One_Chicago_Writer

October fifth arrived quietly, the kind of morning that made Chicago feel softer than usual. The air carried that first hint of fall, cool enough to raise goosebumps but not enough to make anyone reach for a coat, and the streets hadn’t fully filled yet, leaving the city suspended in a rare kind of calm. Y/N drove through it almost absently, one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other tapped lightly along to the music playing through the speakers, her voice low as she sang under her breath without really thinking about it.

Her mind was already somewhere else, drifting ahead to the assisted living facility she hadn’t seen in months. She could picture it clearly, the familiar hallways, the smell of coffee that never quite left the place, the way Mrs. Carver would cry the second she saw her and grab onto her hands like she might disappear again, and how Mr. Donnelly would pretend not to recognize her before telling the same joke he always did. The thought pulled a small smile from her as she slowed for the red light ahead, the car rolling to a gentle stop at the empty intersection.

For a moment, she just sat there, the quiet settling around her. A bus groaned somewhere down the street. A door shut in the distance. Cool air slipped in through the crack in her window.

Then the light turned green, and she pressed the gas.

The truck came from her left.

There was no warning, no time to process what she was seeing before the impact hit, violent and sudden as metal collided with metal and the entire world lurched sideways. The seatbelt locked hard across her chest, knocking the air from her lungs in an instant as glass shattered and scattered around her. The car spun just enough to disorient before it came to a jarring stop, leaving behind a moment of eerie stillness that lasted only a second before sound came rushing back all at once.

Her hands were still gripping the steering wheel. She noticed that slowly, her fingers trembling as she tried to loosen them, her chest rising in a shallow attempt at a breath that caught halfway and stayed there, tight and wrong. Pain spread across her ribs where the seatbelt had caught her, sharp enough to make her flinch as panic followed close behind.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

Footsteps approached quickly.

“Hey.”

The voice was close now.

“Hey, look at me.”

She turned her head and saw her, a paramedic already at the door, blonde hair pulled back, expression focused but steady in a way that cut through the chaos around them. She didn’t reach in right away, just positioned herself there, present, giving Y/N something solid to focus on.

“I’m Sylvie,” she said. “You’ve been in an accident. Can you hear me?”

Y/N nodded, her breath catching again as she tried to speak. “I… I can’t breathe right.”

“You are breathing,” Sylvie told her gently. “It just feels tight right now.”

Another paramedic stepped in behind her, scanning quickly. “Gabby. Any loss of consciousness?”

“No,” Y/N managed.

“Good,” Sylvie said.

Y/N glanced at the door. It didn’t look right, but it wasn’t sealed shut either. Her hand moved toward the handle, hesitating only for a second before she pushed. The metal resisted, then gave with a sharp scraping sound as the door forced open, cool air rushing in immediately and hitting her face hard enough to make her shiver.

“Okay,” Sylvie said softly. “I’ve got you. Take your time.”

Y/N swung her legs out of the car, her movements slower now, more deliberate. The second her feet hit the pavement, her knees threatened to give out and pain flared sharply through her ribs, pulling a broken gasp from her.

Sylvie caught her instantly.

“I’ve got you,” she repeated, steady and sure.

Y/N grabbed onto the front of her jacket without thinking, fingers curling tightly into the fabric as she leaned forward, her breath coming quicker now, uneven and shallow.

“You can,” Sylvie said, grounding her. “Slow it down.”

They moved carefully toward the ambulance, each step measured, Sylvie matching her pace while Gabby stayed just behind them, watching closely. By the time she was guided onto the stretcher, the world had narrowed again, the noise of the street fading as the doors shut and the interior of the ambulance closed around her.

Inside, everything became more focused. A blood pressure cuff tightened around her arm, a pulse oximeter clipped onto her finger, oxygen slid gently into place beneath her nose. Hands moved, not rushed but practiced, voices low and steady as they checked her ribs, her abdomen, her breathing.

The ride passed in a blur of motion and quiet reassurances, the adrenaline slowly fading and leaving the pain more noticeable in its place.

By the time they reached the hospital, the world had slowed in a way that felt almost unreal.

She was wheeled through bright hallways and into a trauma room where everything moved quickly but with controlled precision. Monitors were attached, vitals called out, hands checking, confirming, ruling things out one step at a time. A doctor explained what they were doing as they moved, listening to her lungs, pressing along her ribs, then her abdomen.

“We’re going to do a FAST exam.”

Cool gel spread across her skin as the ultrasound probe moved, the screen angled away from her.

“Looking for internal bleeding.”

She stared at the ceiling while they worked.

“Negative,” the doctor said after a moment. “No free fluid.”

The tension in the room eased.

“No immediate life threats.”

The words settled slowly.

A moment later, medication was pushed through her IV, and warmth spread through her system, softening the sharp edges of the pain, easing the tightness in her chest, allowing her body to finally stop bracing. The noise around her dulled, the urgency fading into something quieter, something safer.

Her gaze drifted toward the doorway.

Sylvie.

Gabby.

Kelly just behind them.

Still there.

Her grip loosened.

Her eyes grew heavy.

And for the first time since the crash, she let herself rest.

The next thing she was aware of was quiet.

Not the heavy silence of shock, but something softer, controlled, the kind of quiet that belonged to a hospital room rather than a trauma bay. Awareness returned gradually, the warmth of the medication still lingering as her body felt heavy against the mattress, her thoughts slower to catch up.

She opened her eyes.

They were still there.

Sylvie sat closest, Gabby near the window, Kelly by the door, like none of them had moved far.

“You’re awake,” Sylvie said.

Y/N swallowed, her throat dry. “Yeah.”

Water was pressed gently into her hand, voices softer now, the urgency gone, replaced by something steadier. They explained what had happened, what hadn’t, what the scans had shown. No internal bleeding. No head injury. No immediate danger.

Just pain.

Just recovery.

A doctor confirmed it not long after, explaining that she would be discharged, that she would need rest, that someone should stay with her.

“I live alone,” she admitted.

The answer that followed wasn’t really a discussion.

She wasn’t going home alone.

She tried to argue, softly at first, then with a little more insistence, but it didn’t hold against the quiet certainty in the room. Not from Sylvie, not from Gabby, and not from Kelly, whose voice stayed steady when he said she didn’t have to do this by herself.

In the end, she gave in.

Not because she was convinced.

Because she was tired.

The discharge blurred into movement, instructions, careful steps as she was guided out of the hospital and into the cool afternoon air. By the time they reached the truck, the exhaustion had settled in fully, pulling at her harder with each passing second.

She tried to climb in on her own.

It didn’t go well.

Kelly stepped in before she could push through it, lifting her carefully and settling her into the seat with a steadiness that left no room for argument she didn’t have the energy to make.

The city moved around them as they drove, but it felt distant now, the motion of the truck steady and rhythmic enough that her body began to give in to it.

“You doing okay?” someone asked.

She nodded.

But her eyes were already closing.

The buildings blurred past the window.

Her breathing slowed.

And somewhere between one turn and the next, she fell asleep.

She woke to movement again.

Not the road this time, but the shift of being lifted, the change in balance as she was carried instead of sitting. Her eyes opened just enough to catch the outline of Kelly, the steady way he held her as he moved, the outside air brushing against her face before the warmth of the building replaced it.

“I can walk,” she mumbled.

“I know,” he said.

He didn’t put her down.

By the time they reached the loft, she was more awake, though not by much. He set her down carefully, keeping a hand at her back until she found her balance, the space around her settling into something quieter, more lived in than the hospital had been.

The smell of antiseptic still clung faintly to her.

She noticed it immediately.

“I want a shower,” she said.

The words came out more insistent than she expected.

There was hesitation, concern, a brief exchange of looks, but in the end they agreed, with conditions she didn’t love but didn’t have the energy to fight. She would sit. She wouldn’t try to do it alone. One of them would stay nearby.

The bathroom filled with steam, the sound of water easing something tight in her chest as the warmth finally reached her skin. The tension she hadn’t realized she was still holding began to slip away, her shoulders loosening as she closed her eyes.

It helped.

More than she expected.

They didn’t rush her.

Just stayed.

By the time they helped her back out, wrapped in towels, guided carefully back to the couch, the exhaustion had returned fully, heavier than before, settling deep into her bones.

A blanket was pulled over her.

The room quieted.

She didn’t fight it this time.

She just let herself fall asleep.

The next time she woke, it was sharp.

The pain had changed.

It sat deeper now, more present, no longer dulled by medication or adrenaline, settling across her ribs in a way that made even breathing feel deliberate. She stayed still for a moment, hoping it might ease if she didn’t move.

It didn’t.

She inhaled.

The breath caught, tight and uncomfortable, and she let it out slowly, her expression tightening.

The medication had worn off.

Her body felt everything now.

Sylvie noticed first, then Gabby, the shift in her breathing enough to draw their attention without her saying a word. They moved easily into place, calm, practiced, guiding without overwhelming, explaining what her body was doing, why it felt worse now than it had before.

“I thought I was okay,” she admitted.

“You are,” Sylvie said. “This is part of it.”

They walked her through it, through the breathing, through letting the pain exist without shrinking around it, through finding a way to move through it instead of against it. It wasn’t comfortable, and it wasn’t easy, but it was manageable in a way that felt different.

Real.

“I hate this,” she said.

“Yeah,” Gabby answered. “Recovery’s not fun.”

Kelly’s voice was quieter.

“You’re doing fine.”

She didn’t feel fine.

But she understood what he meant.

The medication began to take effect again, slower this time, softening the edges just enough to let her relax back into the couch, her breathing evening out as the tension left her shoulders.

The room settled with her.

The quiet returned.

And this time, when she closed her eyes, she didn’t fight it.

She just let herself rest.

Connor Rhodes was a heavy sleeper after long shifts at the hospital, but the sound that tore through the quiet house wasn’t something any father could sleep through.

A raw, strangled scream.

He was out of bed in an instant, heart hammering as his bare feet hit the cool floor, and he sprinted down the hall to Y/N’s room.

She was curled in on herself in the bed, clutching her lower abdomen, sweat shining on her forehead despite the chill in the air. Her breathing came in ragged, shallow gasps. For a second Connor just froze, gut twisting in dread. Then he moved to her side, crouching next to the bed.

“Y/N… hey, sweetheart, talk to me. Where does it hurt?”

She couldn’t get words out at first, only a weak, strangled whimper. Finally, barely more than a whisper: “Left…side…”

Connor’s mind went clinical. He already knew her PCOS and that one particular cyst had been giving her trouble for the past few days. The scream, the posture, the sheen of sweat — it all lined up with something he dreaded.

He coaxed her gently to lie a little flatter. “I need to check your belly, okay? I’ll be gentle.”

She nodded weakly, tears sliding from her eyes. He palpated carefully, but when his fingers pressed near her left ovary she let out a sharp, guttural cry, instinctively twisting away — and abruptly vomited over the edge of the bed.

That sealed it. The cyst that had been bothering her for days had ruptured.

Connor brushed damp hair back from her forehead, his voice low and steady despite the churn in his chest. “It’s the cyst that’s been bothering you these last few days, sweetheart. It ruptured. I’ve got you.”

He cleaned her up as gently as he could, murmuring soft reassurances, then guided her into his room — closer to his kit and supplies.

“Lie back here,” he said as he helped her settle on the bed. “I’m going to give you something for the pain.”

He pulled out a prefilled syringe from his emergency kit, swabbed her upper thigh, and gave her an intramuscular injection of Toradol. She flinched but barely made a sound, already too wrung out by the pain.

“Good job,” he murmured, rubbing her back as he disposed of the needle. “The medicine’s going to help take the edge off soon.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a watchful eye on her as her breathing gradually slowed and steadied.

But an hour later the pain slammed back — sharp and tearing. Y/N let out another cry and curled onto her side again. Connor’s heart lurched. He gently eased her onto her back to palpate her abdomen, but the moment he pressed low on the left side she screamed, twisted away — and vomited again.

That was it. The tenderness, the guarding, the vomiting. He wasn’t going to gamble that it was just residual pain.

“Hang on,” he murmured, slipping an arm beneath her shoulders and knees. “I think there’s some bleeding. We’re going in.”

She barely had the strength to cling to his shirt as he carried her out to the car.

The ED at Gaffney was bustling, but Connor’s urgency cleared the way. Hannah Asher was there as soon as she heard the situation.

Y/N was pale and clammy, wincing at every bump as they wheeled her in. While the nurse worked to establish a line, Connor stayed right at her side, fingers curled around her hand.

Once the IV was in place, Hannah picked up the ultrasound probe. “Let’s get a look.”

But the moment the probe touched her lower abdomen, Y/N bucked violently in pain, a desperate, panicked sound tearing out of her.

“Stop—please—can’t—” Her voice broke on the last word.

Hannah looked at Connor. “She’s guarding too much. We need to sedate her so I can get a proper view. Two of midazolam IV.”

The nurse drew up the medication. Connor leaned in close, his voice soft but sure.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. We’re going to give you something through the IV to help you relax so we can see what’s going on.”

Y/N’s tear-filled eyes locked on his face. “Don’t… leave…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, his voice low and even. He reached up with his free hand to brush damp hair off her forehead and wiped away the tears streaking down her cheeks.

As the nurse slowly pushed the sedative into the IV, Connor rubbed gentle circles at her temple with his fingertips and held her free hand in a warm, steady grip.

“Just breathe, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Her lashes fluttered and her grip loosened as the medication took hold. He kept rubbing her temple and held her hand until her breathing slowed and evened out.

Hannah adjusted the probe and scanned carefully. “Here we go… there’s the ovary… and—” she shifted the probe slightly, frowning “—free fluid around the uterus. She’s bleeding into the pelvis. We need to get her to the OR.”

Connor’s jaw tightened, but he stayed by his daughter’s side as they wheeled her out, still holding her limp hand.

In the OR, Connor didn’t scrub in. Instead, he stood at the head of the table in a surgical cap and mask, one gloved hand wrapped gently around Y/N’s fingers while the anesthesiologist managed her airway and vitals.

“You’re okay, kiddo,” he said softly, thumb rubbing slow circles over her knuckles. “I’m right here.”

He never let go, keeping his eyes on her face as Hannah and the team worked efficiently beyond the sterile drape.

“Bleeder’s here,” Hannah said quietly a few minutes in. “Small tear in the ovary. We’ll cauterize and suction out the fluid.”

Connor’s hand tightened around Y/N’s slightly. “You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, almost to himself.

The procedure stayed laparoscopic — two tiny incisions, minimal blood loss. When they were finished, Connor bent his head a little closer to her.

“It’s over now,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

A few hours later in recovery, Y/N stirred, blinking sluggishly. Panic flared in her eyes.

Connor was there instantly, leaning in so she could see his face. “Hey, hey. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Her breathing hitched. “What… what happened?”

Connor brushed damp strands of hair from her forehead. “It was the cyst that had been bothering you for the past few days. It ruptured and was bleeding, so Dr. Asher went in with a scope — just two tiny incisions — and stopped the bleeding. You’re okay now.”

Her eyes welled. “I’m so sore…”

“I know.” His voice softened. “That’s normal after this kind of surgery. The worst part’s behind you.”

She gradually calmed beneath his steady voice and drifted back to sleep.

By mid-morning, she was resting in a small private room. Connor sat in a chair beside her, posture slumped with fatigue but eyes fixed on her.

When she stirred again, she winced and reached for her upper chest.

“Easy,” he said gently. “That pain in your chest and shoulders is from the gas they use during laparoscopy. It gets trapped under your diaphragm. It’ll fade as your body absorbs it.”

She grimaced. “Feels like bubbles stuck under my ribs.”

“That’s pretty much what it is,” he said with a faint smile. “We’ll get you up and walking later — that helps it pass.”

Sharon Goodwin stopped by, her expression soft but firm. “I hear you both had quite a night.”

Connor nodded. “The cyst ruptured and bled, but Hannah handled it laparoscopically. She’s stable.”

Goodwin smiled gently at Y/N, then turned to Connor. “I’m giving you a few days off. She’s going to need you at home.”

Connor inclined his head. “Thank you.”

By noon, the discharge nurse went over instructions while Connor listened carefully.

“Keep the incisions clean and dry for 24 hours, then she can shower. Watch for fever, worsening pain, or heavy bleeding. Light activity only for two weeks.”

Y/N nodded faintly, clearly exhausted.

Connor squeezed her shoulder. “Don’t worry about remembering it all. I’ve got it.”

When it was time to leave, she winced as the gas pain caught her again. Connor steadied her with a strong arm, murmuring encouragement. “Deep breath in… good. I know it’s sore. Let’s get you home.”

Back at the house, he settled her gently on the couch with a soft blanket, water and meds close at hand, a pillow tucked behind her back.

“Small sips,” he said as he helped her lift the cup.

She leaned back gingerly, eyes half-closed. “You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”

“Not a chance.” He lightly checked her forehead for fever. “We’ll stay on top of your pain and get you moving a bit later.”

Her eyes drifted shut, breathing evening out as she dozed.

Connor sat quietly beside her, discharge instructions folded on his lap, his gaze never leaving her.

Outside, rain pattered softly against the windows. Inside, the steady rhythm of her breathing filled the quiet house.

He reached over once to adjust the blanket around her shoulders and murmured almost to himself,

“You’re safe now, kiddo. We’ll get you through this. I’m right here.”

For the first time since that terrible scream in the night, the house felt calm again.

The firehouse was quiet when Y/N came through the back door, her backpack sliding off her shoulder. School had been long, the dry fall air scratching at her throat all day, making her chest feel like a rubber band wrapped too tight. She’d been using her inhaler more than she wanted to admit, but each puff seemed to do less than the last. She hadn’t told her dad that morning—he’d already looked worried enough when he heard the faint wheeze in her voice, and she didn't want him to think she was weak.

Now she just wanted to sit in his office and catch her breath until Truck and Squad got back from their call. She pushed the door open, dropped her bag on the chair, and fumbled with the inhaler in her hand that she pulled from Kelly's desk drawer. She tried to take a deep breath in order to give herself a puff, but the harder she tried to draw in a breath, the tighter her chest became, until her vision tunneled and spots swirled in her sight. She couldn’t get air. She couldn’t think. She stood up to go see if she could get to Connie and have her call her dad, but her knees buckled. The inhaler clattered from her fingers as she crumpled to the floor, silent and still, still wheezing as her world faded to nothingness.

Kelly Severide came in minutes later, peeling off his turnout coat and smiling as he headed down the hallway, his whole body still vibrating with adrenaline from the factory fire he just spent the better part of the afternoon at. He always made a point to check on her first thing if she’d gotten back before him. But when he stepped into his office, the grin vanished. His daughter was on the floor, unmoving, skin pale and lips tinged bluish, with her emergency inhaler just barely out of reach.

“Y/N! Baby!” His voice broke. He dropped to his knees, hands shaking as he checked for a pulse. There—a faint flutter. But her chest barely rose. “Sylvie! Gabby! I need you now! Its Y/N! She's barely breathing.” He yelled out as his voice cracked as tears sprang into his eyes at the sight of his girl fighting for breath on his office floor. 

Footsteps pounded across the apparatus floor. Brett and Dawson burst in, jump bags slamming to the ground.

“What do we get?” Sylvie snapped on gloves, dropping beside Y/N.

“Severe asthmatic,” Kelly choked. “She—she was fine this morning—”

“Airway first,” Gabby cut in, flipping open the kit. She tipped Y/N’s head back, slid in an OPA, then grabbed the bag-valve mask. “She’s too tight for a neb. I’m gonna bag her.”

Sylvie wrapped a tourniquet around Y/N’s arm, muttering under her breath, “Come on, sweetheart, stay with us.” She slid a needle into her antecubital, saw the flash of blood, secured the line, and started fluids wide open. “I’m in.”

He obeyed instantly, hands trembling around her limp arm.

Gabby squeezed the bag, her expression grim. “Lungs are like bricks. She's barely moving any air.  Brett, push 1mg of Epi.”

Sylvie rustled through the bag until she found the preloaded syringe of epi that could stabilize her minutely.

“Epi going in,” Sylvie confirmed, pushing the dose.

Y/N’s body twitched faintly, but the wheeze that escaped was high-pitched and desperate.

“She’s not stabilizing,” Sylvie said firmly. “We have to get her to Med. Right now.”

They moved in one practiced motion as Casey and Cruz brought the gurney in—lifting her onto the gurney, strapping her down. Kelly grabbed her backpack and slung it over his shoulder as they ran to the ambulance.

When they got to the ambulance, they loaded her up as Cruz called “I’ll drive!” as he clambers into the driver's seat, taking off just as the doors close

Inside the ambo, chaos turned to rhythm. Gabby knelt at Y/N’s head, mask sealed tight, bagging steadily. “Resistance is through the roof. She’s barely moving air.”

Sylvie monitored vitals, her tone clipped. “Sat’s 82. Pressure holding. Starting a second line.” She glanced at Kelly, softer: “We’re doing everything we can. Stay close.”

Kelly wrapped his hand around Y/N’s wrist, voice low. “I’m right here, kiddo. Just breathe for me. I’ve got you.”

Every bump rattled the cot, but Gabby never missed a squeeze of the bag. Kelly stared at her chest rise—shallow, uneven, terrifyingly insufficient.

“ETA three minutes,” Cruz called.

“She’s not gonna hold this airway much longer,” Sylvie muttered, wiping sweat from her temple.

The doors slammed open at Med. Cool night air rushed in as they rolled her down the ramp. Kelly never let go of the backpack strap, desperate to keep her tethered.

The trauma team was already waiting. “What’ve you got?” Connor barked, gloves snapping on as he fell into step.

Sylvie’s report came fast. “Seventeen-year-old female, asthma. Found unresponsive—diminished to absent breath sounds. Bagged en route, sats low nineties, tachy 160s, hypotensive. IV established, and epi given, no significant improvement. GCS 5. She’s Critical and one of ours.”

“She needs to be tubed. Right now,” Sylvie finished.

“Let's Move!” Connor ordered.

They rushed into Trauma 2. Monitors screamed to life as April and Monique converged. Kelly was shoved toward the glass but pressed close, refusing to look away as they worked frantically to save his daughter's life.

“On three—one, two, three.” They lifted in sync, transferring her to the bed. Straps snapped, BVM swapped from Gabby to a waiting nurse. Leads land across her chest, her heart racing dangerously fast.

Connor’s eyes darted to the monitors as he positioned himself at Y/N’s head. “Get etomidate and succs ready in case she bucks” he barked, his gloves snapping tight. Nurses moved with precision, drawing up syringes, labeling lines, eyes sharp.

He leaned over Y/N, laryngoscope in hand, heart hammering in his chest. Her chest rose shallowly under the bag, each breath a struggle, her skin pale and clammy. Connor braced himself, knowing the airway was already tight, swelling likely hiding the cords.

He inserted the laryngoscope—slow, careful—and froze. There was no gag. No reflex. No twitch.

Nothing.

Her eyes remained closed. No flinch, no pull, no sign that her body even registered the intrusion.

Connor’s stomach dropped. His mind snapped back to all the things that could go wrong, the swelling, the resistance, the minutes lost if the tube didn’t go in smoothly. But the lack of reaction—Y/N’s complete unresponsiveness—hit harder than any physical resistance could.

“Get me a 7.0 tube,” Connor ordered.

“7.0 tube,” April echoed.

Kelly’s fists curled tight. She looked so small on that bed, skin pale, hair damp with sweat.

Connor leaned in, then swore. “Airway’s swollen—cords barely visible. Suction.”

Secretions cleared, he tried again. “Smaller tube. 6.5. Bougie.”

The nurse ripped open sterile packaging. Connor guided the bougie carefully, threading the smaller tube. Resistance—he tried again, being careful not to damage the trachea and vocal cords. “Tube’s in.”

“Good waveforms,” April confirmed. “Equal rise.”

“Secure at twenty-two,” Connor said. “Vent settings—AC, tidal volume four hundred, rate sixteen, FiO₂ one hundred percent, PEEP five.”

The ventilator hissed to life. Her chest rose evenly now, the machine doing what her body couldn't do for itself right now.

“Lets get a portable chest X-ray, labs—CBC, CMP, lactate, troponin, blood gas. Cultures and antibiotics. Start Zosyn,” Connor ordered.

Nurses scattered. Blood drawn, syringes snapped, monitors pinged.

Kelly pressed his forehead to the glass, whispering, “Hang on, kiddo. Please.”

Hours blurred. He never moved from her side in the ICU, the ventilator’s rhythm the only thing steady. He sat in the hard-backed chair, gripping her hand as if it was the only thing keeping her alive. Machines breathed for her. He could only will her to hold on.

In the dead stretch of night, her lashes fluttered. Kelly’s head jerked up when he felt movement in her hand. “Bug? You with me?”

Her brow furrowed, eyes cracking open—hazy, unfocused. Then panic hit like a lightning strike. Her chest fought the vent, breaths shallow, mismatched.

“Easy, bubba” Kelly whispered. “Don’t fight it. It’s helping you.”

But panic ignored logical reason. Her eyes went wide, tears spilling. She gagged around the tube, hand flying up.

Alarms shrieked. Heart rate spiked, sats dipped.

“No, baby girl, don’t!” Kelly caught her wrist in midair, holding it firm to the bed, as he stood over her, his own tears starting anew. She thrashed weakly, desperate to rip the tube free.

Connor burst in with nurses. “She’s panicking— start an ativan bolus, right now!”

Kelly bent close, voice breaking. “Look at me, Bug. Eyes on me. I know it feels wrong, and you're hurt, and confused, but trust us. Just a few more hours. Please.”

She shook her head, gagging, tears streaming. Her grip crushed his hand.

“Bolus going in,” a nurse called.

Kelly whispered fiercely, “I’ve got you, kiddo. You’re not alone.  You gotta hold on for me.”

Her gaze locked on his one last time before the sedative pulled her under, her eyes full of terror. Muscles slackened, alarms eased, the ventilator’s rhythm steady again.

Connor checked the tube. “Airway secure. She’ll stay under until extubation. Reassess in the morning.”

Kelly pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

By midday, sunlight streamed through the blinds. Kelly hadn’t slept. His hand never left hers.

Connor strode in. “Her numbers look good. She’s ready for a spontaneous breathing trial.”

Kelly’s head snapped up. “Does that mean we’re taking the tube out?”

“If she tolerates it,” Connor said. “If she passes, we extubate.”

Kelly bent close. “Hear that, Bug? Almost done.”

Y/N tracked everything her dad did with her eyes, and gripped his hand weakly.

The RT adjusted settings, lowering support. Y/N stirred faintly, syncing breaths more naturally with the machine providing minimal support.

“Looks promising,” Connor said. “Let’s go ahead.”

Kelly’s heart pounded. He squeezed her hand. “You’re gonna feel it, Bug, and its not gonna feel great, but it’s just for a second. I’m right here.”

“Deep breath in… and out,” Connor instructed, pulling smoothly. The tube slid free. Y/N gagged, coughing harshly. April slipped an oxygen mask over her face.

“Good air movement, Vitals holding steady. O2 at 95% on non-rebreather, pulse 86, BP 118/65” April confirmed.

But panic surged—gasps too fast, chest hitching, monitor screaming.

Kelly cupped her cheek. “Slow it down, baby girl. That’s just you breathing now. In through your nose… out slow. With me.”

Her eyes found his wide, terrified, confused.

“If she doesn’t settle, we put her out and reintubate,” Connor warned, flashing Kelly a look.

“No,” Kelly snapped, leaning close, forehead nearly touching hers. “Bug, you don’t want that tube back in do ya? You can do this. In… out. Just stay with me, you can do it.” He said as he rested her hand on his chest to help her match his breathing. 

He exaggerated the rhythm. Inhale. Exhale.

At first chaos—then slowly, painfully, her chest matched his. The alarms quieted. Her sats climbed, and her color returned.

“That’s it,” Kelly whispered. Relief cracked his voice. “That’s my girl, you're ok now.”

“She’s stable,” April confirmed.

“The tube can stay out,” Connor said, tension easing.

Kelly sagged, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Jesus, kiddo. You almost gave me a heart attack. But you did it. You’re okay and I am so happy you came back to me.”

Y/N nudged her head weakly against his. A rasp whispered through the mask, almost inaudible: “’m okay, Dad.”

Kelly swallowed hard, tears spilling as he wrapped his arms carefully around her.

The first wave of pain wasn’t anything Y/N Halstead hadn’t felt before. A dull ache in her stomach, a rolling nausea that wouldn’t quit, the kind of thing she told herself was just a stomach bug. It was flu season. People at work had been out sick left and right, same at school. She figured she’d caught whatever was going around, but she still had work to do. 

Tylenol. Ginger tea. Broth. That was her plan. She had assignments to finish, shifts to cover, and two older brothers who worried too much as it was. But the days dragged on.

Day one, she shivered under her blankets, chills running through her while sweat beaded at her hairline. She ignored the pang of guilt when she blatantly lied to Will via text. Day two, she tried to force herself to class, in agony, and putting on what she hoped was a genuine smile when people asked. She barely made it back to the couch before curling in on herself. By day three, her fever had climbed, Her head felt like the drum set at a rock concert, and the pain in her belly had sharpened into something merciless, clawing at her insides, showing no signs of stopping anytime soon.

What she didn’t tell herself was the truth: that every hour she stayed on that couch, she was slipping closer to a line she might not be able to crawl back from. One that might make her brothers be even more overprotective than they already are. 

When the front door finally opened late that evening, she barely stirred, too far under the feverish haze.

Will pushed it open, rubbing his eyes after a long shift at Med. Jay trailed behind him, shrugging out of his jacket and kicking off his work boots, both of them exhausted. The sound of their voices filled the apartment like it always did—warm, grounding.

“Smells like takeout,” Jay muttered, setting a bag on the counter.

“Y/N?” Will called out automatically. “Where are you?”

Y/N always told them if she wasn’t going to be at home. Whether it be work or studying, or a club. Even when she was home, there was the TV running in the background, cooking a new recipe for the two of them to try, or music from whatever her current favorite artist is.

It was Will who saw her first, a pale shape on the couch, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead, curled into herself with shallow breaths.

“Jesus Christ.” He was at her side in seconds, hand pressing to her forehead. The heat radiating off her made his stomach drop.

He whirled around and grabbed the thermometer he kept in the bin under the coffee table, and swiped it across her forehead.

“Damn it. 104.3” He swore to show the thermometer to Jay.

Her eyes fluttered open at the intrusion, glazed and confused. “Will?” Her voice was barely a croak.

“I’m here.” He kept his tone calm, clinical, even though panic twisted in his chest. He shifted her gently, fingers pressing into her abdomen—and she gasped, trying to curl tighter, tears springing to her eyes.

“Talk to me, what do you need?” Jay demanded, hovering.

Will’s voice was clipped. “Rigid abdomen. Guarding. Rebound tenderness. She’s burning up. Jay—this isn’t a stomach bug. This is appendicitis. And it’s perforated.”

Jay swore, heart slamming against his ribs. “So what do we do?”

“We need to move. Now.”

Jay didn’t waste a second. He scooped his sister into his arms, blanket and all, and she whimpered at the change.  Will barked instructions. “Backseat. I’ll monitor her. Drive fast but don’t get us killed.”

The words barely landed. Jay was already running.

The drive to Med blurred into adrenaline and headlights, and Jay was slightly reckless even with his lights and sirens turned on.

Jay drove like a man possessed, weaving through traffic, horn blaring, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. In the backseat, Will cradled his sister upright, murmuring reassurances she was too far gone to process.

Her head lolled against his shoulder, skin clammy, eyes half-lidded. “Stay with me, Y/N,” he pleaded, shaking her lightly. “Come on, kiddo. You’re okay. Just keep breathing. We’ve got you.”

She made a weak sound, nothing more, and Jay pressed harder on the gas, running a red light with a curse.

“Almost there,” Will said, but it felt more like a prayer.

The ED doors burst open, and Will was already shouting. “Connor! She’s in septic shock from a ruptured appendix! Fever’s spiking, BP’s tanking!”

Connor Rhodes appeared in an instant, snapping gloves on. He looked at the Halsteads—Will wild-eyed and pale, Jay carrying her and looking like he’d take out the world with his bare hands—and then at Y/N, limp and burning up on the gurney.

April and Monique rushed in as Jay laid her on the gurney in Trauma 2. 

“BP 94/40, Pulse 145, Temp 104.5, O2 sat 92% on non rebreather.” April called out

“Get 2 large bore IVs and push a fluid bolus in both, and get broad-spectrum antibiotics started, hang norepinephrine if her pressure doesn’t come up,” Connor ordered, already gloving up.

“Get her upstairs now,” Connor ordered. “We’re going straight to the OR.”

Jay tried to follow, but a nurse blocked him. “Family has to wait.”

“The hell I will—”

“Jay.” Will’s voice cracked, torn between roles. “Let them work. It’s her best shot.”

Helpless, the brothers were left in the waiting room, pacing holes in the floor, clutching Styrofoam cups of coffee that went cold untouched.

Connor opened her abdomen and swore under his breath.

“Perforation confirmed. The peritoneal cavity is full of purulent fluid. Irrigation now.”

The smell was sharp, acrid. His hands moved quickly, resecting the necrotic appendix, suctioning, irrigating liter after liter of saline through her abdominal cavity. Every second counted.

“How are her numbers?”

“Soft pressures, sats borderline,” the anesthesiologist said. “We’re pushing fluids and pressors.”

Finally, the appendix was gone, the cavity washed, drains in place. But her body wasn’t strong enough to breathe alone.

“She stays intubated,” Connor said. “Sedate until she stabilizes.”

The first time Y/N woke, it was like surfacing into hell.

Her throat burned. Her chest felt tight, wrong, as air was forced into her lungs. She tried to inhale, but the machine did it for her. She tried to speak, but nothing came. Panic surged, primal and overwhelming.

Her eyes flew open. Alarms screamed as her pulse skyrocketed. She thrashed, tugging against the soft restraints that were there to keep her from attempting self-extubation. 

“Y/N—hey!” Will was there instantly, voice steady but urgent. “You’re intubated. That’s why you can’t talk. You need help breathing right now. You’re safe, kiddo. You’re safe.”

But panic overrode everything. She twisted, fought, and managed to slip one wrist free. “Shit—she’s going for it!” Jay called.

Connor strode in like a thunderclap. “Ativan, now!” He called, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

The sedative hit her bloodstream. Her movements slowed, eyes fluttering shut, lashes wet with tears as her body gave in.

Will pressed his forehead to her wrist, shaking. Jay turned away, fists pressed to his eyes. Neither said a word.

Hours later, Connor made the call. “She’s ready. We’ll extubate.”

Will stood on one side, Jay on the other, both holding their breath as the team gathered.

“Y/N we are going to go ahead and get this tube out. I need you to follow my instructions. It’s not gonna be fun for a few seconds, but it'll be quick. Do you understand?” Connor asked, his gloved hand stroking her cheek affectionately. 

She nodded weakly, tears welled up in her eyes. 

“Deep breath in,” Connor instructed. “And out.”

The tube slid free. Y/N gagged, coughing violently, chest heaving as a non rebreather was placed on her face. Relief hit, but then panic surged again.

Her breaths came too fast, shallow, her lips turned dusky. The monitor wailed.

“Y/N, slow down!” Will pleaded. “You’re okay. You’re breathing on your own. Just slow down.”

Connor’s tone was sharp. “If she doesn’t calm down, we’ll have no choice but to re-intubate.”

Jay stepped forward, voice breaking. “You hear that, kid? They’ll put it back in. You don’t want that again. Breathe with us. Look at me. Will cupped her face, grounding her. “Right here. In… out. You can do this. You don’t need the tube. Just breathe.”

Slowly, painfully, her breaths steadied. The sats climbed. Color returned.

The monitor calmed.

Jay sagged back into his chair, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

Will didn’t let go of her hand. His voice cracked. “You scared us, Y/N. Don’t ever hide something like this again.”

Her reply was broken, barely a whisper. “Didn’t… wanna bother you.”

Both brothers froze, gutted.

Jay leaned down, forehead against hers. “You’re never a bother. Never.”

Will’s voice was thick. “You could’ve died. Don’t ever do that again.”

Connor slipped out quietly, leaving the storm to settle between the siblings.

Two days later, Connor stood at her bedside during morning rounds. “She’s stable. Normally I’d keep a perforation patient longer, but—” he looked at Will “—with you here, I’m comfortable sending her home tomorrow. You can handle her site and drains?”

Will nodded instantly. “Yes.”

Y/N croaked, “Home… please.”

Connor smiled faintly. “Home it is.”

Home was better.

Will turned the couch into a recovery station—pillows, blankets, meds lined neatly, wound care supplies within reach. He hovered constantly, checking vitals, writing everything down like he was still in the ED.

By day seven, she was stronger. Sitting up with help, sipping broth, even managing a faint smile when Jay teased her about being tougher than both her brothers combined.

On day seven, Connor had insisted on coming by to check Y/N himself. Will had been monitoring the incision and drain daily, but Connor wanted a surgeon’s eyes on it—especially given how septic she’d been pre-op.

Y/N knew something was up the second Connor set his bag on the counter and laid out supplies: a sterile kit, scissors, gauze, gloves, and a small biohazard container. She shifted uneasily on the couch, pulling the blanket higher.

“You’ve been doing great,” Connor said evenly, slipping on gloves. “But I think it’s time we take that drain out.”

Her eyes widened instantly. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Y/N,” Will began, sitting on the arm of the couch. “It’s a good thing. It means your body’s healing—there’s not enough fluid building up to need the drain anymore.”

“Then leave it!” she snapped, her voice trembling. “If it’s not hurting anything, just leave it.”

Jay crouched at her side, squeezing her hand. “Bug, it’s better to get it out before it causes a problem. The longer it stays, the higher the infection risk.”

She shook her head, chest heaving, eyes darting from Connor to the tubing pinned against her abdomen. “You’re not touching it.”

Connor’s tone stayed calm but firm, professional with a thread of sympathy. “I know it sounds scary, but leaving it in when it’s no longer needed is more dangerous than removing it. It’ll be quick, I promise.”

Still, when he leaned closer to start prepping, Y/N panicked. She twisted hard, nearly yanking her arm from Jay’s grasp, and shoved weakly at Connor’s wrist with trembling fingers. “Don’t—please don’t!”

Connor immediately pulled back, raising both hands in surrender. Will stepped in, crouching so she couldn’t avoid his eyes. “Hey. No one’s going to force you. Listen to me, okay? This means you’re getting better. It’s going to hurt, yes. It’s going to feel awful. But once it’s out, you’ll move easier, you’ll heal faster, and there’s no risk of bacteria creeping up the line. That’s what you want, right? To get back to yourself?”

Jay pressed a kiss into her temple. “We’re right here. Both of us. You can squeeze the hell out of my hand if you need to. Just… trust us.”

Tears streaked her cheeks, but at last she gave a small, miserable nod. “Okay. Just—please don’t let go of me.”

Connor moved methodically, talking her through it. “First I’ll cut the suture holding the tube in place. You’ll feel a tug. Then I’ll slowly slide the drain out—pressure, maybe some stinging, but it’s fast. Deep breaths, alright?”

Y/N buried her face into Jay’s shoulder, white-knuckling his hand.

The suture snapped under Connor’s scissors, and she flinched violently, a strangled whimper tearing from her throat. When he started to ease the tube free, she panicked again, twisting, trying to push his hand away.

“Hold, hold—pause,” Connor ordered quickly, freezing his movements. He met her eyes, steady and unwavering. “Y/N. This is the hardest part. We’re almost done. One more pull and it’s out for good. You can do this.”

Jay cupped her cheek, forcing her to focus. “One more, bug. Just one. Then it’s over.”

 She nodded against him. Connor resumed, steady and controlled, and with one smooth pull the drain slid free.

She gasped sharply, gagging at the slick, invasive sensation—and seconds later lurched sideways, retching violently into the basin Will shoved under her chin.

“All done,” Connor reassured quietly, dropping the tubing into the biohazard bin. He pressed fresh gauze over the site, firm but gentle. “That’s it. No more drain.”

But the victory was short-lived. Y/N’s breathing stayed rapid and shallow, her pulse monitor ticking up as her skin went pale.

“BP’s trending down—92 over 54,” Will reported, his tone sharpening. “Heart rate 132.”

“Just panic,” Connor said quickly, already signaling a nurse he’d brought to prep a backup kit. “But we need to bring her down before she tips further.”

Will drew up a small syringe, tapping it. “Ativan, one milligram IM. Just enough to calm her, not knock her out.”

Jay held her steady while Will injected it into her thigh.

“Shh, you’re okay,” Jay whispered, rocking her slightly. “That’s it. Breathe with me. Slow. In… out…”

Connor checked the dressing once more, satisfied, then stripped off his gloves. “Drain’s out. Wound looks good. She’ll be sore, and the nausea might hang around tonight, but this was the right call.”

Jay kissed her damp hair, murmuring against her temple. “You did it, bug. I know you didn’t want to, but you did it.”

She sagged weakly against him, glassy-eyed but calmer, and for the first time since she’d come home, Connor allowed himself a small nod of approval.

Y/N leaned back against her brothers, blanket tangled around them like a protective cocoon. Jay’s hand never left hers, and Will hovered nearby, glancing over her with a soft, proud smile.

“You’re safe,” Jay whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “And you’re home. That’s all that matters.”

Will nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “We’re never letting anything like that happen again. You’re ours, and we’ve got you—always.”

Y/N closed her eyes, letting herself finally relax, letting the panic and fear slip away. 

Safe. Loved. Whole.

Her brothers were there, and that was everything.

Y/N Halstead had been feeling off all day.

There was a subtle tightness in her chest from the moment she woke up. A pressure. Not painful, not alarming. Just… heavy. But she ignored it. Because she had things to do. A full day of classes, studying for her CCMA Certification exam, a closing shift at her restaurant job. 

Always something.

Always moving.

Because if she kept moving, maybe her world wouldn't give in on her.

Her brothers, Will and Jay, had been worried. She brushed them off like she always did. "I'm fine," she said that morning. "Just tired."

But the thing about constantly carrying weight is that eventually, you drop it, and you never know when it will happen.

It started in her favorite class. Medical Assisting.

The heaviness in her chest had turned into shallow breaths. Then the chest pressure spread, like an invisible hand pushing down on her lungs. Her hands trembled, and the room began to tilt.

She didn’t know what to do. She ran. 

Jay was sitting at his desk at the Precinct, when he got the call from an unknown number. 

“Halstead.” He answered. 

“Hi. Detective Halstead. This is Mrs. Nalton from the Vocational Center. I just wanted to let you know that Y/N ran out of class very abruptly. I just wanted to make sure she was ok.” She stated, genuine concern in her voice. 

“Oh wow, that is not like her at all. Thanks for letting me know.” He ended the call without so much as a goodbye. 

He got up from his desk and went to Voight. “Sarge, Ive gotta take a personal. Y/N’s teacher just called. She ran out of class.” 

Voight looked up at him in shock. “Go. Keep us posted.” He said with no hesitation.

Jay nodded and ran. He called Will as he did. “Will, be ready outside Med. Its Y/N.” No further statement was needed. Jay got in his truck and gunned it towards Med. 

Y/N didn't even know how she drove home, but she did. 

Get water, her brain said. Water will help.

She stumbled through the door, into the kitchen, her vision doubling, black creeping in at the edges. Her heart slammed against her ribcage, each beat a frantic warning.

By the time she reached the sink, she was gasping, each breath more difficult than the last. 

And then the floor rushed up to meet her, the last thing she heard was the shattering of the glass she tried to grab. 

Will and Jay arrived, Jay barely putting the car in park before he was out of the truck, Will hot on his heels.

The first red flag was that the front door was ajar. 

"That isn't like her at all," Jay muttered as they entered the apartment.

"Not at all," Will replied, already concerned. He dropped his keys. "Y/N?"

No answer.

Jay reached the kitchen first.

And he froze.

"WILL!"

Y/N lay crumpled on the floor. Her skin pale, her breaths shallow and fast. One hand was curled toward her chest. There was broken glass nearby and blood on her palm.

Will dropped beside her, instinct kicking in.

"Y/N, hey!" he called. She didn’t respond.

He pinched her trapezius. Nothing.

Then he did a sternal rub—knuckles against her sternum, hard. Her eyes fluttered open at the pain stimulus, but they were glassy, unfocused.

"There she is," Will breathed.

"What—what happened to her?" Jay asked, voice cracking.

"Panic attack. A bad one," Will said. "Help me lay her flat"

But as they tried to help her to her back, Y/N flinched violently.

"No… no, don't touch me!" she cried out, eyes wide with terror.

"Y/N, it’s us," Jay said quickly, kneeling next to her. "It’s me. Jay. You’re safe."

She pushed his hands away, barely coherent. "I can’t breathe… can’t—"

"Will," Jay said urgently.

"She's combative," Will murmured. "We need to ground her."

Jay didn't hesitate. He sat her up, pulled her into a tight bear hug from behind, arms wrapped securely around her, anchoring her like he had when she was little and scared after nightmares.

"You’re okay," he whispered into her hair. "I got you. We got you."

She struggled for a moment, then slowly melted into his hold, sobbing, shaking, and hyperventilating.

Will took her hand that wasn't bleeding and held it to his chest. “Y/N, sweetheart, listen to me, and follow my breathing.” He said as he started to take deep, exaggerated breaths. 

Once her breathing was under control, Will grabbed a towel and gently wrapped her bleeding hand. "Just a small cut. We’ll take care of it."

He helped them move to the couch. Jay held her while Will cleaned the wound.

"You fainted," Will told her gently. "You were hyperventilating. Do you remember?"

She nodded weakly.

"It’s okay now," Jay said, brushing hair from her face. "You’re not alone."

"I’m fine," she whispered a few minutes later.

Will froze. Jay sat up.

Will looked up, eyes shadowed. "Y/N…"

"I’m okay. I just—needed a moment. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s nothing."

Jay stood fast. He started pacing.

Then turned. "Don’t you dare say it’s nothing."

She shrank into the couch.

Jay crouched in front of her. "We walked in and found you on the floor, barely breathing. There was blood. You didn’t know where you were. And you think we’re just gonna let that go?"

Tears brimmed in her eyes, threatening to flow over again.

Will’s voice was softer, but no less pained. "Y/N… you ran out of class. Your teacher called us. That’s not ‘fine.’ That’s not ‘a moment.’ You’re not okay, and it’s okay to say that."

Jay sat beside her again, not touching her yet.

Will leaned forward. "You know what kills me? I see patients like this every day. People who push themselves too far, who hold it in until their bodies give out. And I didn’t see it in my own sister."

Y/N’s lip quivered.

"I should’ve noticed," Will said. "The late nights. The way you brush us off. You’re so damn good at pretending. You didn’t have to be."

"I didn’t want to be a burden," she choked out.

Jay swore and pulled her into his arms. "You could never be a burden."

She broke.

Sobs wracked her frame, raw and shattering. Jay held her tighter. Will wrapped an arm around both of them.

"You’re ours," Will said. "There is nothing you could go through that we wouldn’t want to help you with."

"I thought… if I just worked harder… kept pushing… I could hold it together."

Jay tucked her hair behind her ear. "You’ve been holding the world on your shoulders. You never had to."

Jay helped her to the bathroom, sat on the floor while she washed her hands. When she couldn’t dry them, he did it for her.

Will brought her a sweatshirt from her childhood—soft, oversized, familiar. He helped her into it.

They settled her on the couch. Water.  Weighted blanket. Quiet.

After a long silence:

"I’ve been having attacks like that for a while."

Will didn’t look surprised. Just sad. "How long?"

"Weeks. Maybe longer. This one was… different. I couldn’t stop it."

Jay’s jaw ticked. "We’re getting you help. No arguing."

"I know," she said. "I want to."

Will looked stunned for a second, then nodded.

Later, she lay curled under the blanket, Will on the floor beside her, Jay at the other end of the couch with his hand resting on her ankle like an anchor.

Almost asleep, she heard it again:

"Don’t break. Don’t break. Don’t break."

But something had shifted.

"You broke. But they were there. And you’re still here."

She let herself breathe.

Y/N had been on her way to start her shift at Med when it happened. One second, she was slowing for the intersection; the next, the world exploded in shattering glass and screeching metal. The impact sent her car spinning, slamming into a streetlight. Then, nothingness.

Brett and Violet had just finished a call when the dispatch came through—major MVC, driver unconscious, possible entrapment. Their stomachs dropped when they heard the location. They instantly recognized the location, as it was on the route you typically took to get to your shifts at Med.

They arrived to find Y/N trapped, barely conscious, blood pooling from a head wound. She was breathing—but barely, and it was visibly laboured. Violet gets into the passenger seat and starts IV and gets a C-Collar on her.  Squad 3 pried the door open, and gently moved her to the gurney. Just as she was settled on the gurney, the monitors shrieked in warning as she flatlined. 

“No pulse!” Violet shouted. “Starting compressions!” She jumps on and straddles the gurney as Brett and Severide load it in. 

Casey arrived just in time to see them loading Y/N into the rig, Brett delivering a shock with the defibrillator, as Violet sat back on the bench and spoke into her radio. His stomach turned as he saw your body jolt. Matt tried to jump into the back of the ambulance, but Severide held him back before slamming the doors shut, as Cruz got into the cab and gunned it to Med. 

En route to Med, Violet is doing compressions, while Brett gets you intubated since you were no longer protecting your airway. 

Once they arrive to Med, it is a host of organized chaos

"Female, late 20s, T-boned at high speed—found unresponsive at the scene, GCS 3. Sustained significant chest trauma with suspected cardiac contusion or tension pneumo. Lost pulses as we left the scene—three rounds of epi given, three shocks delivered. Intubated en route, no spontaneous respirations. Six-minute downtime."

“Going to Baghdad” Maggie called out as they rushed past. 

As soon as they entered, the trauma room was chaos—beeping monitors, the hurried shuffle of feet, the thud of chest compressions. The team had been working for what felt like an eternity, but nothing was giving. Will, Ethan, and Connor moved in sync, pushing meds, shocking Y/N again and again, trying to pull her back from the brink.

“Pulse?” Connor asked, voice strained, eyes fixed on the monitor.

“Nothing,” Will answered, his voice low but firm.

Connor turns to the defibrillator and starts charging it again. 

"Charged to 360! Clear!" Connor shouted, his voice cutting through the noise of the trauma room.

The room fell silent for a moment as Y/N’s body jolted once more, the shock coursing through her.

Seconds ticked by. All three doctors were watching the monitors, when suddenly, the beeping of a faint pulse began to return. Connor’s heart hammered in his chest.

“She's back,” Ethan breathed, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Connor quickly turned his attention back to Y/N, watching her intently. 

“We need to get her to the OR,” he said, taking charge, his voice steady and commanding. “I’m not wasting time. Let's move.”

He looked over to Will and Ethan. “You ready?”

Will nodded, already prepping the IV fluids. “Let’s go.”

Severide appeared in the doorway, his face tense with worry, but relief in his eyes. “Is she stable enough to move?”

“For now,” Connor replied, turning to the gurney, adjusting Y/N’s head gently, making sure your airway was secure. “But we’re pushing it. We can’t wait much longer.”

The team was quick to wheel Y/N out of the trauma room, and Connor took point, pushing the gurney with a sense of urgency. He never took his eyes off of her, watching the mechanical rise and fall of her chest from the ventilator and the pulse on the monitor.

“Stay with me, Y/N,” he whispered to himself, though he knew you couldn’t hear him. His breath caught as they reached the hallway, the tension thick in the air.

The OR doors loomed ahead, and the weight of the moment hit him like a ton of bricks. He had no idea what would happen when they got you inside—but he knew one thing for sure: He wasn’t letting you go without a fight.

The team rushed you into the OR, and Connor didn’t hesitate. He followed immediately, calling orders as they moved into the sterile environment.

“Let’s get everything prepped. I’m not losing her,” Connor said, his voice sharp and filled with determination. “She’s strong. We’ve got this.”

In the hall

Casey stood there, numb, watching the love of his life disappear behind the operating room doors.

And then, as they wheeled her past—his vision swam. The world tilted.

Someone called his name. Hands grabbed at him.

Then—nothing.

“Casey!” Severide barely caught him before he hit the floor. He was completely out—limp in Severide’s arms.

Brett rushed for help. Choi arrived within seconds, immediately checking Casey’s vitals. “Pulse is weak—thready. BP’s tanking.”

“Matt, come on,” Severide muttered, shaking him, but he didn’t stir.

Choi pressed his knuckles hard against Casey’s sternum, rubbing roughly.

Nothing.

Another rub.

Casey suddenly gasped, jerking violently. His eyes flew open, wild and unfocused.

Then he fought.

Casey came back swinging. Hands on his arms, voices all around him, his body on fire. He felt trapped—pinned.

“No—get off me!” He thrashed, panic clawing at his chest.

“Hold him down!” Choi barked. “If he doesn’t stop, he’s gonna crash again!”

“Casey, stop!” Severide’s voice cut through the chaos. “You’re safe. You passed out.”

But Casey wasn’t listening. His body was still in fight mode, reacting purely on adrenaline. Choi didn’t hesitate.

“Two milligrams IM Ativan—now.”

A sharp prick in his shoulder. Seconds later, warmth spread through his veins, dragging him under.

The next time he woke, he was in an ER bay, IV now in his arm, nasal cannula delivering oxygen. His head throbbed. His limbs felt like lead.

“Easy, man.” Severide was beside him.

Casey blinked, sluggish. “What…”

“You passed out. Went completely unresponsive. Scared the hell out of all of us.”

Flashes came back—Y/N, the OR, the panic, the blackout.

Casey swallowed hard, noticing the IV in his arm. He reached up to yank the nasal cannula off—

“Don’t even think about it,” Severide warned, standing to place a heavy hand on his best friend’s shoulder.

Casey scowled but relented. “Where’s Y/N?”

Severide hesitated. “Will should be out soon.”

Minutes stretched painfully before Will appeared.

“She made it,” Will said. “Surgery went well. She’s stable.”

Relief hit Casey so hard he nearly choked on it.

Severide wheeled Casey up to her room, IV still hooked up. When they entered, Y/N was just starting to stir. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sedation. Her gaze landed on Casey.

She blinked, confusion flickering across her face. “Matt?” Her voice was hoarse from the tube.

“Hey,” Casey rasped, moving closer. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Her eyes drifted to the wheelchair, to the IV still in his arm. Her brows furrowed. “What… what happened?”

Casey hesitated, but Severide filled in the blanks. “Idiot over here passed out in the waiting room when they took you back.”

Y/N’s lips parted in faint surprise. “You—what?”

Casey exhaled. “Guess I didn’t handle it well.”

She gave a soft, tired smile. “You’re stuck with me, Casey.”

His throat tightened as tears started rolling down his face. “Yeah,” he murmured, taking her hand gently. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

The first few days of your recovery were rough. The pain was unbearable at times, but the exhaustion was worse. Physical therapy was grueling. But Casey never left your side.

Some days, she made progress—sitting up, taking a few steps.

Other days, the setbacks hit hard—pain flaring, dizziness keeping you in bed. Frustration weighed on you, but Casey was always there, steady as ever.

“You got this,” he’d whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

One night, you broke down, tears slipping free. “What if I don’t get back to how I was?”

Casey cupped your face. “You're not alone. We haven’t crossed that bridge yet, but if we do, then we figure it out together.”

Y/N exhaled shakily. Then, she leaned into him.

Because through it all—through the pain, the fear, the uncertainty—one thing remained true.

She wasn’t doing this alone.

And neither was he.

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@zoeykaytesmom

Connor knew something was wrong the second he walked through the door.

The heat inside your apartment was stifling, the air thick and constricting. The thermostat read 80°F, far too high for someone already burning up. A spike of worry cut through him like a knife as he scanned the dimly lit living room, eyes locking onto the couch where you were curled up beneath a pile of sweat-soaked blankets.

You were trembling, body wracked with uncontrollable shivers despite the heat.

“Y/N.”

Kneeling beside you, he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, only to feel scorching heat radiating off your skin. His pulse jumped. This wasn’t just a fever—it was dangerous.

Your eyelids fluttered weakly, but your gaze didn’t quite focus. Your pupils were sluggish, the usual warmth in your eyes dulled by exhaustion and something far worse—delirium.

“…Jay?”

Connor stilled.

His chest tightened as he watched your eyes flicker past him, unfocused and distant.

You weren’t looking at him… You were looking through him. 

Your fingers twitched against his arm, grasping at something—or someone—who wasn’t there.

“You—you’re hurt,” you mumbled, your raspy voice barely above a whisper. “Jay… you need to sit down. You’re—there’s so much blood—”

Connor exhaled sharply, his throat tightening.

He recognized the signs immediately: delirium from hyperpyrexia. You weren’t just confused—you were trapped in some fever-induced flashback, reliving a memory you couldn’t escape.

“Y/N,” he said firmly, cupping your cheek, his touch gentle but grounding. “It’s Connor. I’m here. You’re sick, but I’ve got you.”

You let out a soft, distressed noise, your body twitching under his hands. Another tremor wracked your frame, and Connor barely suppressed a curse.

Grabbing the thermometer from the coffee table, he slipped it under your tongue, keeping a steadying hand at the nape of your neck when your head lolled slightly. The beep came too soon, and when he pulled it back, his heart dropped into his stomach.

104.7°F.

A fever that high wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was life-threatening. If it climbed much higher, you’d be at risk for seizures, brain damage, organ failure.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, already reaching for his bag.

Your pulse was racing beneath his fingers—easily over 120 bpm, a classic sign of systemic inflammatory response syndrome. You were dehydrated, tachycardic, and burning up.

He considered calling an ambulance, but as if sensing his thoughts, your weak fingers curled around his wrist.

“No hospital,” you rasped, voice barely audible.

Connor exhaled sharply through his nose.

He should’ve fought you on it. If this were anyone else—any other patient—he would’ve forced them onto a gurney and straight into the ED. But you weren’t just anyone.

You were you.

And he’d sworn to keep you safe.

“Okay,” he murmured, brushing damp hair from your forehead. “Okay.”

Your fingers twitched again, something close to a thank you.

But another violent shiver stole any chance of a response, your body curling in on itself as your muscles spasmed from the fever.

At that, Connor got up and strode to the hall closet, where he kept a more advanced first aid kit, which included IV kits and medications, since like your brothers, you had a severe tendency to downplay your injuries and illnesses. 

Connor moved swiftly, securing a tourniquet around your arm as he scanned for a vein. The cephalic vein, located just to the side of your bicep tendon, was faint but still visible, though it appeared slightly collapsed. The dehydration was complicating the process, so Connor lightly flicked the area he planned to use, hoping to encourage the vein to dilate and make the insertion easier.

“Stay with me, sweetheart,” he murmured, swabbing the site before uncapping the 18-gauge catheter.

The needle slid in smoothly. A flash of blood return filled the chamber, and Connor advanced the catheter before securing the line. He hooked up the normal saline IV, and put the IV bag on a hook that held a picture of you and him, that he took down temporarily. and opened the roller clamp, watching the fluid start to drip into your system.

Your body twitched at the sudden intake of fluids.

“There we go,” he murmured, keeping his voice steady even as his own pulse refused to cease galloping. “You’re gonna feel so much better soon.”

But your fever was still too high.

Connor pushed himself up and strode to the bathroom, twisting the faucet until lukewarm water began filling the tub. He tested the temperature with his wrist, ensuring it wasn’t too cold. Cooling too fast could cause vasoconstriction and worsen the fever response.

Returning to you, he placed the IV bag on your abdomen, and eased his arms under you, picking you up. You whimpered slightly at the change in positions, to which Connor replied, “Shh sweet girl. It's alright. I’ve got you.” He carried you into the bathroom, and gently set you in the water, and set the IV bag up on the shower curtain rod. 

The second your skin touched the water, a weak whimper escaped your lips.

“No—Jay—don’t—”

His grip tightened, steady but gentle.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, running a cool washcloth over your flushed skin. “I’ve got you.”

You let out another quiet sound, eyes still distant—but this time, you finally started to relax.

Minutes stretched on. The room was silent aside from the occasional ragged breath you took, the soft drip of the IV, the steady cadence of Connor’s voice as he whispered reassurances.

Slowly, the fever began to break.

104… 103.5… 102.6°F.

Still high. But it was no longer lethal.

Once he was sure your body had adjusted, he got you out of the tub, wrapped you in your favorite fluffy towel, and carried you into your shared bedroom and sat you on the edge of the bed. Quickly, he went into the closet,and got a pair of running shorts and a t- shirt. Connor helped you into dry clothes and laid you in bed. Your skin was clammy, your body still weak, but your pulse had steadied—no longer erratic, no longer dangerously fast.

Your fingers curled around his wrist, stronger than before.

“’M still here,” you mumbled, voice scratchy but certain.

His chest tightened.

Yeah. You were. And as long as he had anything to say about it, you always would be.

Recovery was slow.

For the next day and a half, Connor barely left your side.

Your fever hovered around 101°F, leaving you exhausted and barely able to keep your eyes open for more than a few minutes at a time. Even when you were awake, your words came out in a haze, fever-induced ramblings that broke his heart every single time.

“Jay, is… is that you?” you murmured weakly, your voice a rough whisper. The fever was still clouding your mind. It wasn’t until you saw the concerned, loving gaze in Connor’s eyes that you fully registered who was there. The next words that came from you weren’t words at all, just a strangled sob of relief that wracked your body and nearly broke him. He held you through it, not knowing how to fix it, but he knew he couldn’t let you go.

Connor forced you to sip electrolyte solutions, fed you small bites of soup even when you weakly protested.

“You haven’t eaten in two days,” he reminded you, his voice soft but firm, not willing to back down.

You scowled at him from beneath the blankets. “Bossy.”

He smirked. “Stubborn.”

It was hard to see you like this. You, normally so strong, so fiercely independent, now depend on him for even the smallest things. It made him feel like the walls were closing in, like the weight of his own concern was suffocating him. 

Eventually, the fever broke entirely. Your temperature finally dropped below 100°F, and the exhaustion that had weighed on you like a lead blanket finally began to lift.

Connor—still hovering, always watching—checked your pulse one last time, fingers lingering over your wrist.

Finally, he let himself relax.

“See?” you murmured, voice still hoarse but teasing. “Told you I’d be fine.”

Connor huffed, shaking his head. “You nearly cooked yourself from the inside out. Forgive me if I don’t find that too terribly funny.”

You sighed, squeezing his hand. “But I had you.”

His gaze softened, and he remembered why he fell head over heels for you in the first place. 

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “You did.”

And you always would.

As you slept, Connor stayed awake, fearful you might take a turn down the wrong direction. the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest being the only thing keeping him sane. He watched over you, unable to shake the nagging fear that had lodged itself in his chest. But each breath you took, each gentle movement, was a reminder that you were still with him. And that was all that mattered.

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The emergency department at Gaffney Chicago Medical Center was alive with its usual chaos. Machines beeped in rapid succession, the sound of rolling stretchers filled the air, and the scent of antiseptic clung to every surface. You had been working for over ten hours straight, your energy waning, but the rush of the ERkept you upright.

“You still with us, Y/N?” Maggie’s voice broke through your focus as you adjusted an IV drip in Bed 4. “You’ve been running around like you’re on autopilot.”

You managed a tired smile. “Just another day in the ED.”

She shook her head, handing you a new set of patient orders. “At least grab some water.”

You nodded, but before you could follow through, Dr. Halstead’s voice cut through the department. “Y/N, I need 0.5mg of epi for Bed 6!”

You grabbed the medication, handing it over without a second thought. As you moved back toward the nurses’ station, your stomach growled. Without thinking, you grabbed a donut from the break room counter, taking a quick bite. The moment the taste of peanuts hit your tongue, your heart stopped.

You knew you were allergic. You have always been extremely careful. But exhaustion clouded your judgment, and now the mistake was irreversible. Panic set in as the familiar tightness gripped your throat. Your breath came in short, gasping bursts as your airway swelled shut. You started to stumble towards the nurses station and Maggie, but before you could, dizziness hit like a freight train, and before you could steady yourself, your vision swam. A sharp pain erupted as your head struck the desk as you went down, a sickening crack echoing in your ears, followed by Maggie yelling “Y/N!” before the world went black.

Will’s POV

The moment he heard Maggie yell your name, Will’s heart nearly stopped. He turned, spotting your crumpled form on the floor, blood pooling from a deep gash on your forehead. The pallor of your skin sent a jolt of fear through him.

“Somebody get a crash cart!” he barked, pushing past nurses as he fell to his knees beside you. “Y/N! Can you hear me?” He did a sternal rub with no response. He checked your pulse—rapid and thready. Your breathing was shallow, barely existent.

“Severe anaphylaxis,” Natalie assessed quickly as she joined Will. “We need airway support now.”

Will’s hands trembled as he tilted your chin back to open your airway. “Epi, now! 0.5mg IM, and start an IV for a second dose if needed.”

Maggie was already ahead of him, pushing the medication into your thigh. Ethan secured an ambu bag over your face, but your chest barely rose.

“She’s going into respiratory failure,” Ethan warned. “We need to intubate.”

Will’s throat tightened. “No—wait, she’s coding!”

The monitor wailed as your heartbeat flatlined.

“Starting compressions!” Will’s voice cracked as he pressed his hands to your sternum, counting aloud. “One, two, three—come on, Y/N—five, six, seven…”

“IV access is impossible,” Natalie said, voice urgent. “We need a neck IV.”

“Ethan, get an external jugular line in, now!” Will barked.

Ethan worked fast, inserting the large-bore catheter into your neck. The moment it was in place, Ehtan secured it with practiced ease

“Pushing another round of epi,” Natalie confirmed.

“Charging to 200 joules!” Natalie called, placing the defibrillator pads against your chest. “Clear!”

Will pulled back as your body arched from the shock, but the monitor remained still.

“360,” Will ordered desperately. “One more time.”

“Charging—clear!”

A beat.

Then another.

A weak, erratic rhythm flickered across the screen.

“She’s back,” Ethan confirmed, releasing a breath. “Let’s get her tubed before she arrests again.”

Will reached for the laryngoscope, carefully guiding the ET tube past your vocal cords with some difficulty due to the swelling. “Tube’s in. Confirm breath sounds.”

Ethan listened with his stethoscope. “Equal breath sounds bilaterally. Secure it.”

Will clenched his jaw as he secured the tube, watching the ventilator deliver each breath for you. The worst was over—for now.

Your POV

You surfaced from the darkness slowly, awareness returning in fragments. A deep ache pulsed through your skull, and your throat burned. Something was in your mouth—blocking, suffocating.

Panic surged through you. Your body fought against the intrusion, hands weakly moving toward the tube. Before you could pull, strong hands caught your wrists.

“Y/N, stop.”

Will’s voice.

You tried again, your body instinctively rejecting the tube. The alarms blared.

“Lets get some soft restraints in here,” Ethan instructed, securing your wrists to prevent another attempt. “She’s too agitated.”

“She needs some sedation,” Natalie said. “Pushing 2mg Ativan.”

A haze settled over you as the medication took hold, your body sinking into slumber. Will’s fingers brushed against your wrist, grounding you.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “Just rest.”

When you awoke again, the panic was gone. The tube was still in place, but the fear had dulled. Your hands remained bound, though the restraints were loose enough to provide comfort rather than restriction.

Will sat at your bedside, dark circles under his eyes. When he saw you awake, relief softened his expression.

“Hey,” he whispered. “You scared the hell out of me.”

You blinked sluggishly, your muscles too weak to respond.

He squeezed your hand. “We’re gonna take the tube out soon, okay? Just a little longer.”

You nodded faintly, exhaustion pulling at you again.

Hours later, Natalie and Ethan returned. Will was still at your side.

“Alright, Y/N,” Natalie said gently. “Time to get this tube out.”

You swallowed, eager but anxious.

“Deflating the cuff—when I count to three, I want you to cough, okay?” Natalie instructed.

You braced yourself.

“One… two… three.”

A sharp pull. Burning. A choking gasp as the tube slid free, leaving your throat raw. You coughed hard, body shuddering as Will steadied you, his hand warm against your back.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “Just breathe.”

Your throat ached fiercely, every swallow a raw, stinging reminder of the ordeal. Will noticed the discomfort immediately. He reached for a cup of ice chips from the bedside table, scooping a few with a spoon.

“Here,” he said softly, bringing the spoon to your lips. “Small bites.”

You parted your lips, the cool ice melting instantly on your tongue, soothing the burning rawness. Relief was immediate, and you sighed quietly, your heavy eyelids fluttering shut for a moment.

Will gave you another spoonful, watching you carefully. “Better?”

You nodded weakly, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… thanks.”

He offered a small smile, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead. “Anytime.”

By morning, you were cleared for discharge. Will wheeled you toward the exit, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

“Ready to go home?”

You turned your head, exhaustion weighing on you and evident in your features from the ordeal, but you mustered a small smile. “As long as you’re coming with me.”

His chuckle was soft, affectionate. “Yeah, I think I can manage that.”

For the first time in days, you felt safe. Because home wasn’t just a place—it was him.

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