatever that reaction was.” 

“I’m not leaving her. I don’t care if I can use the shower in her room.” All he can think about is showering you there, watching the pink water go down the drain as he got all of the blood out of your hair and off the rest of your body, the way you melted into his touch and thanked him. How intimate it was. Potentially one of your last moments of intimacy. 

“And the last time I gave into you and showered she fucking woke up without me.” The words hit him and he looks at Dana. “The last time I showered she woke up,” he whispers. He’s not really one to normally believe in such a thing but right now he’s clinging to anything. “I should shower.”

Dana gives him a long nod with a small smile. “Yeah.”

So he does. Tries to split the difference between quickly so that he doesn’t have to spend too much time alone thinking but slow enough to give you time to wake up. But when he turns the water off and doesn’t hear Dana talking he already knows. 

You haven’t woken up. 

“I’m sorry, hon. I was hoping it would work.” Dana looks at him apologetically. 

He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

Dana nods a bit and walks out. 

Jack finds it hard to talk to you like this. He doesn’t really know why. Maybe it’s just too hard for him to stand the silence he gets in return. 

Sometimes he’ll read to you. That feels nice. You go on and on sometimes about how much you love his voice. You guys met at a bookstore, both love reading. So it just feels right. And he doesn’t have to stop talking and forget and be waiting for a reply that you won’t give him. He can just read. 

He picks up whatever he had been reading to you and starts back up. He doesn’t make it through much though because he just can’t. The sun is setting outside again, another whole day of you in a coma almost finished and he can’t stand it. 

It burns him from the inside, makes him feel like he needs to crawl out of his skin. He needs you to wake up. He needs to fix you. He’s a doctor. Fixing is what he does. He’s fixed countless people. 

But he simply cannot fix you. The only one that matters.

“You know,” he starts, leans back in his chair and looks at you. He scoffs. “God I don’t even know. I don’t know how to do this. What to say to you.” He shakes his head. “And I hate that,” he whispers. 

He sets the book down and the author’s name catches his eye. He moves in closer to you, gets up and sits on the edge of your bed, leans his head in a bit towards you as he holds one of your hands. He needs you to hear this. “I’ve decided that if you don’t wake the fuck up soon I’m going to have no choice but to have someone bring me that book and start reading it to you.” He squeezes your hand and shrugs. “So there. That’s my motivating wake up talk.” Tears hit his eyes and his lips wobble a little. “Wake the fuck up or I’m reading you the god damn book.” 

Jack watches you for a moment and sighs. He leans in and gives your cheek the lightest kiss. He can’t bring himself to kiss your lips again and not feel yours move back against his. He settles back in his chair and picks up the book he was reading. Instead of opening though he just vaguely hits himself straight in the face with it a few times. He doesn’t even know why. He just has the impulse. It’s not hard, it doesn’t do anything. It’s just tapping, just something to ground him maybe. He rests it on his face, closes his eyes and leans his forehead into the cover just to feel the resistance when he pushes the back against him a bit. Maybe he tries to pretend it’s your forehead and the way you lean into each other with your foreheads together sometimes. 

“Should I be jealous of the book Peter?” Your voice is barely audible with how cracked and dry your throat is. 

It takes a second for the book to drop out of Jack’s hands and hit the floor. “Holy fucking shit,” he breathes. “You’re awake.” 

He’s frozen for a minute, shaking hard as adrenaline pours into his system and he feels every emotion he can think of at once. 

“Fuck me,” he huffs. “Really? All I had to do was threaten to read that stupid book to get you to wake up?”

You give him a pained smile and small laugh. It sends him into action. 

“What can I say? I really hate that book. Couldn’t have you torture both of us. I think I’m doing that enough to the both of us right now.” You lick your lips and try to swallow. “Water?” You whisper at him. 

He brings you a cup quickly, holds the straw for you. “Sips,” he says softly. “Little sips right now, okay?” You do as he says, eventually nodding for him to take it away. “Pain? Are you in pain?” He looks on your bed and finds the remote. “Here.” He puts it in your hand, your thumb on top of the red button. “If you need a booster of morphine press the button.” 

You’re immediately pressing it over and over. “What happened?” You groan slightly. “My chest, Jack. It’s so bad. It hurts to breathe, like a weight’s on it.” Your words are a little slurred as the boost of morphine hits. It takes him back to the way you slurred in the trauma room and he has to fight not to go right back there in his mind. You need him. 

“I know.” He strokes your hair. “I know, I’m so sorry.” He looks over at one of your IV pumps. “I can ask them about upping your dose now that you’re awake, okay?”

You nod, blink at him. Your hand drops the button and finds one of his and gives it a little squeeze. “What happened?”

He searches your eyes with his, lets them flit about your face. His lip trembles. It breaks your heart. Whatever it was destroyed him. 

He sits back in his chair, moves it as close to you as he can get it. You reach up to cup his face with your hand and he leans into it immediately, puts both of his hands over yours. “You went septic. Threw a clot. It was bad. It was really bad. You coded. They had to crack your chest to get you back. So that’s why your chest hurts so bad. You’ve been in a coma for five days. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, “I’m so sorry I didn’t-”

“Hey, hey,” you whisper back to him. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize. None of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything, didn’t cause this.” 

“No,” he sniffles, “I know, but I just… I…” Tears start to stream down his face as he looks at you helplessly and shrugs. “I couldn’t…”

“Jack.” The way you say his name shatters him and he folds, buries his head in your lap, wary of hurting you, and sobs as he keeps squeezing your hand. “It’s okay,” you whisper, run your free hand through his hair. You both know its a lie. Nothing is okay right now. 

But you’re awake. 

He doesn’t cry for long, too conscious of how exhausted you must be, how he doesn’t want this to be how he spends the time he just got back with you. Not right now anyway. There will be time for tears and emotions and processing later. 

He rubs his face in your lap a bit to wipe his eyes and then lifts his head before resting it on its side against your legs. “I’m just so happy you’re awake.” 

“Me too.” You give him a sleepy smile. “Was always going to wake up, couldn’t leave you here alone could I?”

He gives a little half laugh, half sob. “Good. Because I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You want to tell him he’d figure it out but you don’t. 

“You gonna give me a kiss now Jack Abbot? I know I haven’t brushed-”

He’s moving the second you say kiss. He feels bad it didn’t occur to him immediately but he was just so overwhelmed with you being awake. His lips against yours cut you off. It’s not just one kiss, it’s two and three and you lose count. 

Soft ones, small, just long enough. They say more than he could figure out how to say with his words right now. Each one is perfect in its simplicity.

“You should rest,” he murmurs against your lips. You hum at him in response, eyes already fluttering closed. “You know I love you right? More than anything. More than I deserve.” 

You open your eyes back up and look at him. “Course I know that,” you murmur. “You know I love you right?”

He smiles at you. It’s a little watery, a little trembly. “Course I know that.” 

You swallow hard, just from all the meds and fighting the exhaustion. “Get in bed.” Your tone doesn’t leave much room to argue but he does anyway. 

“No. It’s not safe. I could hurt you. You need to heal a bit more.” He squeezes your hand. “But believe me, I want to, more than anything.”

“You won’t hurt me. Didn’t last time.” You look at him with big sleepy eyes that kill him. “Heal better with you in bed with me.” He bites his lip, torn, so scared of causing you any pain and so desperate to give you what you want. To give himself what he wants. “You’re the one that said oxytocin helps healing…” Your eyes flutter closed again. 

He has to laugh through some tears. “God, you really do listen and learn don’t you?”

You hum at him. “Someone has to be your best student. And it better always be me Dr. Abbot.” 

He laughs at that. It’s so you, such a you thing to say. For the first time in days he really laughs even with as short as it is. For the first time in days he feels hope. Hope that everything is going to be okay and you’re going to go home together and unpack and set up your place and paint and just be together.  

“You’re my best everything,” he murmurs as he gently shifts you and all your wires and climbs carefully into bed next to you. He needs it. And you need it. And so he lets you both have it. He lets himself hold you as best he can while keeping you in a neutral position that won’t hurt you. Your head falls to rest on his shoulder and you sigh softly as you fall asleep. Jack kisses the top of your head, lets his lips linger. 

“Sleep well.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Doll, I am not a dancer. I promise you. Nobody wants to see it.” 

“I don’t believe you,” you pout at him. “And I’ve seen those hips in action Peter. I know how much control you have over them. How you can isolate all the little muscles in them.”

“None of the muscles in your hips are particularly little-”

“You’re not changing the subject,” you cut him off. “It’s a wedding. We’re going to have to dance. At least to the slow songs.” 

“Are you sure you really want to take me?” He doesn’t even really mean to ask it, it just comes out. 

You look up at him and pause, drop his comforter that you were pulling back to get into his bed. “I… Is it too soon? Too serious too soon? I guess going to a wedding together is kind of…” you trail off looking for the word. “I don’t know a thing.”

“No!” He’s quick to reassure you. He leans up and pulls the comforter back for you. “Get in bed.” 

You do as he says. “It’s not too soon, and I want to go with you, trust me. Even under threat of dancing. I just wanted to make sure you don’t feel like you have to take me. I know a lot of your friends will be there and if you’re not ready to make those introductions, that’s okay,” he explains as he pulls you to him, arms wrapping around you but loose enough so that you can see each other. 

“I don’t feel like I have to take you. I want to. I want people to meet you. I want to show you off.” One of your hands slips into the back of his hair and plays with it, ruffles the curls and scratches at his scalp on and off as you look at each other. 

“Show me off?” He smirks at you. “You wanna show me off?”

“My intelligent, thoughtful, hot as all fuck doctor of a boyfriend? Yeah. I wanna show you off.” You grab at the old shirt he’s wearing to sleep in and give it and him a look of mock offense at it being on but pull him to you by it anyway. “Wanna see you in a partial suit. Nice slim fit pants, collared shirt, a tie, one or two buttons open at the reception and the tie shoved in your pocket to use on me later.” 

Jack sucks in a sharp breath of air and you just give him a little raise of your eyebrow, start to roll onto your back. He’s on top of you and kissing you and has his hands roaming all over you the second your head hits the pillow. 

He always pauses for a moment and makes eye contact with you before letting himself collapse on top of you after he’s done fucking you like this. The intimacy of that quick moment always makes your heart metaphorically skip a beat. This time is no exception. 

Jack snuggles into your chest, kissing at the top of your breasts as he does before he settles. You run your hands through his hair, are always running them through his hair or up and down his back or both. He loves it. 

“Hey Jack?” He’ll never get used to hearing his name come off your tongue.

He makes a little hum of acknowledgment, still blissed out and coming down. 

“We’re dancing at the wedding.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Days blur together. 

Your Pitt family rallies around both of you. 

You start seeing a therapist and it helps, you improve some, mentally. Jack finally makes an appointment with his therapist and it helps him. 

Everyone helps distract you, but it’s not just sitting in your room with you. One night Samira, Javadi, McKay, Mel and Heather show up in your room with painting supplies, easels, foldable stools, and a woman you’ve never met before. 

Paint and sip, they explain. You’re doing a paint and sip right here in your room, minus the sipping, unfortunately, because of your meds. It’s so sweet and thoughtful it makes you teary. Jack will never admit it but it may or may not have made him a little teary as he gave you a kiss and walked out to be with Robby for a bit as you guys did your painting. 

There are more things. There are a lot more things that they all do for you, and for Jack. Robby forces Jack to leave the hospital, just to go home, get more things for you, pick up food you like, small things. The first time is rough for both of you. But it gets better.

Of course, the most special though, the one that helps your mental health the most, is what Jack does for you. 

One night a good two and a half weeks into your hospital stay, Jack goes out to pick up dinner and Dana, Samira and Heather show up in your room again, but this time they have clothes for you. Nice clothes. A nice dress, the one you were going to wear to the wedding. Nice shoes. Make-up. Perfume. 

The Pitt is having a little get together on the roof and you should come, they explain. You worry that Jack is not going to be happy with you out of your room and on the roof, that it’ll scare him and you don’t want to scare him any more than you already have. They convince you that it’s okay, that Robby called Jack already and told him and so he knows to meet you up there. You’re confused by it all but don’t feel you’re in a position to really question anything and also very excited about the prospect of getting to be out on the roof in fresh air and city noise. 

The girls help you get dressed and your makeup and hair done nicely. Dana sprays some perfume on you. It makes you smile. 

“What?” She asks, but it’s a little too knowing. 

“I wore this perfume on Jack and I’s first date.” 

She hums. “Well isn’t that special? You’ll have to see if he remembers.” 

Heather and Samira disappear, say they’ll meet you up there, they’re going to go change. Dana brings you up, opens the roof door and tells you to go, she’s gotta go change. You look at her confused and shaking your head and now you know something is up. But she’s off before you can question her.

You turn around and walk out onto the roof a little, around a little corner and there’s Jack. 

There’s Jack standing next to a dinner table with a white linen tablecloth with candles on it, fairy lights strung up on the guard rail. There’s Jack holding a bouquet of daffodils for you and looking at you like you’re a vision. There’s Jack standing in front of you in nice slim fit pants, a collared shirt with two buttons undone. 

You look shocked because you are so far fucking beyond shocked you didn’t even know it was possible. He did this for you. 

“We didn’t get to go to the wedding,” he calls to you as he walks over while you walk to him. “You look gorgeous.”

You’re speechless. Beyond. You’re thoughtless, struggling to process this, all this work that he did for you.

“I promise to give you a raincheck on the tie,” he smirks as he reaches you, leans in and kisses you. He pulls back, brows furrowed like he’s confused and it makes you laugh a little because how the hell is he the confused one now. “You smell like our first date.”

“I…Jack, this is… Yeah, it’s the same perfume. Dana brought it.” You pause, think back on your conversations with Dana. She dragged it out of you so casually one day you thought nothing of it. You shake your head and laugh a little. “She asked me about it one day and I didn’t even think about it.

“She’s pretty good, isn’t she?” Jack laughs. You nod. 

“Jack, I’m,” you look around, hold onto his forearms to ground you. You’re teary. Of course. “You did all this? For me?”

“Well I certainly had many co-conspirators who helped me get it all set up, but yeah. It was my idea. You needed it. I needed it. We needed it. A date night. And this was the only place we could get in.” He hands you the daffodils, grabs your hand and leads you over to the table where you stop.

“I…” You look around again. “It’s safe? For me?” You look back at him and he knows from the look in your eye that you’re not asking because you’re worried about yourself. You’re asking because you’re worried about him, worried about putting him through more trauma and more pain if something were to happen to you up here. 

“Yes.” He helps you into the chair. “You’re probably the safest diner in all of Pittsburgh tonight. You’ve got a physician’s supervision.” He smirks at you. His eyes flick to the ground on the side. His go-bag. He’s prepared, just in case. That brings you back to reality, brings you back to yourself, makes you smile and give a soft laugh. 

He sits down opposite you, starts to take a drink of water. “Have I ever told you how hot I find it that you’re a doctor?”

Jack chokes, starts coughing and it makes you giggle.

“What?” You draw the word out with a bit of that shit-eating grin he loves. “What did you expect me to say?” 

“I don’t fucking know but not that! You were so speechless a minute ago!” He’s laughing a bit now, looking at you like you’re one of the seven wonders of the world. 

“It’s just the truth!” you say through a laugh. He reveals dinner to you. Your favorite dish from your favorite place. You thank him for this, all of it, you keep saying it because you’re so blown away. 

You eat dinner. You eat all of yours for the first time in two weeks and it makes Jack so incredibly happy and relieved. After you’re done with dinner you sit for a bit, chat a little before Jack stands up and holds out his hand to you. You raise an eyebrow at him. 

He takes his phone out and thirty seconds later your guy's song, soft and slow, starts playing from a speaker he had hidden under the table. He offers you his hand again. 

“Oh Jack.” You pull the words out a little bit as you start to cry.

Through tears you take it and let him pull you close into a dancing hold. “I hope they’re good tears,” Jack murmurs as he holds you close.

“They’re the best,” you sniffle. “I love you so much.”

Jack kisses your temple at the side of your eyebrow. “I love you more.”

The song plays on a loop. Jack dances with you until you admit you’re tired and need to rest. It’s not even really dancing more than just swaying together, him holding you close, murmured conversation. But it’s everything. He’s everything. 

You’re there for weeks. Weeks that are beautifully uneventful, the only exception being when you hit some milestones in your recovery. 

And then one day is eventful again because a word starts being used. The word you’ve both been desperate to hear. 

Home. 

You’re desperate to get out of the hospital and home. Jack is just as desperate to get you there. He never wants to let you out of it again, but that’s a conversation for a later day. He’s dreading when you have to go back to work, back to that courthouse. Rationally he knows with the increased security since the shooting it’s probably one of the safest places for you to be but his emotional brain doesn’t give a single fuck about that. 

You laugh about it with Jack one day, how you’re going to go home to your apartment that’s still in boxes with furniture pushed to the center of rooms so you could paint. “It’s okay, we can wait to paint or I can make Robby help. And then you can just boss me around and tell me where to put things as I unpack while you rest on the couch.”

He gives you a very pointed look. 

“I think I’ll be okay to help you unpack. At least some things and at least for a while. If I get tired I’ll rest and I won’t go lifting a box of books, okay?” You give him a reassuring smile. 

“No.” 

You let out a deep sigh. “Jack, we’ve talked about this. You can’t treat me like I’m glass forever. Especially once we’re home.” 

“Why not? And it’s not even treating you like glass, it’s making sure you take it easy and recover.” His face is set, but not quite as hard as it has been when you’ve had this conversation in the past. 

“I will take it easy. And I will recover. And you will be there to make sure I do both of those things. But being active, to an extent, I know, is important. Robby has said it. Dana. Heather, Mel, Santos, Shen, Parker, Perlah, Princess, Shamsi, Whitaker, Garcia, Javadi, Mohan, Mateo, everyone who has ever stepped in this room. Even you told me that, back when I didn’t want to get out of bed.” You run your hands over his chest, try to be soothing. You don’t want to upset him. “I know you have been through a lot with this. I know I have been. I know we have a lot to process and work through together and individually. I don’t want to argue. And I know that if our positions were reversed I would be the exact same way towards you, and that if anything you have it worse because you’re a doctor and so you know way too much about the things that could go wrong. But I’m okay. I will be okay. You tell me everyday how I’m getting stronger.”

Jack settles his hands on your hips, rests his forehead against yours. “I know. I just… struggle. Because you were better and then you weren’t. And I am terrified that’s going to happen again even though I know the chances at this point are so low.” His hands squeeze your hips. “I think maybe seeing you out of here will help. Seeing you at home. It’ll make it more real. That you’re really okay.” He pulls his head from yours. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” you cup his face with both of your hands. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Jack. Not for caring so much, for loving so much. Because that’s what this is and I know it. It’s not micromanaging or not trusting me or wanting to control me. I know that. I promise. I know this is motivated by fear and by love. We’re going to get through this together, okay?”

He nods because he knows it’s true. 

And then there’s another eventful day, with a phrase you’ve both been itching to hear. 

Discharge instructions. 

They let Robby give you them even though he’s not technically your doctor. He gives them to you even though he doesn’t need to because you have Jack who’s going to be all over you and enforce stricter ones. But you still appreciate hearing them so that you have some idea of what’s okay and what isn’t and what appointments you have scheduled for follow ups and the meds they’re sending you home with. 

You ask about sex. 

Jack almost drops the bottle he’s packing away for you. “Why, please tell me why on earth,” he draws the word out, “you’re thinking about sex? And not recovering.”

You look at him, hold a finger up and then riffle through the bag next to you on the bed. You take out the small stand mirror Dana had brought you so that you could do your makeup that one night. You open it and hand it to Jack. “Take a look in the mirror Dr. Abbot.”

You’re so nonchalant with how you say it, like it’s obvious and just a fact and nothing you should really have to be explaining. 

“Oh my god,” he mutters. 

Robby ends up totally snorting his laugh because he tried to stifle it for Jack for a minute but it’s too good, it’s too funny. Robby smiles at you as he pulls it together, thinks how good you are for Jack. How you’re what he needed.

“You could have just asked me, you know! I’m a doctor! I know you know that, you tell me how hot it is all the time! We didn’t have to fucking drag Michael into this,” he huffs. But all of you know it’s not serious. He’s not really mad. He’s just worried and scared and wants to protect you and doesn’t want anything to happen to you and more than anything he doesn’t want to hurt you. But there’s the subtlest tinge to his voice that reflects his lust, his want, his desire to have you like that again. 

“Yes, but I don’t trust you to give me a straight answer right now,” he goes to interrupt you but you shake your head and continue, speaking over him, and Jack pouts. Truly pouts. “And you know that’s valid and you would have given me the most conservative answer possible. And it’s Robby,” you shrug, “he’s a doctor and your best friend and obviously knows we’re having sex, or were before all of this. Plus he saw my tits when he coded me, I think we lost some boundaries when that happened.”

“They’re very nice b-”

Jack shoots him a glare, one that would have Robby dead on the floor if looks could kill.

Robby stops talking and clears his throat. “Right, well, uh,” Robby hugs his tablet to him and rocks back and forth a bit. “I mean as soon as you’re ready and feel up to it.” You look over at Jack and flash a pleased smile, raise your eyebrows. “But nothing too rough or overly strenuous. Keep it soft, slow. You know real love-making-”

“I’m going to fucking quit if you keep talking.” Jack interrupts Robby who wears the biggest self-satisfied shit eating grin. 

You snort a laugh because the whole situation is so fucking absurd. “Thank you, Robby.”  

“Of course.” He opens his arms and you hug. “Don’t take this the wrong way but I am really fucking glad I won’t see either of you tomorrow.” 

The three of you share a laugh. “Ready?” Jack asks you. It’s funny how in the moment you’ve been dying for you’re suddenly terrified and unsure. The hospital is safe. There are doctors and medications. 

You remind yourself that there’s a doctor and medications at home too and the thought lets you smile at Jack and nod.

He flicks his chin to the wheelchair. “Oh you cannot be serious. That is so unnecessary.”

“Hospital policy.” Jack shrugs. 

“Hospital policy or Jack policy?”

“That one actually is hospital policy.” Robby confirms. 

Jack gives you a triumphant smirk and you roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him. He does it back. 

And then he wheels you out.

Being home is strange. It’s a whole new normal to get used to again. There are lots of emotions. You’re all over the place, somehow more emotional labile the first two days at home than you ever were in the hospital. 

Despite his own emotions Jack is your rock through it and things start to get better. He paints with Robby’s help. You talk him into letting you paint. You direct Jack and Robby on where furniture should go, with Jack’s input of course. You and Jack unpack boxes together. 

Six or seven days after you came home you’re down to just two boxes left. All books. You and Jack are unpacking them together, him bending to get them out of the box and you alphabetizing as you put them on the shelves. 

Jack picks up a book. The book. The one that started it all. The one ‘Move in with me?’ is written in. He stares down at it. 

Earlier today he’d unpacked the box where he’d hidden the ring. The ring box is in his pocket, pants loose enough to hide it. 

“Peter?” You hold a hand out behind you to get the next book from him but Jack doesn’t put one in your hand or say anything. “Jack?” you repeat as you turn around to him staring at the book. He has a weird look that you can’t really place. Your brows furrow in concern. “Are you okay?”

He sets the book back in the box and looks up at you for a second. And then he’s sliding down to one knee and your eyes widen. “Jack,” you whisper, already teary. 

“We’re going on the France trip,” he starts. “It’s all planned. You should be well enough to travel by then and we can adjust to take it easier if we need.” Your mouth drops open a little. “I had this all planned too. Proposing. I was going to take you to the Louvre, propose in front of the inverted pyramids, have a photographer. I had planned to tell you about the trip the night of the day you got shot. And then the entire time you were in the hospital I wanted to ask but I didn’t want it to feel like I was asking because you were in the hospital and things were scary.” 

You bring a trembling hand to your mouth. “But I can’t wait anymore. I can’t wait for Paris. You know this has nothing to do with what happened. I had planned this before what happened. I knew I wanted to marry you within a month. That time you met me outside of the hospital after I coded that vet at the very end of my shift. We had spoken on the phone for less than a minute, I didn’t tell you about it or say anything was wrong and yet you just showed up. In your work clothes. When I asked why you were there you said you could hear it in my voice, that I needed someone, needed to not be alone and so you took the day off, and it’s funny because up until you said it I had been telling myself that I needed to be alone. But you were right. When I started to argue you just put a hand to my chest and kissed me, told me that it was already done, you’d already let your boss know, grabbed my hand and started walking to my place. And that’s when I realized you knew me better than I knew myself and that you weren’t afraid to just do things for me, that you weren’t going to make me ask, ever, for anything, when you knew I wouldn’t be able to. You weren’t going to make me struggle, force me to either open up or not get what I need from you. That’s when I knew I wanted to marry you.” He pauses and swallows, trying to clear the tears that line his eyes from his voice. “There’s so much I wanted to say in this moment, so much you deserve to hear” he laughs a little, the sound wet with tears, “but everything has fallen out of my mind. I promise though that, if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of our lives making sure you hear them and know how important and necessary you are to me, how much I love you.” 

Tears stream down your face. They have been for a while now. Your mouth and chin tremble under your hand. 

Jack gets the box from his pocket and opens it.

The way Jack says your name is etched into your memory. Then. “Will you marry me?”

You move your hand from your mouth, give him a look and move your shoulders in a way that says he didn’t even have to ask. 

“Yes.” 

It’s not exactly whispered, your voice is just so choked with tears it makes it sound like it. Jack’s face breaks out into the biggest teary smile and yours matches. Shaking hands get the ring on your finger and then Jack is standing up, arms going straight to hold your face and he kisses you like he never has before. It’s indescribable. It’s perfect. 

You hug him tightly for a minute before you both pull away. “Is it okay? The ring?”

“Oh,” you sniffle, try and wipe at your eyes with your hands. “You’re going to laugh,” your voice gets a little more high pitched as another wave of emotion hits you. “The tears, there’s too many, I haven’t been able to see it.” You cover your mouth with your hand. 

And Jack, Jack starts laughing. Because it’s so you, from being too teary to see it to the way you got even more emotional when you told him. You laugh-cry with him. 

The entirety of the proposal is perfect. 

As is what follows once you’ve seen the ring, almost screamed about it and how perfect it is, and gushed about it for several minutes to him. 

Jack takes your hand and leads you to your bedroom. Your shared bedroom. He lays you down on soft sheets. It’s your first time after what happened. 

He takes his time with you. Kisses every inch of you, every scar, new and old, lingers on the new ones. He worships you. Takes you apart and puts you back together again. Lets you do the same to him. 

The groan of relief that comes from his chest when he finally pushes inside of you is unholy. He holds you tight to him. He adjusts so that he’s on top of you, arms under your shoulders with his elbows supporting him, holding your face in his hands. It’s all panting and breathy and sloppy kisses and uncontrollable groans and moans and warm sweaty skin and eye contact and Jack slowly losing it and groaning nonstop as he fucks you and chases your hips harder and harder, moving you both up the bed a bit as he tries to get deeper and closer to you. 

You take a bath after to clean the sweat off of you both and just to feel each other. He pours in so much epsom salts to help you heal that you tease him you’re going to float in the water. It’s so warm and his touch is so relaxing that you actually fall asleep leaning back against him for a few minutes. He lets you sleep. Tries to commit the moment to memory. 

You decide to have a housewarming party. You invite everyone from the Pitt, time it so that the night shifters can drop by for a little bit before their shift starts if they want. You invite some of your friends too. 

You use it to announce your engagement. Every time someone knocks you and Jack go get them and you hold your left hand up. Everyone is happy for you. Some cry which makes you get teary. Jack hears you discussing the ring with Dana, Samira, McKay, and Javadi, you holding your hand out and all of them looking closely at it. He can’t hear the conversation but he catches, “he custom designed it,” and “it’s so perfect, just like him.”

He stands alone for a minute watching you and the party. He smiles as you walk up to him, arms automatically opening for you to step into. “And how is my beautiful fiancée doing?” You giggle at the word. Fianceé. It makes it so real. “Tired?” He’s checking in on you and you know he’d have all of these people out in a literal minute if you said you were tired and needed to rest. 

“No, I’m okay, I promise.” You lean up and give him a kiss. “How’s my handsome fiancé?” 

“I’m pretty perfect, Doll.” He gives your hip a squeeze. “Thank you.”

“For what?” You cock your head at him a little and he melts even more for you somehow. 

“For everything.” Jack kisses you. “For saying yes.” Another kiss. “For waking up.” Another kiss. “And for telling me that book wasn’t worth it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wanted both without having to destroy Jack because he deserves everything so here we are. I hope it was okay! Please let me know your thoughts and comments!! Liking, replies and reblogging are so so appreciated! My inbox and requests are open (see masterlist for more)! Thank you for reading all of this, I know it was long!

And let me know if you'd like to see more of these two! Wedding, more before reader is shot, just little domestic moments between the two? I'm hoping to do a follow up to Perfumer and maybe a few more shorter things, maybe some Robby? Who knows, certainly not I.

“Are you sure this is okay?” you looked back while holding a baby carrier in both hands. 

“Like I told you back at the hospital, and in the car, and then again in the car, I promise this is okay,” James assured you, following right behind, bags under each arm. “You just went through a 40 hour labour, did you really think it would be a smart move to come home alone?”

He was right about that, physically you were exhausted, you were sure how much longer you could keep your eyes open. 

“Go take a shower, I’ll look after her until you get out,” he suggested. “If you had a support person here you would have taken shifts.”

“I know, but you have a life James,” you sighed. “One that didn’t involve your friend getting pregnant and then taking care of her.”

“Would it make it any better if I told you I really don’t mind? I like spending time with you, it’s why we’ve been friends for so long,” he put the bags down by the table and then placed a hand on your shoulder. 

“James, I love you, but I’m going to be brutally honest because my filter has vanished. This is what happens to all your wives, all your girlfriends. I really don’t need that happening to us too,” you said. 

“It won’t,” he pressed. “Come on, just take the shower. I know you want to.”

You sighed, “Alright, but I’m not gonna call for you to come in the middle of the night and every which time of day. If you want to come and see us, do it of your own accord and if you don’t want to then don’t,” you emphasized. “Do what you want, not what you think I want.”

“If I say I will, will you go take a shower?” James asked and you rolled your eyes at him. 

“Don’t drop my baby while I’m in there, okay?” you pointed at him. “You still owe me for that vase you broke.” 

“You mean the tacky one your crappy ex-boyfriend’s mom gave you? I think I did you a favour there.” 

“You’re insufferable sometimes, you know?” you said carefully putting the carrier down in the living room and looking down at your resting daughter for a moment before heading towards your room. 

“I love you too,” he said simply, replacing you by her side and keeping a close eye on her while she slept. 

You had to admit, it was a relief to be able to step into the shower, knowing there was someone you trusted outside looking after the small human you were now fully responsible for. At least before dealing with the stress and everything that would come afterwards you’d be able to be clean. 

When you came out of your bedroom after your shower, dressed in the most comfortable clothes you could find lying around, you saw James in the kitchen, the carrier now propped up on the table while he unpacked something from some grocery bags. 

“I was craving Indian, do you want some?” he asked. 

“Of course I do, the food at your hospital sucks, hand it over,” you put your hand out and he gave you a bowl so you could serve yourself some rice and curry. “She’s still asleep?” 

“Woke up once, but I got her to fall back asleep pretty easily. She might get hungry soon though too.” 

“So I should eat while I still have the chance,” you sat down at the island and began munching on the food, turning around the carrier so you could see your daughter. 

It was interesting, she’d been around only for a short few days but you could barely ever take your eyes off her. 

“Did you pick a name for her yet?” James asked, leaning over the table and eating his portion of dinner. 

“I think so,” you nodded. “I was between two when she was born, but now that I look at her she fits one better than the other.” 

“So what’s the winner?” 

“Liana,” you smiled and brushed your fingers along her small curled toes. “It suits her doesn’t it?” 

“I think it does,” he nodded. “You made a pretty cute baby.” 

“I made a very cute baby, thank you very much,” you scoffed with a chuckle. “You think you could do better?” 

“Well I don’t have a uterus so I don’t think we’ll ever be able to find out,” he shook his head. “Shame, I probably would have demolished you.” 

“As if,” you laughed, continuing to eat more food just as Liana began to stir awake. “And there’s my cue.” 

You stood up and carefully took her out of the carrier, cautious of supporting her neck before moving over to the couch where you could comfortably feed her. 

“Once you’re done I’ll burp her,” James said. “So you can keep eating.” 

“Sure,” you nodded. “Got practice from your med school days?” 

“Yeah, actually,” he nodded. “I thought originally I might specialize in working in the NICU so I spent a lot of time in the maternity ward.” 

“What made you change your mind?” you asked. 

“I would have burnt out,” he admitted. “Seeing babies and spending time with them is one thing, but seeing them sick and sometimes not get better? It’s a lot harder than you’d imagine.” 

You hummed thoughtfully, “You would have been good in that department if you decided to go that route. I think at least.” 

“Really, why do you think so?” 

“James, you’ve always been great with kids and parents. Don’t you remember how we met?” 

He chuckled to himself, “Summer camp days. Yeah, you really did have to know your way around both.” 

“You somehow managed, as a nineteen-year-old, to calm a child who was freaking out about staying away from home and dealing with an unhappy parent of a different child. I think your people skills just got better as you got older.” 

“I don’t think there’s much in life that trains you to deal with crises as much as being a camp counsellor.” 

“You can test your skills with Liana and see if you’ve still got the magic when it comes to babies,” you teased, followed by a yawn. 

“Trust me, I definitely do,” he assured you. “Babies love me.”

“And do you love babies?”

“I do, and I think I’m gonna end up loving yours a little more than most,” he admitted. 

“Good, she’s gonna need it,” you sighed. “I’m gonna need it.”

There was a pause for a moment before James spoke up again,

“Have you talked to him since the break up?” he asked and you shook your head, feeling the tears develop in your eyes. 

“I don’t really want to talk about it, not right now,” you whispered, looking down at Liana again. 

James did not peg your boyfriend as the abandoning type, but after he had coaxed the news out of you during one of your visits, he could see how much it crushed you to think of what lied ahead. Not because you didn’t want a child, but because Liana was all you wanted and you thought you were on the same page as your partner, but when it came down to things he couldn’t hold up the mask he’d been wearing any longer. 

“You should talk about it sometime though, right?” James said softly. “Doesn’t have to be with me, but you’ve been so laser focused on getting through the past nine months you haven’t really processed what happened.”

Liana had since finished feeding and you carried her over to the kitchen island, passing James a burp cloth that he could drape across his shoulder before taking her from your hands, after you pressed a small kiss to her forehead. 

“Not sure if I want to process it,” you admitted. “I’d rather focus on her.”

“And I’d rather you take care of yourself so you don’t crash and burn,” he said. 

You knew he was right, but it was nicer to pretend you were alone from start to finish than even imagining the possibility that someone was supposed to be with you through everything. The doctors appointments, the morning sickness, the preparation. 

Instead you ended up feeling like a burden to your friends who had gone out of their way to help you and be there for you. 

“Okay,” you nodded simply. “I’ll do it for you and her then.”

“It’ll end up being for you in the end,” he assured. “But just…trust me on this okay?”

“I do,” you smiled. “Just like I trust you with her.”

You finished eating your dinner while James took care of Liana and even managed to get her to go back to sleep. It seemed that even though she’d only been in the world a short while, she felt just as safe in his arms as she did in yours.

“You can put her down if you want. I have a cot set up in my room,” you pointed. 

“I’m alright like this,” he shook his head. “I’ll hold her until you’re done then I’ll leave you guys so you can get some sleep.”

Considering how hungry you were, it didn't take that much longer for you to finish eating and while you cleared up the dishes, James went and put Liana down in her bed and then gathered his things so he could give you some time alone. 

“I’ll see you around, James. Thanks for coming to help today,” you gave him a big hug and he held you tight in that way he would when he wanted to say something, but knew it should probably wait. 

“Anytime,” he gave you an additional squeeze. “You’re gonna be a great mom. You are a great mom already. I’m really happy for you.” 

You couldn’t bring yourself to say any words in response so you just nodded your head and held onto him tighter. After a moment he pulled away and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. 

“Love you, now go get some sleep.” 

“You’ve got it Dr. Wilson,” you saluted him. 

You walked him out of the door and after closing it shut behind him you took a deep breath. It was going to be hard, but you could do it. 

—

A few months later…

“Don’t you have a life?” you yawned, bouncing Liana in your arms to try and get her to fall asleep. 

“I mean I went bowling with House last night and I consistently stay late at work, and that’s about it, so no,” James shook his head. 

“So you figured that coming and bothering me is a good use of your spare time.” 

“I wouldn’t call it bothering,” James gave you a look. “I made you dinner.” 

“Yeah you did, and unfortunately it was really good too,” you sighed. “So you just want to hang out with me and Liana?”

“Yeah, is that so hard to believe?”

“A little considering I always have baby vomit on me now,” you chuckled. 

“It brings out your eyes,” he teased. “Here, why don’t I take her.”

“Last time I agreed to that you riled her up, which I didn’t think was possible for a three month old,” you eyed him skeptically. 

“I promise I’ll put her to sleep,” he crossed his heart. 

“Wrong religion, James,” you shook your head and he laughed. 

“Do you want me to swear on the Torah?”

“It would help,” you nodded. 

“Alright, I swear on the Torah that I won’t rile her up.”

You reluctantly passed Liana over to James and scoffed when she almost immediately stopped fussing. 

“See,” he smiled and kissed her small nose while he rocked her gently, making her eyes slowly close as she fell asleep. 

“You two are in kahoots. She’s fine whenever you’re not around, but when you are it’s like she knows she can get passed off to you if she’s fussy enough,” you laughed a little. “It’s cute though, I like how much she likes you.”

“Me too, why do you think I keep coming here?” 

“So you came to visit, what do you want to do?” you asked. “My plans were to clean the kitchen and do laundry, so not much more exciting than sitting around at home.”

“Why don’t you let me put her down then we can tackle the kitchen together. I mean I did make half of the mess there.”

“I won’t argue with you there,” you sighed and put your hands on your hips. “Okay, I’m gonna throw a load in before you put her down.” 

It took a little bit for James to be confident Liana was fully asleep before putting her down in her cot and then meeting you again in the kitchen where you were packing up leftovers from dinner. 

“Have you had many visitors?” James asked. 

“Well, I do have this one guy that keeps coming around, about this tall, practicing oncology, I think he’s a little bit obsessed with me,” you joked. 

“Aside from me,” he shook his head and went over to the dishes. 

“Yeah, a few. My parents were here for a bit while you were out of town and then some of my friends have come around to help with a few things here and there and to meet Liana.”

“Nice.”

“You sound like you want to say something,” you looked back at him. 

“It’s not too much having me over all the time, is it?”

“No, not at all,” you shook your head. “You know me, I’d tell you if it was.”

“Because I really do like spending time with you both. It’s a lot nicer than going to an empty house at the end of the day,” he admitted. “So if you don’t mind, maybe I can keep bothering you and making a mess in your kitchen.”

“I think that would be okay,” you smiled. 

You cleaned in silence for a bit before James began asking a few questions about Liana. 

“She had an appointment with her pediatrician recently, right? Everything went okay?”

“Yeah, fit as a fiddle,” you sighed. “Thank goodness.”

“Have you decided if you’re gonna use formula yet? Or will you wait it out?”

“I was actually going to ask you about this, whenever I ask anyone I think has an opinion I’d like to hear they say I need to make the decision myself and then everyone I don’t want to hear from seems to have something to say,” you chuckled. “What do you think? As a doctor?”

“I mean, if I were in your situation I might wait a bit longer, she’s still pretty young and there’s no real reason to switch over yet. I think a lot of people start maybe around 12 months and from what I’ve seen that works well,” he shrugged. 

“Thanks for giving me a straight answer,” you placed a hand on his arm. “I also don’t know if I should try and take leave from work or hire a nanny, but I think I probably have to figure that one out myself.”

“Do you have enough savings to take the time off?” he asked. 

“I get a few more months paid leave from the company I work for since I have seniority, but after that I have to figure out what to do. I think I have enough saved to last me some time, but I’m going to have to go back eventually.”

James hummed thoughtfully. 

“Do you wanna come up with solutions tonight or relax now that we’ve finished cleaning?” he asked, motioning his head to the kitchen that was definitely in better shape than before. 

“Let’s watch a movie or something, I don’t think I’ve turned the TV on since Liana was born. I’ll fold the laundry when it’s done while we watch,” you said. “I’ll figure something out later.”

“We should watch, oh jeez what’s that thing we started ages ago and never finished?”

“The really bad soap?” you asked and he nodded, “Oh yes, we’re definitely watching that.”

“Okay, you go get settled, I’m gonna make some tea, do you want some?”

“Sure, just make me whatever you’re having,” you nodded and grabbed the remote from under the pile of blankets on the couch, turning on the TV and trying to find the episodes you had recorded to watch later. 

By the time James had finished making the tea, you had found the show and were just about to start it. 

“Here,” James passed you the mug. “So what was the last thing that happened?”

“I think the main guy was sleeping with the head nurse, right and then there was the whole thing with her being engaged to the other surgeon and then her sister was in a coma?” 

“Wait, I thought the surgeon she was engaged to was sleeping with one of his patients?” 

“He was,” you nodded. “It was a whole thing.”

“Alright, just start it, I’m sure I’ll remember more as we watch.”

James was very sorely mistaken, if anything he’d gotten more confused and you were absolutely no help because nothing was making sense anymore. 

“What is up with the writing?” you asked. “Like did they just completely forget they had a whole storyline dedicated to this huge procedure and now they’re acting like nothing happened.”

“Don’t get me started, that guy was doing surgery without gloves, like that doesn’t even take much effort to get right. You’d think it was common sense,” James added. 

“Maybe we should turn it off,” you looked over at your friend, “it’s getting us all riled up.”

James pressed his lips together, “I know, but I kind of want to find out who’s the father of Paula’s baby.”

You leaned back into the couch, you had managed to fold all the laundry, and it was still a little too early to go to sleep, you supposed a few more episodes couldn’t hurt. 

“If I fall asleep, just lock up on your way out, okay?” you looked over at him and he nodded as you started the next episode. 

Just as you predicted, about halfway through the second episode you began to drift off, and as soon as James noticed, he stopped the episode already having decided you could finish it together another time. 

He shifted you slightly so you were lying down on the couch instead of in the uncomfortable position you were in before, placing a blanket over top of you. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek, wishing you a good night before going to check on Liana, and after seeing she was sleeping soundly and the baby monitor was on, he saw himself out, taking your spare key from where it was hidden on the porch and locking the door. 

—

“How’s my girl doing?” James grinned, scooping Liana out of your arms. “I haven’t seen you in so long,” he kissed her nose making her giggle. 

“James, you were here two days ago,” you laughed. 

“And it feels like an eternity.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, “She’s got you wrapped around her finger.”

“I don’t mind,” he shrugged. “Just as long as we get to spend time together.”

“Yeah, well she hasn’t napped yet so it can wait until after that,” you reached to take her back but James insisted he could put her to sleep. “James, you just got off work are you sure you don’t want to eat something or take a break for a bit?”

“This is like a break for me,” he assured you. 

“Okay, I’m gonna make a salad, come out and eat when you’re done.”

James nodded and went off to the bedroom so he could sit on the armchair there and coax her to sleep. 

Usually he didn’t need more than twenty minutes to half an hour to put her down, so when you were hitting the forty-five minute mark you wondered if Liana was being fussy, so you went to check in on them, instead seeing James fast asleep on the armchair with Liana snuggled against his chest. 

You bit back a big smile and went to go grab your camera quickly, and quietly snapped a shot of the two of them. 

Not wanting to wake either of them, you made your way back to the kitchen, shutting the door of the room behind you to make sure the sound didn’t travel. 

Figuring it might be a while before James came back out, you decided to eat your dinner, that way you could take Liana from him when they woke up so he could get something to eat too. 

As you had predicted, James exited the room about an hour later, Liana now awake and hungry for her own dinner. 

“Want me to take her now?” you teased and he rolled his eyes while you took your baby from him, sitting on the couch to feed her while he grabbed himself something to eat. “You had a good nap?”

“Great actually, I think I needed it. Been pulling a lot of late nights at the office getting paperwork done,” he admitted. “I’m surprised you didn’t wake me.”

“You looked comfortable, I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Well, I appreciate it cause I needed the sleep,” he sighed and came and sat next to you while he began to eat his dinner. 

“James, I…I tried to talk to him the other week,” you said, knowing he would be able to connect the dots back to your ex. “I’d been meaning to tell you, it just slipped my mind I guess.”

“You did…what did he say?”

“God, I’m gonna start crying again,” you let out a humourless chuckle and lifted a hand to wipe away the tears beginning to form in your eyes. “It doesn’t matter what he said. What matters is that it was probably good that we broke up. He wouldn’t have been a good father or husband for that matter when it came down to it.”

“I’m proud of you for reaching out anyways. It takes a lot of guts to do that after someone leaves you.”

You nodded your head, “I’m just…I know I said you should keep coming here because you want to, but I really do like having you around. It just makes it seem simpler. Easier,” you looked over at him. “You’re a good friend Jamie, I love you.”

“Love you too,” he leaned over and pressed a kiss to your forehead, watching as your attention turned back to your daughter as she finished feeding. 

You held her just like that in your arms for a little while longer, watching as she reached out for your fingers and then tried to go even further to grab James. Clearly her attention was addictive because he was ready to put his food down to help burp her, but you made a teasing remark about him hogging her and that he needed to eat his food so you’d take care of it and he could have her when he was done. 

Eventually, you traded Liana for James’ dishes and went to load the dishwasher while he kept her occupied, letting her gnaw on his tie while making all sorts of nonsensical baby noises that James took as conversation starters. 

It was funny to watch the two have what looked like a full blown conversation and you were sure James had been reading some parenting magazine or another that spoke of helping babies develop linguistic abilities. 

“Hey James,” you crossed your arms over your chest, leaning against the wall. 

“Yeah?”

“Do you want a key?”

“A key to what?” he looked at you confused. 

“The house,” you said. “I just thought since you’re here all the time you can come and go whenever you want and if you forget something and I’m out you can come get it yourself.”

“A key,” he thought about it. “This feels like a big milestone moment.”

“I mean I already have the key to your place, but that was because you refused to have anyone look after you after you got your wisdom teeth removed.”

“Wait, you have my key?” 

“Yeah, I just took yours and had it copied,” you shrugged. 

“I feel like I should be a bit more concerned about this, but I’m not.”

“It’s because you’re friends with House, you’re used to it,” you waved him off. 

“Liana, did you know your mom’s a thief?” he looked down at the baby in his arms and you rolled your eyes. 

“Do you want the key or not?” 

“I’ll take it, and I guess you can keep mine, but I’m never there anyways.”

“It’s okay, I’ll just use it if I need to steal your social insurance card to commit identity theft.”

“Liana banana, your mom’s being very silly tonight,” James picked her up and held her out in front of him before bringing her down to press a few kisses to her face, making her giggle. “It’s okay, we still love mommy even though she’s silly, right?”

“You better,” you flicked his shoulder as you walked by after grabbing an ice cream sandwich from the freezer. 

“Hey, I’ve got something in my bag I forgot to give you, do you mind bringing it over here?” James asked, motioning to the briefcase on the armchair closest to the front door. 

You nodded your head and stood up again to grab it and pass it to him. He rummaged through it with one hand while still holding Liana before passing you what looked like a receipt. 

“Uh thanks?” you looked a little confused. 

“Read what it’s for,” James chuckled. “They’ll get delivered next week.” 

“James,” you put the receipt down. “You didn’t.” 

“You’ve been talking about it for four months, I had to do something,” he shrugged. “And I didn’t get you anything for your baby shower.” 

“Because you planned it,” you laughed. “Seriously this is a lot. I don’t know if I can accept this.” 

“Just think of it this way. I’m here all the time, we like to go out with Liana together and it’s a great stroller with good safety ratings.” 

“Okay sure you’ll use that, but the cot too?” 

“The one you have in there’s been recalled, I was just doing you a favour,” he said. 

You chuckled a little, pressing your lips together. “Liana, my darling, we are very spoiled.” 

“I’ll come over when it gets delivered and help set it up,” James said. 

“I still don’t know what to say, James, this is…really generous of you.” 

“Believe me, right now nothing makes me happier, and I mean that,” he reached out a hand to you and you took it, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

As promised, the next week James was back at your home to help set up the stroller and the cot and you figured it would be the right time to pull out that camcorder your father had gotten you to help record some memories you were making with Liana. 

“Hey, James wanna tell the camera what you’re doing?” 

“Wondering why I didn’t get a degree in engineering apparently.” he mumbled while hunched over some instructions, a pencil behind his ear and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. 

“What does your assistant think?” you moved the camera over to Liana, sitting in a rocking seat that was propped up next to James. 

“That this video isn’t going to be very good for my image in the future. This stuff is worse than IKEA,” he scratched the back of his head. 

“You’re doing great,” you assured him and came to give him an encouraging side hug. “Alright, let me stop this video and we can try and tackle it together.” 

You put the camera down on the bed and looked over the instructions with James, having a bit of an easier time piecing things together compared to him, so in the end you were put on deciphering the instructions while he assembled the cot. 

An embarrassing amount of time later, the cot was completely assembled (only after having to disassemble it all the first time because there was one piece left over and you had no idea what step you had missed using it), and you carefully placed Liana inside to see how it would hold up. 

“You know they say you can be proud of something you built with your own two hands, but I’m afraid this is going to fall apart,” James said. 

“We followed the instructions really carefully, it should be fine,” you said, trying to convince yourself. “And Liana looks comfortable in there, look at her she’s giggling.” 

“I think that’s because we look like we’ve been building a house or something,” he looked between you, seeing your dirty clothes and messed up hair. 

“Who knew putting together a cot would be so labour intensive,” you chuckled. “I think we can safely say we deserve some takeout. What do you want?” 

“Anything, I’m starving,” James sat down on the edge of the bed. “You think this will help her sleep a little better?” 

“Let’s hope so,” you rubbed your temples. “You coming?” you asked, taking Liana out of the cot and carrying her out towards the door. 

“Yeah, I’ll be out in a minute,” he nodded and you left him in the room, staring at the wooden baby’s bed in front of him. It was a simple thing you had both made together, but for James, it was starting to feel like so much more than just that. 

You built a cot, but what did building a cot mean? What did it mean that he bought it for you without a second question or a moment’s hesitation? What did it mean that he couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off his face every single time he stepped into this house? 

It probably meant a lot of things, but at the moment, to James, it felt like he had a family and he’d hold onto that for as long as he was able to. 

—

As much as you wished it could be, not every day was easy. Today was one of those days at the end of a long week and you wanted nothing more than to collapse and call it quits. 

Something was wrong with Liana, she was never this fussy, but all the doctors would just repeat the same thing over and over again. 

She has colic. 

You have a colic-y baby. 

Your baby has colic. She’s going to be fine.

She didn’t sound fine. Not when she would cry and cry and you didn’t know what was happening or how to make her feel better. It made your heart feel tight and constricted especially when all you could do was bounce and rock her in hopes that it might soothe whatever was going on inside her. 

You were so focused on the sounds of the crying baby you didn’t hear the door unlock as James entered the house. After putting down his bags, he followed the sound of the crying before finding you in the rocking chair in your room, gently hushing Liana to try and coax her back to sleep. 

“James,” you tried to stand up when you noticed he was there, but he rushed over to your side, placing a hand on your shoulder and encouraging you to sit back down. “I’m afraid we’re not really having a fun day today. You might want to just go home and rest,” you suggested. 

“What’s going on?” he asked. 

“James, I’m serious I-,” 

“Hey,” he said gently, quieting you as a hand came to hold your cheek. “Talk to me, mom. What’s happening?” 

You pressed your lips together and shook your head. 

“I don’t know,” you let the tears spill from your eyes, just as they were for Liana, but you basked in the comfort James’ simple action offered. “She just keeps crying and I don’t know what’s wrong. T-They kept saying she has colic, but this isn’t colic, James.” 

He nodded his head and wiped away your tears while trying to think of a solution to the problem in front of you. 

“I have an idea, just give me a second, I’ll be right back.” 

James went off to the kitchen and came back with a bit of a white powder on his finger. He helped you sit Liana up before getting her to eat a little bit of it. 

“What is that?” 

“Just baking soda. I saw this in a few babies. Doctors think it’s colic, but it’s reflux. Have you been eating anything different from usual?” he asked. 

“Me?” 

“Yeah, it might be something she’s allergic to getting in the breast milk,” he explained while rubbing Liana’s back. “Here let me take her so you can have a break. Go to the kitchen, get some water and write down a list of what you’ve been eating recently and we’ll go over it and see if we can find anything that lines up with her fussiness.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“I’ll survive,” he nodded. 

You passed over your baby to him and made your way out of the room, following James’ suggestion and noticing how with a little bit of time her crying had quieted down and instead was replaced by softer sniffles and a much nicer sound. It drew you away from the list you were leaning over and back to the door of the bedroom where you leaned in the frame and watched and listened while James, with his back turned to you, sang a soft lullaby to Liana. 

I love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.

Over and over like a prayer until Liana’s sniffles had faded and there was only silence. 

He carefully put her back in her bed, waiting a few moments to make sure she was really sleeping, before turning back and seeing you standing in the doorway. 

When he made his way up to you, you reached out and pulled him into as tight of a hug as you’d ever given him. You held onto the sleeves of your shirt while one arm came under his and across his back with the other around his neck, holding him as close to you as you possibly could. 

“You okay?” James asked and you nodded your head, silently while a few more tears streamed down your face. 

“I will be.” 

“I-,” James faltered for a moment, but he said it anyway. “I love you.” 

“I love you too.” 

Three words he had said so many times, that had meant a particular thing when he said them to you, but now he couldn’t help but feel like they meant something a little different. 

You both stayed like that a moment longer before you pulled apart, wiping away your tears and going back to your list to see if James’ theory could be correct. 

“Maybe try cutting these ones out of your diet,” he suggested. “See if she gets any better and if not call me and I’ll get her an appointment with one of the pediatricians at the hospital.” 

“Okay,” you nodded. “I just don’t get why they kept saying colic like is that just some doctor term for I don’t know what’s wrong, but your baby is fussy?” 

“I don’t know,” James shook his head, “but don’t ever let anyone bully you into not trusting your gut. She’s your daughter and you know her best.” 

“You seem to know her pretty well too. You took one look at her and managed to help her when I couldn’t,” you pinched the bridge of your nose. 

“Coincidence,” he patted your shoulder. 

“Give yourself a little credit. You’re with her a lot too, it’s part of why I trust your judgement so much when it comes to her. I know you’re not just going to tell me some medical mumbo jumbo you…you’re with her, you see how she is, you know.” 

“I don’t know how you managed to hold it together so well,” James said. “I was in there with her for twenty minutes and I wanted to cry right with her.” 

“It’s so hard,” you shook your head. “You can tell she’s uncomfortable, that something’s wrong, but she can’t tell you what.” 

James nodded his head, “Before you know it she’ll be walking and talking and hopefully it’ll be a lot easier to understand what she needs.” 

“It’s hard to imagine that,” you chuckled. “She is growing so fast though.” 

“And you’re doing a great job,” James wrapped an arm around your shoulder and you took a deep breath. You wanted to correct him and say ‘we’re doing a great job’, but everything about this felt so delicate. It wasn’t his responsibility to parent Liana and you didn’t want to pressure him into thinking that it had become that, but regardless you felt like he’d been around so much it would be wrong to give yourself full credit for everything. 

“It takes a village,” you settled on saying, extending your arm so it was wrapped around him as well. “Speaking of a village, I need to hire a nanny.” 

“So you’re going to go back to work?” he asked and you nodded. 

“Just part time for now. Pay is good enough. I should be fine with that for a while.” 

“Good,” James nodded. “Do you need help going through resumes?” 

“Nah, Janine is taking care of that for me, her boyfriend works with the police so free background checks. She’s gonna send me a short list and then I’ll interview them.” 

You looked up at James and chuckled, 

“You seem surprised.” 

“I didn’t know you outsourced to other people too,” he teased. 

“Are you jealous, Jamie?” you tickled his sides a little bit. “Come on, you know you’re my number one. Can you seriously tell me you could have gotten police-level background checks on nannies?” 

“I could have tried.” 

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m gonna save you from this job so you can help me with other stuff, okay?” you turned him around and patted his chest. “I love you, James, but you can’t do it all. I have to look out for you too.” 

“You don’t have to look after me,” he assured you. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, I can take care of myself.” 

“James, that’s the whole point of this,” you pointed between you. “I’m not about to let it be one-sided.” 

“Is that why you keep packing me lunches?” he asked. 

“Maybe,” you shrugged. “And it's kind of fun leaving you little notes.” 

“House thinks I’m seeing someone because of what you put in the last one. He steals my food, you know.” 

“I’ll just pack double next time,” you laughed. 

James smiled at the sound of your laughter, savouring the moment of levity he was able to bring you after a long and hard few days. 

You looked back up at him once your laughter had died down and filled with a quiet sense of gratitude, you could help but lean into his side, sighing contentedly and it made you feel warm to the touch when his arm wrapped around you and pulled you in closer. 

Things may not have been simple or easy, but at least they felt right.

—

James was just about to leave his office to get some food in the cafeteria when he heard the phone ring, keeping him seated at his desk so he could answer. 

“Hello, Oncology Department. Dr. James Wilson speaking.”

“James, it’s me,” you said quickly, almost like you were in a hurry. 

“Is something wrong?” he asked. 

“Nothing dire,” you sighed. “My nanny got sick and my backup nanny is out of town and I have this huge meeting at work I cannot miss, but I-I don’t have anyone to look after Liana. I hate to ask this, you know I wouldn’t bug you unless it was a real emergency, but can I bring her by? Just for two maybe three hours tops. Then I’ll come grab her and she can be in my office with me for the rest of the day.”

“Yeah, of course, bring her over,” James nodded. “I have a few patient consults today, but nothing too strenuous or contagious for a small baby.”

“James, are you sure? I feel really bad asking-,”

“It’s fine. Today was going to be boring anyway, I could use some Liana time to spice things up.”

“James, I love you, you’re a lifesaver,” you breathed a sigh of relief. “I owe you one okay? Cash it in whenever.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he chuckled. “I’m gonna go grab a quick bite to eat. I’ll meet you in my office when you come.”

“Great, see you then.”

You both hung up and when James came back upstairs you were just arriving at his office with Liana strapped in her car seat and a bag slung around your shoulder. 

“Okay, I’ve got snacks, and a carrier, and her toys, and-,”

“Goodness, take a breath,” James chuckled. “We’re gonna be fine, I’ve looked after her before.” 

“I know, I know. I’m just nervous about this meeting and rushing around to get everything prepped and then the nannies fell through,” you took a deep breath to try and slow your heart down and James put a hand on your shoulder assuring you everything was going to be alright. 

“You’re gonna kill it at that meeting, alright?” he pulled you in for a quick hug. 

“Thanks again, I seriously appreciate and love you and your big fat heart.” 

“Thanks, I think,” he chuckled again. “I love you too.”

You kissed your hand and tapped it on his cheek before doing the same for Liana who smiled and James took a moment to stare out the door and watch you as you left the room, still feeling his heart beating a little faster after having said I love you. 

Ever since the day he came over when Liana was having a hard time, his heart would race and his palms would get sweaty every time he’d say those three words, knowing he meant it in a different way than he had been saying it all these years. 

“Liana banana, what am I gonna do,” James sighed and bent down so he was at eye level with her. “Do you think your mom knows?”

Liana babbled a response. 

“Me neither,” he sighed. “It’s okay though, cause we’re gonna have a fun day right?”

He unclipped her from the seat after fastening the baby carrier to his back to begin with before propping her up and clipping her inside. 

Once he was content with that, he checked the time and noticed he was almost late for a meeting with a patient who was staying at the hospital for treatment. 

James made his way down the halls, knowing not many would question him about the baby on his back, that was aside from his boss who now seemed to be walking directly towards him. 

He quickly took a detour into an empty room and thinking he lost her, let out a breath only to be startled when the door opened and Cuddy was standing in front of him. 

“Wilson,” she started. 

“Mhmm.”

“What’s on your back?” she asked, trying to get a better look, but James simply turned around.

“Oh it’s just a backpack,” he lied, only to be immediately ratted out by Liana’s nonsensical sounds. 

“You have a talking backpack?” Cuddy looked at him skeptically. 

“No, it’s a tumour. I’m dying,” he lied again, even more poorly than before.

Cuddy sighed, “Are we gonna get sued for it?” 

James pressed his lips together and shook his head. 

“Will someone get mad at you for it?”

He shook his head again.

“Is House involved?”

A third time. 

“Okay,” she nodded slowly. “I won’t question your…talking backpack tumour.”

James nodded his head and Cuddy left the room which hopefully meant he was in the clear for the rest of the day. 

Liana had other ideas and decided she didn’t like being in the carrier on his back anymore and began to cry. James wondered what was different, he’d done this with her before, but perhaps it was the new environment and she just wanted to be where she could see him.

So after some maneuvering, he changed the positioning of the carrier and put Liana back inside and she seemed much more relaxed afterwards. 

When he got to his patient he apologized for being late, but they were more focused on the child that James had yet to introduce. 

“Sorry, I’m a little all over the place right now,” he chuckled. “This is Liana, she’s going to be joining us today.”

“Is she your daughter?” he asked, seeing the way James smiled and held her when he introduced her. 

“No,” James shook his head. “She’s the daughter of one of my close friends. I’m just doing her a favour today.”

“Either way, it’s always nice to see someone smiling and happy around here.”

“Yeah, I thought so too,” James nodded. 

“How old is she?”

“Six months as of two weeks ago.”

“They grow fast, don’t they?”

James smiled and nodded, “They sure do.”

They continued their consult, and before long James wrapped things up and headed back to his office to meet with another patient. 

This time around he was feeding and burping Liana throughout the meeting and it felt so much like second nature to him, it didn’t take him away at all from the questions the patient was asking, and much like he expected, having a baby in the room was a nice distraction from the heavy subject matter. 

He got through the next few patients with ease, and he felt lucky that House only decided to come in after all his meetings were over. 

“Is that a baby?” House squinted, looking at Liana who was calmly playing with a toy in James’ lap. 

“No, it’s an alien,” he deadpanned and House ignored his comment. 

“Why do you have a baby? That must be breaking some hospital rule.”

“Since when do you care about rules?”

“Cause rules are there to protect us,” House said sarcastically. “Is this the one you spend all your free time with?”

“Her name is Liana,” James said while standing up and moving to put her in her car seat for a moment. “House, I’m gonna ask you to do something and I’m going to trust that you won’t blow this up in my face.”

“Go on.”

“I need to use the washroom, but you’ve seen the way they get cleaned here, I don’t want to bring Li with me,” he said. “Can you watch her for five minutes? You don’t even have to do anything, just stare at her in the carrier.”

House thought about it for a moment before eventually agreeing, James completely oblivious to his friend’s ulterior motive.

House first sat across from her, turning her car seat around on the table so it was facing him. They stared at each other for a few moments before House stood up and grabbed a picture from one of James’ shelves, sitting back down in front of her. 

“You’re probably too young to do this, but never too young to learn, right?”

Liana had no response. 

“You see this guy?” House pointed to James in the photo. “He’s dada, right?”

House continued to prompt her, even though he knew she was too young to speak, thinking this would make a great prank if he played his cards right. 

House continued to go back and forth with Liana between her babbles, until he heard James begin to open the door of the office. 

“Everything okay?” he asked. 

“Perfect,” House nodded. “Your daughter’s an angel.” 

James frowned, unable to tell if House was being sarcastic or not, but he was quickly distracted by the frame in his hand.

“Why do you have that picture?” James came closer and took it from him.

“Oh, just trying to pass the time with a story.” 

“The story of what exactly? This is just a picture of me with my parents.” 

“I don’t know I made something up, she’s a baby, she won’t remember,” House insisted before leaving the office before James could ask any more questions. 

A little confused by the encounter, he made his way over to Liana who was reaching out for him. 

He checked the time, seeing as your meeting should probably have been over by then and decided to give you a call. 

“Hey, I was just about to come and pick Liana up,” you said. 

“Yeah, about that, do you just want to leave her with me for the rest of the day?” he asked. “She’s been really good and honestly I think the patients have been loving seeing a baby around.” 

“James, it’s fine, my meeting is over. I can come get her,” you said. 

James pressed his lips together before gathering the nerve to say what he was going to say. 

“I actually would really like it if she could stay with me,” he said. “If you’re okay with it.”

You paused, “This isn’t just some round about way for you to find a way to give me a break?” you asked. 

“No, I’m really happy she’s here. I was going to come over after work anyways.” 

“You still have the car seat hookup in your car?” you asked and he confirmed. “Okay, call me if you need anything, Jamie.” 

“I will, and thank you.” 

“Just don’t break her, okay, she’s not replaceable,” you teased. 

“I’ll bring her back in one piece,” James chuckled. “We’ll be fine, right Li?” 

James gave her a little tickle so that you could hear her laugh in response and you couldn't help but smile before saying goodbye and feeling more at ease leaving her with James than you ever had leaving her with a babysitter. 

—

It always felt interesting coming back to Princeton-Plainsboro after you had given birth to Liana. It brought back a lot of memories, both good and maybe not so great of your pregnancy, but recently you and Liana had been visiting a little more often to have lunch with James when you weren’t working. 

Today wasn’t one of those days, you were actually just on your way back home after running a few errands and since you were in the area you thought you might stop in and talk to James about that evening. 

When you went by his office you peeked inside and noticed he wasn’t there and before you could decide the best course of action, you heard a semi familiar voice behind you. 

“You looking for Wilson?” 

You turned around and saw House standing in front of you. 

“Yeah, actually. Do you know where he is?” 

“I think he just went to Cuddy’s office,” he said. 

“Alright, I’ll head back downstairs then,” you smiled and were about to haul Liana’s car seat with you, but House stopped you. 

“If you want I can look after her in my office,” he said.

“Really?” you seemed a little surprised from the offer, but figured it couldn’t be too bad to leave her with him for five minutes. 

“Sure,” House nodded, making it seem like it was no big deal, when really he had already pocketed a picture of James and was looking for another opportunity to continue his prank. 

“Alright, I’ll be back in a few minutes,” you said while walking over to his office and putting her car seat on the main table before walking down the hallways and over to the elevator to go and find James, but just to your luck, he was coming out just as you had planned to enter. “Hey, I was looking for you,” you smiled. 

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were coming, did we make plans?” he asked, worried he’d forgotten about something. 

“No, I was just in the area and, well my mom and dad are coming over for dinner tonight, I was wondering if you wanted to join us.” 

“Dinner sounds nice,” James nodded. “And I haven’t seen your parents in a while, I just seem to miss them every time they come into town.” 

“Yeah, that’s why I thought I’d ask, also maybe as a warning in case you wanted to get as far away as you could,” you chuckled. 

“Come on, they’re not that bad,” he nudged you. 

“Most of the time, but then again, you’re not their child.” 

“Wait, where’s Liana?” James asked. “With a sitter at home?” 

“No, I left her with House.” 

James’ eyes went wide, “You left her with House?”

“Yeah, what’s the big deal?” you chuckled as James began to walk towards House’s office to make sure he wasn’t up to one of his many schemes. “James he offered!” you called back and that only made him walk faster. 

It took you a minute to catch up with him, but by that time he was already interrogating House who was simply sitting in front of Liana. 

“Can't I offer to look after my friend’s friend’s baby?” House asked. 

“Usually someone could, but when that person is you you may see why I think you have some ulterior motive.” 

“James what’s going on?” you asked, coming closer to House. “Liana’s fine, I don’t know why you’re being so dramatic.” 

“Yeah, listen to single mom over here,” he pointed to you. 

James backed off if only for your sake, but he still kept a close eye on House as you picked up Liana’s car seat and told James you’d see him after his shift was over. 

He nodded his head and you exchanged a kiss on the cheek before heading out. 

“You’re really telling me you’re not getting some of that on the side?” House asked. 

“House, drop it,” James was unamused. “I know you’re up to something, I just don’t know what.” 

“I guess you’re just going to have to wait and find out,” House shrugged. “In the meantime may I suggest you go get your freak on with the mom? You know she probably hasn’t slept with anyone since that kid was conceived, I’m sure you’d have an easy time convincing her.” 

“Shut up, House,” James rolled his eyes and left the office before he could suggest anything more obscene. 

He was thankful when the end of his shift came, and before heading to your place he made a stop at the store to buy some flowers and dessert to bring over. 

By this point, it was such a habit, he never knocked, just opened the door with his key and announced his presence to whoever was in the house. 

“Hey Liana, look who’s here,” you smiled and pointed to James while Liana was being held by your mother. 

Liana became very excited at the sight of him and he quickly put down the things he brought on the table before saying his greetings and giving special attention to Liana by means of a kiss on her nose and caress of her face. 

“Do you want something to drink?” you asked. “Mom and dad brought some fancy-looking sparkling fruit juice.” 

“I could go for some of that,” James nodded. “How have you guys been, I missed you the last time you were in town.” 

“We’ve been good,” your dad nodded. 

“Unfortunately our granddaughter doesn’t come to visit us very much,” your mom gave you a bit of a look and you rolled your eyes. 

“Mom, you guys are retired, I have a job, why don’t we keep this ‘you visit me’ arrangement a while longer until my life sorts itself out a bit more.” 

“She’s not wrong, honey,” your dad came and patted his wife’s shoulder. 

“I know, I just wish we got to see Liana more. We should come down more often.” 

“What about you, James, anything new in your life?” 

James looked over at you before shaking his head. 

“No, still working at the same place still…” 

“Trying to find the right person,” you filled in for him, placing a hand on his shoulder and handing him his drink. 

“Yeah,” he nodded with a soft smile and couldn’t help but laugh a little internally at the irony. Maybe the right person had been there all along, the person he’d never once pulled away from, the person he let take care of him, the person who he’d realized he’d most definitely fallen in love with, but risking things between you was out of the question so he would have to be content with the way things were. 

“You’re the head of your department, right?” your mom asked and James nodded. “Wow, that’s quite something, your parents must be proud of you.” 

“Yes, it never fails to come up in conversation with my mother,” he chuckled. 

Liana began to fuss a little bit in her grandmother’s arms and after a few failed attempts at calming her down James offered to take over. 

“Are you sure, honey?” she asked. “She gets a bit cranky and it’s hard to calm her down.” 

“Don’t worry mom, James is an expert,” you assured her. 

James nodded and confirmed he was sure before gently bouncing Liana until she stopped crying and wiping away whatever tears of hers were remaining. 

“She seems very attached to you,” your dad remarked and James looked down at Liana who now had her head resting against his chest. 

“The feeling’s quite mutual,” James chuckled. “Does she need to be fed?” he asked you. 

“Yeah we’re probably getting close to that time now, I’ll warm up the bottle. Maybe I can feed her and you can deal with the sauce on the stove, it’s missing something and I can’t place it.” 

“Sure,” James nodded and waited for you to heat up Liana’s bottle before passing her over and taking a turn at the stove. 

Your parents watched your interactions curiously and shared a few looks between themselves, but chose to say nothing. They’d known James since you were both nineteen and a lot of things had happened since then, but a lot of time had passed too. It was interesting how your comfort with each other in friendship had so naturally extended itself in this way that you were practically functioning as a family whether you noticed it, or maybe deliberately chose to ignore it. 

After you fed Liana and burped her, she was quick to fall asleep and you placed her in her cot in your room before joining James and your parents in the kitchen where they were bringing things to the dining room to lay them out on the table.

“This looks really delicious sweetheart, thank you for making dinner,” your dad said. “And you too James for taking over there in the home stretch.” 

“For all we know it could have tasted terrible before he came in so he can take the credit for that,” you chuckled. 

“No, I gave it a taste before adding anything. It just needed a little something sour to balance some things out, otherwise it was perfect,” he assured you. 

Dinner with your parents was mostly small talk. They shared a little about some of your relatives they had recently spoken to or visited and asked James how his family was doing and they left fairly early to start the drive back home. 

“I’ll load the dishes you put away the leftovers?” James yawned and you chuckled. 

“How about I do both since I had a day off and you go and lay down for a bit,” you suggested. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about I’m fine,” James waved his hand but yawned again. 

“Go to sleep, James. That’s not a suggestion,” you walked up to him. “My ex left some sweatpants here you can change into those and take off this button up,” you tugged at his shirt. 

James pressed his lips together and nodded his head, before heading over to the bedroom and quietly getting changed before climbing into bed and not fighting the sleep that came. 

He initially wasn’t sure how much later it was when he woke up, but by the looks of it much too late to go come considering you were next to him, despite being groggy, he had a million and one things crossing his mind, but all of those were thrown out when he heard Liana begin to cry. 

You shifted next to him, waking up to go and take care of it, but James put an arm on your shoulder. 

“I’ve got it, go back to sleep,” he assured you. 

You were too tired to argue with him and let your head hit the pillow again while he stood up and picked Liana up from her crib, heading out to the kitchen so he could heat up a bottle for her before coming back and sitting in the chair to feed her. 

You watched the scene in front of you and you felt yourself wanting to memorize every detail. How he held her, the quiet things he whispered, the way she curled into his arms while he stood up and rocked her back to sleep. 

When he came back to the bed he noticed you were awake and he let out a soft chuckle and you smiled looking up at him with his messy hair. Suddenly you were nineteen again and banging on the door of cabin 3 trying to wake your fellow counsellor to come and deal with an emergency. To you he looked the same as he did all those years ago. 

“I told you to go back to sleep.” 

“Not everyone can fall asleep instantly,” you yawned with a chuckle. 

“You didn’t wake me up to leave,” he said quietly, his head resting on his hand that propped him up. 

“You always look so peaceful when you sleep, I feel evil whenever I have to wake you up,” you remarked, but behind your eyes if he could see through the darkness of the room, he would have seen them saying something else. That you wanted him to stay, you didn’t want to wake him up because you wanted to wake up next to him. “You don’t mind do you?” 

“That you’re making me do the walk of shame in the morning?” James teased and shook his head. 

“Just shut up and go back to sleep, Jamie,” you yawned with a chuckle. 

He moved so he was laying down on his back with an arm behind his head and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. Maybe he could feel you staring because he reached his other arm out and pulled you closer and you moved with him until your head rested against his chest, your arm draped over top of him. 

He gave you a gentle squeeze with the arm that was wrapped around you and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Goodnight, Jamie,” you mumbled into his shirt. 

You couldn’t see how he looked down and smiled at you after you said that, all that filled your ears was a quiet, “Goodnight.”

—

“I haven’t seen you in a few days, how have you been?” 

James sat on the carpet of the living room, playing with Liana who was crawling around him while you brought over two mugs of tea so you could chat while you entertained the growing baby. 

“Good for the most part, just had a patient who wasn’t doing so great so I spent some extra time at the hospital to keep an eye on things. Not to mention House has been bugging me to go out and it’s been a while so I figured what’s the harm.”

“He got you plastered and you made a fool of yourself, didn’t he?” you asked and James nodded while you laughed. “Liana, did James go out with House and act like an idiot?” you tickled the ten month old and she giggled before coming closer to you, tapping on your legs with her hands. 

“Don’t listen to your mama, Li, she’s trying to-,”

“Mama,” Liana repeated after James had spoken and you both stopped dead in your tracks. 

You looked over at James and his smile was just as wide as yours before you picked Liana up and smothered her with kisses. 

“Liana, look at you! You said your first word!”

“Good job, Liana banana,” James grinned and gave her cheek a little pinch which made her reach out to him and say, 

“Dada.”

You both had a similar reaction to what happened moments ago, only this time it was pure shock. Maybe you had misheard her, but when she repeated herself, James could feel his heart drop to the pit of his stomach. 

“I-I don’t know where she learnt that from,” he told you. “I swear I didn’t teach her that.”

It took a minute for the shock to fade away for you, but once it did you tried to assure James that it was okay. 

“I believe you,” you said. “I-I don’t know where she picked it up from, but it’s okay.”

James chewed on his lip, it wasn’t okay though because he wanted nothing more than to hear Liana say that again. 

“It’s not though,” James said softly. “I love her, but I’m not her dad. That’s not fair to her or to you.”

“Jamie,” you pleaded with him, but he still seemed stuck on something. 

“I’m really sorry,” he apologized again. “I feel like I ruined a special moment.”

“I’m trying to tell you it really doesn’t matter,” you assured him, you could see it in his eyes, he wanted to leave, to let you have time alone, but you didn’t want to be alone, you wanted him to stay with you. “Please…please stay.”

James reached out his hand to hold yours and was about to give you his answer when his pager went off. 

Your heart clenched and you watched as he read the message and sighed, standing up because he was needed again at the hospital. 

“Your patient?” you asked, picking Liana up and standing next to him. 

He nodded his head, “They were scheduled for an unrelated surgery and there were some complications, I have to go.”

You understood and James wrapped you in a tight hug and you kissed his cheek. 

“I love you, Jamie.”

“I love you too,” he whispered, wishing he could hold onto you and never let you go, but instead he was pulled away from your warm embrace wondering how on earth Liana had learnt to call him dad. 

—

“You look like you haven’t slept in days, spending time with the baby again?” House asked, waltzing into James’ office. 

“No, I haven't been over in a few days,” James shook his head. 

“You haven’t been over in a few days…Something happened,” House deduced and James gave him a look. 

“Nothing happened. I’m just taking a break,” he lied. 

“You’ve been going non-stop to spend time with them since the baby was born ten months ago, why do you need a break now?” 

“Because I have a lot on my mind and there’s a few new patients I need to focus on-,” 

“You’re lying.” 

“Yes I am,” James admitted and House grinned. 

“Really?” 

“No, I’m not,” he shook his head and continued to look down and do his work. 

“We do this every single time and every single time I’m right,” House said. “Why don’t we save the back and forth for another time and just skip to the part where you tell me what’s going on.” 

“Oh really and you were right that time you thought I was cheating on my wife and she was the one cheating on me?” he asked. 

“Okay, so I’m not perfect,” House shrugged. “What happened, Wilson? I could just as easily get your friend’s number and ask directly if that’s what you’d prefer.” 

“God no,” James shook his head. “Leave her alone, she doesn’t need to deal with you on top of working and raising a child.” 

“Alright then, what happened?” 

James took a deep breath and sighed, “Liana called me dad the other day. I have no idea where she learnt it from.” 

“She started speaking,” House nodded, pressing his lips together. “Was it her first word or-,” 

“Second. She said mom first,” James said, but caught a glimpse of his friend trying to fight back a smile and suddenly all the offers to take care of Liana paired with the photographs made sense. “You taught her!” he exclaimed. “House I can’t believe you’d pull a prank on me by manipulating my friend’s baby!” 

“Oh come on, it’s not that big of a deal,” House rolled his eyes. 

“House, I cannot believe you!” 

“You’re not mad at me,” House shook his head. “You’re just mad you liked it.” 

“No I’m-,” 

“Yes, you are,” the diagnostician emphasized. “You’ve been sitting here tearing yourself apart for the past four days because she called you dad and you liked it. You’re mad at yourself for liking it because she’s not your kid.” 

“No,” James quieted down. “She’s not.” 

“You haven’t gone back because you’re afraid to hear her say it again, aren’t you?” 

“Since when did you become an expert on my personal problems, House? You caused this, why should I listen to anything you have to say?” 

“Because you’re being an idiot. You’re punishing yourself for liking something. Do you realize how insane that sounds?” 

“It’s not insane, House, she’s not my baby-,” 

“Sure, she’s not your baby and you have her feeding and nap routine memorized. You’ve been to her doctor's appointments, she’s calmer in your arms than she is in the arms of her grandparents. Yeah, go and tell that to any moron sitting out there and they’ll tell you for me, you’re being an idiot.” 

James sighed again, “And why do you care?” 

“Because once you’re done with this spiral we can go back to the way things were when you weren’t a boring depressed lump.” 

“How kind of you,” James faked a smile. 

House’s pager went off, leaving James alone again in his office, thinking about what his friend had said. 

You’d told him so many times that things were okay, but maybe a part of him didn’t want to let him believe that you didn’t mind because that was a slippery slope to him facing himself and his feelings and he didn’t care what his heart was telling him, he wouldn’t put himself through that. He wouldn’t put you and Liana through that. But at the same time, he couldn’t keep himself away forever. He didn’t want that either.

So with a deep breath he picked up his office phone and dialled your number, putting it up to his ear and waiting for the line to connect on the other end. 

“Hello?” 

“Hey, it’s me.” 

“James,” your voice sounded almost relieved. “H-Hey, how are you?” 

He pressed his lips together, “Miserable, actually. I miss you guys.” 

“We miss you too,” you chuckled with a small sniffle. 

“C-Can I come over for dinner tonight?” he asked. 

“You still have a key, what do you think?” you asked with a bit of a laugh. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

“Yeah, see you then,” James smiled and after he hung up the phone he took a deep breath, his fast heartbeat slowing down by the second. 

Maybe this time House was right.

—

The next few weeks passed by and things resumed to their normal state, much to House’s delight. James’ role as department head always meant at least one day a week where he would stay late and do some extra paperwork, dealing with anything that may have slipped through the cracks before. 

This time, that had fallen on a Sunday and it was just past dinner when he heard a knock on his door and wondering who was on the other end he called for them to come in. 

You opened the door a crack and again asked permission to come in and James smiled at you, looking up from his paperwork, not expecting to see you in the hospital. 

“Hey, I wasn’t expecting to see you here, what’s going on?” 

“I just wanted to drop by and bring you something for dinner, I know it’s your paperwork day.” 

“Thanks, that’s really sweet of you,” he stood up from his chair and came to stand in front of his desk, leaning back on it while you placed the take out bag on the table. “Where’s Liana?” 

“Oh Helen’s looking after her tonight,” you said. “I had a few things I needed to do and um just wanted the evening off,” you admitted. 

“Fair enough,” James nodded. 

“I actually brought you something else,” you rolled back and forth on the balls of your feet and James noticed the tension in your stature. “H-Here,” you handed him a gift bag which he eyed curiously. 

Today wasn’t his birthday or some memorable event you celebrated together. There wasn’t much of a reason to get him a present which made it all the more intriguing. 

He pulled out a wrapped rectangular box from the bag, and putting the bag aside he began to carefully tear away the wrapping paper to reveal what looked like a picture frame. Overlaid on the frame, on top of the photo, James noticed a card which he unfolded to read its contents. 

Happy Father’s Day. We love you loads. - Liana and Mom

James moved the card to see the picture and put his hand over his mouth, feeling tears involuntarily form in his eyes as he saw the familiar scene of your room, lit by the light of your lamp as Liana was fast asleep against his chest while he napped on the armchair. 

James quickly wiped away the few tears that were in his eyes and looked up at you with a grateful smile, looking back down at the image before placing it neatly on his desk along with the card. 

“I hope you like it,” you said quietly, biting your lip. “I thought you might want to have a copy of that picture and…you know just a thank you for everything you’ve done for me and Liana this past year.” 

“I love it,” he assured you. “I-I love it and I love you.” 

“I love you too,” you smiled.

“N-No,” James came closer and reached out, taking your hands in his. “I…I love you. I’m in love with you.” 

“Jamie,” you spoke in a breathy whisper, unsure of how you lost your voice. “I-,” you opened your mouth to speak again, but paused when James raised a hand to your face, wiping away the tears you didn’t even notice had begun to stream down. 

“I just don’t want to be away from you, ever,” he said softly. “I never did. And now with Liana, I want to be there, for all of it.” 

You held the wrist of his hand that held your face, pulling him in closer so your foreheads rested against each other. 

You took in a shaky breath, thinking back on those words. Something you’d been saying to each other for longer than you could remember. The first time was so clear in your mind, you were on the phone racking up long distance charges while James was in Montreal. It had slipped out by accident, a reflex, and you had convinced yourself when the phone had hung up you’d never call him back, unable to face what you’d just said, but before you could spiral any further, he said it back and you never stopped saying it.

For the longest time that was the only occurrence that was memorable, everything else was a blur, that was until a few months ago. It was so simple, you had fallen asleep on the couch and James had made sure Liana was fed and bathed and even cleared up some things in the kitchen before sitting on the couch with some tea and a book. You had talked and said I love you as a thank you, but when the words left your mouth they also left a lingering airiness in your heart, a feather light feeling that came crashing down like an anvil when he left to go home because you realized you never wanted to be apart from him.

It took you a few moments to realize you hadn’t said anything and James was anxiously waiting for some sort of communication, anything, but since the meaning of your words had changed, for both of you, you thought it might be more conducive to work in actions.

You closed in the space between you, at first gently resting your lips on his and letting him lead you in a soft and slow kiss, putting aside all the restraint you both had been using these past months in an effort to protect your friendship.

One of James’ hands held onto your waist, pulling you in so that there was no space left between you. He kissed you again and again, remembering each one as a core memory, engraved in his mind, paired with the feeling of your arms wrapped around his neck, the feeling of your body pressed so closely against his, his heart beating outside of his chest. 

It was easy for his lips to trail away from yours, moving along your jaw, to your temple before you had pulled each other into a warm embrace, simply existing in each other’s arms. James thought to himself what a nice life it would be, not ever having to pull away. 

—

“I don’t have much to say,” James smiled. “Everything is looking good, you still seem 100% healthy to me.” 

“That’s great news.” 

“It definitely is. Standard procedure, but we’ll have one more of these remission follow ups to make sure everything is still in order then you hopefully won’t have to see me again.” 

“Thank you Dr. Wilson, I really appreciate all you’ve-.” 

“Dad!” 

“Sweetheart, wait he’s with a patient!” 

James turned his head and saw Liana running over to him, you valiantly trying to chase after her without much success. 

He quickly scooped her up in his arms before she crashed into him, pressing a big kiss to her cheek. 

“Sorry about that,” James apologized. “It’s Saturday, we normally have lunch together.” 

“No worries,” he chuckled. 

“Liana, this is my patient Mr. Kimbilio, can you say hi?” 

Liana waved and said hi, very exuberantly. 

“This is my daughter,” James introduced. “And that’s my wife,” he pointed over to you. 

“Daughter,” Mr. Kimbilio smiled. “I think I met you Liana, when you were very small. Your father was looking after you at work and so some of his patients got to meet you.” 

“Really?” she looked up at her dad and he nodded. 

“He’s right, I remember that,” James smiled. “You’ve grown a lot since then, haven’t you Li,” he kissed her cheek again and she giggled.

You finally caught up to the group and James greeted you with a quick kiss, passing Liana off to you so he could wrap things up and you could all go down to the cafeteria for lunch together. 

“If I remember correctly,” Mr. Kimbilio started. “You didn’t introduce her as your daughter the first time we met. I’m glad something changed.” 

“Me too,” James smiled, looking over at his wife and daughter fondly who were now in the midst of making him very proud by pulling off a small prank on House as he came out of his office. 

It didn’t take much longer for them to wrap things up and you and Liana made a quick pit stop inside James’ office before heading downstairs.

Liana went to go sit in James’ seat while he put away his files and organized them. 

It had been a while since you’d been in his office, but it felt like ever since the night you first kissed things had begun to change in the room. 

His desk was now more littered with photos than knickknacks and Liana’s artwork was posted wherever there was room. 

You came around to the other side, looking a little more closely at the pictures. 

There was one of you, James, and Liana on your wedding day, another of just the two of you during an anniversary celebration, Liana’s kindergarten photo from school and another one of you as a family on your last vacation. And still as prominent as ever, the framed photo you had gifted James on his first father’s day. 

“You ready to go?” he asked you, looking up and noticing your eyes gazing at the pictures on his desk. 

When you didn’t initially respond, too focused on what you were looking at, James wrapped an arm around you and tilted your chin towards him so he could press a kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” you smiled and James kissed you again, saying.

“And I love you,” before moving over to pick up Liana and kiss her cheek. “And you.”

Liana giggled, feeling tickled by the kisses and moving to give both of you a kiss on the cheek before saying. 

“Mom, Dad, I’m starving. Can we go eat now?”

“Sure, Liana banana,” James chuckled and you wrapped an arm around him, walking side by side out of the office and in the direction of the elevator to get to the cafeteria, thinking you were pretty lucky that in the end, your best friend listened to his heart and went after what he wanted.

TAGLIST —

2020 BEVERLLY HILLS CHALLENGER

August 31st, 2020

Art Donaldson sat in the shaded section of the stands, his arms resting casually on the armrests. He'd made it clear to everyone—Tashi and the media—that he was done with tennis. But Martha King, a long-time supporter of his and Tashi's tennis foundation, insisted that he attend, going so far as to cover all his expenses for the weekend so he could attend. Her daughter, Katrina King, was playing her final challenger before qualifying for the US Open, and Martha believed it was something he couldn’t miss.

"It's just one set; I'm not going to sit here and beg you to coach her or anything. Just watch, Art. I think you'll find it worthwhile."

Art nodded slightly, keeping his expression neutral. "I’m here, aren't I?" he said, keeping an aloof facade. He glanced toward the court, where Katrina was preparing to serve and begin the last set. Her movements were fluid and purposeful. He'd heard about her talent and determination, but he wasn't ready to be pulled back into the tennis world.

The game began, and Katrina's serve was powerful, almost explosive. Art watched with mild interest as her opponent, a seasoned French player, struggled to keep up. He watched her body move, head to toe, taking her in. She was tall and lean; her body was nothing less than an athletes that was for sure.

"She's impressive," Art commented, a hint of genuine appreciation in his voice. Katrina’s mother smiled, her perfectly manicured fingers resting on her lap, glancing over towards him.

"She works hard," she replied. "A lot like Tashi used to. I remember watching her play when she was just starting out. She had the same intensity, the same drive."

That had left a bad taste in his mouth.

Art's gaze lingered on Katrina as she moved around the court with confidence and agility. Each shot was precise. He found himself leaning forward slightly, and his interest piqued despite his best efforts to remain indifferent.

Martha noticed the shift in his demeanor and cocked a brow. "It's good to see you out here, Art. I know you didn't want to come, but I'm glad you did," she said, her voice soft yet firm. Art nodded, his eyes fixed on the match.

"I'm just watching; nothing special, really," he replied, unsure if he was convincing himself or her.  — Another ace, and the crowd erupted in applause. Art found himself joining in, clapping slowly, though his eyes were locked on Katrina. Something about her—the energy, the focus—reminded him of the early days, the days of fire and ice, Stanford, Wimbledon, and Tashi. It was electric.

As the match progressed, Art's arms uncrossed, and he sat forward, his attention fully on the game. Katrina was dominating, each point building momentum until she reached the match point. The rallies were intense, and the shots were sharp and strategic. With one last ace, Katrina secured the game and title, and her triumphant fist-pump met with a roar from the crowd.

Art stood, clapping with genuine enthusiasm. It had been a long time since he'd felt this kind of excitement watching a match. Martha looked at him, raising an eyebrow, her expression expectant.

"Well?" she asked, her voice warm but with an edge that demanded a response.

Art hesitated only briefly, the words coming out almost involuntarily. "I'll do it," he said, realizing that he meant it. The idea of coaching Katrina suddenly seemed like an opportunity he couldn't pass up.

Martha smiled, giving him a tight-lipped smile. "I knew you'd come around," she said. "Katrina will be thrilled."

Art nodded, his gaze returning to the court where Katrina stood, smiling at the applause. Turning towards the crowd after a few seconds, she found her mother’s gaze, and then — Arts, and she held a fiery look in her eyes, sporting a raised  brow and sly smirk for what felt like at least a minute. One thing was sure for Katrina, on August 31st, 2020, the match wasn’t the only thing she had won that day, and maybe, just maybe, tennis had a place for him again.

THE MEETING

Katrina King walked down the narrow corridor backstage, sweaty, hot, and short of breath, the adrenaline from her victory still coursing through her veins. She was basking in her win, her smile broad and confident. But her mother's text just minutes after the game was clear: "Come to the players' lounge. Now."

She pushed open the door and saw her mother sitting at a small table with Art Donaldson. Katrina knew who he was—everyone in tennis knew. A former tennis champion, the US Open winner from a decade earlier.

Art looked up as Katrina entered the room, his eyes scanning her with a mix of curiosity and appraisal. Her long hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, and her eyes sparkled with a mix of intensity and confidence. He noticed the subtle tilt of her chin—she was used to winning, and it showed.

"Katrina," Martha said, gesturing for her to join them. "You remember Art Donaldson, don't you?"

"Of course," Katrina replied, extending her hand. Art stood, his movement deliberate, and shook her hand firmly. His hair was longer than she remembered, resembling his past self, his Stanford days, and recalling his games she'd seen on YouTube. His grip was strong.

"Great game today," Art said, his voice measured. "You played with a lot of confidence. That last ace was a killer."

"Thanks," Katrina replied, a hint of pride in her tone. She could tell he was assessing her and weighing her potential. She didn't mind—she'd done the same with him, reading up on his career and his playing style as soon as she found out he was attending her game. He was known for his

Martha cleared her throat. "But," she said, her tone turning sharp, "there were a few things you need to work on. Your backhand was a bit sloppy today. And you were late on a couple of volleys. If your opponent had been more aggressive, you could've lost points."

Katrina's expression hardened. She knew her mother was right, but the criticism was not something that needed to be said in front of Art; for God sake, she was a 20-year-old woman but felt like she was a child getting scolded in front of her peers, especially after a big win. Art watched the exchange, noting the dynamic between them.

"I'll work on it," Katrina said, her voice steady. "But I got the win, didn't I?"

"You need to be prepared for tougher competition. Complacency is the enemy." Martha replied. “If you think you can win the grand slam playing like that, you’ll be in for a rude awakening, Katrina.”

Art leaned back in his chair, watching the interplay. Katrina definitely had the spark and the drive, but there was also a stubborn streak in her.

So Tashi

When she was younger, she was always pushing boundaries and never satisfied with just a win. He could see the potential for greatness.

"She's got a point," Art said, jumping in. "There's always room for improvement. But you played a solid game today. The key is to keep that momentum going without getting overconfident."

Katrina glanced at him, assessing his words. She appreciated his straightforward approach. He wasn't coddling her, but he also wasn't tearing her down. It was a balance she could respect.

"I'm not planning on slowing down," she said, meeting his gaze. "I want to keep getting better. Whatever it takes."

Art nodded. He liked her attitude. It was raw and unfiltered, just like he had been. But there was also a hint of something else—an edge that could either make or break her career. He'd have to be careful, tread lightly, and guide her without pushing too hard.

"Good," he replied, a faint smile on his lips. "Because coaching isn't just about winning. It's about building a mindset, a work ethic, and knowing when to listen. You up for that?"

Katrina raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You wouldn’t have agreed to coach me if I wasn’t.”

PRACTICE

Art Donaldson stepped into the grand foyer of the White residence, feeling a slight twinge of unease. The housekeepers greeted him politely, their voices formal and distant, leading him through the opulent hallways.

The backyard was large, with meticulously manicured gardens and a full-sized tennis court at its center. Katrina was on the court, stretching with the fluid grace of a seasoned athlete. Her dark hair was tied back in a ponytail, and in her matching tennis outfit, everything was neatly upheld, even Katrina.

"Hi," she said, her tone somewhat neutral, almost formal. "Ready for practice?"

Art nodded, his expression detached.

Katrina stretched a little longer, glancing at Art occasionally. He stood with his arms crossed, his posture stiff and unwelcoming. The silence between them felt heavy, and neither seemed eager to break it. Katrina was used to coaches being more engaged and enthusiastic, but Art seemed distant, as if he was doing this out of obligation rather than passion.

"Let's get started," he replied, keeping his voice level. He placed his bag on a bench and scanned the court, taking in the pristine surface and the quality equipment. It was clear that the King family spared no expense on Katrina's training facilities.

Art finally spoke, outlining the plan for the day. "We'll start with your serve. There's a lot of power, which is why you can get so many aces in, but you need better footwork if you want to avoid long-term injuries. Then we'll work on your defense, and after that, we'll focus on your shot selection."

Art finally spoke, outlining the plan for the day. "We'll start with your serve. There's a lot of power, which is why you can get so many aces in, but you need better footwork if you want to avoid long-term injuries. Then we'll work on your defense, and after that, we'll focus on your shot selection."

Katrina listened with a mix of uncertainty and skepticism. Art Donaldson wasn't the type to mince words, and despite his unbothered demeanor, his comments were sharp and to the point. What puzzled her was how much he seemed to know about her style, despite only seeing her play once.?

Art continued, his voice even and matter-of-fact. "I've reviewed some of your past games, mostly the ones you lost. It's clear you have the raw strength and power, but you rely on them too much. That's great for getting those aces, but without proper technique and precision, you're risking injuries and inconsistency. We need to refine that raw power and give it more structure."

Katrina couldn't help but feel a flicker of irritation. She knew she was strong, and her serve was one of the best on the circuit, but hearing someone dissect her game so quickly was unsettling. This was only their first practice; they hadn’t even started playing yet, but somehow Art already seemed to know her weaknesses better than most of her previous coaches.

Art continued, unaware of her internal resistance. "So, I've created a set of drills that will help improve your footwork and balance. It's not just about hitting the ball hard; it's about control and accuracy. If we don't work on these areas, you're going to burn out before you reach your peak."

Katrina folded her arms, her brow furrowing slightly. She wasn't one to take criticism lightly, especially from someone who'd barely spent time with her. Art had a point—she'd heard similar comments before—but his bluntness felt a bit too forward for her liking. Who was he to tell her she needed refinement after only seeing her play once?

As much as she wanted to dismiss him, she knew, deep down, that he was right. Her strength was a double-edged sword; it gave her an edge, but it also left her vulnerable. She'd suffered minor injuries in the past due to poor technique, and she'd lost matches because of these errors. Art's critique, though harsh, had truth to it.

Art noticed her hesitation and the slight edge in her expression. "I know this might sound a bit blunt," he said, softening his tone slightly. "But I'm not here to sugarcoat things. If you want to make it to the top and stay there, you need to listen and adjust. This isn't about criticism—it's about giving you the best chance to succeed."

Katrina sighed, feeling her resistance wane. Maybe Art was a bit too forward, but he wasn't wrong. He had seen something in her that others hadn't—or maybe he was just willing to point it out where others had stayed silent. She was stubborn, but she wasn't stupid.

"Okay," she said, her voice steady. "Let's give it a shot."

Art nodded, his demeanor slightly less rigid. "Good. Let's start with the footwork drills. I'll show you what I mean."

As they moved onto the court to begin the practice, Katrina felt a cautious sense of optimism. Art was a mystery; she had only met him once before and couldn’t recall him being this cold, but there was something about his straightforwardness that felt refreshing, even if it rubbed her the wrong way at first. Maybe this coaching thing would work out after all—if she could just learn to trust his instincts.

Art watched her for a while, his arms still crossed. He occasionally offered a brief correction, but his tone lacked enthusiasm. "Keep your elbow in on your serve. It'll give you more control," he said without much inflection.

Katrina adjusted her stance and served again, this time with better accuracy. "I got it," she replied, glancing at Art to gauge his reaction. He simply nodded, his face expressionless.

As the practice progressed, the tension between them slowly eased. Art started giving more detailed feedback, explaining why certain techniques were important. Katrina listened intently, realizing that, despite his aloof demeanor, he knew his stuff. His advice was sound, and when she followed it, she could see near-immediate improvement in her game.

"You're not bad at this coaching thing," she remarked, trying to lighten the mood. Art gave a faint smile, the first she'd seen from him. "Just repeating what I've heard a thousand times," he replied.

Katrina tilted her head, curiosity getting the better of her. "Didn't Tashi coach you your whole career? There must have been an adjustment when you two decided to retire, huh?" After those words left her mouth, she knew she had hit a sore spot.

Art's expression changed, the brief smile vanishing. "Yeah, she was." She hadn't meant any harm; really, it was an honest question. Art had a successful career with more than enough titles under his belt, not to mention a prior injury; it only made sense to retire when he did.

His voice grew colder. "Alright, breaks over." He turned away, signaling the end of the conversation.

The rest of the practice was more focused, with Art providing steady guidance and Katrina working hard to apply his advice. As the session drew to a close, Katrina felt a subtle shift in Art's attitude. He seemed a bit more relaxed and engaged in the process.

Before they wrapped up, Katrina decided to ask a question that had been on her mind. "Art, why did you agree to coach me?" she asked, her tone softer, almost hesitant. “No offense, but you didn't seem the most pleased when you got here.” She stopped and laughed. “And I know my mother's paying you well, but I'm sure you do good for yourself on your own.”

Art paused, considering his response. He looked up to the sky in thought, licking his lips only to settle his gaze on her while she rolled out her quads. "When I watched your game, I saw the determination and drive for tennis that I haven't seen in a long time," he said, his voice softer, almost reflective. "Not since Tashi," he added, his eyes distant. The memory of Tashi's knee injury and the end of her career lingered in the air. “It honestly felt like I was watching her for the first time again.”

Katrina nodded, sensing the heaviness in his words. "Thank you," she said quietly. She knew there was more to Art's story, but she also knew it wasn't her place to press further. She got up after her stretch, dusting herself off.

Art nodded, "We'll meet again tomorrow at the same time," he said, his voice returning to its usual calm. Katrina agreed, sensing that this coaching relationship would take time to develop but feeling that they were on the right track. “I think it would be a smart move to sign you up for some challengers; we’ll be able to fully gauge your abilities after a couple of weeks of training and see what we need to adjust.”

AFTER PRACTICE

Katrina stepped out of the shower, the hot water having done little to soothe the tension in her shoulders. The first practice with Art had been intense, and her muscles were starting to feel the strain. Wrapping a towel around herself, she took a deep breath, wondering if she'd made the right choice in agreeing to work with him.

As she got dressed, the scent of dinner wafted through the air, a rich aroma that made her stomach rumble. She hadn't eaten much during the day, and she hoped her mom would let her have something substantial.

Katrina entered the dining room, where her mother was already seated at the head of the table, a glass of wine in hand. The table was set with a carefully arranged selection of dishes, but Katrina noticed the absence of anything remotely indulgent. No desserts, no heavy carbs, just the usual assortment of protein and vegetables.

"Good evening, Mom," Katrina said, forcing a smile as she took a seat. Her mother looked up from her phone, her eyes bright but her expression serious.

"Katrina," Martha replied, her tone even. "How was practice with art?"

Katrina shrugged, picking up a piece of grilled chicken. "It was fine. He's... intense, but I guess that's to be expected from someone like him." She paused, then added, "How did you even get him to come to my match? He's been avoiding tennis for ages."

Martha's smile was tight, the kind that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Art and I have a history; we’ve always been interested in his foundational work. I just reminded him of the impact he could make by coming back, even if it was just for one match. And you know, he doesn't say no to me, not when your father and I are as generous as we are during his charity events."

Katrina raised an eyebrow, sensing the hint of manipulation in her mother's words. "So you used the foundation to guilt him into coming?"

Classic

Martha's eyes narrowed slightly. "It's not guilt, Katrina. It's connections; your father and I do a lot for you and your career. There's a difference.” She paused. “The money we put into the foundations were investments for you; we would have preferred Tashi, sure, but after Art retired, she went off to coach some European girls, so we got the second best.” She was irritated. “Besides, I thought you'd be happy to have a coach like Art. You said yourself you needed someone with real experience." 

Katrina sighed, realizing that arguing with her mom was a lost cause. "I guess," she said, taking a cautious bite of the chicken. She glanced at the dessert tray on the far end of the table, spotting a small dish of fruit tarts. Her mouth watered at the sight of them.

Martha followed her gaze and shook her head. "Don't even think about it," she said firmly. "Your dietitian would have a fit. You know you're on a strict regimen."

Katrina rolled her eyes, but she didn't push back. Her mom was relentless when it came to her career, and any deviation from the plan was met with immediate correction. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered, feeling her appetite wane.

“Where’s Jayden and Judea?” Katrina asked only now, noticing her siblings were missing from the dinner table.

“They went out to dinner with the rest of the kids that train with them and coach Pattcheo.”

“mmh.”

After dinner, Katrina retreated to her room, closing the door behind her. She felt a mix of frustration and curiosity. Frustration with her mom's overbearing attitude and curiosity about Art.

She opened her laptop and started searching for Art's social media profiles. His Instagram was sparse, mostly old tennis photos and a few promotional shots, brand deals, and the foundation. Barley has no pictures of his daughter and no recent ones of Tashi. His Facebook was similar, with long gaps between posts. There were articles about his career, but nothing stood out.

"For such a big shot, there’s not much for me to stalk," she muttered to herself, scrolling through the limited content. It was clear that Art wasn't one for the limelight, preferring to keep a low profile. Katrina found herself intrigued.

She searched for videos of his old matches, curious to see him in action. She found a few highlights from his glory days, watching as he moved across the court with precision and grace. It was easy to see why he'd been a champion—his technique was flawless, and his focus was intense.

"Not bad," she said to herself, watching a particularly impressive rally where he had dominated his opponent.

As the night grew darker, Katrina closed her laptop and leaned back in her chair. Art was weird, and she wasn't sure how to feel about him yet. But one thing was clear—he had a depth that she'd have to uncover if she wanted to make the most of his coaching. And maybe, just maybe, he'd be the one to help her reach the next level.

SIX DAYS BEFORE US OPEN

It was six days before the Open, and Art stood at the far end of the court, watching Katrina as she moved through a set of agility drills. The sun was beating down, but Katrina was relentless, her movements swift and precise. As he took her in, he marveled at how good she looked. The thin layer of sweat that covered her form made her glow in the evening light, with her baby hair clinging to her face as she hit ball after ball. He drank in her curves, nearly forgetting what he was actually here for.

Art was calling out instructions, his voice clear but encouraging. Clearly, the past five weeks of training had brought them closer, both in skill and in the ease with which they interacted.

"Remember to keep your weight centered," Art said, pointing toward her feet. "Don't lean too much into the shot; it'll throw off your balance. Other than that, you’re looking good."

Katrina nodded, adjusting her stance. She enjoyed the sound of his voice, especially when he was praising her. It felt genuine, not just a coach’s platitude. She could sense an unspoken tension between them, but she couldn't quite define it. It was there, in the way his eyes lingered a fraction longer than they needed to, in the way he sometimes reached out to correct her form.

"Nice volley," Art said as she expertly returned the ball over the net. "You're really getting the hang of these drills."

"Thanks," Katrina replied, giving him a small smile. "I learned from the best."

Art chuckled, shaking his head. "Flattery won't save you on the court, but it's appreciated." He watched as she moved into position for a backhanded hit, a play that had been a weak point for her. She swung, and the ball clipped the net.

Maybe she was just tired, or maybe he just looked too good; either way, she was distracted. How was she supposed to focus when he was standing with his broad shoulders and arms crossed and that damn backwards Sandford snapback observing like a hawk? She understood that’s his job; he’s quite literally getting paid to be here. Something was different though; the look he gave her five weeks ago, shit even two weeks ago, was nothing near the way he looks at her now.

“Stop.” He says, and she halts her hit.

Art moved closer, taking a pause, before walking behind her, closing the distance between them. "Here, let me show you," he said, reaching around her to correct her grip on the racket. His breath was warm on her neck, and Katrina tensed, feeling a heat that wasn't from the sun. His touch was gentle but firm, guiding her into the proper position.

"Like this," Art said, stepping back slightly but still close enough to feel his presence. "Keep your elbow straight and your wrist firm."

Katrina nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. She took a deep breath and swung again, this time clearing the net with ease.

“There we go, atta girl.” He whispered while cracking a smile.

She felt hot, oh god, and it definitely wasn’t the sun. How could he say that so casually? She didn’t have to just deal with the fact that she’s now all hot and bothered, but also the guilty embarrassment of realizing she has a fat crush on her 30-sum-year-old tennis coach, who just happens to be a husband and father.

Right

Pulling away, she changes the subject, considering he’s been silent for the past minute and a half. "How's your daughter doing? And Tashi?" She felt the atmosphere shift as Art cleared his throat, stepping back.

"Lily's doing well," he replied, his voice controlled. "She's on tour with Tashi, who's coaching her for the season." He left it at that, his eyes avoiding hers as he focused on the court. "Keep hitting the ball with that form," he added, his tone all business now.

Art adjusted his pants, his expression tight, and turned to leave. "I'll be right back," he said. "I just need to run to the bathroom."

Katrina watched him go, her heart still racing from the moment he'd been so close. She tried to push the thoughts aside, focusing on her training, but the lingering warmth of his presence was hard to ignore. The open tournament was coming up, and she needed to be at her best, both on and off the court. The challenge would be to keep her focus where it needed to be.

“Oh, what the fuck, Art?” feeling his own disappointment, he said to himself as he did his best to fix the hard-on that was growing by the second. What would he give to be able to take a cold shower right now?

Scurrying to the bathroom, he quickly shut the door behind him. He takes a deep breath and leans against the door, contemplating what just happened and palming himself.

“Fuck” was uttered in a raspy and hushed manner.

He turns to look at himself in the mirror. He felt guilty forgetting hard for a girl over a decade younger than him. But that wasn’t what he really felt guilty about. He felt guilty because he liked it. She was fiery; she was driven, and the way she looked at him, with admiration, was long since Tashi looked at him with any emotion of the sort. Katrina made him feel good about himself. And fuck, was she hot. He was almost certain that as the days of training passed, the length of her skirt shortened and her tops got tighter, or maybe he just started paying attention to it.

He needed to stop thinking of her for his sanity and his cocks, because leaving every practice with blue balls for the last week and a half hasn’t been pleasant.

Splashing himself with cold water and tucking his dick into his waistband, he walks back out before she starts questioning anything.

"All right, that's it for today," he called out, clapping his hands to get her attention. "Good work. We'll take it easy tomorrow, then hit the road the day after."

Katrina straightened, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. "Thanks," she said, her voice a little breathless from the intense workout. "I feel good about it. I think we're ready."

Art nodded, watching her carefully as she walked toward him. There was a grace to her movements, even in her exhaustion. She carried herself with confidence, but there was also a vulnerability that he'd come to recognize. It was in the way she sometimes hesitated before speaking or the way her eyes softened when they shared a joke.

"Thanks for, you know, doing this," Katrina said, her eyes meeting his. "I know you didn't have to, but... I'm glad you did."

Art felt a strange warmth in his chest, a sense of connection that he'd been avoiding, or perhaps suppressing. There was something about Katrina that made him want to stay, to guide her through the ups and downs of the game. And it wasn't just about tennis. It was something deeper, something that made him feel almost protective.

"It's been a good few weeks," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "You've got a lot of potential, Katrina. I wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could go far."

She smiled, a genuine smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Thanks. It means a lot to hear that from you."

There was a moment of silence, a charged pause where neither of them moved. He knew he should step back and create some distance, but he found himself drawn in, his gaze lingering on her lips, then her eyes. There was something about her.

"All right," he said, finally breaking the silence. "Get some rest tonight. We've got a long drive ahead of us, and I need you focused."

Katrina nodded, her eyes locking with his. The tension was palpable, a mix of excitement and something else, something neither of them wanted to name. Art felt the stirrings of something almost primal, a desire that had been dormant for a long time. He knew it wasn't appropriate, but it was there, simmering just beneath the surface.

"Good night," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper.

"Good night," he replied, his eyes lingering on her a moment longer than they should. "Rest up. I'll see you tomorrow." With his things packed, he walked off the court, leaving her to stretch.

The US Open tournament was coming, and with it, a new set of challenges—both on and off the court.

THE DRIVE TO SAN DIEGO

This was unexpected. Somehow, Katrina was sitting in the passenger seat of Arts Blue Bronco and had managed to snag herself a one-on-one tournament weekend with the Art Donaldson himself. Her mother had only missed three of her games throughout her entire career. The first time was when Katrina was 12. Her mother didn't attend because Katrina had just started playing tennis, and her mother assumed she wouldn't be good enough to watch, so she spent her time on holiday with the neighborhood housewives and was pleasantly surprised when Katrina returned with her first trophy. The second time was when Katrina was 16. Their grandmother had passed away, but Katrina's mother insisted that Katrina should play in the game instead of staying home to grieve like a normal person. She told Katrina that every win was one step closer to a successful career; bad things happen all the time, and you simply “need to get over it and move on." The third time was today, when Katrina was 20, after her little brother's appendix unexpectedly burst at 4 a.m. in the morning, and he and their mom had to rush to the hospital.

"How do you feel about your mom not being here this time?" Art asked, leaning back in his seat. He took a sip of his coffee, glancing at Katrina's expression carefully.

Katrina shrugged. "Honestly? I'm kind of happy she's not here. It's like a weight off my shoulders. I don't have to worry about her criticizing every move I make or every shot I miss."

Art nodded, sensing the relief in her voice. "Your mom seems pretty tough on you."

"She is," Katrina replied, swirling her drink. "She talks a big game, but sometimes I think she doesn't really know what she's saying. Like when she criticizes my plays—she doesn't really get the game, you know? She just wants to be involved, but it's not always helpful."

Art felt a twinge of sympathy. He'd known parents like that, always pushing, always expecting perfection without understanding the sacrifices involved. "I'm glad I could be here for you, then," he said. "You shouldn't have to go through all this alone. It's hard enough without extra pressure from someone who isn't really helping."

Katrina shrugged, her lips curling into a small, ironic smile. "It's been like that since I was a kid. I never had much of a childhood, anyway. The little bit of teenager-like stuff I did, I had to sneak around to do it. Mom was always watching, always pushing me to be the best and to win. I never really got to be a kid."

Art felt a pang of something deep in his chest. It wasn't just empathy—it was a sense of injustice, of the things Katrina had missed out on. He'd seen it before in other athletes whose parents lived vicariously through their children, expecting them to carry the weight of their own dreams. It was a burden no young person should have to bear. Shit went through it himself with Tashi, and it eventually cost them their relationship.

"That sounds rough," he said, his voice gentle. "Everyone deserves a chance to be a kid—to have fun, to make mistakes, to figure things out without a constant spotlight." 

“I definitely have to make mistakes." She paused and giggled in embarrassment. “This might be T.M.I. But my first time was with a random guy around my age that was dragged to a dinner party at his parents house.” She side-eyes Art for a moment. “Of course, while the adults did whatever adults do, we snuck off into the liquor cabinet, got so hammered, and then decided to go up to my room.”

Art only looked at her with a raised brow, waiting for her to finish.

“Long story short, by the time we were done, everyone was looking for us — of course we were too stupid to think that anyone would notice we were missing for over an hour.” She sighs with a smile. "Anyways, it turns out they were serving desert, and when the housekeeper came in looking for us, she couldn’t hold back a scream. It's safe to say I can’t even remember how long I was grounded for.”

Art was fully laughing now, not sure if it was from second hand embarrassment or because of how unexpected this was.

“Mistakes aren’t something; you escape, believe me.” He seemed nostalgic.

"Yeah," Katrina replied, her gaze dropping to the table. 

“Anyways, I’m sure instances like that’s what made me basically one of the strongest tennis players of all time,” she concludes, sarcastically exaggerating.

Art sighed, leaning forward slightly. "Strength isn't just about winning," he said. "It's about finding your own way, making your own choices, and being okay with who you are, even if it doesn't fit someone else's expectations."

Katrina looked up at him, her expression thoughtful. "That's what I want," she said. "I want to play because I love it, not because I'm trying to prove something to someone else. I just... I wish I had more time to figure it all out."

Art nodded, understanding her struggle. "You'll get there," he said. "You've got a lot of potential, and you're doing it for the right reasons. Just remember, it's okay to take a step back sometimes. To enjoy the game, to find joy in the small things,

Katrina smiled—a real smile that reached her eyes. "Thanks," she said. "I needed to hear that."

Art returned her smile, feeling a connection that went beyond coach and player. It was a moment of genuine understanding, the kind that made all the effort and hard work worth it. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but at least they had each other to navigate it together.

AT THE HOTEL

After a two-hour drive, Art and Katrina King arrived at the hotel where they would be staying during the tournament in San Diego. The hotel was upscale, with modern decor and spacious rooms. They'd been given a suite with two separate bedrooms connected by a shared living area. It was the perfect setup for coach and player.

Art had just finished unpacking when he decided to knock on Katrina's door. It was only 7 p.m., and he thought it might be nice to have dinner together. A little bonding before the tournament might help ease some of the tension they have been feeling lately. There is no harm in a friendly dinner. 

Right?

Katrina opened the door, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw Art standing there. "Hey," she said, her voice softer than usual. "What's up?"

"Want to grab dinner?" Art asked, keeping his tone casual. "There's a nice restaurant downtown I've been meaning to check out every time I come down here."

Katrina hesitated for a moment, then nodded with a hint of a smile. "Sure, why not?" she replied. She felt a slight flutter in her stomach—this wasn't just a quick meal at the hotel lobby; it was a proper dinner out.

"Great," Art said, checking his designer watch. "Meet you back here in 40."

Katrina agreed, closing the door to get ready. She picked out a simple black dress, something a little fancier than she normally wears. Her brown hair, usually tied back in a ponytail, cascaded down in curls. When she checked her reflection in the mirror, she felt a mix of excitement and nerves. This was just dinner, right?

When she stepped out of her room, Art was already waiting in the living area. He glanced up and immediately did a double take. Katrina looked stunning, the soft curls of her hair framing her face perfectly. Her dress hugged her figure in a way that made it hard to look away. Art felt like a high school boy going out on his first date. He could already feel himself stiffen. 

Blinking, he gives up a smirk. "You look great."

Katrina blushed slightly. "Thanks," she replied, feeling her cheeks grow warm. "You don't look too bad yourself. Nice seeing you outside of tennis attire."

The place was dimly lit with candlelight, adding to the intimate atmosphere. As they sat down, Art felt a sense of ease with Katrina that he hadn't felt in a long time. It was nice to know that for once, something in her life wasn't just about tennis; it was about getting to know each other on a personal level.

As time passed, they got into a comfortable conversation, talking about anything and everything.

"So," Katrina began, looking across the table at him, "you mentioned your daughter earlier. Tell me about her."

Art smiled at the mention of Lily. "She's great," he said. "She's 10 and a total fire cracker; she’s starting boarding school next year. She’s got this energy that lights up a room. She loves tennis, too, but I'm trying not to push her too hard. I want her to find her own path."

Katrina nodded, appreciating his perspective. "Sounds like you're a good dad."

Art chuckled softly, then his expression turned a bit somber. "I try to be. Things have been complicated at home. Tashi and I are technically still together, but it's more for Lily's sake than anything else." He paused, glancing at Katrina to gauge her reaction. "We're not really happy, but we're making it work—for now. Nothing has really been the same since I retired, you know."

Oh, that makes sense. She tensed.

Katrina felt a guilty glimmer of hope. If Art and Tashi were essentially separated, then maybe her fantasies weren't so impossible after all. The thought made her blush, and she took a sip of water to hide it.

As the dinner progressed, they subtly flirted with each other. Art ordered a bottle of wine to keep the conversation going, which prompted Katrina to raise an eyebrow. "Isn't this off-limits?" she teased. "My mother and my dietitian would be so disappointed."

Art smirked. "You have to live a little," he replied, pouring her a glass. "Besides, a glass of wine won't ruin your career. It's all about balance, right?"

Katrina laughed softly. "Isn't it ironic that a thirty-something-year-old man is telling a twenty-year-old to have fun?"

Art chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "Maybe I know a thing or two about loosening up," he said with a playful wink. "Life's too short to be serious all the time."

“You sure look like you know how to have fun,” she said in a teasing tone. It was clear her words had a double meaning.

Art smirked and quipped, “I do; you just have to pry it out of me, I guess.

As the evening went on, the tension between them grew more palpable. The candlelight, the soft music, the wine—all of it added to the atmosphere. There was an undercurrent of attraction, a pull that neither of them could ignore. By the end of the night, you could’ve cut the tension with a knife.

Art leaned in slightly, his voice lower. "We should probably head back," he said, his eyes locking with hers. "I don't want to overdo it before the tournament."

Katrina nodded, feeling her heart race. "Yeah, probably a good idea," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

As they left the restaurant, the night air felt cooler against their skin, but the heat between them hadn't cooled at all. They walked back to the hotel in comfortable silence, each aware of the unspoken desire simmering just beneath the surface, steeling glances here and there.

The tension had been building throughout dinner. As they reached their suite, Art turned to Katrina, his expression neutral but his eyes holding a hint of warmth.

"Well, I guess we should call it a night," he said, reaching for his key card. He didn't want to cross any boundaries, especially with the multiple games she had tomorrow. But the way Katrina looked at him during dinner made it difficult to ignore the desire simmering just beneath the calm exterior.

Katrina held up a finger. "Okay...” she paused, feigning a thought. “But we didn't finish the bottle of wine," she said with a playful smile. "And my mom's going to be back for the second day of the tournament. This might be our only chance to… get to know each other; we’ll have to throw it out if we don’t finish it tonight, just sayin’."

The wine was definitely hitting.

Art hesitated, then nodded. "You're right. It'd be a shame to let it go to waste."

They moved into the shared living room, which had a small kitchenette and a comfortable seating area. Katrina grabbed the bottle of wine and two glasses while Art flipped through the channels on the television, settling on a random movie for background noise. It was an action film with a lot of explosions and fast-paced scenes, but neither of them paid much attention to it.

As they settled onto the couch, Katrina poured them each a glass of wine. The atmosphere was relaxed, but there was an underlying current of flirtation. They started talking about the tournament, about tennis, and then about life in general. The conversation flowed easily, punctuated by laughter and playful banter.

"You know," Art said, taking a sip of wine, "I didn't think I'd enjoy coaching, but I'm glad I came back for this."

Katrina raised an eyebrow. "Coaching? You're more like a mentor," she teased. "Plus, you're not that old to be called a coach."

Art chuckled. "Careful, or I'll make you run extra laps tomorrow," he replied, giving her a mock stern look. "I'm not that old, but I've seen a lot in my time."

"Sure, sure," Katrina said, rolling her eyes. "You're practically ancient."

They both laughed, the sound filling the room. As the conversation continued, they found themselves leaning closer to each other, the space between them shrinking with each passing minute. The flirting became more overt—the playful touches on the arm, the shared smiles, and the lingering glances.

Art felt the tension building and the pull growing stronger. He knew he should keep his distance, but the way Katrina looked at him, her eyes sparkling in the dim light, made it difficult to resist.

"You know," he said, his voice low and smooth, "you're more than just a talented player, Katrina.” He looked at her with a dark gaze. “There's something about you that makes it hard to stay away. Even when I know I should."

Katrina's eyes widened slightly, her heart racing at his words. The air between them felt electric and charged with anticipation. There were no words left to be said; they leaned in without even noticing, and there they were, on the hotel couch, lips smashed together. The wine glass in Katrina's hand tilted, spilling a few drops onto the couch, but neither of them seemed to notice or care.

The kiss was intense, filled with the desire that had been building for weeks. It was risky, even dangerous, given their roles as coach and athlete. But in that moment, none of it mattered. The world seemed to melt away, leaving just the two of them caught in a whirlwind of emotion and longing.

Sprawled out like a couple of horny teenagers making out on their parent’s couch, it was almost comedic. 

When they finally pulled apart, their breathing was ragged, and their eyes locked in a mix of surprise and exhilaration. The movie played on in the background, the noise a distant echo as they sat there, close together, knowing that everything had changed in a single moment.

“We shouldn’t do this.” Art broke the silence first.

“Yeah, we really shouldn't.” She pulled back for a moment. “But we already did.” She moved up to fix his nonexistent collar. “Unfortunately, I have this really good coach, and he’d hate to see me not finish something I started.” Sha gazed up at him as she finished giving him a cheeky smile.

She was giving him that look, a look that said nothing less than fuck me.

Art couldn’t do anything more than chuckle and give in. “Well, I’d hate to be the reason you disappoint him.“ He told her as he lifted her up into his lap.

“You’ve gotta live a little, you know.” She said it in-between kisses. His lips, his neck, and his jaw. There wasn’t an inch of him; she wasn’t going to kiss tonight.

“You’re right.” Their mouths dance together, their tongues fighting for dominance. Arts hands were taking all her in. Her dress pooled around her waist as he slipped his hands under it, grasping her tits. “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted this, Katrina.” He breathes out in a hushed manner, biting at her lip.

“Prove it to me, Art.” She says she is pulling her dress over her head. He stopped taking a moment to drink her in; she was beautiful.

“Holly fuck.” He rasps out, unclasping her bra, leaving it to be forgotten, much like the wine.

Katrina could feel the raging hardness beneath her. Grinding into it, she lets out a moan as he kisses and sucked on her exposed breast. “Every time I’d walk on the court, and I’d see you wearing your tight little tennis outfits, god,” he rasped while bighting his lip. “All I could think about was how I wanted to bed you over and fuck you right then and there.” He picked her up and started walking to her bedroom. “Now, I get to be a good coach and teach you a thing or two.” He threw her on the bed, peering over her with hungry eyes and breathing heavily. “Will you be a good student and let coach fuck some knowledge into you, huh, baby?”

“I’ve never let you down, have I?” She answered him, looking up at him from the bed, her big doe eyes saying everything for her. “Show me how it’s done, coach.” She wet her lips seductively.

“Well, first, pretty girl, it’s important to get warmed up. You need help warming up, babe.” Art drags his finger from her thigh to her stomach and back down to her panties.  Slowly pulling them off. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, he gazes up at her with hooded eyes. He kisses along her thighs, sucking now and then, making his way up to her sopping cunt. When he does reach her, he begins lapping at her like a man who’s been deprived of water for forty days and forty nights.

“Oh my God, Art, it feels so good.” She could feel herself getting short of breath. It was so good, better than anything she had fantasized about while taking the shower head for a spin. Grasping his hair in her hand, she can’t help but grind her pussy in his face, making both him and her a sloppy mess.”

“You’re so good for me; you've always been a fast learner, you know.” He pulled up, leaving trails of kisses as he made his way up and onto the bed. “My pretty girl,” he says, looking down at her with a smirk, his chin wet with her juices. He gets off the bed and starts to strip. His shirt comes up first, giving her the opportunity to get up on her knees and run her hands over his toned abs as she continues to kiss his neck. He follows with his. Belt slipped off his pants, his cock springing up, strained by his boxers. Katrina can’t help but feel her mouth damn near water. Pulling his boxers down, she lets a glob of her saliva leak on his cock before taking him into her mouth with a moan. Art only grabs her hair in his fist before letting out a deep moan and letting his eyes roll back. “Really got a mouth on you, huh, pretty girl.” He caresses her cheek. “Taking me all in.”

He pulls out, a string of saliva following, only to drip down from her chin onto her chest as he motions for her to lay back down on the bed. “You ready to get that pretty pussy fucked?” he leans down, sucking on her nipples. “You’ve warmed up enough, don’t you think?”

"Yes.” Its barley is above a whisper.

“What was that? You’ve got to use your words, Kat." He says, slightly pulling away from her lips, waiting for a better response.

“Please fuck me, Art.” She moans out, “I need you now."” She pulls him back down for a kiss, lining her hips up with his. He’s teasing at her entrance for a moment before she grabs his lower back and pulls him in the whole way. They both let out a sigh of relief as she felt her walls stretch around his length and he felt her wetness embrace him.

He’s fully thrusting now, with his whole strength, his hips snapping into hers with purpose. Grunts and moans are coming out of both their mouths.

"Switch,” she says, suddenly pushing him back a bit, only for her to get on top, grinding her hips in circles while riding him. “You’re so good, Art; you make me feel so good,” she’s breathless, guiding his veiny hands onto her chest. “I’ve ouched myself so many times fantasizing about this, thinking about how I’d take your cock.” She slips his fingers into her mouth, sucking on them for a second. “Even better than I dreamed,” she smirked. She could feel the pit inside her tighten; she was close, and she could tell that he was too.

She looked down at her and motioned for Art to open his mouth, and when she did, she let her spit trickle down into his mouth with a satisfied grin. That was it for him; after she did that, he started hammering on her mercilessly.

“Oh my god, harder art.” She says this with her head tucked into the crook of his neck. He obliged his vice like a grip.. Her ass was so hard, she wouldn’t have been surprised if it bruised tomorrow. His pace was uneven with labored breaths; he let out one loud moan before pulling out and cumming all over her stomach, some even getting on himself. She didn’t even have the time to process what happened before she was pushed onto her stomach. 

There he was again, nose deep in her aching pussy, only this time it was from behind, and he was going between her cunt and her asshole. Moaning into a pillow, it didn’t take long for her to finish all over his face, collapsing onto the bed, flat on her stomach.

After a long and hot shower, Art lay on his back, his arm around Katrina as they were in bed, enjoying the stillness of the night. The hotel room was dimly lit, casting a soft glow that created an intimate ambiance. Katrina's head rested on his shoulder, her hair cascading over his chest. It felt comfortable and natural, like they belonged there.

Art turned slightly to look down at Katrina, her face peaceful and relaxed. He traced his fingers gently along her arm, a simple, affectionate gesture that made her shiver slightly. It was a closeness that was rare for him, something he hadn't felt in years, and he cherished it.

"You're something else, you know that?" He said, his voice low and warm. "You've got this way of making me feel like I'm twenty again. I don't know what it is, but you bring out a side of me that I thought was long gone."

Katrina smiled, her eyes still closed as she nestled closer against him. "That's a good thing, right?" she asked, her voice a soft murmur.

Art chuckled, his hand gently stroking her hair. "Yeah, it's a good thing," he replied. "I really enjoyed tonight. It was... different from what I'm used to, but in the best possible way. I wasn't sure I wanted to get into coaching, but being your coach has been one of the best decisions I've made in a long time."

Katrina opened her eyes and looked up at him, her gaze warm and inviting. "I'm glad you did," she said. "I don't know where I'd be without you. It's not just about tennis—it's about everything else. You made me realize it’s not just hitting a ball with a stick."

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, a simple, tender gesture that spoke volumes. "You've got a lot of talent, Katrina," he said.

Katrina blushed, feeling a sense of warmth that had nothing to do with the physical closeness. "Thanks," she said, her voice soft. "That means a lot coming from you. I feel the same way, you know. You make everything seem a little easier, like it's all going to be okay."

Art nodded, his heart swelling with a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time. It was more than just affection—it was a sense of connection, a bond that he knew was special.

Katrina sighed contentedly, her head resting against his chest. The rhythm of his heartbeat was soothing, grounding her in the moment. She felt safe, secure, and genuinely happy. It was a feeling she hadn't had in a long time, and she wasn't ready to let it go.

Art tightened his arm around her, holding her a little closer. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes about the depth of their connection. He knew the road ahead wouldn't be easy, but with Katrina by his side, he felt like he could take on anything.

THE TOURNEMENT

Katrina woke up to an empty bed. The warm spot where Art had lain the night before had cooled, and there was no sign of him in the hotel room. She rubbed her eyes, feeling a twinge of disappointment. It was early, but she figured he had probably gone to start prepping for the tournament—they had a busy day ahead. It had been a long night.

She sat up, stretched, and looked around the room. Everything was in its usual place; nothing seemed out of order. Art's clothes were gone, and her things were neatly put away, almost as if he had never stayed there.

Strange

Katrina didn’t dwell on it. It made sense that he might have moved his things back to his room to get ready for the day. After all, he was her coach, and today was important.

She got dressed in her tennis gear, taking her time in the bathroom to brush her hair and freshen up. The uncertainty about where Art had gone was starting to creep in, but she pushed it aside. There was no need to get worked up—he'd turn up soon enough.

Katrina made her way to the living room and kitchen, expecting to find Art there, but he was nowhere to be seen. She checked her phone, but there were no messages from him. It was odd; usually, he'd leave some sort of note or text. She grabbed one of her pre-prepared meals from the fridge and ate it while waiting for him to return, her mind running through the drills they’d be doing later that day.

After what felt like an eternity, Art finally walked in, holding a cup of coffee from the café downstairs. Katrina felt a rush of relief. "Hey," she said, trying to sound casual. "You went out for coffee?"

Art nodded, but his demeanor was noticeably colder than usual. His eyes were distant, and his responses were curt. "Yeah," he replied, taking a sip of his coffee. His tone was flat, lacking the warmth she had come to expect from him.

Katrina felt a flicker of anxiety. "Is everything okay?" she asked, trying to engage him in conversation. "You seem a little off."

Art shrugged, barely looking at her. "Just focused on the tournament," he said, his voice detached. "We've got a lot to do today."

Katrina felt a pang of confusion. This was a complete 180 from the night before. They had shared something special, something she thought was meaningful. She wasn’t expecting a proposal. But now he was acting as if it had never happened. So she pressed the issue.

"Art, why are you acting like this?" she asked, her tone edged with concern. "Last night was... well, it was nice. What changed."

Art set his coffee cup down, his expression hardening. "I'm being a responsible coach," he said, his voice cold. "You have important matches today. We can't afford distractions."

Katrina was taken aback by his abruptness. "Distractions? Is that what last night was to you?" she asked, her voice rising slightly.

Art sighed, rubbing his temples. "Katrina, we can't do this. You need to be focused. What happened last night." He stopped, choosing his words carefully. "It was a mistake, and I need you to be serious about this tournament."

Katrina felt a surge of anger and hurt. "A mistake?" she said, her voice sharp. "So that's it? We just pretend it never happened. You can't just switch like that!"

Art's expression was stern. "You need to act like you've got an important game today, because you do. And I have to be the coach you need, not something else."

Katrina felt her heart sink. This wasn't the Art she knew. The warmth and connection from the night before were gone, replaced by a wall of professionalism and distance. But there wasn't time to press further—they had to get to the court and start their warm-up drills.

The argument left Katrina feeling disoriented and hurt, but there was no time to dwell on it. She had to focus on the tournament, even if her coach seemed to have turned into a different person overnight. As they headed out the door, she tried to shake off the feeling, knowing that the game ahead demanded her full attention.

FIRST MATCH

The stadium was buzzing with anticipation as the announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeakers, introducing the players for the Challenger tournament. The crowd applauded as Katrina King and Alexis Grace stepped onto the court, each acknowledging the fans with a wave. Art Donaldson watched from the sidelines, his eyes focused on Katrina as she moved to her position.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the first match of the US Open," the announcer said, continuing on.

Art knew it would be a challenging game. Alexis was a good opponent who could hold her own, but based on states alone, this should be an easy win, for lack of better words. Art felt a pang of guilt for how he'd acted that morning. He'd been cold and distant, trying to maintain professionalism, but it wasn't what he wanted. He wished he could go back and handle things differently, but now wasn't the time for regrets—Katrina needed his support.

The first set began with Katrina serving. She delivered a somewhat strong shot, but Alexis returned it with ease, sending the ball back with a blistering forehand. Katrina scrambled to keep up, her movements swift but slightly off-balance. She managed to return the shot, but Alexis was already at the net, volleying the ball with precision.

Art watched, his heart racing. Katrina had the talent, but he could tell she was getting into her own head. The missed points seemed to weigh heavily on her, and she was starting to lose her composure. He couldn't blame her—his behavior hadn't helped.

Katrina's next serve was strong, but Alexis anticipated it, returning the ball with a slice that landed just out of Katrina's reach. The crowd murmured, sensing the momentum shift in Alexis's favor. Art clenched his fists, trying to stay calm. He needed to be there for Katrina, even if she didn't want to hear it right now. Her errors were becoming more frequent. A double fault here, a missed volley there—it was starting to add up.

Art's internal thoughts were filled with frustration and guilt. He knew he had to do something to help her, but he also knew her head wasn’t focused on the game. As the set progressed, the tension in the stadium grew. Katrina's shots were becoming more erratic, and Alexis capitalized on every mistake.

Finally, the set ended with a decisive point from Alexis, securing her the first set. The crowd erupted in applause, but Art felt a sinking feeling in his chest.

Katrina King sat on the bench, her racket resting between her knees, and tried to catch her breath. The set break was supposed to be a chance to reset, to gather her thoughts, and to prepare for the next game, but she couldn’t stop her mind from racing. Her body felt tense, and her heart was heavy with doubt.

This match was supposed to be a warmup, and I’m making a complete fool of myself. She thought, scrunching her brows as she looked up at the sky.

Her hand gripped the racket tighter, the familiar texture offering a semblance of comfort.

A mistake

This morning kept replaying in her mind, each word like a weight pressing down on her. It had thrown her off and shaken her confidence. She couldn't understand why he'd suddenly turned so cold.

What the fuck did I get myself into? She wondered, feeling a mix of anger and confusion.

She glanced at the sidelines, where Art sat, his arms crossed, watching the court with a distant expression. He was focused, but not on her. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, and his detachment made her stomach twist. It felt like a betrayal, and she couldn't shake the feeling that she was alone out there.

He's just a coach. I don't need him to win. I've been doing this on my own for years.

But the more she tried to convince herself, the more her emotions swirled. Last night felt like a turning point, like they were connecting on a deeper level. And now, all that warmth and all that understanding were gone. It left her feeling hollow and unsure of her next move.

Forget about this morning. Forget about last night. Forget about Art. Just play the game. That’s all you're good at anyway.

She couldn't forget, not when it felt like her world was shifting beneath her feet. The pressure of the tournament, the expectations from everyone, and now the unexpected 180—it was all too much. She needed to find her focus, but it felt like she was battling more than just an opponent on the court. She was battling her own doubts and her own insecurities, and it was starting to show.

The umpire's call signaled the end of the break, and Katrina stood up, her legs feeling heavier than usual. She couldn't afford to let this slip away. She had to find a way to center herself and regain the focus and determination that had brought her this far. But as she walked back onto the court, she knew it wouldn't be easy. The shadows of doubt were growing, and she wasn't sure if she had the strength to push them back.

The final set was about to begin, and the energy in the stadium was electric. Kat had lost the first set to Alexis, barely clawed her way back to win the second, and now faced the challenge of closing out the match.

A whirlpool of frustration was consuming her. She knew she should be playing better than this. Alexis was a competent player, but she shouldn't have been able to pressure Katrina like she was doing now. The missteps, the errant serves, the missed volleys—it was all spiraling out of control. She knew she had to get her head back in the game.

"Come on, Katrina," Art muttered under his breath, his frustration growing. He knew he should’ve never said what he had this morning, and God did he regret it. Not even because it threw her off her game, but simply because it wasn’t true.

I didn’t mean it, Kat.

Alexis returned Katrina's second serve with a deep forehand, forcing Katrina to run to the back of the court. She managed to get the ball back, but it was a weak return, and Alexis took advantage, hitting a powerful backhand down the line. Katrina struggled to reach it, her footwork sloppy.

The crowd murmured, sensing the shift in momentum. Katrina felt her frustration bubbling to the surface. "Get it together," she told herself, trying to drown out the negativity in her mind. She took a deep breath and prepared for the next point, knowing she couldn't afford to lose her composure.

Art clenched his fists, watching Katrina's struggle. He wanted to shout words of encouragement; right now, he needed Katrina to find her focus and to play like he knew she could.

The next few points were a back-and-forth battle. Katrina managed to win a couple of rallies, showing glimpses of her usual skill, but Alexis was relentless. Katrina's errors were piling up, and Alexis capitalized on every mistake. A missed serve here, a poorly timed volley there—it was all adding up, and Katrina felt like she was falling apart.

He knew he had to do something to help her, but he wasn't sure what. She was slipping, and he could see it in her eyes—the doubt, the frustration. He wished he could just rewind the morning and start over.

Katrina's frustration boiled over as she missed yet another shot, sending the ball wide of the sideline. She clenched her racket, her anger turning inward.

What the actual fuck kat? She felt herself slipping.

Art watched as Katrina's confidence seemed to crumble. Every point felt like a battle, and she was struggling to keep her emotions in check. The crowd's cheers seemed distant, drowned out by her own inner turmoil. She needed to find her focus and remember why she loved the game in the first place.

Katrina King stood at the baseline, bouncing the tennis ball as she prepared to serve. The pressure was immense. The score was tied, but this was match point for Alexis.

"Just get this right," she told herself, bouncing the ball one more time. "Keep it simple, focus on your form, and breathe."

She threw the ball up and swung, her serve powerful but lacking the usual precision.

The umpire's call was clear: "In!"

Alexis immediately raised her hand, signaling her challenge.

Katrina tensed, holding her breath. Fuck. She had already accepted defeat.

The electronic system, designed to track the ball's trajectory, sprang into action. The large screen above the court displayed the replay, with the lines highlighted in bold white against the blue surface.

The slow-motion replay showed the ball’s descent, curving slightly in its flight. It landed, from this perspective, millimeters inside the line, causing the crowd to murmur in anticipation. The pause felt longer than it actually was, with everyone waiting for the official verdict.

Alexis stood with her racket resting on her shoulder, her expression tense and unimpressed. She glanced at Katrina, who remained at the baseline, her stance rigid.

The electronic system confirmed the umpire's call: "In!" The word flashed across the screen, accompanied by a graphic showing the ball's exact position—just inside the line. The crowd erupted in applause, and Katrina allowed herself a small smile. She was relieved that the serve was good, but she knew she couldn't let her focus slip.

Alexis nodded curtly; her challenge was unsuccessful. She adjusted her grip on her racket, preparing for the next point. The moment of doubt had passed, and the game resumed its intensity.

Art saw Katrina's moments of ease, but he also saw the hesitation in her footwork and the slight tremors in her hands.

Alexis's return was a deep shot to Katrina's backhand, forcing her to pivot quickly. Katrina reached for it, but her timing was slightly off. The ball clipped the net, but it went over. Katrina breathed a sigh of relief as Alexis scrambled to reach it. and get her racket under the ball just in time.

The volley was clumsy, but it kept the rally going. Katrina's heart raced as she tried to regain her rhythm. She could feel the momentum slipping away, and she knew she couldn't afford another mistake. Alexis, however, was relentless, keeping the pressure on with precise shots to the corners of the court.

Art clenched his fists, chewing his gum while watching Katrina's struggle. He felt the intensity of the moment, knowing that this point could determine the outcome of the match. He wanted to find a way to ease her nerves, but all he could do was watch and hope she could pull through.

The rally continued, with Katrina barely managing to keep up. Alexis played a drop shot, and Katrina lunged to reach it. She got there just in time, but her return was weak, giving Alexis the upper hand. Alexis moved in for the kill, smashing the ball toward the baseline.

Katrina dove to reach it, her body hitting the ground as her racket connected with the ball. It went over the net, but it was a high lob, an easy shot for Alexis. Alexis jumped, delivering a powerful overhead smash that Katrina couldn't hope to reach. The ball hit the court with a decisive thud, and the umpire called the point.

Art felt a pang of disappointment as the crowd erupted in applause. He knew Katrina had fought hard, but the internal turmoil had cost her the match. He saw the frustration on her face as she stood up, brushing off the dirt from her fall. She glanced toward him, her eyes filled with a mix of anger, defeat, and tears.

Katrina knew she had given it her all, but it hadn't been enough. She felt the weight of the loss, knowing that her own doubts and the fight with Art had played a part in her performance. As she walked off the court, she felt a mix of disappointment and a lingering sense of confusion about what had gone wrong—both on and off the court.

Art made his way down to talk to Katrina. She was sitting on the bench, her head down, a towel draped over her shoulders. Art approached, trying to keep his voice steady. "Hey, it's okay," he said, his tone gentle. "It's just one game; you’ve got three more today. You can still turn this around. Just focus on your game, okay? Don't let this get in your head." He finished and tried to embrace her in his arms for some sort of comfort, but his efforts proved futile because before he could fully hug her, she pushed him off.

Katrina looked back at him, her eyes watery, cold, and distant. "Oh, now you're being supportive?" She shot back, her voice laced with sarcasm. "What happened to the coach who was so concerned about being professional this morning?"

Art winced, feeling the sting of her words. He knew he deserved it, but it still hurt. "I know, I messed up," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

Katrina shook her head, her expression hardening. "I don't need your fake support, Art," she said, standing up. "Just let me play my game."

“Kat, don’t be like that.” He said he was stepping forward, trying to get a hold of her.

“Be like what, Art?” she said, feeling her anger rise. “I shouldn’t act like you treated me as if I were a late-night tinder hookup.” She paused, her lips trembling. “I wouldn’t be like this if you would have had the human decency to treat me with a little respect, even if you regrated it!” She took a breath. “You know what the worst part is; you could have waited for the tournament to be over to shit on me, on us, like that. At least I would’ve left this stupid fucking weekend with a champion title and cup.” She started walking away from the locker rooms. “Guess once your balls are empty, you come to your senses, huh?” She hadn’t even bothered to turn around for the last bit.

"Kat, wait!" he said, grabbing her arm gently but firmly. "Please, just give me a minute."

Katrina turned, her eyes blazing with anger. "What do you want?" she snapped. "Haven't you done enough today? Did you finally decide to be a good coach?"

Art knew he deserved that, but he needed her to hear him out. "Just let me explain," he said, his voice desperate. "Not here. Let's go outside, away from everyone."

She hesitated, clearly still furious, but she didn't pull away. Art led her through a side door and out into the area behind the arena, where it was quiet and they could talk in private. He released her arm, taking a deep breath to calm himself.

"Katrina, I'm sorry," he began, his voice soft but urgent. "I'm sorry for everything I said this morning and for telling you it was a mistake. I didn't mean it. I was just... scared."

"Scared?" Katrina's eyes narrowed. "Scared of what? Scared of actually caring about someone? Scared to give up the overdone, nonchalant act you’ve got going for you?"

Art shook his head, struggling to find the right words. "I was scared that I was crossing a line," he said. "I was scared that I was too old for you and that being your coach and being with you would mess up your career. I was worried that we'd end up like... like me and Tashi."

Katrina's anger flared. "I'm not Tashi!" she shouted, stepping closer to him. "So stop comparing me to her; I'm my own person, and I'm nothing like her!"

"I know," Art replied, his voice gentle but firm. "I know you're not her. But that's what scared me. I don't want what happened to me and Tashi to happen to us. I didn't want to mess up your game, your career, or... anything."

Katrina huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well, you sure did a good job of that," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Look at what happened today! I lost because you couldn't make up your mind about what you wanted!"

Art felt a pang of guilt, knowing she was right. "I know," he said, his voice low. "I was selfish. I shouldn’t have acted like I did. I just didn’t want you to get hurt because of me. But now I see that I hurt you anyway, and that’s the last thing I wanted." He is groveling.

Katrina looked at him, her eyes still blazing. "So, what do you want now?" she asked. "Are you just going to apologize and then go back to being cold and distant?"

Art stepped forward, taking her cheek gently in his hand. "I don't know what we are, Katrina," he said, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "But I know I don't want to stop whatever this is. It's special. You make me feel things I haven't felt in a long time, and I can't keep ignoring that."

Katrina's anger softened, her eyes searching for any sign of insincerity. Art felt the connection between them, the tension that had been building for weeks, and he knew he couldn't let it end like this.

"I was wrong this morning," he continued. "I was scared, and I acted like an idiot. But you... you're amazing. You didn't deserve the way I treated you, and I know the game today was my fault. You were distracted because of me, and I'm sorry. But I know you're going to win this. I believe in you. I always have, and that hasn’t changed."

Katrina's expression softened, her anger giving way to something else—something that felt like forgiveness. Art leaned in, pressing his lips to hers in a passionate kiss, his hand still gently cupping her cheek. She responded with equal intensity, her arms wrapping around his neck as they pressed against the concrete wall.

The kiss was long and intense, filled with the emotions they’d both been suppressing. When they finally pulled back, their breathing was heavy, and their eyes locked in a shared moment of understanding. Art pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before laying his against hers.

“Are you ready to bring another title home, pretty girl?” He says, gazing into her eyes.