Susie 🐨

You threw your book down with a sigh.

“I’m bored, Nicky,” you announced with a pout, looking over to where he was ensconced at his desk, dealing with paperwork. Outside the rain was pouring down, like it had been doing yesterday as well.

“I’m sorry, draga. I’ll be finished soon and then we can do something.”

You crossed your arms and huffed. He’d said the same thing an hour ago.

Suddenly, the lights went out, and you let out a shocked squeal as darkness surrounded you.

“It’s alright, prinţesă,” Nick crooned, and you heard the scrape of his chair as well as the opening and closing of the desk drawer. A moment later the soft glow of a flame lifted the gloom. “Give me a moment.” He moved gracefully around the room, lighting candles until the room felt positively cosy. “Is that better?” he asked as he sat down next to you. You wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed your face into his soft sweater.

“Absolutely. And I have an idea about what we can do?”

“Oh yes,” he questioned. “New kicks in the candlelight?”

“Mmm-hmm,” you hummed, before getting to your feet. You took hold of his hands, pulling him up and walked backwards towards the patio doors. The yellow candlelight flickered over his handsome face and your heart raced.

You moved your hands to his waist, wriggling them under his sweater and running your palms over his firm torso, before dragging the knitted fabric from his form.

“What are you up to, draga?”

With a smile, you pulled your dress over your head, opened the doors and ran out into the rain.

“Come and dance with me, Nicky,” you laughed.

With a shake of his head, he pushed his jeans down his legs, before joining you.

--- --- ---

The house had somehow gotten louder which you had thought impossible, considering there had already been twelve conversations happening at once.

Someone was opening wine - even when it was barely three in the afternoon. One of your uncles had moved on to telling stories nobody asked for. Lizzie was currently being passed around the room like royalty, which she loved.

And Jack… he was doing suspiciously well. Better than you had expected, actually.

He’d survived your aunts interrogating him about his intentions. He had even laughed about your cousin teasing him. Your mom had already hugged him at least ten times - mostly starting crying in the process. At one point you caught him helping wash dishes despite your aunt Marcie desperately trying to stop him. 

“Jack, you’re a guest” she protested.

He shrugged. “Yeah, for now, but I’m also marrying into this family.”

Aunt Marcie stared at him for a moment before turning toward your mom, who had just entered the kitchen. “He’s definitely here to stay” she shouted at her, even giving a thumbs up.

You were reaching for another glass of iced tea when the front door opened. You looked up - muscle memory more than anything else - and when you saw who it was, you began to smile.

“Oh my god - Adam!”

You crossed the room before he’d even fully stepped inside, which made him laugh. “Well damn.”

“You’re late!” you said, your hands on your hips.

“And you’re dramatic” he replied with a grin.

Then he hugged you - hard, easy, automatic. You hugged him back just as tight.

“You look good” he said when you pulled away.

You laughed. “I’m fucking tired.” 

“Well, you’re a mom now. I think that’s kind of the default option.” He looked around. “I heard you brought your mysterious boyfriend. Where is he?”

“Mysterious boyfriend?” you repeated, already laughing. “You guys need a life, seriously.”

You stood on your toes, looking around the room, then grabbed Adam’s hand and led him over to the counter where Jack stood with one of your uncles.

“Sorry, Uncle Damian, but this is important.”

Jack turned - and froze for half a second. Because he immediately recognized that guy from the picture you sent him back in January. The guy in the bar who had looked at you like you were the most amazing person in the room.

Jack’s jaw tightened when he saw you holding that guy’s hand.

You didn’t notice any of this, instead you smiled brightly at Jack.

“Jack, this is Adam, my cousin. Adam, that is my mysterious boyfriend, as you called him.”

Jack relaxed almost instantly. A second later he tilted his head. “Mysterious fiance” he corrected with a serious face before he winked at you.

You blushed. “Of course - fiance” you said quickly, holding up your hand. “We are engaged.”

Adam stared at you for a moment, then pulled you into a hug. “Congratulations! That’s great to hear!”

Then he held out a hand toward Jack. “I’m Adam, hi. She and I grew up next door to each other. Really nice to finally meet you. She told me so much about you.”

Jack shook his hand. “Well, that sounds mildly threatening.”

“That was probably my intention” Adam replied dryly. “But no worries - I’ve got far better stories about her to tell you.”

You covered your face with one hand. “Adam, no, please.”

Jack immediately looked delighted. “Oh, I like you already.”

“Likewise” he replied with a grin. “Did she tell you about her horse phase?”

You groaned. “Adam.”

“Or the vampire phase?”

“Oh, fuck you, Adam.”

“What, you didn’t tell him about your Twilight obsession?”

You closed your eyes. “Everyone liked the movies back then” you mumbled under your breath.

“Yeah, but you were already twenty-two, girl.”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, what about the year she was convinced she’d become a famous singer despite being utterly shit at singing?”

“ADAM FOR FUCKS SAKE STOP IT!”

Jack was laughing properly now, looking like Christmas had come early.

Adam looked very pleased with himself. “He needs to know all of this if he wants to be part of this crazy-ass family.”

Jack nodded thoughtfully. “He has a point there, honey.”

You looked at Jack, then at Adam. “Fuck, I’m beginning to think it was a mistake bringing you here.”

Jack laughed again. “No, you’re fine. Maybe it was just a clever thing to bring me here after I asked you to marry me. No backsies now, right?”

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. Then you took his hand. “Right, no backsies.”

Adam winked. “I need to go say hi to the rest, but Jack - welcome to the madhouse.”

A while later another voice drifted from the hallway.

“Where am I supposed to put these?”

You turned automatically - and froze. A man stepped through the doorway carrying a crate of beer.

He saw you - and froze too.

For a second neither of you spoke.

The years between you seemed to stretch across the kitchen - then his eyebrows slowly climbed. “Well… shit.”

You stared.

He looked older. Broader. More lines around his eyes. Definitely more beard. But still looking vaguely annoyed at the existence of humanity.

“Peter?!”

“What the hell are you doing here?” he said at the same time, putting the crate down on the floor.

Several relatives started laughing.

“You mean - at my family’s house?”

“Yeah.”

You blinked. “Um, visiting my family.”

“Right.”

For a second he just looked at you. Then his eyes moved to Jack, standing beside you. His expression immediately changed - not dramatically but enough. His shoulders tightened, his eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze flickered between the two of you.

Out of nowhere your mother appeared beside him. “Peter!” she exclaimed. “Have you congratulated them yet?”

He frowned. “Congratulated them for what exactly?"

The entire kitchen went quiet.

Your mother looked delighted. “Oh this is even better.”

Before you could stop her she grabbed your hand and held it up. The diamond on your ring caught the light immediately.

“From Tiffany's" she explained, proudly.

Peter stared for a moment, then looked at you. Then at Jack. Then back at the ring.

His jaw tightened. “Oh.”

You immediately recognized that tone.

Your mother apparently didn’t. “They’re engaged!”

The silence that followed felt oddly heavy. Peter looked at the ring again, then he stepped closer, staring at Jack. “Well, you must be Hunter then.”

The entire kitchen gasped.

Jack glanced at you, visibly confused. “What?”

You blinked, suddenly at loss for words.

A couple of relatives exchanged looks, some others suddenly appeared to be very busy.

“No, I’m not Hunter I’m Jack. Abbot. Nice to meet you” Jack said eventually, holding out his hand.

Peter ignored this completely, just glaring at him. “You sure?”

“Yeah, pretty sure” Jack replied dryly.

Something shifted behind his eyes. Confusion first, then something that looked like disbelief.

“Wait.” His gaze snapped back to you. “What happened to Hunter?”

You crossed your arms. “I left him years ago.”

Peter just stared, before eventually exhaling through his nose. “Did you finally come to your senses?”

“Peter!” Your mother smacked his arm, which he completely ignored. He was still looking at you - studying, checking. Like he was trying to determine whether you actually meant - whether you really had left him or if he had left you and you were just trying to sugarcoat it.

Eventually something in his face softened.

“Good.” The word came out rough, almost angry. Which somehow made it more sincere. 

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. “Yeah.”

He nodded once - then hugged you. Hard. The kind of hug that almost knocked the air out of your lungs. You hugged him back. For a second neither of you spoke.

Then he muttered quietly enough that only you could hear: “You scared the absolute shit out of me, you know that?”

Your throat tightened again. “Yeah.”

“You were smarter than that.”

“I know.”

He exhaled sharply. Then squeezed you one last time before letting go. When he stepped back his expression was already closed off again.

His eyes immediately found Jack and stayed there. Jack held the look calmly. Peter didn’t smile, didn’t even pretend - he just looked at him, measuring, evaluating, suspicious as hell.

Jack noticed immediately and tilted his head, slightly amused.

Your mother looked between them, then groaned. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Peter!”

Peter frowned. “What?”

“You could at least be polite.”

“I AM being polite.”

“No, you’re not. You’re looking at him like you wanted to drag him out for a fight.”

Peter glanced back at Jack. “Not yet.”

The kitchen erupted into laughter. Even Jack laughed, which seemed to annoy Peter even more.

But a moment later Adam’s voice came through the open window from the garden: “Peter, get your ass out here - and bring the beer!”

Peter narrowed his eyes, then got to pick the crate up again and disappeared into the garden. It took a moment until the kitchen grew louder again.

You let out a deep breath, dragging a hand across your face. Jack turned toward you.

“Do I want to know the history here or…?”

You closed your eyes for a moment. “There is no history here” you said quietly. “He’s Adam’s best friend and he was here all the time when I grew up.”

Jack nodded slowly. “Well, yeah, I figured but honestly? That chat and that hug doesn’t feel like no history to me.”

You swallowed hard, then glanced at the kitchen buzzing with people. “I’ll tell you everything later, okay?”

He watched your face for a second, then nodded. “Okay.”

“I should have a look where Lizzie is. I haven’t seen her since we arrived.”

Jack started to smile. “I bet she has the time of her life.”

You also started smiling. “Yes. Thank God she’s already so spoiled they can’t really make it worse.”

“But we can try.” One of your aunts, standing to your left, looked over and winked.

“Privacy is a myth here” you groaned, then took Jacks hand and dragged him into the garden.

At dinner you noticed that Jack got a little weird. Not obvious, just… subtle.

When you sat back down beside him, he reached for your hand immediately. Intertwined your fingers. Didn’t let go for a single second. His thumb brushing absently over your knuckles while conversations moved around you.

You leaned over to him. “Are you okay?”

He smiled instantly. “Yeah, sure.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.” He kissed your temple and gave you a wink. “That family of yours is just a lot.”

“Yeah.” You nodded sympathetically, because - he wasn’t wrong.

Somewhere farther down the table Lizzie sat between one of your aunts and your mother, getting fed mashed potatoes while one of your cousins made faces to entertain her. She laughed so hard half of the potatoes landed on the table.

You shook your head, smiling. 

Jacks hand lay on your thigh now - possessive in a way he usually wasn’t around other people.

Someone asked him questions about his job and he answered them perfectly polite. One uncle leaned closer, pointed a fork at you and winked at Jack.

“Don’t let her run away before wedding, huh?”

“Absolutely not” Jack shot back, a little too fast, a little too serious, grabbing your hand like muscle memory, holding it tight.

Everyone started laughing. You shot Jack a look.

“You sure you’re okay?”

He furrowed his brows, then nodded. “Yeah. Absolutely.”

He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles softly, before returning to his conversation.

You could feel the look that Peter gave you across the table, but chose deliberately not to react to it. Instead you grabbed your wine glass.

The kitchen felt blissfully quiet for once.

Outside somebody laughed too loudly. One of your uncles - probably Damian - had clearly had too much wine and was telling the same story for the third time, just louder. Lizzie was somewhere in the living room being aggressively adored by your cousins while Jack had somehow gotten trapped in a conversation with three of your aunts and your mother.

And you? Stood in the kitchen, needing a minute.

You leaned against the counter, taking a long sip of water and letting your shoulders finally relax. You closed your eyes for a moment.

“You hiding?”

You looked up - and noticed Peter standing in the doorway, a beer bottle in his hand.

You shrugged. “Kind of.”

He nodded. “Fair.”

He didn’t say anything else, just his eyes dropped to your left hand where your ring was. Immediately his expression soured.

You noticed instantly. “Oh, come on.”

“What?”

“You’ve been staring at that thing all evening.”

He shrugged.

“You could at least pretend to be happy for me.”

Peter took a sip. “I am happy for you.”

“You don’t look too happy.”

“No.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

He shrugged again. “Because I just met him.”

You laughed once. “Okay, wow, impressive argument.”

“I’m serious.”

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip of water.

He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “So, you’re really doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Marrying him.”

You stared at him. “Um, yeah. Of course. I’m engaged.”

“Just because you got a kid together doesn’t mean you need to marry him, you know?”

Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”

“What?” He crossed his arms.

“No, seriously. What the fuck, Peter?”

He lifted a shoulder. “People do stupid things when there’s a kid involved.”

You laughed. Not because it was funny but because otherwise you would’ve screamed. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“You haven’t spoken to me in years and this is what I get?”

Peter looked irritated now. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“No, actually I don’t.”

His jaw tightened. “You just don’t have to marry the next best guy that comes along.”

The words came out harder than he probably intended. You could tell immediately because for a second he looked like he wanted them back. But he didn’t backpaddled. He just went quiet.

You set your glass down. “Wow.”

“Look-”

“No.” You shook your head. “No, let’s stay here for a second.”

Peter sighed. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Well, then explain it.”

He looked toward the backyard. “You always fall hard.”

Your stomach dropped. And you suddenly felt like you were twenty-two again.

“Seriously?” Your voice came out quieter than you wanted.

“You know I’m right.”

“No.”

“You do.”

You folded your arms. “No, Peter. But what I know is that you disappeared.”

He stared at you.

“And now suddenly you’re back and acting like I need your permission to get married.”

“I never said that."

That was met with silence. For a moment the two of you stared at each other - then he looked away first.

“I’m just saying you don’t have to panic.”

You blinked. “Panic?”

“Yeah.” His voice softened a little. “I know you’re almost forty.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Did you seriously just say that to me?”

Peter immediately noticed he’d screwed up. “That’s not-”

“No.” You pointed at him. “Come on. Finish that thought. I’m desperate to know where it’s going.”

He let out a long breath. “I’m not saying you’re old.”

“Than what did you say?”

“You don’t need to settle.”

For a while neither of you spoke. Then you laughed - a short, disbelieving laugh. “Settle? You think I’m settling?”

“That’s not-”

“Do you hear yourself right now?”

Peter scrubbed a hand over his face.

“You know what? Fine.” He took another sip, almost angrily. “You want honesty?”

“No. But apparently I’m getting it anyway.”

“Damn right.” His eyes met yours. “Five years ago you were crying over this asshole Hunter every week.”

You swallowed hard. The name hit you like a slap.

“Then you told me you’d left him. You’d swear it was over.”

You looked away.

“Then he’d apologize. And you’d go right back.” He suddenly looked tired. “Do you know how many times I watched that happen?”

Your anger wavered slightly. “Peter-”

“No.” His voice cracked unexpectedly. “You shared the shit out of me. You were smart. You were always smarter than that.” He paused. “You think I’m doing that again?”

You looked up. “Do you think I’m doing it again?”

Peter hesitated a second too long - and that was answer enough. Your stomach dropped.

“Wow.”

“Look-”

“Could you please stop comparing my fiance to Hunter?”

“I didn’t compare him to Hunter.”

You laughed again. “You absolutely did.”

“I said I don’t know him.”

“And somehow you’ve already decided he’s secretly awful.”

Peter barked out a laugh. “Jesus Christ, you really don’t hear yourself, huh?”

You stared at him. “No, Peter, I don’t. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

His eyes flashed. “Fine.” He set the beer bottle down. “You disappear to Pittsburgh. You meet this Hunter. He destroys you mentally. Then - you finally leave him. And out of the blue you meet this... this doctor guy. A couple of months later you’re pregnant.” 

“Watch it.”

“No, you watch it.” He threw his hands up. “Do you know what that looked like from here?”

You crossed your arms. “I genuinely don’t care.”

“Well, maybe you should. Because you always had a type.”

You laughed - sharp, angry. “Oh, so now we’re psychoanalyzing me?”

Peter ignored that. “Guys everybody loved.”

Your jaw clenched. “Peter.”

“Guys who seemed perfect.”

“Peter.”

“Guys who said the right things.”

“Peter!”

“Guys who looked great on paper until one day they weren’t looking so great anymore, huh?”

“STOP!” The word cracked through the kitchen.

Peter fell silent.

You were breathing harder now, furious. “Do not stand there and pretend you know Jack.”

“I don’t. But I don’t need to know him to know how this usually goes.”

This sentence hit you like a slap.

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Peter was angry now too. “I bet Hunter didn’t introduce himself as an abusive asshole.”

The words landed hard.

And you hated that they landed at all.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

"Don’t I?”

“No.” You stepped closer. “No, actually you don’t.”

“Really?” He glared at you now. “Because last time I checked I spent years watching you defend that bastard.”

You flinched - and immediately hated yourself for it.

Peter noticed. “Every time somebody raised concerns. Every time somebody tried to help. You defended him.” His voice cracked slightly again. “You defended him every single time.”

You looked at him, your lip trembling for a second. Then - “You know what? You disappeared. After all your speeches and opinions and concern? You vanished.”

His jaw tightened even more. “I told you why.”

“No.” Your voice rose. “No, you told me to go fuck myself.”

He looked away for a second. “I should’ve stayed.” The anger disappeared from his face almost instantly, leaving something worse - regret. “I don’t know. I just know I couldn’t keep watching.”

You swallowed hard, your anger leaving your body slowly.

But then he glanced back toward the backyard again.

“I’m just saying - two years isn’t a long time.”

You closed your eyes. “Stop it.”

“It’s not and you know it.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I’m realistic.”

“You met him what? Five hours ago?!”

“And you knew him four months before he got you pregnant.” The words exploded out of him, then he went completely silent, immediately regretting it.

“Wow.” You stepped back.

“I’m just saying you moved fast.”

“Well, but you don’t get an opinion on that.”

“You asked me!”

“No I DID not.” You shook your head. “I asked if you could at least pretend to be happy for me.” Now your voice cracked. “And apparently the answer is no.”

Peter looked at the floor and for the first time he didn’t have a comeback.

When he finally looked up again his voice was quieter. “You know you could always come back.”

You blinked. “Um, what now?”

He shrugged. “Home.”

Your chest tightened. “Peter-”

“You’ve got family here. People who are more than happy to help.” He glanced toward the living room where you could hear Lizzie shrieking delightedly. “You wouldn’t be doing it alone.”

Something about that sentence made your stomach twist because suddenly you understood.

This wasn’t really about Jack. It was about Peter still expecting disaster. Still keeping an escape route ready - just in case. It didn’t make you less angry at him, but a small part of you appreciated this.

You stared at him for a long moment. “I’m not looking for an exit, Peter.”

He didn’t answer because he knew exactly what you meant.

You smiled despite yourself. “I don’t need an exit. I’m marrying him because he’s the love of my life and he makes me so damn happy.”

He sighed. “You know I’m just trying to look out for you, right?”

Something inside you snapped instantly. “Funny way of showing it.”

His jaw tightened. You immediately regretted saying it, but you didn’t take it back.

He straightened slightly. “I should probably get back out there.”

You nodded. “Yeah, probably.”

He didn’t move. Eventually he glanced toward the doorway. “I’m glad you’re okay.” His eyes drifted back to you. “I wasn’t sure you would be.”

Your throat tightened. 

He nodded once then walked out, leaving you alone in the kitchen.

The moment the door swung shut something inside your chest collapsed. Suddenly you were unable to breathe properly.

You were so angry. At him. At yourself. At the entire conversation. At the fact that he still looked at you like you were incapable of making your own decisions.

And at the fact that a tiny part of you still cared what he thought.

You closed your eyes and stepped out of the kitchen. You slipped upstairs unnoticed, past the guest room, past the bathroom until you reached your old bedroom.

It looked smaller than you remembered but it still felt familiar.

You set down on the edge of the bed - and finally let yourself cry.

You didn’t know how long you sat there.

Ten minutes.

Twenty.

Maybe more.

Eventually you heard footsteps in the hallway. Then the door opened quietly.

Jack stepped inside carrying a sleeping Lizzie against his shoulder.

His eyes found yours immediately - and he noticed everything. The tears. The red eyes. The way you were trying very hard to pretend everything was fine.

His face softened instantly.

He crossed the room. Lizzie barely stirred when he lowered her into the crib that had been set up beside the bed. She made a sleepy little noise, turned her face into the mattress and continued sleeping. Jack watched her for a second, then turned around and looked at you.

“Sweetheart, what happened?”

Your throat closed immediately.

He sat down beside you on the bed, close enough that his knee touched yours. “Hey.”

You shook your head.

“Sweetheart.”

And somehow that did it. The tears came harder now. You looked away quickly, embarrassed. “I’m fine” you managed with a hoarse voice.

“Do you want to try that again?” His voice was gentle.

You laughed weakly through your tears. “I… I had a dumb fight with Peter.”

Jack nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“I know he’s trying to look out for me. He’s just really bad at it.” More tears streamed down your face. “But he think I’m making a mistake.”

Jack went very still.

You stared at your hands. “He thinks I don’t know what I’m doing.” Your voice cracked. “He thinks I learned nothing.”

Jack took a deep breath. “Do you think you’re making a mistake?”

You looked up immediately.

Jacks expression hadn’t changed. There was no anger, no defensiveness. Just curiosity.

You stared at him, then laughed through fresh tears. “God, no.”

His shoulders relaxed a little. “Okay.”

You swallowed hard. “He doesn’t know you.”

“No.”

“He thinks you’re like… my ex. He thinks I’m settling.”

That finally made Jack blink before a small laugh escaped him. “Well, that’s a new one.”

Despite yourself you laughed too.

Jack reached over, his hand finding yours automatically. “Hey.”

You looked up again. 

“You know you don’t have to convince Peter.” His thumb brushed across your knuckles. “You don’t even have to convince me.”

He sounded so sure, so calm, so completely certain that your chest started to hurt. The tears came back immediately.

Jack opened his arms. “Come here.”

You went without hesitation, tucking yourself against his chest, his arms wrapped around you. His hand stroked slowly through your hair while your tears soaked his shirt.

For a while neither of you spoke.

When the tears finally dried down, you swallowed hard. “I love you.”

His lips brushed your forehead. “I know, kiddo.”

You let out a watery laugh. “Do you want to try that again?”

He laughed too. “I love you too.”

You closed your eyes. And finally - finally - the knot in your chest began to loosen.

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Bonus Chapter: Go to sleep

--- --- ---

"Jack, what happened to you? Do I need to take you to the hospital?" You take him by the hand and gently guide him to the dining table, sitting him down at one of the chairs. He winces as the weight comes completely off his legs.

"No no," he shakes his head. "I don't want to worry them. Just-ah-grab my med kit for me. Please." Jack gestures to his backpack. You rush to grab it, setting it on the table and opening it up.

“You don’t want to worry them, but you have no problem worrying me,” you huff, pulling out his med kit.

“I-ah didn’t want to be alone.” His voice is small, almost desperate. You still at the confession.

When he reaches for the kit, you pull it away from his grasp. He looks at you confused. "Let me," you set it down on the table and open it up.

“No, it’s okay, I know what to-“ he starts reaching.

“I know you do, baby” you say firmly. You maintain eye contact, holding your ground. Without another word, Jack’s hands fall to his lap, acquiescing. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, steadying himself and relaxing into the chair. Well, as much as he can.

You grab at the bottom hem of his shirt and help him remove it, checking for any major injuries. Bruising on his side, a few cuts and scrapes. On his back, there is a massive open wound, like road rash. Angry, red, and bleeding. You sigh, balancing your breath.

“Relax, baby,” you mutter, your voice gentle and sweet. After taking stock of the injuries, you kneel in front of Jack, rolling up his cargos and removing his prosthetic. He lets out a deep sigh as it comes off, the pressure dissipating.

You start with the worst of it, first. You use a damp cloth to gently clean the wound on his back, picking out pieces of gravel and wiping away the blood. Jack winces every so often, taking in a sharp breath, but not complaining.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” You ask, gently applying an antibiotic to his back. "Or why you obviously weren't wearing your vest?"

Jack doesn’t say anything for a moment. Like he’s deciding what words, if any, could soften your worries more.

“Everything was fine. Everything was going according to plan,” he starts. “We went in, scoped it out, it was all clear. It was supposed to be all clear. It wasn't supposed to be dangerous."

You apply gauze and a bandage to his back, just listening.

“Fuckers took us by surprise,” Jack shakes his head. “That never happens. It was clear. Until it was chaos. We got out as fast as we could."

You can tell that he’s starting to get worked up. You round in front of him and position yourself between his legs. “Hey, hey, relax,” you try to smooth him.

He settles his hands behind your thighs, pulling you in closer. You let him, your own hands settling at the back of his neck. He looks up at you, gaze burning.

"It's over," you coo, fingers twisting at the curls at his nape, "you're home. You're safe."

"I, uh, made sure everyone else was good before heading out," he says. "Figured I could take care of myself later."

"Of course you did," you sigh. "Probably didn't realize how bad it was."

Jack lets his forehead fall against your stomach and takes a deep breath. His hands move up to wrap around the small of your back, hooking together and squeezing you close to him. The two of you stand like that for a moment.

"Jack, baby," you gently coax him to look up at you. "Let me finish."

He sighs and sits up, head tilting back to look at you. "Yes, ma'am."

You gently climb into his lap, thighs pressed on top of his and legs on either side. You try to be gentle and not crush him under your weight. "This okay?" you ask.

"Perfect," Jack gruffs, pulling you closer to him, his palms splayed over your ass.

You take the damp wash cloth and gently dab at the blood on his split lip, and the scrapes down the side of his face. His eyes narrow, trying to hide the sparks of dull pain, but he doesn't stop looking at you. He watches you intently, holding on just as tight, like he may lose you if he looks away for a moment.

"You're killing me, Jack," you quip, reaching for the kit behind him. You fish out some butterfly bandages.

"And here I thought I was the one 'n bad shape," he retorts, his old charm slowly returning.

"You know you don't need to do this," you say. Getting closer to the cut on his brow.

"Don't," he closes his eyes.

"What?" After applying the bandage, you sit back on his lap. His grip doesn't let up.

"Don't start. Not now, please," he looks up at you with wet eyes. Those sad, sad eyes that make you weep internally every time.

You sigh and settle your hands on his shoulders. He collapses against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I'm allowed to be worried about you. 'Specially when you come to me like this." You're not scolding him, just reminding him.

"I know," he says into your shoulder. "It's not usually like this."

"But is has been like this. And there's always a chance it's going to be like this," you counter.

Jack doesn't say anything, and you worry you've pushed too far. But it's hard seeing him leave for these shifts, knowing that something could go wrong, and plastering a smile on your face anyway. Kissing him goodbye, and hoping he makes it back safely. You've had this conversation before, and it always ends the same. With Jack brushing it off, making it seem like not a big deal. But how much longer can he go on like this?

"Come on," you lean down and kiss his shoulder, moving to stand up. "Let's-"

"No," Jack says, still not lifting his head. "Just, stay with me, like this. For a little longer. Please."

Your heart damn near breaks. It takes everything in you to steady your breathing. You get as close to him as possible, letting him hold you close. Your chin rests on top of his head, and you run lazy, light circles with the pads of your fingers up and down his back, obviously avoiding the fresh wound. It's quiet, Jack's steady breaths are all you can focus on.

Eventually, Jack stirs under you, lifting his head again. "I love you," he says. His eyes search yours, and the way he says it is so gentle, so earnest.

"I love you more," you lean in and press a gentle kiss to his lips.

"Not possible," he mutters. His hands travel up to the back of your head, pressing against your head and neck, and he keeps you pressed against him, deepening the kiss. His tongue traces your lips, desperately trying to get closer to you.

You gasp at his touch, giving him the in he's craving. It's hard not to cave with him. But when he lets out a sharp groan involuntarily, you come back to yourself.

"Take it easy, Jack," you reluctantly pull away, steadying your breath. "You must be exhausted."

"I'm never too tired for you," he nips at your lips, teasing. Yeah, he's going to be okay.

You pull yourself off his lap and help him back to your bedroom. After a change of clothes, you settle him into your bed to rest, leaning his prosthetic against the nightstand, just in case.

"Where you think you're going?" Jack asks when you move to step out.

"I was going to clean," you point out to the hall.

Jack shifts back in the bed, patting the mattress. "Right here, sweetheart."

You roll your eyes, but don't argue or complain. How could you? Jack lifts the blankets so you can tuck in with him. He pulls you flush against his chest, his arm tight around your waist. He settles a kiss right on your shoulder blade.

"Better," he sighs.

Its doesn't take long for him to fall asleep. He's a rock in no time, just dead weight trapping you in bed with him. You stay there with him for a little bit, but you're so anxious and wired there is no going back to sleep. The clock on your nightstand reads 7:15 am when you carefully pull yourself from Jack's grasp. He shifts in his sleep, and you press a light kiss to his cheek, careful not to stir him.

You spend the morning cleaning the aftermath. Putting the med kit back together, wiping the blood from the chair he sat in. You soak his shirt with detergent in an attempt to get the blood stains out, but there's no telling if that'll happen.

After a few hours, you shuffle into the kitchen to make breakfast. You hear light footsteps behind you. Jack, who looks haggard but in good spirits, smiles when he sees you. He's wearing spare clothes that he keeps in your dresser. A shirt and boxers intended for fun sleepovers, not stressful naps.

"There she is, my little doctor," he reaches for you.

You side step him in a way that you hope isn't too obvious, busying yourself with dishes at the sink. "Good morning, Jack," you say over your shoulder. "I didn't expect to see you up again so soon."

Jack, notices. Of course he does. You always give him a kiss good morning, clinging to his neck, asking how he slept. He sits at the table, wincing slightly when the back of the chair makes contact. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"I, uh, woke up and couldn't fall back asleep. Was thinking about you," his face drops as he watches you scurry around the kitchen. Eventually you walk by him, and he catches you by the wrist. "Sweetheart, please."

"What, Jack?" The words come out thinner than you expected. Harsher than you meant.

"It's not a big deal. Look at me, I'm fine," he squeezes your hand. "A couple a cuts and bruises? That's nothing."

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to understand what is happening in his brain. The way he's trying to make light of the situation. It's not a big deal. Nothing ever is. "This is never going to end, is it?" you realize quietly.

Jack closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "We've talked about this."

"No," you snatch your hand back. You have to create some space, some distance. You take a few steps back. "You've talked about this. I've sat and listened and supported you. It's not just about the cuts and bruises, Jack. It's about the fact that I never know what you're doing when you go out on these shifts. I never know what kind of danger you're putting yourself in. and then you come to me, again, barely able to hold yourself up, just exhausted."

"I'm there to help them. They need me, hon-"

"I need you." It's desperate, and a low blow. You know this. But it's been gnawing at you for longer than you realized. Your breaths are shallow, and there's tears forming in your eyes. You try to turn and blink them away.

Jack's face falls. He stands and makes it to you in just a few strides, and without hesitation his hands are on you, around you, holding you.

"Hey hey hey," he pulls you into his chest, where you fold, gripping to the fabric of his shirt.

"You're not just worrying about you anymore, Jack," you say softly. "Other people care that you're okay."

One of his hands rubs your back in soothing circles. He takes a moment, then pulls away from you, making you look at him. "I need you to know that I love you. So much. And it kills me to see you like this."

"Just," you sigh, holding onto his bicep. "Promise me that you'll think about it. At least cutting back. I know how you feel about the job, that I can't just make you quit."

Jack pulls you in for a kiss, long and settles his forehead against yours. "You are my life. My number one priority. Always."

As you began to spin the mobile, Jack steps up behind you. With a head steeped in exhaustion, you don’t even notice until he wraps two strong arms around your midriff, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder.

“Come to bed?” he asks, voice laced with sleep and toothpaste.

With Isla put down for the night, you had hoped for some time with Jack to unwind. However, these first few months of parenthood – though they may have drained the life out of you – had bestowed some strange powers to the pair of you.

Where you could now multitask like never before, Jack could read you easily – no need for his readers.

You hum; the bed did sound appealing. But if you went to sleep now, you would be surrendering any chance of down time for the foreseeable future. It gave you pause as your brain tried to cobble together a pros and cons list: you could catch up on your television show; get ahead of some cleaning; but then imagine waking up and not having dark circles for once-

His sixth sense must have begun tingling as he nosed at the column of your neck, coaxing.

“Think of the bed, sweetheart,” he mumbles, interrupting your train of thought before it had a chance to derail, “think ‘bout the pillows.”

During your third trimester, when laying down had become something of a challenge, Jack had purchased some expensive goose down pillows. He made assurances that they were for you, but often or not you would wake up to find him hogging a small mountain of them. All the same, the one cushion that you stubbornly clung onto in the night was incredibly comfortable.

He knew this, and the pillow-talk worked wonders on you, teeth brushed and face washed in a personal best time. In your haste to curl up under the covers, you neglected the rest of your routine, leaving the curtains undrawn.

Ordinarily, as a new mother, this was something that you wouldn’t notice; most days began whilst the world was still dark, and your daughter was still fast asleep. Guaranteed, she would wake up within half an hour, but the little ritual of eating breakfast in the quiet with Jack was one that you treasured.

Isla was a very irritable sleeper. Deep down, you know that she inherited it from you; Jack slept like a log most days, and you vividly remember the warmth of your face when your parents used to tell nightmarish infancy stories about you. Nonetheless, you pretend that it must be some recessive gene, that you have no clue where she got it from.

It was exhausting to deal with. A foot placed too heavily, or a cupboard shut too hard would wake her with all the wrath of a small army. She would scream her little lungs out, only seeming to yield when her body demanded it. Then, she would take a (relatively) deep inhale, and it would start over again.

So, when honeyed rays began pouring through the window, dancing with dust motes and pooling on your face, it was safe to say that you were slightly confused. Groggily, you rub at your eyes, trying to clear away the foggy vision that descended upon you during the night.

Once the worst of it is gone, the alarm clock reads 7:03 in glaringly red pixels that swiftly drive off the remainder of your weariness.

“Jack?” you whisper-shout, rolling over to face his side of the bed. The mattress bends and squeals beneath your weight, spreading a wince across your features, braced for the hysterics that were sure to follow.

A few moments of bated breath, but the crying never came.

It’s then that you notice his side of the bed: empty, the sheets in disarray where they would normally be made, his phone still on charge.

Jack always checked his messages first thing after waking up – it was almost instinctual, checking the ER group chats to make sure no disasters had occurred. The way his phone laid against the wooden surface was like a demand for you to panic, ‘What would cause this regimented military man to break routine?’. Naturally, only the worst answers leapt to mind.

Arms push into the mattress as you rise to your feet, weary legs carrying you over to the bassinet. Where Isla had laid last night, there was now a bare expanse. Your skin starts to perspire.

It was impossible for somebody to have snuck in, you tell yourself. If they had so much as breathed wrong, she would have woken up. The rational chunk of your brain was working to keep you calm, but the larger, more paranoid part walked you over to the bedside table, then jabbed 911 into the keypad.

Mobile held tight in your grip, you pushed the door open with a shoulder. The hallway was dim as your eyes raked across it. Everything certainly looked normal. That was a good sign.

You creep further down the corridor, grateful that you had learnt to catalogue creaky floorboards in recent months.

Just before you round the corner to the living room, you wait, fingers fiddling with the trim of the wall. You were preparing yourself to walk in, preparing for what you might find. A small part of you knew that it was an overreaction, but anyone could tell you that motherly instinct was a force to be reckoned with. So, with your phone still in hand, you step through the doorway.

The sight you are greeted with is the furthest thing from the images that you conjured up mere moments ago.

Jack is sprawled out on the couch, Isla laying stomach down against his chest. His gaze flickers from your daughter, meeting your eyes – so much for sneaking.

The look on his face is one you’re all too familiar with, it’s that tight smile he pulls when he feels smug about something. It seems that he thinks by simply pursing his lips, all his self-righteousness is hidden away, but the cheeky glimmer in his irises always gives him away.

Cautiously, he tips his head back, beckoning you over. You click off your phone, place it onto the coffee table, and pad over to where the two of them lay.

“What’s going on?” you ask, half-joke, half-serious.

“I think it’s pretty obvious what’s goin’ on,” he replies, throat gravelly, “she’s havin’ a nap.”

He says it like the most obvious thing in the world, like your daughter doesn’t turn into a distant relative of the devil when she gets woken up. It isn’t a lie, though. She’s curled up against him, fists clenched, eyes closed – undeniably peaceful.

“Yeah, but how did you-“ you gesture vaguely, to which he just raises a daring eyebrow “-how did you get her up without all the screaming?”

He shrugs, then looks down at Isla.

“I guess she just has a favourite.”

“Don’t pretend like she only cries when I pick her up,” your voice squeaks, defensive although you know he’s joking.

You both see the way that her face pinches, and he hurriedly presses a kiss to her temple.

“I was just kidding, honey,” he admits, “I’ve got no clue how this happened.”

He reaches for you then, fingers tugging at the hem of your sleepshirt.

“Join us,” he shuffles deeper into the cushions, making the slightest bit of room.

You slip into the gap and settle into his side. The muscle of his arm snakes behind your shoulders as he presses a kiss to your temple, too.

All perception of time is lost as he lays there, cuddling with his two favourite girls.

PLEASE send in more requests i am BEGGING 🙏🩷

He’s practiced it, too. Quietly. Under his breath. In the mirror once, which he immediately decided was humiliating and never did again.

He’s got it.

He has it.

Until he doesn’t.

---

You don’t know anything is different when he asks you to come with him.

“C’mon, doll,” he says, tugging on your hand, already halfway out the door. “Wanna show you something.”

You squint at him, suspicious, but you go anyway, letting him pull you along with that soft, insistent grip of his. The evening air is warm, the sky bleeding into that soft gold-and-pink stretch just before sunset, and he’s quieter than usual as he walks beside you.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Yeah, but this is like… upgraded weird.”

He huffs, but there’s no bite to it. Just nerves. You don’t recognize them for what they are yet—just assume it’s one of those Bucky moods where he gets in his own head a little too much.

So you lace your fingers through his, grounding, steady. He squeezes back immediately.

Always does.

---

He stops when you reach the spot.

It’s nothing extravagant. Not some big, sweeping, cinematic place.

Just your place.

The quiet stretch near the water where you two end up more often than not—late nights, early mornings, stolen hours in between. The place where he’s watched you laugh, watched you cry, watched you fall asleep with your head in his lap while the world kept spinning around you.

It matters.

That’s why he picked it.

You turn to him, brow furrowed slightly. “Buck?”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment everything in his head just—

Gone.

Completely blank.

He knows he had words. He knows he had a whole damn speech lined up, something worthy of you, something that could even begin to explain the way you’ve changed his life.

But you’re standing there, looking at him like that—soft, curious, a little concerned—and suddenly every single thought just… disappears.

All he’s left with is feeling.

And it’s too big.

Too much.

His chest tightens, his pulse pounding in his ears, and before he can overthink it—before he can talk himself out of it—he just moves.

Drops.

Right there.

One knee hitting the ground hard enough that he barely registers it.

Your eyes go wide.

“Bucky—?”

His hands are already fumbling, pulling the ring from his pocket, nearly dropping the damn thing in the process. His fingers shake—actually shake—and he can’t even look away from you long enough to be embarrassed about it.

Because you’re staring at him.

Like you can’t quite believe what you’re seeing.

And he's panicking.

Not about the answer. Never about that.

Just—about getting it right.

About saying it right.

About making sure you know.

And he can’t find the words.

Not the pretty ones. Not the practiced ones. Not any of it.

So what comes out is—

“Please.”

It’s rough. Breathless. Barely more than a whisper.

Your face does something soft, something almost startled.

He swallows hard, chest heaving slightly as he tries—tries—to pull something else together.

“I—” He shakes his head, a broken little huff of a laugh leaving him. “I had a whole thing planned. I swear I did. I—”

Nothing.

Still nothing.

His throat works, his eyes burning just a little as he looks up at you, completely exposed.

“Please,” he says again, a little stronger this time, but no less raw. “Just—please.”

And it’s all there anyway.

Everything he couldn’t say wrapped up in that one word.

Please stay.

Please choose me.

Please let me spend the rest of my life loving you.

Please don’t let this be something I lose.

Your eyes shine almost immediately, tears welling up faster than you can stop them. You press a hand to your mouth, a breath hitching out of you as you stare down at him.

“Bucky…”

He looks terrified.

Not of you.

Of losing you.

And that’s what does it.

That’s what breaks you open completely.

You drop to your knees in front of him so fast he barely has time to react, your hands coming up to cup his face, grounding him the same way you always do.

“Hey,” you whisper, voice thick. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. Instantly.

“You don’t need a speech,” you say softly, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “You don’t need any of that.”

His grip on the ring tightens, like he’s still not convinced.

“You’ve got me,” you continue, tears slipping free now, but you’re smiling through them. “You’ve always had me.”

His breath stutters.

“Yeah?” he asks, quiet, almost disbelieving.

You laugh a little, wet and shaky, leaning forward until your forehead presses against his.

“Yeah, idiot,” you murmur. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

The relief that hits him is immediate.

His shoulders sag, a broken, breathless sound leaving him as his eyes squeeze shut for a second, like he needs it just to steady himself.

“Jesus,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-choking on it. “Thank God.”

You pull back just enough to look at him again, grinning now. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” he says, still a little dazed, finally slipping the ring onto your finger with hands that are only slightly less shaky. “I had this whole—this whole thing, doll. It was good, too. Real good.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“I practiced.”

You snort. “Did you really?”

He groans, dropping his head forward until it bumps lightly against your shoulder. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” you say, laughing as you wrap your arms around him. “I think it was perfect.”

He huffs. “Yeah? Just ‘please’?”

You pull back, kissing him slow and soft, pouring every bit of your answer into it.

Realizing what you must look like, you straightened up from your slumped posture over your chart notes and pushed your hair out of your eyes. “No,” you assure him, “just eleventh hour fatigue.”

It was a thankfully uneventful shift, but the drawbacks of the relatively quiet nights is that your body seemed to remember that the night shift schedule is a violation of the natural order of things. It called for rest, demanding eight hours of laying horizontally with your eyes closed.

But Dr. Abbot wasn’t human, it seemed. Even when the hour grew late (or early, as it were), he was just as focused, charming, and devastatingly good-looking as when he had first walked in that evening. 

He hummed thoughtfully at your reply, drumming his fingers on the desk with an idea forming behind his eyes. “Think we can do something about that.”

Dr. Abbot pushed off the desk and headed off god-knows-where without another word. You raised an eyebrow, wondering what he could have been talking about, before returning to your chart with a sigh and an amused shake of your head. The ways of the attendings were mysterious and unknowable, sometimes.

Before long, your brain was mired in prescription doses and after visit summaries once again, your chin resting firmly on your hand. A soft clack next to you caught your attention, your eyes landing on a cup of coffee, and the man who just put it there.

“Here,” Dr. Abbott said quietly, like he was trying to minimize the favor, like it was no big deal.

And it wasn’t, on the surface. But the pale brown liquid swirling in the cup is the exact shade you would prepare for yourself, as if he paid attention to the amount of milk you poured every day. As if no detail about you was too small for Dr. Abbot to take note of.

“Thank you,” you replied, your hands wrapping gratefully around the warm ceramic, your lips turning up into a smile you couldn’t seem to fight.

He leaned on the desk again, and his eyes crinkled at the edges with satisfaction. “There it is.”

“What?”

“Feels like something’s missing around here when you’re not smiling,” he responded, his gaze fixed to your face, his expression entirely too warm and too sentimental for two people standing in the middle of the emergency room.

Your heart stuttered in your chest and your cheeks flared like the sun. No response would come to your brain, no matter how hard you willed it. Your body was betraying you, a breathless giggle slipping out as your smile spread wider. 

While you were speechless and cheesing, and Dr. Abbot was still looking at you like you were the most amusing and interesting thing in a five mile radius, Crus approached and pulled Dr. Abbot’s attention towards a case. You huffed out a breath of relief, saved from having to respond to a comment like that one. 

One hour left. It was time to focus up and finish your charts, so you could be ready for the shift changeover. But as you sipped your coffee and typed away, you couldn’t seem to completely banish that smile from your face.

For Jack, it was never about reciprocation. In fact, he dismissed the idea as ridiculous. You were too young and beautiful and sweet to be interested in an old fart like him. It was never about that — the encouragement, the compliments, the steady reassurance. It was about the fact that in an environment that could be stressful and isolating, you deserved a couple moments out of every day where you felt seen, held, supported. And selfishly, he wanted to make you smile.

Because that smile made the rest of the shift tolerable. It brightened his mood even on the days where it felt impossibly dark.

Days like these were sometimes the darkest and toughest to get through. SWAT patrol during the day, getting shot at in best case scenarios and dealing with the aftermath of grisly scenes in some of the worst. And then at the end of the day, heading straight into the Pitt, into the belly of the beast. He tried not to stack shifts with patrols if he could help it, but it couldn’t always be helped. Duty called. It usually made for a rough day overall, one that weighed on his mind and tortured his leg.

But at least there would be one thing waiting for him to make it worthwhile. 

Jack sauntered into the locker room, tugging at the straps on his vest and pulling a pair of scrubs from his bag, already favoring his left leg. It was gonna be a long shift.

“No battle wounds this time, I hope.”

Your voice echoed softly from the doorway, surprising him. When he turned, the familiar sight of you, somehow managing to glow in your grey scrubs, hair up in that clip he bought you, your smile lighting up your whole face — it washed away some of the weariness, at least temporarily.

Jack smirked as he shrugged off his vest. “Nope. Scot free.”

He expected you to continue with your starting shift routine, maybe make a stop at your locker at most. Instead, you strode right up to him and held out a pyrex container. “Here.”

He raised an eyebrow, but took it from your hands nonetheless. Whatever was inside was still warm. “What’s this?”

“You never have time to eat when you get off patrol.” You fidgeted with your ID badge, looking almost shy. “I had lots of leftovers. Lasagna.”

For a moment, Jack's brain struggles to compute. You brought him dinner. You remembered his schedule. You'd thought of him outside of this building.

It was too kind of an offer, and very flattering, and Jack didn’t know what to say. He didn't often find himself at a loss for words.

You glanced down at the pyrex and said playfully, “You better sit down for five minutes and eat that, or you’re gonna hurt my feelings.”

He snapped back to attention. Jesus, where were his manners? It didn’t matter why you’d thought of him, it mattered that you had. He chuckled softly, ducking his head, and replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

There it was again, that smile of yours. He mentally tucked it in his pocket for later as he shoved his vest into his locker. You headed for the doorway but stopped, lingered, cheeks tingeing pink and your lower lip caught between your teeth like you were debating whether to say something aloud.

“Nice uniform, by the way.”

Now, that caught him off guard. 

You were always kind to him, to everyone. You occasionally joked and teased, joining in the friendly ribbing that was common in the Pitt. You never really flirted, with him or anyone else. But that was an unmistakable flirtation. Jack may have been old, but he wasn’t dead, and he could still recognize that much. And he knew the magic of the uniform, to be sure.

Your eyes flicked appreciatively over him, and Jack felt heat creeping up from under his collar.

He wracked his brain for a charming, witty comeback. The best he could manage was a grin and a soft, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, giving him one last once-over before escaping down the hall.

Talk about a morale booster. 

Maybe Jack wasn’t too old after all. At least, not too old to get attention from a pretty girl. Not too old to be unaffected by it, either. He tucked his scrubs under his arm and headed to the break room, a giddy look on his face and the pain in his leg forgotten.

You took his vitals and deflected the usual inappropriate comments and lecherous looks as you always did. He didn’t seem to like that you weren’t your normal, smiling self. He grew more and more agitated, but you didn’t call ‘hula hoop'. You thought you could handle him. That once he got his treatment, he’d calm down some, like all the other visits before.

He tried to get out of bed, and you began to gently redirect him to sit down again. Hands seized your shoulders in an iron grip, and that’s when you realized this wasn’t like the other visits.

Your back hit the wall hard, knocking the wind out of you. The back of your head collided with the drywall, accompanied by a sharp pain and stars behind your eyes. You could barely breathe, let alone shout, but luckily Brian was shouting, and that would catch someone’s attention. Spittle flew from his lips as he screamed incoherently in your face, as you tried with all your might to wrench yourself from his grip, as you gasped like a fish out of water.

At last, your lungs filled with a little bit of air, and you weakly called out, “Hula—“

Brian was ripped away from you by several pairs of hands before you even finished the phrase, and you collapsed to the floor.

He'd been talking to Lena at the front desk, debriefing on the trauma that had just been moved up to ICU, when he heard the noise. Jack's head whipped in the direction of the shouting. Through the glass, he could see a hostile patient, standing up and raving nonsense. 

Then just past the patient’s shoulder, he saw you, pinned to the wall with wide, frightened eyes and a gasping mouth. You, the sweetest nurse in the building, who had a smile for everyone and wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Jack began moving before he fully absorbed what he was seeing, before he recognized Brian. All he knew was that you were in harm’s way, which was unacceptable. So he skidded around the edge of the desk, grabbing Diaz by the back of his scrubs and hauling him towards North 6. 

He flew through the doorway and roughly yanked the man away from you, arguably much harder than necessary. The man snarled and shouted profanity as Jack and Diaz wrestled him back to the bed. 

“—stupid fucking whore—“

The patient tried to sit up, and Jack, seeing red, slammed him back down by the shoulder. The patient yelped and writhed beneath his grip. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that someone was trying to to shoulder past him, but Jack stood firm, his jaw clenched as he held the man down.

“Abbot.”

Jack almost didn’t hear the warning past his own pulse roaring in his ears. He turned to see Shen, moving in to take Jack’s place, a stern but understanding look on his face. 

Over his shoulder, Jack saw your crumpled form on the floor, pale and trembling. A few shards of broken plastic surrounded you on the tile, and only when he saw your hair falling wild around your face did he realize what they were — the remains of the clip that you wore your hair in every day, shattered to bits when your head hit the drywall. 

You stared in shock at the scene before you, your eyes still wide like a spooked animal’s.

Jack's eyes snapped back to Shen, and he allowed him to replace him in restraining the patient. “You got him?”

Shen nodded, then jerked his head in your direction. “Get her out of here, and tell security to get off their asses.”

Jack was at your side in an instant, one hand at your back, the other hand wrapped around yours as he quickly pulled you to your feet and steered you out of the room. “All right. I gotcha,” he murmured. “I gotcha.”

“Lena, tell security to wake up and help out in North 6.” He tried not to shout, but the words still came out rougher than he intended. He felt you flinch slightly beside him and kicked himself internally. “What’s open?”

“South 18. You alright, hon?” Lena had already moved out from behind the desk when the chaos started a few seconds ago, and she laid a gentle hand on your shoulder. You nodded weakly but said nothing.

Lena began to walk with you and Jack towards South 18, but Jack insisted, “I got her. Can you keep this place from falling apart for five minutes for me?”

She nodded, squeezed your shoulder, and pivoted back towards the hub.

Jack ushered you into the room, closed the door behind him, and eased you onto the edge of the bed.

“I’m okay,” you blurted, before he got the chance to say anything. The tremor in your voice and the tension in your shoulders told a different story.

“I know you are,” he replied gently. “I'm just gonna take a look at you. Hospital policy.”

He reached his hand into his pocket for his penlight. “Eyes open for me.” You squinted as he checked your pupillary response, rolled your eyes when he asked, “What's today’s date?”

“Dr. Abbot—"

“Humor me,” he softly urged you, pocketing his penlight again.

You sighed and surrendered. “Thursday, the fifteenth.”

He offered you a smile. “Wasn't so hard, was it?”

As gently as he could, Jack examined the back of your head where it had made contact with the wall, his fingers probing your scalp. You hissed quietly when he pressed near the tender spot.

“Tender here, but no broken skin. You'll probably just have a bump for a few days.” he said thoughtfully, pulling back to look at you. “I wanna get you into CT, just to be sure.”

You started to protest. “I’m fine, I promise—“

“Please,” Jack interrupted you, not allowing you to talk him out of his concern. “For my own peace of mind, if nothing else.”

After a moment’s hesitation, you nodded. “Okay.” 

You peered up at him with those still-frightened doe eyes and took a stuttering breath, your lower lip wobbling ever-so-slightly. Jack's heart nearly cracked at the sight of it. 

“Hey, hey,” he muttered sympathetically, and before he thought better of it, he pulled you into a tight embrace. “C’mere, sweet girl.”

He was sure to regret that particular turn of phrase later. It was too affectionate, a little too revealing. But you were so small and fragile in his arms, and he couldn’t fight his instincts to hold you close, to murmur reassurance into your hair.

“He’s not comin’ near you again,” he vowed, a surge of protectiveness underneath the words. “I promise.”

Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his scrubs, your breath hitching with held-back sobs. Jack kept his breathing slow and steady, and soon enough your breathing matched his, evening out to a calmer rhythm. He gave you one last squeeze, breathing in the sweet scent of your shampoo at the crown of your head, and then released you.

Just then, Lena cracked open the door, holding up your water bottle, the one you covered with stickers. Your cheeks flared with embarrassment at having been caught in such an emotional state, and you quickly wiped away the tell-tale tear tracks streaking them. Jack quietly thanked Lena and grabbed the water bottle, passing it to you when you were ready and politely dismissing her. 

“Here, drink.”

You sat down on the edge of the bed once again, taking a few sips obediently. Jack suspected you could use a quiet moment to yourself, so he straightened his spine and prepared himself to return to the circus that likely awaited just beyond the door.

“Sit tight for me, and we’ll get you down to radiology. Can I get you a snack or somethin’?” he offered, his hands slipping into his pockets so they wouldn’t do something foolish like reach for you again. 

You shook your head. “I’m not hungry, but… thank you.”

“Of course. Can't lose my best nurse. You're my backup.”

You didn’t smile. You weren’t quite there yet. But your expression softened a little, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. You’d be all right, he was sure. You were tough underneath all that sweetness, and you wouldn’t let this get you down for long.

Jack gave you the kindest smile he could manage and slipped back out into the hall.

You hated being treated with kid gloves, and there was a lot of that for the next few shifts. Your head CT had come back normal, and without evidence of a concussion, Dr. Abbot let you finish the last few hours of your shift under strict advisement to ‘take it easy’ (which was easier said than done in the Pitt).

But the damage had been done. People had seen you weak, seen you cry. For a week after the incident, every interaction with Pitt staff was marked with well-meaning check-ins and encouragement bordering on the patronizing. You just wanted to forget the whole thing had ever happened, but that was impossible with all the hovering.

The only attention you received that didn’t exhaust or annoy you was Dr. Abbot’s. He'd smile at you from across the bay, but it was friendly, not an expression of pity. He’d ask you how you were doing like he genuinely wanted to hear about your day, not because he was worried you were about to have another breakdown. He cracked jokes and threw winks at you as he worked over patients and instructed residents. 

It wasn’t all that different from his usual attention, just more…dialed-in. It had the same effect on you that it always did — an inexplicable warmth in your chest, a flush to your cheeks, and a slight flutter in your stomach. It was a welcome distraction from the bruises and soreness that were still fading from the altercation.

Three shifts after the incident, you arrived at the Pitt, tossing your bag in a locker and shuffling over to the hub desk. Waiting by the spot where you usually left your water bottle was an unexpected sight — a gift bag, small and in an unassuming color, bearing a tag with your name on it.

On the opposite side, in messy but familiar handwritten script, the tag read:

In case you need a backup.

-J

Flushing slightly, you glanced around you to make sure you didn’t have anyone’s attention before opening the bag. Inside were two small items. The first was a hair clip — not just any hair clip, but the exact one that had lain shattered on the Pitt’s floor almost a week ago, the one you had worn religiously since you started working there. It was just a generic hair clip you had found at the drugstore — not fancy, sturdy enough to keep your hair out of your face and last a couple years. But the fact that he’d gone out of his way to find that exact one made your heart do funny things in your chest.

The second item was a scrunchie, the color matching the fleece you wore most days to stave off the chill of the air con. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself as you slipped the scrunchie around your wrist and began to wind your hair up into a twist, securing it with the clip.

Somehow materializing out of thin air right in front of you on the opposite side of the desk, Bridget gave you a playful side eye as she typed into her tablet. “I know that look. That's an HR issue waiting to happen.”

You feigned nonchalance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Discreetly as possible, you slipped the tag off the bag and tried to pocket it. But Diaz, who also apparently obtained teleportation powers, snagged your wrist and managed to pry the tag from your fingers.

“‘’J? Who could that possibly be?” He smirked as you snatched it back, your cheeks on fire.

“Only one person in this building makes her smile like that,” Bridget replied with knowing amusement.

“You know you’re totally his favorite, right?” Diaz whispered conspiratorially. “None of us ever get presents.”

You elbowed him in the ribs. “Shut up.”

He snickered as you rounded the desk to glance up at the board, getting the lay of the land as you started your shift. Across the bay, Abbot was doing the same, hands in his pockets, until his eyes drifted to you.

Something twinkled in his eyes when they fell on the scrunchie at your wrist, and a proud smile spread across his face. You smiled back, a little shy but fond all the same, before moving in the direction of your first patient.

The first time he met you, the building’s elevator had broken down, and you were struggling up six flights with a massive package. When he gruffly offered assistance (more because you were blocking half the stairway than for any other reason), you’d insisted that you could handle it on your own. Wordlessly, Bucky scooped up the package and carried it all the way up the stairs and into your apartment, shrugging as you thanked him repeatedly. You were nice. You were pretty. He didn't think much about it the rest of the day.

Then you made him cookies as a thank you, dropping them off at his apartment two days later with a smile and a sprinkling of flour clinging to your sweater. Bucky couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made him anything. They were damn good, too.

Over time, you kept popping up in his life, slight disruptions to his routine that felt less and less disruptive every time. To your obvious embarrassment, you needed to be rescued fairly often. Your shower malfunctioned, and the super wasn’t answering his phone. You bought too much at the grocery store and couldn’t carry all the bags. You forgot a pot of mac and cheese on the stove top and struggled to get your fire alarm to shut up.

Once, you rushed out of the building without checking the weather, and Bucky ran into you shivering in the rain, walking from your subway stop. Bucky tucked you under the edge of his umbrella and escorted you back home, ears turning red when you smiled up at him with your wet hair plastered to your face.

Every time Bucky came to the rescue, you found a way to thank him — dinner, a cup of coffee, a book lent that you thought he might like. It was appreciated, but entirely unnecessary. That soft, grateful smile you gave him when he swooped in to play superhero was reward enough.

Eventually, enough rescues and thank-yous had occurred that the two of you were more than just neighbors. You were friends. 

Sometimes, he even wondered if there was something else there — something bigger than just friends.

As such, Bucky began to look for excuses to be around you. The perfect excuse came along when you mentioned that you always did your laundry on Tuesday nights, because most of the tenants did their laundry over the weekend, or on Mondays if they had put it off. The following Tuesday, he happened to run into you at the laundry facilities. Just your luck, because you had forgotten your quarters upstairs.

Next week, and the next, he was there. And it became routine.

Tonight, he travels down to the laundry room, basket in hand. He's late (the goddamn MTA never runs on time), so you’ve beaten him there, already folding your clean sheets.

Your eyes light up like fireflies as soon as you see him. “Hi there.”

Bucky doesn’t quite know what he’s doing when it comes to you, unless he’s somehow being useful. But he sees you struggling with the length of the sheet, and that’s something he can easily assist with. 

“Need a hand?” he offers, gesturing to the sheet.

“Please.” You hand him one side, your fingers brushing his. “Here.”

He helps you to fold the sheet in half, and then in half again, a domestic little dance. When it’s been folded small enough that you can manage it on your own, you commandeer the sheet completely and Bucky drops his hands.

“Thanks, Buck.” You give him that gentle, grateful smile that you always do, and Bucky wishes he could put it in his pocket and save it for a bad day.

He expects you to finish folding the sheet and place it in your basket, but an idea strikes you and twinkles behind your eyes. You step very close to him, closer than you’ve ever dared, even on the day of the shared umbrella.

Bucky grows very still as you wrap your arms around him, the warm and soft fabric of the sheet between you, enveloping him. 

He just stands there stiffly for a moment, barely even breathing, until the speech centers of his brain turn back on. “…what are you doing?”

“Warm hug,” you reply, like it’s obvious. “Best part of laundry day. My mom used to do this when I was a kid. It's nice, right?”

Nice doesn’t really begin to cover it. The folded square of the sheet drapes around his shoulders, shrouding him warmth and in the scent of your lilac fabric softener. And then there’s you and your accompanying warmth, your head resting against his chest, your arms circling him and squeezing gently, like he’s a teddy bear and not a decommissioned weapon.

Just like most things you give to him, Bucky has no idea what to do with it. What to do with the fist closed around his heart that squeezes whenever you look at him affectionately.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “It’s…nice.”

Just as his body is beginning to soften into it, you release him. He tries very hard not to look disappointed, watching silently as you finish folding it into a small square and drop it into your basket.

“Will you help me fold this, too?” you ask, reaching for the fitted sheet.

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you gonna try to hug me again?”

“Maybe,” you respond, grinning mischievously.

For whatever reason — male pride, or perhaps to camouflage how deeply your touch has affected him — he rolls his eyes, as if to pretend that isn’t exactly what he wants most in this moment. But he takes the other side of the sheet from your hands anyway.

It’s a little more awkward, because when is folding a fitted sheet not awkward? The two of you end up having to start over, your first attempt too clumsy. You laugh as you shake it back out. It's the best sound in the world, as far as Bucky is concerned. 

The second attempt is slightly better. When it’s folded down to the width of your wingspan, Bucky surprises both you and himself by stepping in and taking the sheet from your hands.

Before he can second-guess what he’s doing, he mimics your movements from before. His arms surround you, the sheet settling around your smaller frame. The embrace is careful, mindful of his own strength against your softness.

You do a much better job than he did of settling into it, your cheek pressing into his chest, a contented little hum slipping out of you. Encouraged, he holds you just a little tighter, his chin coming down to rest on top of your head.

“You give nice hugs,” you sigh.

Bucky's ears heat up. “I feel like the sheet being fresh from the dryer is doing a lot of the heavy lifting here.”

“Nope.” You nuzzle your face further against his chest, eyes fluttering closed. “It’s you.”

It takes a heroic dose of self-control for Bucky to release you. All he wants is to keep you close, to drop the sheet and breathe in the scent of your hair, to tilt your chin up towards him and kiss you the way he’s been thinking about for weeks now.

But he doesn’t want his first kiss with you to be in the middle of the building laundromat, where anyone could walk in. Reluctantly, he steps back from you and hands you the sheet.

The moment dispelled, you offer him a shy smile as you finish folding your sheets. Once again in need of something to do with his hands, Bucky busies himself with loading one of the washers.

With your laundry done and dusted, Bucky expects you to wave goodbye and head back up to your apartment. Just as he’s preparing himself for the disappointment of watching you go, you appear at his side, hoisting yourself up to sit on the washer next to him.

“So,” you murmur, your legs swinging off the edge of the washer, your eyes playful but attentive. “Tell me about your day.”

Bucky can’t help but smile at that.

Yeah. Tuesday nights are his favorites.

Perhaps it’s the mystery of the unknown. Being able to see what the body looks like, but not being able to see the face, drives something deep inside your bones to sizzle.

You’ve seen the videos — the girl giving her number to a mysterious biker, posing with them for a picture, kissing the helmet before running away. Each one, you whisper I wanna do that.

If ever given the chance.

But Gods work on mysterious ways…

It’s a buzzing Friday night in New York—bars are packed, taxis flying down the side streets, drunken laughter filling the air, and your feet are throbbing from walking the uneven side walks.

Your coworkers wanted to celebrate someone’s promotion, you don’t even know who, but had agreed anyways because everyone deserves a drink.

The night started fine, honestly, but then took a left turn into fuckthisvile when all your coworkers started making odd jokes.

About you.

The first few were harmless, even you giggled at. They gradually grew harsher. Meaner. Personal.

“It must be hard shopping for your style in your size.” Dani had drunkenly mocked.

“Summers have got to be hard on you.” Tiffany chimed in.

“Oh be nice to her. She just has more to love.” Frank laughed.

You felt your skin crawl and all blood rush to your ears. Your eyes stayed glued to your drink, watching the sweat droplets slide down to your fingers.

You felt mildly insecure already, being a woman with curves, but never thought of yourself as ugly.

Slamming the last of your drink, you didn’t even give them the gratification of seeing your hurt, and grabbed your purse to leave. The liquor burned your throat, momentarily taking the focus from your eyes. You glanced at each of their laughing faces, nodded once and walked away.

The humid night air refreshes your lungs, finally pulling in a deep breath since the jokes started.

Your phone sits waiting in your hand as you go to book an Uber, when loud vrooming sounds fill the street.

Lifting your eyes, you watch as three motorcycles pull up along the curb right outside the bar. The first one is hot red with white strips along the body, and the rider in all black leather but the helmet matches the bike.

The second is blue and red, a single white star on their helmet.

But it’s the middle bike that causes your breath to hitch. All black leather, helmet, and bike. A blood red star on the front.

You can’t help but stare as your breathing becomes deeper, inhaling the fumes from their exhaust. The red bike and the white star are yelling over the middle person, who—even through his helmet—looks over the conversation.

Head tilted slightly, nodding gently to whatever song must be playing in the protective gear, and your heart feels it’s going to drop out your pussy.

You take a step forward and then freeze. He’s huge, big shoulders and arms and hands and you thought you could just waltz right up and do what?

Your brain short circuits before starting back up again as one of the bikes revs loudly. Your glossy eyes focus, and the one you were staring at now has his head turned. Looking directly at you.

Your hands clam up, your throat feels tight, and your eyes widen. His head tilts in question before lifting a finger to motion you over.

You’re frozen, ready to vomit, just as the door behinds you burst open. Your eyes close in prayer when Tiffany and Dani stumble beside you.

“You’re still here? We thought you left!” Dani pokes your arm.

You snatch it out of reach, glaring, “I was getting an uber.”

Frank materializes on the other side of you, “why are you leaving? You know we were just joking! Don’t be so sensitive.” He nudges Tiffany. “Right? We weren’t trying to make fun of you.”

The two girls cackle, stumbling into each other, “yeah!”

You shift your gaze back to the man and suddenly the New York life drowns out.

He’s swinging his leg over the seat, pulling the key out of the ignition, all while keeping his head focused on you. As he approaches, your head slowly tilts back to keep your eyes on where you think his eyes are.

The giggling has stopped, Frank has taken a step back, and big mystery man is leaning down to press the helmet to the side of your face, “Need a ride?”

Your tongue feels like sand paper so all you can do is nod.

He straightens, flips his visor up, and stares piercingly blue eyes into your soul.

Your cheeks heat, your thighs twitch, and you would give your left kidney to see the rest of his face. His voice is like smooth honey, slowly dripping down your spine.

His eyes shift to the three people by you, “You know them?” His left index finger wiggles between them.

You go to answer honestly, then freeze. No, you don’t know these people. They’re just coworkers who are treating you like a street dog. Taking a deep breath, “No. I don’t know them.”

They all start to yell at you, voices stumbling over each other, trying to defend themselves.

Big Man nods once, wraps his arm around your shoulders, “She’s with me.”

You hold onto his leather jacket, willing your heart to calm the fuck down when you realize he’s leading you to his bike. The other two riders are leaning back, staring daggers at the three assholes you walked away from.

Mystery Man climbs on the bike, “I don’t have an extra helmet on me. I wasn’t expecting to pick up a beauty tonight. So here,” and his helmet is sliding up and off his head.

You’ve ascended and are now in heaven. Whatever good you’ve done in your life is paying off right now. Gods have answered your prayers.

He’s hot. Not as in oh he’s hot. No, as in he-could-fuck-you-right-there-on-the-street hot.

Salt and peppered beard, cut jaw and cheekbones, and hair you want to feel tangled in your fingers.

When you don’t take the helmet, a sharp smirk grows on his lips, “You can look at me like that all you want, Sweetheart, but i need you to put this on.”

Your limbs are jelly, hands trembling as you slide the gear over your head. You peer at him through the open visor and can’t stop the giggle crawling out your mouth.

He licks his lower lip, “How’s it fit?”

“A bit big, but feels good.” You wink.

The man groans, “Jesus Christ.”

His hand finds yours as he helps you swing your leg over the bike. You giggle again, “Actually, it’s-“ you give your name.

He turns his head to look back at you, a sparkle in his eye, “Bucky. Now hold on, sweetheart.”

And oh do you.

Thinking about walking back into PTMC was not easy, but for your daughter, you would do anything. Even if it meant hurting yourself in the process.

You were at home gathering your daughter's toys off the living room floor when you received a call from her preschool telling you that your 3-year-old daughter was being taken to the hospital. Apparently, she had eaten some of her friend's peanut butter and jelly sandwich. For anyone else, it wouldn’t have been that big of a deal. But Margot, your daughter, has a severe peanut allergy. The preschool informed you that an ambulance was already on its way and said it would be fastest if you met them at the hospital.

“Ok, what hospital are they taking her to?” You asked. Already grabbing your purse and jacket and making a beeline towards the front door.

“Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center,” The woman said.

Your heart dropped, and it felt like time slowed around you. You stopped for a brief second as you approached your front door, but pushed yourself despite the fact that you wanted to stay right where you were. You told the sweet woman, whom you’d met a dozen times picking up and dropping your daughter off from school, thank you. Your body was met with the cold air as you opened your front door. You raced down your porch steps, boots crunching on the dead, dry fall leaves. You unlocked your driver’s side door and practically jumped in, wasting no time starting the car and driving off.

Your mind was racing as you drove to the place you used to call home. It was less than a ten-minute car ride, but it felt like an eternity. The last time you were in the Pitt, you left with unresolved feelings and a mess that you had no desire to go back and clean up. You hadn’t been in contact with any of your coworkers since that one winter day all those years ago. You hadn’t even talked to Dana, who was practically a mother to you. As you drove your car, you prayed that your ex, Jack Abbot, was still working the night shift.

Your and Jack’s relationship was quite frankly something you couldn’t describe with words. You had met each other in passing while he was working as the night shift attending, and you, as one of the new day shift nurses. At first, you would exchange glances and make small talk with one another. As time went on, your conversations bloomed into learning more about each other. You had learned how Jack liked his coffee. Black. He told you how long he had been working in the ER and shared very small details about his life before the Pitt. You told him where you attended school and where you were from. No matter what he told you, you listened, and he did the same for you. Even without telling him, he knew things about you that no one else paid attention to.

He learned what your favorite candy was after seeing it next to your water bottle at the nurses’ station. He knew your favorite color from the socks you wore and the jacket you brought to work with you. He knew your favorite genre of music based on the songs you would hum and sing under your breath while charting. You had never met a person who seemed to be so interested in someone they had just met.

After a few months of working together, you would go out and get drinks with the rest of the Pitt crew. But you two always seemed to find each other in a crowded room. You both could talk to one another for hours and somehow never run out of things to talk about.

Frequently, you would find Jack on the roof after his shift. Other than Robby, you were the only other person who could get him back on the other side of the railing.

When you made things official with each other, nothing really changed. Except for the fact that you would find yourself twisted in his bedsheets the morning after a night out. Or him pulling you into a supply closet, just to get a moment alone with you. That’s when you realized all the little pieces of information he stored away as he got to know you.

Jack would always make sure to keep a few bags of your favorite candy and snacks in the staff lounge, just in case you ran out. He pointed out that when something you wanted was in your favorite color and always told you, “I’ll pay for it.” He knew more about you than some of the people who knew you your whole life. You couldn’t fathom how you got to be the luckiest girl in the world.

Your relationship with Jack was steady, and he couldn’t have been better towards you. He was considerate, loving, and all around a good person. The problem was you. You never felt deserving of the love he gave you. You knew you loved him, but you kept hearing this voice in your head saying you were unworthy of what he was giving you. You grew up surrounded by chaos, and your brain was engraved with the thought that love should be messy. It shouldn’t be this easy.

You weren’t proud of how you left things with Jack. There was yelling, crying, and things said that couldn’t be taken back, mostly from you. You had been lucky all this time that there was no “real” emergency that had you landing in the Pitt. Hell, you were surprised you had gone this long without accidentally running into any of them. All of you and your family’s medical needs were being treated at the other surrounding hospitals, and you even made sure your daughter was born anywhere but PTMC.

You felt sick to your stomach as you pulled up to the ER. Were you ready to face all the people you used to call family? You didn’t have time to ponder your thoughts. You parked your car as close as you could to the emergency room and ran to the automatic doors. You pushed your way through the crowd of people waiting to be seen. You were hit by the smell of the ER waiting room and people begging to be taken back to be seen. When you worked here as a nurse, you tried your best not to let the people who had been waiting for hours get to you emotionally. You knew there were only so many hands and things you could do, but it still hurt to see people who waited for 12 hours in a crowded room with the electric buzz of bright lights. You said your apologies as you squeezed past an older gentleman and approached the front desk.

“Lupe,” you said as your voice quavered and you shot a look to the double doors leading to the main part of the ER.

Lupe looked up at you and opened her mouth to say something, but decided against it. She gave you a soft and sincere smile before opening the doors to your right.

You heard the buzz and made your way around the corner. Your heart felt like it was still at your front door, but your feet made their way through the madness of the ER. Your body was hit with the smell of antiseptic and the noise of the never-ending cry that occurs in the emergency room. It had been a long time since you had been in the midst of your old work environment. You forgot how loud it was with the sounds of beeping machines and shouting orders from the nurses.

You halted in front of the nurses’ station, looking up at the board, trying to place which room Margot was placed in. You could have asked for help, but it felt easier figuring it out on your own. Your eyes scanned the lit-up board with its fluorescent blocks of color highlighted with people’s names. Just as you came across your little girl's name, a woman's voice said your name.

Your eyes dropped down from the board to an older woman in gray scrubs with her blonde hair pulled up in a claw clip. Dana. You locked eyes with hers, seeing hers rim with tears.

“What are you doin’ here?” She said softly as she reached to put her hand on your arm.

You kept your eyes on her, not knowing what to say. How do you explain to someone you once thought was going to be at your wedding that you have a child with a complete stranger, who abandoned you and your little girl?

“Is there a little girl in here named Margot? ” Was all you could say, as you bit your lip to stop your chin from wobbling.

Dana drifted her gaze from your eyes and then to your hands fidgeting with your jacket button.

“Yeah, she’s in trauma two. C’mon.” She said as she put her hand on the lower part of your back, guiding you towards your daughter.

Even without telling Dana, she knew the little girl was yours. Dana knew everything, especially around here.

As soon as you approached the clear doors of the trauma room, your eyes fell on your little girl. You saw her ringlets of brown hair in the pigtails you had done earlier this morning. Her bright yellow t-shirt and the matching pants that went along with it. The light-up princess sneakers that she insisted on wearing every day, no matter where she was going. You saw her red cheeks and puffy eyes. The rash that seemed to be everywhere on her body was only getting worse.

Without thinking twice, you pushed the trauma doors open, just like you used to when you were assigned to a case. You rushed to Margot's side, practically shoving everyone else out of the way who wasn’t doing anything critical.

“Bug, I'm here. You’re gonna be ok.” You said with a soft but worried smile on your face.

Your daughter’s eyes fluttered open, finding yours. Her lip started to quiver.

“My throat hurts.” She tried to say as tears started to stream from her eyes.

You could feel her tiny heart racing as you lay your hand on her chest.

“I know, but I’m here. And the doctors are going to help you feel so much better.” You said fighting back tears yourself.

“How much Epi has she been given?” You asked, not taking your eyes off your daughter, your hand interlaced with hers.

The med students looked at each other and then back at you. “I am-well, I used to be a nurse here.” They nodded their heads as the female attending, whom you had never met, responded, “Only pushed one so far, she seemed to calm down with the one dose. We’ll see how she does in the next five minutes.”

Just as your question was answered, the trauma doors opened. You looked up, and your eyes met Robby’s. You could see the swirl of emotions he was feeling as he scanned your face. You saw his eyes drop down to the little girl on the hospital bed with an oxygen mask on her face. He didn’t know you fell in love after Jack or got your heart broken at 20 weeks pregnant. Let alone have a child. He quickly looked back at you, and his feet started to move.

“Dr. Al-Hashimi, we got this.” He said as he pushed past her and snapped a pair of gloves on his hands. The woman, whose name you had just learned, looked at Robby and then you, before turning around and exiting the room.

Everyone else in the room kept moving and informed Robby of everything they had already done. He looked at you again, seeing you look down at the little girl with tears in your eyes.

“Vitals are dropping.” A nurse beside you said, causing you and Robby to snap your heads up to the monitor.

“Push another of Epi,” You heard Robby say.

Margot’s eyes were shut, her tiny body fighting so hard as the grip of her hand lessened on yours. You looked down and ran your fingers across her tiny knuckles. Looking at the chipped bubblegum nail polish that she begged you to buy for her. Your mind raced through all the moments you’ve had with her. From when you first found out you were pregnant, to finding out she was a girl and watching her grow up into this tiny, beautiful human being.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to have you step outside.” One of the med students said coming to your side. Your head snapped to look at him, fighting the urge to slap him in the face. You knew as a nurse that family could get in the way of proper treatment for a patient, but you didn’t care. This was your blood, and you weren’t leaving her side. Before Robby or anyone else could respond, you heard a voice, and the door to the trauma room opened.

“She can stay, Ogilvie, she’s family.”

You knew that voice. You had taken comfort in that voice so many years ago. You heard that voice say “I love you” in the morning, at work, in passing, and before you would fall asleep at night. The gruff voice that would whisper in your ear how much he loved you and how well you were doing in your most intimate moments. The same voice that broke when you told him that things were over.

Your eyes shot up to meet him, and for the first time in years, you were in the same room as Jack Abbot.

it was a beautiful townhouse. it was about three stories of brick and black shutters with overflowing flower boxes beneath the windows. it was elegant without being flashy. it was lived-in without looking old.

he'd hummed his acknowledgment and continued walking.

that should have been the end of it.

but it wasn't.

because the next week she pointed it out again.

and the week after that… and the one after.

soon it became part of their routine.

coffee, pastries, the townhouse.

every single saturday morning and every single time they passed it, her pace slowed.

sometimes she'd admire the little balcony on the second floor, or the iron railings, even the huge windows that flooded the interior with sunlight. and other times she would just smile at it quietly before continuing down the block.

jack never teased her about it.

he just listened the way he always listened.

collecting and gathering every detail she offered without her realizing it.

it was like he was storing them away somewhere safe.

—

months later, she was standing in front of the pastry display at the coffee shop when jack casually mentioned the open house.

she looked up immediately.

"what.. really?" she said in disbelief. “i didn’t see a sign, though. are you sure?” she said in the middle of taking a bite of her banana loaf.

"yeah they’re showing the townhouse today.” he repeated with that signature sideways smile. “it’s a private showing.” he shrugged.

the excitement that lit her face was instant and for a moment, jack almost felt guilty because she had absolutely no idea…

when they arrived, the house was somehow even more beautiful inside.

sunlight spilled through oversized windows, warming polished hardwood floors and pale walls.

the entire place felt bright, open and comfortable.

it was a place that people built lives together and they could feel the warmth of a loved and cherished home.

jack spent most of the tour watching her instead of the house.

watching her wander into every room with wide eyes, watching her run her fingertips along the bathroom countertops.

watching her stand in front of windows and imagine things.

he knew she was imagining things because she'd always done that. her imagination was everything that made her into the dreamer that she was.

even in their tiny conversations, or while walking down the street.

she saw dreams everywhere and a beautifully bright future in every empty space.

"this kitchen is incredible." she mused, as she rounded the kitchen island and peered out the windows that rested right above the kitchen sink.

her voice echoed softly through the room as jack leaned against the doorway.

her shoulders sank as she peered into the lush backyard garden.

"It is." he said as he watched her in quiet awe.

she moved toward one of the windows, sunlight caught her hair. the sight of her standing there nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

because she looked like she belonged there.. with him. he nearly groaned at the sight of her. her hair falling behind her shoulders while she playfully pretended to wash the dishes.

he smiled wildly as she looked behind her at him and wiggled her eyebrows, causing them both to giggle.

it looked like she wasn’t visiting.

or imagining.

she was just belonging.

as if the house had been waiting for her this whole entire time.

the realtor eventually left them alone to explore.

that was when the trouble started.

because the more she saw, the more she fell in love with it.

and the more she fell in love with it, the more impossible it became for her to hide her disappointment.

by the time they reached the living room again, she was trying very hard to be realistic.

jack knew that look it was the one where she talked herself out of wanting something.

“it's okay," she said softly.

nobody had even asked a question.

jack raised an eyebrow as she laughed a little sadly.

"this place is just..." her gaze drifted toward the windows.

the fireplace.

the staircase.

everything.

"it's perfect." she hummed as jack placed his hand on the back of her small back. her words came out as barely more than a whisper as she looked up at him.

jack felt something squeeze painfully inside his chest.

because she wasn't being dramatic.

or materialistic, or unrealistic, she just genuinely loved this place.

the same way she loved old bookstores and small coffee shops and rainy afternoons cuddled with a good book.

she loved things completely, with her whole heart.

"a girl can dream, right?" she said softly to him. her smile small.

jack stared at her for a long moment— long enough that she did a double take when she wanted to pull him out and go back home.

"w-what?" she looked at him in confusion.

his hands slipped into his pockets, a nervous habit which was one she rarely ever saw.

then he nodded toward the room around them.

"good thing you don't have to." he nodded earnestly.

confusion flickered across her face. she laughed his name, "what are you talking about?"

"you don't have to dream about it, baby."

the silence that followed stretched before he finally said it.

"i bought it."

she blinked…once…twice.

the words clearly didn't fully register and he wanted to kiss her stupid as she gave him a look of pure confusion.

"i bought the townhouse, baby.” he said stalking closer to her, his shoes echoing throughout the room.

still nothing.

her mouth opened slightly.

closed it.

opened again.

jack fought back a smile because for someone so smart, she looked completely lost.

"you..." her voice disappeared.

jack nodded trying to get it out of her.

"i bought it." he said cocooning her into his arms as if to block her away from the rest of the world.

another heartbeat passed.

then another.

finally her eyes widened.

not a little.

a lot.

the kind of realization that arrives all at once. it was sudden and overwhelming and her heart was beating so fast she could have sworn that he could hear it.

"f-for us?" the question cracked in the middle.

jack's expression softened immediately.

"yeah." his voice was gentle, “so we can have somewhere that's ours."

the tears arrived instantly.

jack sighed.

because of course they did.

she slapped both hands over her face.

which somehow made it worse.

"sweetheart—"

"you bought me a house?”

his laugh filled the room. "i bought us a house."

"a whole house, jack."

"technically it's a townhouse." he teased causing her to let out a watery laugh.

then immediately started crying harder.

“i want you to decorate it however you want and i’m gonna help you.” he said softly, moving her hair behind her shoulders as she looked up at him. “we’re gonna make it ours.”

the next thing jack knew, she was throwing her arms around his neck as he wrapped his strong arms around her small frame.

of course he caught her automatically.

strong freckled arms wrapping around her waist as she buried her face against his chest.

the familiar scent of coffee and aftershave surrounded her instantly.

safe, comforting, home.

kack rested his chin on top of her head, holding her tightly. neither of them spoke for a while.

they just stood there in the middle of their future living room as the sunlight poured in around them.

the house quiet and waiting.

finally she tilted her head back enough to look at him.

her eyes were red and her cheeks damp.

beautiful.

"you remembered." the words were tiny they made jack frown.

"remembered what?" he wanted to know, as he wiped his thumb against her wet cheeks.

she laughed softly. "the windows."

his expression immediately melted because of course that's what she was talking about.

not the price, or the size and not even the investment of it all.

the windows.

the thing she'd mentioned months ago during a random walk.

"the balcony." her voice trembled.

"the flower boxes."

jack brushed his thumb against her bottom lip as it quivered.

"i remember everything you tell me." he mused.

and judging by the way her face crumpled, that might have been the most emotional thing he'd said all day.

—

later, after the realtor returned and paperwork was discussed and the reality of it all slowly settled around them, they found themselves standing on the little front patio.

the one she'd always admired and pointed out dozens of times.

jack handed her the key, simple and unassuming. yet somehow heavier than anything she'd ever held before.

she stared at it in her palm, then up at him, then back at the house.

their house. their future.

their home.

jack leaned down and kissed her forehead softly before giving her the smile that destroyed her every single time because it was the kind of smile he reserved only for her.

"what do you say we go back and start to unpack" he hummed.

and this time, when she looked at the townhouse, she didn't have to imagine anymore.

Wait. wait, wait, wait, wait. WHAT THE FUCK?

You began to go down your checklist.

Dead Wife? Check.

Cats? Check.

Leg Injury? Check.

Daughter?

Uh yeah, seemed to have left that one out of the conversation over the past 2 months, Brett. For all you know, he could have a whole litter of kids in different parts of the globe. Your head began to spin, though for once you weren't about to hit the pavement because your blood sugar decided it was gonna take the day off. But watching Brett's hands tremble and he fought to grab his car keys, you decided it was time to #lock in.

“Brett,” you reached for him, grabbing his arm in an attempt to ground him. “Let me drive. Please.”

Now under absolutely any other circumstance, Brett would rather walk across broken glass than let you behind the wheel of his truck; but now he could hardly breathe. He handed you the keys and despite the urgency, still helped you into the driver's seat. With a jerk you quickly left the fairgrounds, perhaps running over a curb or two in the process. Even in crisis you were still just a girl.

Brett said nothing on the drive to the hospital, and it was rare to sit in silence with him. Moments together were typically filled with laughter, playful banter, or serious discussions. As you glanced over at him, his eyes were panic stricken as he slowly rocked himself back and forth trying to adjust himself in the seat. As you pulled into the hospital bay, he was out of the truck before you could put the car in park.

“Brett!” you hopped out and called after him. “Here, take the keys, I’ll take an Uber home.”

“No, no,” he was walking backwards into the emergency room, “take my truck home– I don't want you taking an Uber alone this time of night.”

Before you could protest, you were left in the parking lot, hugging yourself as the engine hummed beside you. Suddenly the hair on the back of your neck stood at attention, turning around your eyes scanned the parking lot slowly. Sedans. SUVs. A pickup truck with fogged windows. Nothing moved.

Still, your stomach tightened. Something felt wrong.

The hospital red EMERGENCY lights reflected off the pavement as you backed toward Brett’s truck, fisting the keys through your fingers. You hated this feeling. That hyperaware, razor-edged instinct clawing at your ribs. The constant sense that danger could materialize at any moment.

You yanked the truck door open quickly and climbed inside, locking it immediately.

Click.

Then another click for good measure.

Click click.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered to yourself, rubbing your hands over your face. “A fucking daughter?” How the hell had a whole child never come up?

This is what you get. You finally let yourself open up to a man and suddenly you feel like you’re home sick watching an episode of Jerry Springer.

“Brett, you ARE the father!”

You put the car in reserve but let your eyes drift toward the hospital entrance.

Brett had disappeared through those sliding doors less than a minute ago, but the image of his face wouldn’t leave your head. The panic in it. The complete loss of composure. You’d never seen him like that before. Brett was steady. Controlled. Even when he was teasing you, arguing, or peeling your naked body off the bathroom floor, there was always this underlying certainty to him. Now Brett was scared.

You hit the steering wheel and let your head thunk back against the seat. You couldn’t leave. As much as you wanted to, you wouldn’t leave.

Your phone buzzed and you jumped.

Maria.

How’s your date with Bobby Nash Jr?

You rolled your eyes. First of all, RIP. Second of all, she had no idea what kind of story she was in for.

Currently sitting in the ER parking lot because apparently this man has a secret daughter that was just in a car accident. So you tell me.

HE HAS A WHAT????

YEAH ❤️ Fuck my life ❤️

How do you accidentally forget to mention a WHOLE HUMAN CHILD?

You let your head fall back against the seat again with a dull thunk.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” you muttered to yourself.

Are you okay?

Honestly, you didn’t even know.

Because yes, part of you felt blindsided. An entire daughter wasn’t exactly a quirky fun fact to leave out over two months of not dating. But another part of you couldn’t stop replaying the look on Brett’s face when he got the call.

Fuck you and your empathy.

Trying to fight back your tears you opened the center console to look for a tissue or napkin to dry your eyes. You froze. Tucked inside the center compartment were two juice boxes and some gummies.

Pacific Cooler. Obviously. Period. No notes.

And Scooby-Doo fruit snacks, your favorite. (Still haven’t forgiven the fact that they changed the formula back in 2016 to make them more “healthy”. RIP to the blue opaque Scooby gummy. Sometimes you just want Blue 1 and Red 40 as a treat. Just like nature intended. 🥀)

You lost it.

Because Brett saw you. For the first time in god knows how long, sometime noticed you. Paid attention. To your quirks, your routine, your mundane rituals. This whole time, Brett listened.

Your vision blurred as you blinked hard, trying to will it away, but it only made it worse. You let out a shaky breath and leaned your forehead against the steering wheel for a second, laughing weakly at yourself as the horn cut through the night with a sharp beep.

“Get it together,” you muttered to yourself. “People are literally dying in there and you are crying over Scooby-Doo fruit snacks.”

Your phone buzzed again. Not Maria. Brett.

She just went in for surgery. Splenectomy. You make it home okay?

You couldn’t answer. As much as you wanted to, your thumbs seemed to be momentarily paralyzed. Instead you stared, reading the text over and over and over again.

You rubbed your hands together anxiously, eyes drifting back toward the sliding hospital doors for what had to be the hundredth time and you stilled. Because there he was. Sitting with his back against the brick wall of the hospital, head hung between his knees.

Just wrecked.

Your feet moved before you could register, the heels of your boots clicking against the pavement as you crossed the lot. It was chilly, wrapping your arms around yourself for warmth, but your face felt hot. Brett glanced up, eyes furrowing as you got closer.

“What are you—” he straightened slightly, confusion flashing across his exhausted face. “I thought I told you to take the truck home?”

“I know.” You whispered. He looked up at you, the look of betrayal etched on your face, but under it, you were worried.

“I guess I owe you an explanation.” He chuckled dryly. You looked at him, the red in his eyes. The way his hands shook faintly before he clasped them together. It shattered you.

“You don’t have to explain anything now.” You kneeled beside him, grabbing his arm, brushing your thumb along his bicep.

“No— you deserve one.” His head hit the brick, his eyes shutting as he looked for the words. “We— Abigail and I— we— fuck…” his voice cracked.

Abigail.

Abigail Richards.

“Brett, it’s okay.” You rested your chin on his shoulder.

“We haven’t spoken in years. She went no contact with me 7 years ago. Only reason they called me tonight was because she forgot to take me off as an emergency contact.” You stiffened, sitting up straight, hands jerking backward as if his body had burned your flesh.

“Brett—“

“She had every right to” He interrupted. “When Annie passed, I never realized how much she kept our family together. She was the glue, y’know?”

Your breathing was louder now, and he noticed, glancing in your direction to see if you were okay or struggling to stay upright. You couldn’t hide the look on your face, and it broke him.

“So when I lost her, I kinda went off the deep end. Started drinking. Got combative. Started fighting. Wasn’t there for my girl.” He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. “She came home one night to me in bed with some stranger. Was so drunk I don’t even remember how she even got there, or her name, but I’ll never forget Abby’s face when she walked in. Annie had only been gone 4 months.”

Oh.

Oh fuck.

“I remember trying to get up,” Brett continued, jaw clenching hard. “Trying to explain myself. But I could barely stand. She packed her stuff and moved in with my sister in law.”

The guilt on his face was etched deep into every nook and cranny, each wrinkle and line. Then Brett leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees again as he dragged both hands through his hair.

“Took me another year to pull my head outta my ass.” He rubbed at his eyes roughly. “Woke up in county after getting into a fight outside some bar. Couldn’t remember a damn thing either. My brother in law came to pick me up. Took one look at me and said Annie would’ve been fucking disgusted, which is an understatement. She’d have beat me into the pavement. I had lost Annie, but at that point I already lost Abigail too.“

“Why didn’t you— fuck Brett— I mean, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Didn’t what you to think I was still that guy.”

“I know you aren’t, Brett.”

Brett looked away immediately, jaw tightening hard as he stared out across the parking lot. Ambulance lights flashed somewhere in the distance, painting brief streaks of red across the side of his face before disappearing again.

“Brett…look at me” you grabbed his face and turned him to face you, hands resting on his cheeks. “I’m not saying you don’t fuck up, because you did. But I know what it feels like to be scared of someone, I know what it feels like to brace for impact the second someone walks into a room.”

Brett went perfectly still.

“And I have never once felt that with you.”

His eyes shut hard and before you could even process it, he leaned forward, forehead burying against your shoulder before he folded into you completely. One arm wrapped around your waist as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck. Bracing himself against you.

Your hands moved instinctively, fingers sliding into the curls at the back of his head as you held him there against you. You felt the rough exhale that left him, warm against your skin.

You thought how hard this must be for him, how much he had to be struggling to allow himself to be this vulnerable. For the protector to become the one needing help.

To be the one who knew what to do when someone was bleeding, panicking, or falling apart. The man who carried people out of burning buildings, cracked jokes in ambulances, and stayed calm while everyone else unraveled. Even with you, he was always watching. Catching things before they happened. Juice boxes in the truck. A hand at your back when you got dizzy. Forehead kisses instead of pushing for more when he sensed fear creeping in.

Protector came as naturally to him as breathing.

So feeling him like this now, shaking slightly against you, exhausted enough to stop pretending he was okay; it made your chest ache in ways you didn’t know how to describe.

Your fingers scratched lightly against his scalp and his grip tightened for half a second before easing again.

“You don’t have to be the strong one every second.”

Brett let out another uneven breath against your neck.

“Don’t say things like that right now,” he muttered hoarsely.

Your brows pulled together slightly.

“Why?”

His laugh was quiet and completely wrecked.

“Because I’m barely holding it together as is.”

You kissed the top of his head, smelling the citrus in his shampoo.

“When she saw me,” you heard his voice cracked, “she reached out for me. Like she was 4 years old again.”

“What did she say? She say anything?”

“She was out of it. Probably thought she was hallucinating me. But she actually let me hold her. She was calling for Annie. Kept telling me he was gonna kill her.”

“Who?”

“The man who ran her off the road. She said he was in a red Ford Bronco.”

When the words left his lips your body went cold.

“No, no, no.” You shook your head, pushing him away and pulling your hands from his grasp. “Marcus— he— he drives.”

The feeling you had earlier when you sat alone in his truck and swore someone was watching you. That he was somehow here. Your stomach twisted violently. You felt like you were going to vomit.

“He drives a red Bronco,” you whispered again, “Marcus drives a red Bronco.”

Brett looked as if he was going to set the world on fire.

“Did Abigail say anything else?” you asked shakily. “Did she see his face? Did the police—”

“She was barely conscious, Internal bleeding. Shock. They sedated her fast.”

“I’m so sorry” your eyes burned, your voice coming out in a shaky squeak. “God, Brett, I’m so sorry.”

“Listen, right now we do not know if it was Marcus.”

“Brett.” You looked at him, your eyes saying more than words ever could.

You knew it was him.

Even if there was no proof yet.

You knew.

Both of your hands found each others, fingers looping together, pulling each other close. Your body shook violently, the fear creeping up your spine and through your limbs. Brett’s hand slid up your back, tracing his fingers along your vertebrae.

“I’m so scared,” you whispered, teeth chattering. Brett traced his fingers along your jaw, lifting your chin to meet his gaze. Your fingers curled into the edges of his coat, the metal of the zipper digging into your palm.

“I’ve got you, remember?” He whispered, your lips mere inches apart. You met him halfway, your lips brushing against each other as he tested the waters. To see if you’d pull away. If your body would panic under his touch.

But it didn’t.

Instead, your hand slid up into his collar, pulling him closer, and that small movement was all the permission he needed. The kiss deepened, your eyes fluttering shut to stop your world from spinning. Brett exhaled against your mouth, a shaky sound that felt like relief and disbelief all at once, and his hand tightened just slightly at your waist—not possessive, just to make sure you were really there.

You couldn’t help my moan as his tongue slipped past your lips. His fingers tangled into your hair, pulling you flush against him as the kiss only grew deeper and deeper.

Then realization hit you like a freight train.

“Wai—“ you tried to speak between your hungry kisses, only for your lips to crash together once more. “Sto—“ but you didn’t want it to stop.

“No,” you jerked backwards, body shaking once more. “No, I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?”

“I’m sorry— I— we can’t do this. I can’t be the reason something happens to Abigail,”

“Don’t.” Brett said firmly “This is not your fault.”

“You don’t know that yet. If Marcus had anything to do with this… then your little girl is in surgery because of me.”

“Listen to me,” he said firmly. “You are not the cause of this.”

“You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.” His voice broke slightly again. “Because right now it sounds like you just kissed me goodbye.”

“I’m sorry, Brett. I just can’t let anything else happen to her.”

You stood, his hand still holding onto yours, grip loosening as you took a step backwards. His hand fell against the pavement with a thump. You turned, unable to meet his gaze, the look of helplessness in his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered one more time before making your way across the parking lot texting aggressively.

Maria, can you pick me up?

You okay babe? I’m on my way.

Your hands shook violently as you opened up your contacts, looking at the countless numbers you’ve blocked. Each time you blocked him, he’d get another burner phone. Tapping his name you hit ‘unblock.’

I’m not seeing him anymore. There was nothing ever between us. Please stop this.

He replied almost immediately.

You sure about that?

Attached with a photo of you and Brett, your arms around each other deep in a kiss.

It was hot for June. You shifted your weight on the little stool, tugging at the hem of the stretchy dress you’d worn in, your belly impossible to disguise now at eight months.

Sally fanned herself with a catalog, perched in the plush chair by the mirrors. “Only Dean Winchester”, she muttered with a grin, “decides on a Wednesday he’s getting married by Saturday. God help us”.

Lilah was twirling between the racks, her bee backpack bouncing, her curls springing loose from her braids. Every time you came out of the dressing room, she gasped like it was Christmas morning. “Mommy, you’re a princess! Daddy’s gonna say ‘wow! so pretty’”.

You smiled, but it was a shaky thing. Because, yeah. This was Dean. Impulsive, stubborn, impossible. He’d kissed you across the kitchen table last night and just said, “Marry me. Now”. Like it was the simplest thing in the world. And the thing was… you’d said yes.

Now here you were, trying to wedge yourself into gowns clearly not designed for women who could barely see their feet. One zipped halfway, another refused to go past your hips, and the third made you look like you’d been swallowed by a cloud.

Sally caught your expression and snorted. “Relax. You’ll find something. Or we’ll hack one of these into shape. I don’t care if Dean’s a certified panty-melter, he doesn’t get to demand a wedding without giving you a dress to match.”

Lilah bounced over, hugging your thigh as you stepped down carefully in another gown, this one softer, flowier, hugging the bump instead of fighting it. Her eyes went wide. “That one! Mommy, that one!”.

You met your own reflection, hand smoothing over the curve of your belly where Henry shifted under the fabric. For the first time that morning, your throat tightened.

Sally was already on her feet, grinning like she’d won the lottery. “Oh honey. That’s the one. No contest”.

You blinked hard against the sting in your eyes. “It’s just… the first one that actually fits”, you mumbled, brushing a trembling hand over your bump. Henry kicked right on cue, like he agreed.

Then Sally peeked at the discreet little tag dangling behind the zipper. Her eyebrows shot up. “Oof”.

“What?”, you asked, instantly suspicious. You craned your neck, saw the number—and nearly burst into tears. “Oh, no. Nope. Forget it. That’s… that’s insane”.

“Sweetheart”, Sally said carefully, “it’s a wedding dress. They’re all insane”.

But your chest was already tight, your pulse too fast. Between the heat, your low blood pressure, the hormones—God, the hormones—you actually felt your eyes blur. “I can’t. I can’t spend that much. Not on one day. Not when—”. You broke off, pressing your palms to your cheeks.

“Mommy?”, Lilah’s little voice piped up, muffled against your skirt. “You don’t like it?”.

You crouched as much as the dress and belly would allow, gathering her face between your hands. “Baby, I love it”, you whispered, kissing her curls. “I just… it’s a lot”.

Behind you, Sally fished your phone from your purse with zero shame.

“Sally—don’t you dare—”.

But she already had it against her ear, pacing toward the window. “Hey, Winchester? Yeah, it’s me. Don’t panic, everyone’s fine”. She smirked back at you, ignoring the daggers you were shooting her. “I just need to know how much money your fiancée is allowed to spend on looking amazing for you”.

Your mouth fell open. “SALLY”.

On the other end, you could hear Dean’s voice, tinny but sharp: “What? What the hell are you talking about? Put her on the phone”.

“Nope”, Sally said cheerfully, twirling the dress tag around her finger. “She’s currently hyperventilating because she thinks she can’t buy the only dress that actually fits her eight-months-pregnant self. So. What’s the number, Dean?”.

There was a long pause. Then Dean’s voice, incredulous and rough: “The number? It’s whatever the hell it costs. She likes it?”.

“She loves it”, Sally said firmly.

“Then buy it”, Dean snapped, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Sally grinned triumphantly and mouthed, you’re welcome. Then, into the phone: “Good answer, Winchester. I’ll make sure she doesn’t faint before the cashier”.

Dean’s voice softened, muffled but unmistakable. “Put me on with her”.

Sally handed you the phone like she’d just won a prize. You pressed it to your ear, your voice already trembling. “Dean—”.

“Sweetheart”. His voice was a low rumble, steadying you through the line. “You look beautiful, don’t you?”. You let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t even know what I look like right now, Dean”.

“I do”, he said simply. “I can see it in my head. And I don’t give a damn about price tags. You hear me? You’re my wife, and you’re gonna walk toward me in the dress that makes you feel like you. That’s it. That’s all that matters”.

A few minutes later, you stood at the counter, carefully draped over the attendant’s arms. Sally had one hand on your elbow like she didn’t trust you not to faint, and Lilah was twirling in the middle of the boutique, humming to herself about how bee-utiful you looked.

The attendant cleared her throat gently. “Will this be on your card?”.

You fumbled for your purse, already wincing at the thought of the number. But before you could pull out your wallet, your phone buzzed in your other hand, Dean’s name lighting up the screen. A new text.

Dean: Use the black one with the gold stripe. Trust me.

You frowned, thumb tapping back.

You: Dean. Please tell me this isn’t one of your fake ones.

His reply came instantly.

Dean: Doesn’t matter. It’ll go through. Just swipe it. I’ll handle the rest.

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. Only Dean Winchester could make dropping thousands on a wedding dress sound like hustling a pool table.

The attendant gave you a polite smile as you handed over the card. It beeped green on the first swipe. Approval.

Sally whistled low. “Guess your man knows what he’s doing”.

“Oh, he knows”, you muttered, half to yourself, pocketing the card again. Your phone buzzed once more.

Dean: Told you. Now stop worrying. Can’t wait to see you in it. I’ll probably forget how to breathe.

Heat crept up your cheeks. You clutched the phone to your chest like a teenager, even as Sally caught you blushing and smirked knowingly.

The second you stepped through the door, Lilah exploded like a firecracker. “Daddy! Daddy! Mommy was a princess! Like a shiny, sparkly, twirly princess!”. She bounced in front of Dean, tugging at his hand with little fingers. “She got such a pretty dress! You won’t believe it!”.

Dean crouched automatically, catching her mid-bounce and settling her on his hip. “A princess, huh?”. His eyes flicked to you, soft and amused. “Guess I’ll have to see this for myself”.

You felt your cheeks heat instantly. “I—uh…”. You smoothed your hair back, suddenly nervous. “Do you… want me to try it on? For you?”.

For a moment, Dean looked tempted, his lips parting just slightly like the thought of you in that dress alone with him was too much to resist. But then his grin curved softer. “Nah”, he murmured, shaking his head. “Not yet. I wanna see it for the first time at the chapel. When you’re walking down to me”. His throat bobbed. “That’s the picture I want burned into my brain for the rest of my life”.

Your heart thudded so hard you almost swayed where you stood.

Lilah frowned dramatically, her little nose scrunching. “But Daddy, it was so pretty. I can draw you a picture!”.

Dean chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll take you up on that, Buzz”. Then, his gaze shifted back to you. “But the real thing? That’s mine to see on the day”.

After you and Lilah got out of your shoes and jackets, Dean guided te two of you up the stairs. “Close your eyes, Buzz”, he teased as he scooped her into his arms halfway up the hall. “No peeking”.

Lilah squealed, throwing her hands dramatically over her eyes. “I’m not peeking!”, she promised, then immediately cracked one finger open.

Dean snorted. “That’s cheating”.

At the top of the stairs, Sam leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed. “You ready for the grand reveal?”.

Lilah nodded furiously, hands still slapped over her face.

Dean nudged the door open with his boot, carried her inside, and finally whispered, “Okay, Buzz. Look”.

Her hands dropped and her gasp nearly broke you.

The room was new. Not patched up, not just painted over, but hers. The old walls were gone, replaced with soft honey-yellow paint and white trim. A little desk sat under the window, already stocked with jars of crayons and glue sticks. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with her picture books and in the corner was the brand-new bed frame Dean and Sam had built. Above it, painted carefully, a mural of flowers and bees dancing across the wall.

Lilah wriggled out of Dean’s arms and bolted across the room. “It’s mine! It’s my room!”. She scrambled onto the mattress with a bounce. “There are bees, Daddy! You painted bees!”.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish. “Well, Sammy helped”. Sam raised both brows. “You mean I held the stencil while you got glitter in the paint”.

“It’s sparkly bees!”, Lilah crowed, already hugging the wall like it was alive.

Dean leaned against the doorframe beside you, his grin stretching ear to ear, pride practically glowing off him. “Told you she’d love it”.

You pressed a hand over your belly, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. “She does".

After dinner, Dean scooped Lilah up, sticky with sauce, and announced bath time. From the kitchen, you and Sam could hear all the splashes and giggles and Dean’s exaggerated monster voices.

Sam, drying the last plate, cleared his throat. “Uh… hey”.

You glanced at him. “What’s up?”.

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the hallway like he was making sure Dean couldn’t hear. “Your friend. Sally. The one from the party”. Your brows lifted, but you stayed quiet. Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “She, uh… is she… single?”.

You blinked, then smiled. “She is. She’s a single mom”.

His shoulders eased just a little, but his cheeks went faintly pink. “She seemed… nice”.

“She is nice”, you said warmly, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Smart, too. And she doesn’t take crap from anyone. You’d like her”.

Sam gave a little half-smile, trying to play it cool, but you saw the flicker of something hopeful in his eyes. Before you could tease him, a loud splash echoed from the bathroom followed by Dean’s exasperated, “Lilah, did you just dump water on the ceiling?” and Lilah’s unapologetic giggle.

When the bathroom door finally creaked open, Dean cam out with his shirt clinging, jeans splattered and his hair a mess. In his arms was Lilah, swaddled tight in a towel and grinning ear to ear.

“She won”, Dean muttered, trudging past you with mock defeat. “Every damn time”.

“Daddy got wet!”, Lilah announced proudly, her curls plastered to her forehead.

You covered your laugh with your hand as Dean shot you a look that said don’t even start. Then he carried her down the hall, still dripping, muttering about pajamas and clean sheets.

Sam was still leaning against the counter, shaking his head with a smile. “He’s… good at that”, he said softly, almost like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“He is”, you agreed, watching Dean disappear into Lilah’s room. “Better at braiding than me now, too. She won’t even let me touch her hair anymore”.

Sam chuckled, then grew a little quiet. His gaze shifted back to you.

You tilted your head, catching it. “So… do you want her number?”. His brows rose. “Sally’s?”. “Mhm”. You smirked, folding your arms. “Because she’s been talking about you for days. I think she’s just waiting for me to play matchmaker”.

Sam’s ears went pink again, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t hide the smile even if he wanted to. “…You’re serious?”. You nodded. “Dead serious. She asked if you were ‘as good in real life as you are with glitter and pizza duty’”.

Sam groaned softly, running a hand over his face, but he was still smiling. “God”. He shook his head. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe… give it to me”.

After Sam left, you let out a long breath and dropped onto the couch. Every bone, every muscle, every inch of you felt heavy. The baby was pressing low and your feet were aching.

Dean walked into the room a minute later. He stopped dead when he saw you sprawled there, one hand over your bump, your head tipped back. “You okay?”.

You cracked one eye open, half a smile tugging at your lips. “In three days”, you whispered, “I’m gonna be married. To the most unusual man alive”. Dean huffed out a laugh, lowering himself onto the couch beside you. “Unusual, huh?”.

You turned your head, studying him. “Yeah”, you said, a lump rising in your throat. “But mine”.

Dean leaned back against the couch, tugged your legs gently across his lap, and caught one of your ankles in his big hand. “So…”, he drawled, his thumb already circling against the sore arch of your foot, “no cold feet?”.

You let out something between a laugh and a groan, tipping your head back against the cushion. “You’re literally making sure my feet aren’t cold”.

He smirked, kneading deeper, finding the spot that had been aching all day. “Yeah, well. Just covering all the bases”.

The pressure made your whole body sigh, your swollen ankles grateful for the attention. Your hand drifted over your belly out of habit, Henry shifting under your palm.

Dean’s grin softened as he watched. “You’re really not nervous?”.

You cracked an eye open to look at him. “About marrying you?”. You paused dramatically. Then: “Never”.

-

The day before the wedding, Dean had been up early, kissing your temple before you were even fully awake, whispering, “Me and Buzz got errands. You rest”.

Errands, it turned out, meant a mission.

He’d bundled Lilah into Baby and driven straight into town. She sat shotgun, swinging her legs, chattering the whole way.

“Daddy, does my dress have to be white like Mommy’s?”. “Not unless you want it to be, Buzz”. “Can it be yellow? With sparkles? Like a real bee princess?”. Dean chuckled, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming the beat of her enthusiasm on the steering wheel. “Yeah, we’ll see what they got. But sparkles? Sparkles are non-negotiable, huh?”. She gasped. “Daddy, of course”.

At the boutique, every head turned the second they walked in. A man like Dean Winchester carrying a five-year-old who was already announcing, “I need the sparkliest dress for my mommy’s wedding!”, was a sight to stop traffic.

The saleslady blinked at him, then beamed. “For the flower girl?”. “Yes!”.

Dean crouched beside her, eye level, his hand braced on her little shoulder. “Buzz, what do you think? Wanna try some on?”.

She looked at him very seriously. “Will Mommy smile when she sees me?”.

Dean’s chest tightened. He smoothed a curl out of her face. “Guaranteed”.

Dress after dress followed—pink, blue, ruffles too big, bows too itchy. Lilah twirled in each, her laughter ringing off the mirrors, Dean clapping like she’d just won a medal. But when she stepped out in a soft yellow dress with tiny embroidered daisies scattered across the skirt and a sash that glittered faintly gold, her whole face lit up.

“Daddy”. Her voice was a whisper, awed. “Can i have this?". Dean swallowed hard, his throat thick. “Yeah, Buzz. That’s the one. You look perfect, baby girl. Just like Mommy”.

“Perfect like Mommy”, she repeated softly, like she was tucking the compliment into her pocket to keep forever. Then she launched forward, skinny arms wrapping tight around his neck, her little chin digging into his shoulder.

Dean caught her easily, pressing a kiss to her curls, breathing her in like he needed the anchor.

Her voice came muffled against his collar. “I’m glad you’re done saving the world, Daddy”.

His arms locked around her automatically, his throat going tight. He shut his eyes for a beat, the memory of all those empty years pressing down on him. Then he leaned back just enough to look at her face, serious despite the sequins on her sash.

“Yeah, Buzz”, he rasped, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “I’m done. World can save itself for a while”.

She beamed, satisfied, and patted his stubbled jaw like she was sealing a deal. “Good. ‘Cause Mommy and me need you more”.

-

The little chapel by the lake smelled faintly of lilacs and wood polish, the stained glass catching sunlight that spilled warm across the pews. It was small—just how Dean wanted it. Just how you needed it.

The guests filtered in with quiet excitement, not a crowd but a family. Jodie with Alex and Claire. Donna, bright as the morning itself, hugging everyone twice; Cas. And Sam—Sam with Sally at his side, her daughter Mia clutching a little basket of petals she kept peeking into like treasure.

Dean stood up front in a black suit that Sam had all but strong-armed him into wearing. The jacket fit snug across his shoulders, the tie sat crooked until Cas leaned in and straightened it without a word. Dean fidgeted anyway, rubbing his palms down the thighs of his pants, heart jackhammering like he was walking into a hunt he couldn’t back out of.

And then the doors opened.

Lilah marched first, scattering petals down the aisle from her little daisy-yellow dress. She kept glancing back at you, making sure you were following. Every time she did, Dean’s hand twitched like he wanted to clap but remembered he wasn’t supposed to.

And then he saw you.

The dress clung where it needed to, floated where it should, hugging your swollen belly like it had been made for you and Henry both. Your veil trailed just enough to brush the aisle floor, your bouquet trembling faintly in your hands.

Dean’s breath left him in one ragged exhale. His throat worked, his jaw flexed, and his eyes went glassy. He grinned, but it cracked halfway, breaking into something rawer, truer. He swore under his breath, so low only Sam caught it, and Sam just grinned like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Every step you took, Dean’s chest rose higher, like he was holding back a thousand words and could barely manage to stand under the weight of them.

When you finally reached him, Dean reached out. His fingers threaded through yours instantly, squeezing like a lifeline. And the moment your vows slipped into the air, his hands were already cradling your face and his lips found yours like they’d been waiting all day.

The kiss wasn’t rushed or showy. It was home. It was slow and deep, a little shaky and full of reverence. Like your lips were a promise he’d waited half his life to keep.

You smiled against him, tears slipping down your cheeks, and he brushed them away with his thumbs without breaking the kiss, just breathed into it, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your swollen belly and his trembling chest.

From the pews, someone sniffled. A second later, Lilah squealed, “Ugh, you’re kissing forever!”, and that broke the spell just enough for laughter to bubble around the room.

Dean laughed into your mouth, resting his forehead to yours, eyes still closed. “Damn right we are”, he whispered and then kissed you again.

-

The backyard glowed under strings of warm lights Dean and Sam had strung up that morning. The grill hissed and smoked as Sam worked it like while Donna kept stealing hot dogs straight off the platter and Jodie tried to swat her hand. The girls played tag with Lilah. And you? You were barely holding onto your plate.

Dean was behind you, his arms wrapped snug around your middle, hands splayed over your bump like he couldn’t stand to let go. He swayed you gently from side to side in the rhythm of a song only he could hear, his lips brushing over the slope of your neck.

“Careful, Winchester”, you teased, trying to spear a piece of potato salad without dropping your fork. “You’re making me look like I can’t stand on my own two feet”.

“You don’t have to”, he murmured into your skin. He kissed just below your ear. “Not anymore”.

You shivered, your plate tilting dangerously until Dean steadied it with one hand. He chuckled, kissed the corner of your jaw, and drawled, “Goddamn. Miss Winchester lookin’ too good tonight. Think I married outta my league”.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved anyway. “You’re insufferable”.

“Yeah?”. He pressed another kiss, then another, like he couldn’t stop. “Can’t help it. My wife’s gorgeous”.

From across the yard, Donna whistled. “Get a room, newlyweds!”. Lilah popped up from behind the picnic table, hands on her hips, and yelled, “Ewww! Daddy’s kissing Mommy again!”.

“Better get used to it, Buzz”, he called back, still swaying you softly. “I’m never stoppin’”.

A while later, you’d started to fan yourself with a paper plate, your dress clinging in ways it hadn’t hours ago. The heat, the belly, the weight of the day—your body was calling time. And Dean caught it instantly. “C’mon, Mrs. Winchester”, he murmured in your ear, already sliding a steady hand around your back. “Let’s get you outta this before you melt”.

You swatted him lightly with the plate. “Smooth, Dean”.

“Not complainin’ about the view”, he shot back, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth. “But you’re sweatin’ through silk, sweetheart”.

He guided you inside. Upstairs, in the dim of your room, it was just the two of you again. He shut the door with his boot, the laughter outside muffled into nothing.

“Arms up”, he said gently. His hands were steady as he found the zipper at your back. Slow, deliberate, dragging it down inch by inch. His knuckles brushed bare skin, raising goosebumps despite the warmth.

The dress loosened, slid over your shoulders. Dean caught it before it could fall, easing the fabric down like it was precious. His lips found your shoulder.

"Dean".

“Relax”, he murmured, his mouth brushing your collarbone now. “Just gettin’ my wife comfortable”. Then he knelt to slide soft cotton shorts up your legs, his hands a little slower than necessary, his lips pressing a kiss just above your knee.

Dean’s hands paused at your hips, thumbs hooking the soft cotton at the waist. He gave you one long look, then slid the shorts down again.

When his mouth came back up, it was higher: soft kisses along the line of your hip, along the side of your belly. His finger traced just under the edge of your panties, but instead of tugging further, he eased you back with a firm, steady hand at your hip. “Sit, sweetheart”, he murmured, guiding you down until you perched on the edge of the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath you. Dean dropped to his knees between your legs like he’d been born there, broad shoulders parting your thighs as he leaned in.

The second your weight settled, his mouth was on you. No hesitation. He hooked your underwear aside and sealed his lips to your center, sucking deep and hard like he already knew exactly what would rip the air out of your lungs.

You gasped, hands clutching instinctively at the sheets, then at his hair. “Dean—”. He groaned low at the sound, the vibration of it sparking through you.

Your thighs trembled instantly, knees trying to close around his head, but his big hands pinned you wide and steady against the mattress. “Stay right there, sweetheart”, he mumbled into you. Then he sealed his mouth over you again and sucked hard.

“Dean—oh my —”. Your voice cracked, fingers yanking at his hair because it was too much, too good, too fast. He groaned again when you pulled his hair, the sound feral, hungry. His tongue worked in deep, slow strokes while his lips tugged and sucked like he was determined to wring every ounce of you out.

The pressure coiled hot and sharp in your belly within seconds. He slid one hand up, splayed it over your bump with a tenderness that contradicted the filth of what his mouth was doing. That grounding touch broke you. You cried out, thighs clamping helplessly around his head as your orgasm ripped through you. Dean held you steady, never letting up, swallowing every twitch and pulse, dragging it out until you were shaking against him.

When you finally slumped back on your elbows, gasping for air, he pulled away only long enough to lick his lips and grin up at you, chin slick and shining. “Still got it”, he rasped, before diving back in like he wasn’t finished.

“Dean?”, Sam called muffled through the door but tight with concern. “Lilah burned her hand on the grill”.

Your heart stopped. Dean jerked back immediately. You scrambled upright, tugging your shorts back up with shaky fingers just as Sam added, “She’s okay, just… some tears. Can you—?”.

Dean was already wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, guilt and adrenaline snapping him into motion. When he opened the door, Lilah was on Sam’s hip, her little face blotchy with tears, her other hand cradled carefully in Sam’s palm. She sniffled the second she saw Dean. “Daddy—”.

Dean’s entire chest softened. He scooped her into his arms like she weighed nothing. "Buzz, what happened?”. His voice was low, soothing, a complete 180 from the man who’d been between your thighs seconds ago.

Sam gave you an apologetic look over Dean’s shoulder as he explained, “She touched the edge of the grill. It wasn’t bad—red, but no blister. I ran it under cool water, just figured she’d want her dad”.

“C’mere, lemme see that hand, baby girl”, Dean murmured, already stroking Lilah’s damp cheeks.

Lilah sniffled again, holding it up for inspection. Dean pressed her palm gently to his chest. “It’s okay. Daddy’s got you”.

-

Later, is was just you and Dean. In the bathroom, the tub full and steaming, the faint flicker of candlelight bouncing off the tiles. You leaned back against him, your head tucked under his jaw, his chest broad and warm behind you. His legs bracketed yours and his big hands rested over your belly. Every few minutes, Henry gave a thump against his hand, and Dean would huff a soft laugh like he still couldn’t believe it. “Kid’s already got my right hook”, he murmured, pressing a kiss into your damp hair. “Bet he comes out swingin’”.

You smiled faintly, your hand sliding over his, squeezing. “He’s just stubborn. Like his dad”.

Dean chuckled, his stubble scraping your temple as he nuzzled close. “Yeah, but you love that about me”.

Your laugh came out tired but true. “Most days”.

Another kick jolted against his palm, stronger this time. Dean’s hand tightened instinctively. “If it weren’t for him in there, I’d have you bent over this tub already”.

You laughed, breathless, tilting your head back on his shoulder so your lips brushed his jaw. “That a promise or a threat?”.

Dean groaned, squeezing your hips gently but firmly. “Don’t tease me. I meant it. Four weeks, I’ve been good”.

You shifted a little on his lap, enough to feel him stir beneath you. “Who said I don’t want it?”.

He swore under his breath, his forehead pressing to the side of your head. “You’re eight months, I’m not—”. His hand spread protectively over your bump. “I’m not takin’ chances”.

“Dean”, you whispered, turning just enough to catch his mouth in a kiss. “I’m horny. And you’re hard. So maybe stop worrying so much and just—”. You nipped his lower lip. “—touch me”.

“Sweetheart…”. His voice was ragged. “Don’t make me—don’t do this to me. It’s not—”.

You twisted in his lap enough to face him, your knees bracketing his thighs, the swell of your belly pressing against him. You cupped his jaw with wet hands, kissed him deep, slow, messy, until his breath stuttered.

“It’s our wedding night”, you whispered against his mouth, your voice breaking into a whine that wasn’t entirely put on. “I want you. Please, Dean”.

He groaned, low and guttural, like you’d just torn his last thread of restraint. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut. His hands slid up your thighs, trembling with the effort it took to hold back. “Eight months pregnant, and you’re still the sexiest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen”.

You rocked your hips against him, deliberately brushing the hard length trapped beneath the water, making him hiss through his teeth. “Then stop talking and fuck me”.

Dean’s jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack. His hands fisted at your sides, fighting himself—and losing. Finally, he snapped. “Fuck it”.

His mouth crashed against yours, his hands hauling you closer, angling you over him in the tub. “You win, Mrs. Winchester”, he mumbled against your lips, already lining himself up beneath the water. “But don’t blame me when you can’t walk tomorrow”.

The water sloshed up over the porcelain lip as Dean shifted beneath you, the heat of him pulsing against you before he slid home, slow but so deep it stole your breath. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh, fu—”.

Dean’s head tipped back, jaw locked, a broken groan spilling out of him. “Shit, sweetheart… been weeks”.

You braced against his chest, moving as best as you could, but eight months in, your body didn’t have the speed it used to. You rolled your hips instead, grinding down, and his answering growl vibrated right into your bones. “That’s it”, he whispered, kissing the damp skin of your throat. “Just like that“.

Your body betrayed you almost instantly. You were too sensitive now, too raw from the weeks without. Every slow grind had you clenching down hard around him, and every time you did, Dean’s whole body jolted like you’d shocked him.

“Damn—”, he hissed. His hands clutched your hips, holding you steady when you trembled. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight, sweetheart… how the hell am I supposed to last?”. Your laugh broke into a gasp as another wave of sensation hit you. “Then don’t—”.

“Don’t tempt me”, he growled, thrusting up suddenly, hard enough to splash water over the tub’s edge. You whimpered. “Dean—”.

A few minutes later, you let Dean haul you up out of the tub. He wrapped a towel around your shoulders and knotted another low around his hips, then kissed your wet temple like he couldn’t help it. “Sit tight—clothes coming right up”, he said, already stalking toward the dresser.

You reached for your bra on the counter… and felt three warm trickles slide down your thighs. You froze. Then a heavy pressure, your body deciding for you. Oh oh. You eased onto the toilet just as another swish hit the bowl. Well. Hello, Henry.

“Dean?”, you called, weirdly calm. Second baby calm. “Babe… my water just broke“.

He reappeared in the doorway with an armful of clothes and went stock-still. “Son of a bitch”, he muttered. “I knew it—I knew we shouldn’t’ve—fuck, I knew it”.

You blinked at him, caught between a laugh and disbelief. “Dean—”.

“No, don’t—don’t tell me this ain’t my fault”. He was already scrubbing a hand through his damp hair, water flicking everywhere. “We—Jesus, sweetheart, we just… in the tub, and now your water breaks? That’s not a coincidence. I did this”.

You had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing, partly because he was so dead serious, partly because the truth, that Henry was just ready, wasn’t going to stop him from spiraling. “Dean Winchester”, you said firmly. “You did not break my water by having sex with me”.

His eyes snapped to you, panicked and stubborn all at once. “How do you know?!”. He gestured helplessly toward you, toward the trickle down your legs. “Look at you! We finally—y’know, after weeks, and now—bam! Kid’s knockin’ at the door!”.

You shook your head, laughing now. “Henry’s been sitting on my bladder for weeks. It was gonna happen anyway, Dean. Tonight just… happens to be the night”.

He stopped pacing, staring at you like maybe he wanted to believe but couldn’t let go of the guilt yet. His chest heaved. “Not my fault?”, he asked finally, quieter, almost boyish. You reached out, catching his wrist. “Not your fault. Promise”.

Dean sagged, shoulders slumping with relief, but he still muttered under his breath as he crouched down in front of you, one big palm spreading protective over your belly. “Still feel like I should apologize to the kid”.

Dean crouched there for another beat, his forehead pressed against your belly. Then he pushed back, stood and started moving. “I’ll, uh—”. He bent to scoop up the pile of clothes he’d dropped, only to set them right back down again. “The bag. Right. Where’s the bag?”.

“In the closet, by the door”, you said softly, watching him.

“Right. Okay. Bag”. He nodded to himself, pacing to the doorway. His leg bounced once, twice, like he couldn’t stop the nervous energy from spilling out. He gripped the doorframe, tried to make his voice calm. “We’re good. We got time, right?”.

“Plenty”, you assured him, leaning back against the toilet tank with a steadying breath. “Contractions aren’t even regular yet. First babies can take forever. Second ones still take a while”.

“Right”. He nodded again, over and over, like he was trying to tattoo the word calm onto his own brain. But his leg bounced harder.

You reached out, catching his wrist as he passed. His pulse was hammering under your fingers. “Dean”. He froze. “You’re here”, you whispered, searching his eyes until he met yours. “That’s all I need”.

For a second his expression cracked. That raw grief he carried for missing Lilah’s first moments, for the years he wasn’t there. His voice was rough when he spoke. “I wasn’t there last time”.

Your throat tightened. You shook your head firmly. “You’re here now. For me. For him. That’s what matters”.

Dean swallowed hard, then nodded once like he was trying to force the guilt down where it couldn’t touch you. He bent again, kissing your damp forehead. “Okay”, he murmured, steadying himself with your steadiness. “We got this. I got you”.

Dean practically sprinted around the house, bag in hand, keys already in his fist. By the time he got you settled in the passenger seat, towel exchanged for your favorite pants and a shirt, his leg was bouncing again, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Seatbelt on?”, he asked for the third time, glancing over at you.

“Yes, Dean”, you sighed, hiding a little smile.

Baby’s bag was wedged at your feet, your phone in your lap. You scrolled quickly, thumb hitting Sam’s contact, and pressed speaker as Dean pulled out of the driveway.

On the other end of the line, Sam finally answered, voice groggy. “Hello?”. Dean didn’t even let you speak first. “Her water broke”, he blurted, voice rough. Sam was instantly awake. “What? Now?”.

You gave Dean’s hand a squeeze and cut in steady. “Yeah, now. We’re heading to the hospital. Is Lilah asleep?”.

“Yeah”, Sam said. “I’ll keep her as long as you need me to. You focus on Henry”.

Dean muttered a gruff, “Thanks, Sammy” and hung up before his brother could say more.

-

You were propped against the raised bed with a hospital gown loose around you and the IV already taped to your hand. The nurse had finished the first round of checks and slipped out with a smile, promising to check dilation again in a while. Translation: this was going to be a long night.

Dean sat in the chair beside you, knees spread wide, elbows braced on them like he was ready to jump into a fight at any second. His leg bounced restlessly and his eyes hadn’t left you in twenty minutes. “You okay?”, he asked again, for what had to be the tenth time.

You gave him a tired little smile. “Dean, I’m fine. Contractions aren’t even bad yet”.

“Not bad?”. His brow furrowed. “You just winced like someone stuck a knife in you”.

“That was a cramp”, you corrected gently. “We’re not even close”.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. “God, this waiting’s worse than a hunt”.

You chuckled weakly, reaching for his hand. He gave it to you instantly, his palm hot and solid against yours. “Dean”. You squeezed, forcing him to look at you. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Just be here. That’s it”.

His eyes softened, but his shoulders stayed tight. “Yeah, well, not sure I’m cut out for the whole ‘just sit there’ job”.

“Funny”, you teased lightly, “’cause you’re actually killing it”.

That pulled the smallest, crooked grin from him. He leaned forward, kissing the back of your hand, then held it against his chest like he needed the contact more than you did.

You watched his eyes keep flicking between your face and the green line of Henry’s heartbeat. When the next mild squeeze passed, you squeezed his hand back.

“Hey”, you said softly. “Come sit up here. You’re hovering a hole in the floor”.

He huffed, dragged the chair closer so his knee bumped the mattress, then laid your joined hands over your belly. Up close, the tough-guy edges slipped; he looked a little younger and a lot more scared. “This part… it just keeps reminding me”, he murmured, eyes on your fingers instead of your face. “I wasn’t there when Lilah came. Four years she had to do it without a dad, and she still turned into the kindest, loudest little miracle. I missed everything”.

You turned his chin gently until he met your eyes. “You didn’t make her kind by being gone, Dean. She’s kind because that’s in her, because it’s in you. The cars and the glue and the buzzing? That’s you all over her. I just kept her safe till you found your way back”.

He swallowed. “Sometimes I look at her wall and… it feels like a ledger. All the pictures I’m not in”. “It isn’t a ledger”, you said firm. “It’s a map. It led you home”.

He let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, then nodded. “Home”, he echoed, like he was trying the word on again.

You slid your thumb over his ring. “You’re here for this one. For the midnight feedings, the diaper blowouts, the boring Tuesdays. For her, too… school plays, swing pushes, braids with glitter if she demands it”.

“I’m already the braid guy”, he muttered, a ghost of a smile tugging. Then, quieter: “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life showing up. Even when it’s not exciting. Especially then”.

“Good”, you whispered. “That’s all either of them need”.

He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry I missed her first breath”, he said, voice rough. “I won’t miss his”.

“I know", you whispered.

Dean’s throat worked, and for a beat he just stared at you, raw and open in a way that made your chest ache. Then, like clockwork, that need to cover vulnerability with something else crept in. His mouth tipped crooked. “Y’know”, he drawled, thumb brushing slow over your skin, “last time I had you spread out like this, there were a lot less wires involved”.

You groaned, smacking his shoulder weakly. “Dean”.

“I’m just sayin’, if you need a distraction, I got about a hundred ideas. Hell, I could—”.

“Dean Winchester, shut up”, you hissed, half laughing, half horrified.

And of course, right then the door opened. The doctor walked in. “Let’s check your progress, shall we?”.

Dean sat up straighter instantly, clearing his throat like a guilty teenager. “Uh—yeah. Great. Progress is good. We love progress”.

You buried your hot face in your pillow as the doc pulled on gloves.

The doctor glanced between you two with the faintest lift of her brow before focusing on the exam. “Not quite there yet”, she reported after a moment. “About three centimeters. Still some time to go”.

Dean exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath through the whole thing, then muttered under it, “Three centimeters. Huh. Usually I can get you to—”. “Dean!”, you cut him off, mortified, smacking him again.

The doctor pretended not to hear, tugging her gloves off with a snap, though you swore you saw the corner of her mouth twitch.

As soon as the door clicked shut, you groaned into your hands. “You are insufferable”.

Dean just grinned, kissing your temple. “And you love me for it”.

Hours unspooled in soft beeps and low light. The lake-black outside the window turned slate, then pearl. You dozed in ten-minute scraps between the milder waves; Dean didn’t blink. He timed every squeeze on his phone, then looked up with a brand-new question each time.

“So when he comes out—does he, like… breathe right away? Or—”.

You smiled, sleepy. “He’s been practicing in fluid. Once he’s out, he’ll clear it and cry. The cry helps open everything up”.

Dean nodded, storing it like intel. “Okay. Crying is good. For once”. He glanced at the monitor. “And he can’t… y’know… drown before that? I know it’s a dumb question, but—”.

“It’s not dumb”, you said. “Cord’s still doing the job till he starts on his own”.

“Right. Backup line”, he murmured, oddly comforted. “Can I cut it?”.

“If you don’t faint”.

He snorted. “I delivered a ghoul’s head once. I can handle a cord”.

-

Three hours later the room had shifted. The contractions had teeth now. Every time one hit, it tore a groan right out of you, your nails biting into Dean’s hand. He never pulled away, even when your grip went white-knuckle.

“Breathe with me, sweetheart”, he tried once. “In through the nose, out through the—”. “Shut up, Dean!”, you snapped, heat and pain slamming through you.

He winced like you’d shot him, but nodded fast. “Yep. Shutting. Quiet as a church mouse. A very helpful—”.

“DEAN”.

“Right. Silent”. He pressed his lips together.

Another wave hit. You curled forward, sweat slicking your brow, a low, guttural sound breaking out of you. Dean made a noise with you half instinct, half helplessness, like his body thought it could share the pain if it just tried hard enough.

The doctor’s voice cut through: “Okay, we’re close. Next one, I want you to push”.

Dean’s hand was shaking in yours. He swiped his thumb across your knuckles. “Almost there, baby”.

The doctor leaned forward, her voice steady but firm. “We’ve got crowning. Keep breathing, almost there”.

Dean risked just a glance. He shifted at your side, craning his neck despite himself. One look between your legs and his face went slack, eyes wide. “Holy shit”, he breathed. “Sweetheart—I can see him. I can see him. He’s—he’s got hair, oh my god, he’s right there—”.

You let out a furious hiss, teeth bared, sweat dripping into your eyes. “DEAN. Not helping!”.

He snapped back upright instantly, squeezing your hand like a lifeline. “Right. Sorry. Just—you’re—he’s—”. He made a helpless noise, a wrecked mix between laughter and a sob. “God, he’s… he’s right there. Push, baby, push—bring him out—”.

Another contraction slammed through you, and you bore down hard, everything inside you clenching, burning. Dean groaned right along with you.

Then the room filled with the sharp, wet cry of a new life.

Dean blinked hard, jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he forced down the swell rising like a tide.

“Strong set of pipes”, the nurse quipped, but Dean barely heard her. He was staring like he’d never seen anything holy before.

When they laid Henry on your chest, the crying stuttered, softened, the tiny body rooting instinctively against your skin. You gasped, tears spilling, both hands trembling as you gathered him close.

Dean leaned in but froze half an inch away, his breath caught, his eyes rimmed red. He clenched his jaw so hard a vein stood out, fighting it—don’t cry, not here, not in front of them. He dragged a hand down his face, muttered a curse under his breath.

But then Henry’s tiny fist flexed, caught nothing but air. Dean couldn’t stop himself. He caught that hand with one finger, let it curl impossibly tight around him.

His head ducked instantly, as if he could hide it in the curve of your shoulder, but his voice betrayed him, wrecked and breaking. “Hi, buddy. Hey…”. He sniffed hard, shaking his head. “God, you’re perfect”.

The doctor and nurses busied themselves, polite enough to let the moment stay yours. Dean’s shoulders shuddered once, sharp, before he forced his breathing back under control. He kissed your damp hair, his voice low, shaky against your temple. “You did it, sweetheart”, he whispered.

You stroked Henry’s damp hair with trembling fingers, your lips brushing his crown. Dean hovered, his forehead pressed briefly to yours before he straightened at the nurse’s quiet prompt. “Want to cut the cord?”.

“Yeah”, he rasped. “Yeah, I got it”.

He lined up the blades, heart hammering in his ears while he cut the cord. He let out a long breath, half a laugh, half disbelief, handing the scissors back.

The nurse moved Henry gently to weigh and clean, his cry filling the room again. Dean followed every step like a shadow, his hand unconsciously braced at your shoulder as if tethering you both.

Then she guided the baby into Dean´s arms, careful. For a heartbeat, he froze, his chest barely moving with breath. Fear, awe, disbelief—all of it tangled in his face. His thumb brushed instinctively over the blanket edge near Henry’s chin, and the baby squirmed, a little squeak tumbling out. Dean’s whole body jolted. “Shit—sorry, bud, I didn’t—”. His voice broke, quiet and panicked. But Henry just settled, tucking into the crook of his arm like it was the only place he belonged. Dean’s lips parted, eyes burning as he whispered, almost to himself, “That’s my boy”.

You watched him, your chest aching in a way you hadn’t expected. You’d seen Dean bleed out on motel bathroom floors, seen him laugh in bars with a beer bottle dangling from his fingers, seen him broken and stitched back together. But this? This was different. This was raw.

The nurses moved quietly around you with warm cloths, gentle instructions and the kind of care you half-heard and half-obeyed. But Dean? Dean was somewhere else entirely.

He sat hunched forward in the chair, Henry swaddled tight in his arms, the newborn’s face still flushed, eyes little more than slits. Dean kept his head bent close, his lips moving in a steady stream of words you couldn’t quite catch.

Every so often, Henry made a tiny sound and Dean would pause, grin like the world had just cracked open, then go right back to murmuring.

“Got a sister waitin’ for you, buddy”, he whispered, his thumb brushing Henry’s cheek. “She’s the loud one. You’re gonna love her”.

Henry squirmed, his mouth working around some invisible dream. Dean chuckled under his breath, softer than you’d ever heard. “That’s it… already got opinions, huh? Just like your mom”.

The awe in his voice was unmistakable. He was cataloging everything. From the way Henry’s tiny fingers curled against the blanket, the almost-blue shade of his eyes behind heavy lids to the squashed little nose. It was like he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t believe this wasn’t something fragile he’d only ever dreamed about.

He leaned closer, pressing his lips to the crown of Henry’s head. “Uncle Sammy’s across the street. That’s your guy. He’ll teach you the boring stuff… and I’ll teach you how to drive before you’re supposed to. Don’t tell your mom”.

You watched, half-dazed from exhaustion, half undone by the sight of him.

Dean hadn’t moved for twenty minutes, maybe more. He hadn’t noticed the nurse coming in and checking your IV. Hadn’t even heard the clack of the monitor adjusting. He was in his own little world—just him and Henry. You’d never seen him so still.

You smiled softly. “Hey”. He blinked, like waking up from a dream, and looked over at you. “You okay?”.

You nodded, slow and tired. “Think I could hold our kid now, or are you planning on raising him from that chair?”.

Dean huffed out a breath. Carefully, reverently, he walked over and lowered Henry into your arms. The second your hands took him, Dean leaned over the bedrail, his arms caging you both in. He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the shell of your ear, his lips lingering like he wasn’t quite done grounding himself. “Jesus, you’re incredible”, he whispered. “I don’t know how the hell you just did that, but… you did”.

Your lips curved into a soft, tired grin as you brushed a fingertip over Henry’s tiny nose. “Well… I had a really cute baby to look forward to”. Dean’s chest rumbled with a laugh against your hair, but you tilted your head up just enough to catch his eye. “Though”, you added, smirking faintly, “I gotta say… this is getting a little unfair”.

Dean frowned playfully. “What is?”.

You angled Henry slightly so Dean could see the little furrow between his brows, the shape of his jaw already set, stubborn even at just hours old. “He looks exactly like you. Even worse than Lilah”.

Dean blinked, then laughed outright, dropping his forehead to your temple. “Oh, c’mon—worse?”.

“Way worse”, you teased, though your voice was warm. “It’s like my genes just threw in the towel. Weak. Completely overpowered”.

Dean chuckled again, but there was pride in it. Pride and something a little watery in the way his eyes softened. He looked down at Henry, then back at you, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Guess that means I gotta stick around, huh?”, he murmured. “Can’t have two mini-mes runnin’ around without supervision”.

You let out a tired laugh, pressing your face into his chest. “God help me”.

Dean grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Nah. God helped me. Gave me you, Buzz, and now this guy. Can’t ask for more than that”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

--- --- ---

The drive in the rental car to your mom’s house felt strangely surreal. 

Not only because Lizzie had been cranky for the entire flight only to pass out ten minutes before landing, forcing you to wake her up eventually, which led to a meltdown in the middle of the airport.

Now she was tucked into her car seat, nodding on and off like a small drunk, grunting every now and then at absolutely nothing.

But also because Jack spent the entire drive adjusting to the idea of meeting your family. 

Your extended family.

You told him about the people you expected to see at your mom’s house. And he was kind of shell-shocked.

“Six uncles?” he repeated, swallowing hard.

“Yep. And eight aunts.”

“Eight?”

“And a lot of cousins, of course.”

“How many is a lot?”

You considered that. “Enough that we need name tags at reunions.”

Sweat was forming on his forehead. “And in numbers?”

You shrugged. “Honestly? I stopped counting years ago.”

Jack stared at you. “You could’ve mentioned I’m marrying into a small nation.”

“You’re gonna be fine.”

“Sweetheart” he managed, his throat tight. “You severely undersold the situation. I was fine with your mom and maybe one or two other people. But that sounds…” His voice trailed off.

You reached over, squeezing his hand. “Please don’t worry. They’ll love you. And now eyes on the road. Don’t want this to become a work trip for you when we end up in the ER here.”

The second your mom opened the door, chaos happened.

“Oh my god!”

She immediately kissed your cheek, grabbed Lizzie out of your arms and held her up like she'd just recovered a stolen national treasure.

"My beautiful grandchild!"

Lizzie immediately started giggling.

"And you!"

She shifted Lizzie onto her hip and pulled you into a one-armed hug so aggressive it nearly dislocated your shoulder. "You're finally here!"

Jack barely had time to process any of this before three relatives appeared behind your mother, looking at him like he was the most interesting exhibit in a zoo.

“Oh, this is your Jack, huh?”

“You didn’t tell us he was that handsome!”

One man started laughing. “Poor man, coming into this family willingly!”

Jack looked overwhelmed. You took his hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Get off him!” you barked at your relatives, before turning toward your mom, who handed Lizzie to one of your aunts. “Mom, this is Jack.”

Jack smiled instantly. “So nice to finally meet you. And thank you for having us.”

Your mother absolutely melted. “Oh, you’re such a sweetheart, Jack” she said, already emotional. “It’s great to finally see you in real life and not only on a screen.”

She pulled him into a hug, patting his back. “Thank you for flying all the way here so we can celebrate Lizzie’s birthday with you.”

She pulled back just enough to look at his face. Then she cupped his cheek and looked at him for a moment.

Jack froze.

Your mother nodded once. “Yep.”

“Yep what, mom?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“I like this one.”

You started grinning.

“So, come on in - let’s get some fat on your ribs. You’re way too thin. A real man needs a nice little cushion so his lady can rest her head comfortably.”

You started laughing. “Mom!”

She shrugged, then stepped aside. “Come on in, kids.”

The kitchen was packed. There was no other word for it.

People stood shoulder to shoulder around the island. Somebody was chopping vegetables, somebody else was carrying drinks into the garden. Two of your cousins were arguing over whether the grill was hot enough and one aunt was already trying to feed everyone.

Somewhere in the house Lizzie shrieked with delight. Or terror. It was impossible to tell the difference anymore.

After hugging a lot of people you stood beside Jack near the counter, sipping coffee while he still looked overwhelmed.

“There are… so many of you” he whispered toward you.

You laughed. “Oh, trust me, this isn’t even everyone.”

He looked horrified. “There’s more?”

Then he got dragged into a conversation with one of your uncles, who declared he hated Pittsburgh since he visited it once twenty years ago and hated the traffic.

“They closed the whole road! Right in front of us! Letting us sit in this godforsaken traffic jam for two hours! Two hours!”

Jack nodded gravely. “That’s criminal.”

Your uncle looked delighted, giving him a pat on the back. “Exactly. Nice to know our sweetheart is with someone with some common sense.”

You smiled and leaned lightly against Jacks shoulder. “Told you he is great.” Then you reached up absentmindedly to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

Your mother looked over - and froze mid-conversation. Her eyes locked onto your hand.

First you didn’t notice anything, but then she whispered: “What is that?!”

You blinked. “Um, what?”

Her gaze never moved - and then it clicked.

The ring.

Your mom crossed the distance with two steps and grabbed your wrist with the determination of a woman who suddenly needed visual confirmation.

“Oh my God.”

You immediately started laughing. “Mom-”

“OH my GOD.” Her free hand flew to her mouth. 

Jack looked over, realized what had happened - and immediately looked like he briefly considered fleeing through a window. 

“Mom-”

“Oh my God!”

She turned your hand toward the light. The diamond caught it instantly. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes.

“Oh my God - sweetheart!” Her voice cracked.

And your laughter disappeared immediately. “Oh, mom.”

She looked at you - and you knew exactly what she was thinking about. Not the ring. About you. With thirty. Thirty-five. Crying over a man who constantly made you feel small. Questioning yourself. Apologizing for things that weren’t your fault. Walking on eggshells all the time. Making excuses for someone who never deserved them.

You saw all of it flash through her face.

And then she started crying. “Oh sweetheart.”

The hug hit you before you could prepare. She wrapped both arms around you and squeezed so tightly you almost laughed. Or cried. Or maybe both.

“I’m so happy for you!”

Now you also felt tears burning behind your eyes. “Mom…”

“No.” She pulled back just enough to hold your face. “You have no idea. I was so worried about you.”

You laughed through a sob. “I know.”

“No sweetheart, I don’t think you do.” Her hand shook against your cheek.

You swallowed hard.

The noise in the kitchen had died down. People were watching now. Nobody spoke.

Your mother looked briefly toward the ceiling, trying to compose herself just to fail spectacularly. “I spent years worrying that man had broken something inside you.”

Your chest hurt hearing this.

She laughed through tears. “And then this doctor shows up, sweeping you completely off your feet. The next thing I know is you two are having Lizzie and now… and now…”

She swallowed hard, then turned around, pointing at Jack. “You.”

He looked deeply alarmed - which led to severe amusement among your relatives. “Yes, Ma’am?”

“You are the one making her happy.”

Jack opened his mouth, blinked, then closed it again. For once in his life completely speechless.

Your mother’s eyes filled all over again. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen her like this?”

Jack looked briefly at you, then back at her. “I think she’s the one making me happy, honestly” he answered quietly.

“Oh, you beautiful soul.” Your mom looked at him. “I love how much you adore her.”

Jacks ears turned pink.

One of your aunts narrowed her eyes. “Would you please tell us what happened?”

Your mom grabbed your arm again, lifting it. The ring on your finger sparkled in the soft light.

The kitchen erupted.

“Oh my God, you’re engaged?!”

“What?”

“Wait, seriously?!”

“NO WAY!”

“Oh my God, show me the ring!”

The news spread through the house like wildfire.

Within thirty seconds even more people were pouring into the kitchen from every direction. One of your cousins appeared still carrying a bowl of potato salad. One uncle abandoned a card game halfway through. Someone yelled for another relative upstairs.

And your mom still held your hand proudly like she had personally arranged the engagement herself. “Look at this ring!”

“MOM!”

“Shhh. Look at it!”

“That’s gorgeous.”

“Good Lord!”

“Wow!”

Another aunt immediately grabbed your hand too. Then another one. Somebody wanted to take pictures immediately.

You had never been touched by so many people at once.

Across the room Jack suddenly found himself being congratulated by three different uncles. One slapped him hard on the shoulder. Another one shook his hand. A third pulled him into an unexpected hug.

He looked increasingly overwhelmed.

“Congratulations son.”

“Thanks.”

“You did good!”

“Thank you.”

Another shoulder slap.

“If they crack your ribs you can fix yourself up, right?” one cousin asked with a grin.

Jack shrugged. “Think so.”

The kitchen roared with laughter. 

Your mom pulled you into a brief hug, then looked at the ring again. “It’s beautiful.” 

Then she looked at Jack. “How much did this cost?”

“Mom!” you gasped, suddenly embarrassed.

Jack meanwhile looked trapped.

Especially when your whole family seemed to lean closer immediately, staring at him.

“Mom, please.”

“No, seriously.”

“Jack.”

Your poor fiance looked toward you for help. Your mom caught that immediately.

“That is not the face of a man who bought an affordable ring” she said with a grin.

“It’s from Tiffany’s” he spilled eventually.

All of your female relatives gasped at once.

“Good choice, Jack!” some aunt chirped, delighted.

Your mom hugged him again. Then wiped tears from her eyes. “Okay, fine if you don't want to give us a number then tell us at least - how did you do it?”

Every head turned toward Jack again. And he looked around like he was searching for an emergency exit. 

“Come on, Jack” some uncle said. “You can’t just show up engaged and not tell the story, right?”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck, ears still a little pink. “It was nothing special.”

The room immediately erupted.

“Nobody believes that, Jack!”

“The ring alone says otherwise!”

“Terrible liar. Just - terrible.”

“Get off him, you hyenas.” You laughed softly. “It was beautiful.”

The room went quiet for a moment. Jack groaned softly. 

You grabbed his hand, squeezing it gently. “It really was beautiful, Jack.”

He looked up, smiling at you - really smiling at you now - then turned back to the room. He let out a deep sigh. “Okay, okay, I admit defeat.” He took a breath. “It was at the lake house.”

Immediately a voice cut through the room. “I KNEW IT!”

Everybody turned. Your Uncle Zach stood near the doorway holding a beer, pointing directly at Jack. He looked immensely pleased with himself.

“You knew about this, Zach?” your mother demanded, eyes narrowing.

“No, I didn’t know exactly. But this guy called me a while ago asking if he could use the lake house for a weekend.”

“And you didn’t tell me he asked?” your mother shot back.

“Of course not! I didn’t know it was for a proposal” Zach replied with a shrug. “But the man was nervous enough that I should’ve suspected something!”

“You were nervous?” one of your aunts gasped.

Every woman in the room immediately turned back toward Jack - who looked trapped.

“Um. Yeah. Kinda. Not ashamed to admit that” he muttered with a half-shrug.

Jack glanced at you. “You’re enjoying this?”

“Very much so” you replied with a sweet smile.

The kitchen roared with laughter.

“So” your mother demanded. “And what happened at the lake house? Tell me everything.”

“Do you want to tell or should I?” you asked Jack.

“You” he replied without missing a beat.

You grinned. “Okay.” You turned toward the kitchen again, where everyone was looking at you. “Well, we sat at the jetty during sunset. And he had brought champagne…”

Your aunts were already dying. Your mother had both hands pressed against her mouth. You looked over at Jack.

“And then he gave a little speech.”

The kitchen collectively melted.

“What kind of speech?” your mother asked, her voice cutting through the noise. “What did he say?”

You smiled. “It was beautiful. It was just… perfect.”

“Oh my God.” Your mom was crying again. “What did he say?”

You glanced at Jack, who was nodding slightly.

“Tell them” he mumbled, his ears still pink.

You swallowed hard. “He told me how much he loved me. And how happy he is with our life. And that he wants to keep doing this forever.” Your voice cracked slightly.

Your mother needed to lean against the counter, one hand pressed against her chest, the other on her mouth. Tears were streaming down her face.

Several other relatives were also openly crying now.

You swallowed hard again, squeezing Jacks hand. “And then he got down on one knee. He was so nervous.”

Every woman in the room simultaneously melted.

Jack cleared his throat. “I was not that nervous.”

“You were. And it was adorable” you said, leaning over, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Mhm.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “And then I asked her and she didn’t reply for what felt like an eternity. She was just staring at me.”

The whole room gasped.

“WHAT?!”

Your mom stared at you. “Why didn’t you say yes immediately?!”

Now it was your turn to blush. “I was… I was… really overwhelmed” you said with a shrug. “It was the most romantic thing ever and I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming.”

“It was the worst minute of my life. I think I never sweated that much.” Jack smiled gently. “She said yes eventually. So no one’s panicking, yeah?”

The room erupted in laughter again.

“Silly girl, putting this adorable man through this” your mom said, shaking her head disapprovingly.

You frowned. “I was shocked, mom.”

“Shocked, shmocked.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Glad he still wanted you.”

You laughed despite yourself. Jack looked slightly smug when he realized your mom already adopted him.

Your mom let out a sigh, stepped closer and grabbed your hand again. Her eyes were locked onto the ring for a moment. “I wish your dad was here” she said quietly.

The room grew quieter. Your throat tightened instantly. 

“I wish he could see this.” Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “And Grandma.”

You laughed weakly through your own tears. “Yes, me too.” You sniffed. “She would’ve been unbearable.”

That earned a laugh from half the kitchen.

“She would’ve told everyone.”

“Before I even got the chance to” you agreed, smiling.

“But she would’ve loved him” your mother said, nodding toward Jack. “She always had a thing for doctors, you know?”

You laughed out loud. “I didn’t know that.”

Your mom nodded. “Yeah. I'm still convinced she didn't need to go to the doctors all the time. She just wanted to flirt with them.”

You laughed.

She looked you up and down. “I guess it’s running in the family, huh?”

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Next part is coming soon, I promise :)

--- --- ---

You stared at your phone uncertain of what to do. It was a humid Saturday night. You had seen in your shared calendar that Robby had blocked the night with a “Dinner”. He could be with friends, on a date or even something far more intimate. But you had promised each other you would put your children first every single time. And as you looked at your son’s wide eyes you guessed this would be one of those times.

The phone barely finished its first ring before Robby answered. His voice was impatient. “What’s up?”

You heard some distant music in the background.

You pressed the device harder against your ear, your breath hitching. “Robby,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the violent thumping of your heart. “I’m sorry to wake yo—”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he breathed out.

You glanced at the clock. 11:50 PM. You knew he wasn’t sleeping, but at least he didn’t sound agitated. “Okay,” you whispered, swallowing hard against the lump of terror in your throat. “Okay.”

“Is everything alright?” he pressed, the static on the line sharpening his concern.

“Are you busy?”

“What’s going on?” His voice dropped an octave, no longer just concerned, but commanding.

“Don’t freak out.”

He said your name like a warning.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching your daughter tighter against your chest; she was shivering despite the humid air. “There was an… issue a few houses away from ours.”

“What kind of issue?”

You took a shaky breath, your gaze darting to the bathroom door, then down to your son, Isaac. He was perched on the edge of the tub, his small frame rigid, eyes blown wide with an intensity that made your skin crawl. “An intruder. And—”

“Intruder?!” The word exploded into your ear, loud enough that you had to pull the phone away from your face.

“But the owners,” you rushed to explain, frantic to keep his volume down, “the owners—they, ummm, shot him.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re safe, Robby. I promise.”

“Where are you?” He repeated the question, his voice vibrating.

“In the master’s bathroom.”

You heard him scoff—a dry, humorless sound. “The three of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Has the police arrived yet?”

“I think so. I called 911 ten minutes ago. They said they were on their way.” You let out a jagged sigh, your hand trembling as you smoothed your daughter’s hair. “I can’t tell because I don’t want to get close to the windows. We’re okay. I just… I didn’t want you finding out about this on the news or something.”

Silence stretched between you for a moment; in the background you could hear sirens growing closer.

“Yeah, no,” he said, his voice softening, though the intensity remained. “Thank you.”

“And,” you cleared your throat, glancing at Isaac, who was currently clutching his little baseball bat like a weapon. “Isaac doesn’t want to go back to sleep. He says he’s the man of the house and has to stay alert.”

Robby went quiet for a long thirty seconds.

You wanted to choose your words carefully, you didn’t want your son to think he wasn’t his father’s priority. So you settled for a breathy: “I can go to my parents’”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Robby said quickly. “Can I get the check, please?” You heard him ask in the background.

The connection filled with the frantic sounds of movement: the jingle of keys, an exchange of words, a woman insisting that he stayed, and Robby’s insistence that he couldn’t.

“Michael?” You asked, uncertain if you should still be listening.

When he finally spoke, his voice was absolute.

“I’ll be there in five.”

By the time Robby arrived, you had finally coaxed Isaac out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom. Your daughter was curled against your chest, her small breaths hitching occasionally in her sleep, but Isaac remained upright on the edge of the bed. The image of a five year old in dinosaur pajamas scanning the shadows of the room to defend you was cute. But also, worrying.

Robby appeared in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the hallway light.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered.

Isaac’s posture broke instantly. “Dad!” He scrambled off the mattress and threw himself at Robby. “You came.”

Robby caught him easily, anchoring him against his chest as he walked into the room. The floorboards groaned slightly under his weight. “Of course,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register that Isaac seemed to need. “I’ll always be there when you need me, okay?” He pressed a firm, reassuring kiss into the boy’s dark hair before looking toward the bed. “How are my girls doing?”

You were too drained, too wrapped in the heavy, humid fog of adrenaline-crash to correct him on the possessive adjective. You simply tapped the empty space on the mattress, a wordless, tired plea. “Come here.”

Robby moved quickly, settling onto the bed with Isaac still tucked securely in his arms. He reached out with his free hand, his knuckles grazing the flushed, velvet skin of your daughter’s cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “How are you?” he murmured.

You could smell his fancy cologne, the leather of his jacket and a sniff of wine on him. And you found yourself gravitating towards it.

“Better,” you breathed, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. “Just… exhausted.”

“Get some sleep,” he whispered, shifting as if to stand. “I’ll take him into his room so you have space.”

Your hand shot out, your fingers clamping firmly around his wrist. The contact was impulsive, desperate. “Stay, please.” You felt a flush of self-consciousness as the words hung in the air, so you softened them, adding, “I don’t want him far from me tonight.”

Isaac’s breathing had already leveled out, the rhythm of his father’s steady heartbeat acting like a tether that finally allowed him to drift off.

Robby didn’t pull away. He turned your hand over, pressing a slow, chaste kiss against your palm before settling back against the pillows. “Of course,” he promised.

Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of a police cruiser rolling slowly down the street outside. You felt the pull of sleep, heavy and inevitable, but the lingering curiosity of the phone call pricked at the back of your mind.

“Did I interrupt something?” you mumbled, your eyelids fluttering.

Robby went still. You felt his chest rise and fall in a sharp, jagged motion. “I…” He swallowed hard, a sound that seemed loud in the quiet room. “I had a date tonight. With Noelle.”

“Aahh.” You slowly moved your hand to cradle your daughter’s hair, your thumb tracing the curve of her temple. “Again? Must be getting serious.” Your eyes were already drifting shut, the darkness behind your lids feeling safer than the world outside.

“Well,” Robby said, his voice tight, stripped of its earlier warmth. “She wasn’t very happy about me leaving in the middle of it, so I don’t think so.”

Your brows creased. “She was upset because your son needed you?”

He scoffed lightly. “She rather thinks that I still love you, and that I take any chance to spend time with you.” His voice was rough, warm and dozy.

“Mmmhmm.” You tried to hide the satisfaction and failed terribly. Reaching out for his hand, you tangled your fingers together. “Well I still love you too, Misha.”