Susie 🐨

"You look exhausted," Bucky murmurs and kisses your neck.

You melt into him.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to me," he grins.

He takes your bag from your shoulder and puts it down by the door. You let him guide you toward the sofa and pull you down next to him. 

A glass of wine waits on the coffee table. You reach for it, but misjudge the distance and the glass slips.

You barely register what happened before Bucky catches it in the air.

“Force of habit,” he chuckles, handing it back to you. 

You notice traces of flour on his forearm. Little Natty must have talked him into baking cookies again. 

Bucky’s hand cups your cheek, and you nuzzle against it. 

You love him so much it aches sometimes. The super soldier who can kill a man with one arm and assemble a bomb from your kitchen supplies. The man who folds tiny socks, kisses scraped knees, packs lunches, and makes every room feel warmer just by being in it.

He leans forward, lips almost touching yours. 

"Do you ever regret it?" you ask quietly. 

Bucky's smile appears slowly together with tiny creases around his beautiful eyes.  

You felt your own mouth curling into a quiet smile despite yourself. “So this must feel really nostalgic for you then, huh?”

“Extremely,” he deadpanned.

“Well…” you sighed. “Got any tips for me then, old man?”

Jack exhaled a heavy breath and turned to face you while the heavy machine beeped and buzzed beside you. He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his camo pants and shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, look at it this way— Today is gonna suck, but… That means every shift from now can’t possibly get worse than this one, right?”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “That, or we just… keep descending into another circle of hell every day.”

Jack smiled wider at your cynicism, patting you softly on the shoulder before sauntering off the way he came. “That’s the spirit, kid.”

You still feel his hand on you even now, wide and warm over your thick black scrubs, while you trudge through the rest of your charting. You hate the effect he has on you; you hate how often he plagues your every thought. It takes a great amount of muscle memory, you find, not to accidentally jot his name down as your hand moves the pen on autopilot. 

You don’t think it’d feel quite as pathetic if you thought that there might be an inkling he felt the same way about you. But now, all you are is an R4 with a stupid schoolgirl crush on her boss, and half a mental breakdown away from scribbling little hearts in her notes with his initials scrawled inside.

“You plan on getting in on this?” Santos asks in place of a greeting as she slides her swivel chair next to yours. She wears a faint smirk on her lips and a mischievous glint in her light eyes that gives you great pause.

Ink smudges on the inside of your wrist as you halt your scribbling to flash her a dubious look. “…On what?”

“Ahmad got bored after Princess won the last bet,” she tells you, reaching behind her to tighten the half-ponytail at the crown of her head. “Said the grid was too good to take down so soon, so… He started a new one.” 

You scoff a dry laugh and turn away again. 

“Yeah? What is it this time— Which one of us is gonna be the first to have a breakdown and quit? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure I’d win that one…”

“Close…” Trinity croons, leaning in like she’s about to tell you some sort of secret. Her eyes flit somewhere over your shoulder, in the vague direction of where Mohan stands with Jack across the room, before she confesses. “It’s about Abbot and Samira. I have it on good authority that they were getting pret-ty close in Central 4 together…”

“C-Close?” you echo on bated breath. 

Your head whips over your shoulder to the other side of the workstation, where Jack and Samira exchange information about one of her patients. You hadn’t given their closeness a second thought before now. It’s like you blinked, and now the sight of them together makes you feel sick. 

You hope Santos doesn’t see the hurt weighing down your features when you turn back to her. “What— What do you mean close?”

“I mean, Dr. Abbot was half naked while Samira was tending to his shoulder,” Trinity explains with a scoff and turns back to her own clipboard. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it until I heard her say, ‘It’s our little secret—’” 

She mocks in a high-pitched voice, which sounds nothing like Samira’s, before laughing to herself.

“—Like, c’mon. You guys could at least try to be subtle about it.”

You know she expects you to start laughing with her, but you struggle to find the energy to do so now.

“Yeah…” you sigh instead, hardly audible as you struggle to speak through the sudden tightening in your chest. “Right…”

“You should go place a bet,” she tells you, half-distracted by the files before her. “You could win back the money you lost and then some.”

“With what?” you joke with a sad scoff. “The three dollars I have left to my name?”

She flashes you a deadpanned look. “If that’s all you have to lose, I think I’d take those odds.”

You figure Trinity’s right. You have nothing more to lose, in truth — not after the shit day you’ve already had, and the money you’ve already lost, and the teenage heart inside of you that’s already broken. 

You finish up your charting, return the clipboard to the patient rack, and retrieve your wallet from the locker room. Because, as you see it, you’ll either leave this shift about a hundred dollars richer or with nothing at all; either totally vindicated or with a bank account just as empty as you feel on the inside.

You find Ahmad in the security room, and he flashes you a toothy grin as you slink through the doorway like a shy little storm cloud. He motions with the notepad he holds in a sun-kissed hand. “I knew you’d wanna get on the books, kid— What’d it take to convince you this time?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug with a mournful sigh. “I just… realized that I have nothing else to lose, I guess…”

Dr. Barker laughs from beside you.

“Well, that’s always the best reason to make a bet, in my experience,” he jokes with a pearly white smile, pushing the sleeves of his navy button-down up to his elbows to reveal the expanse of his tanned, scruffy forearms. 

Nick Barker stands quite a few inches taller than you — which you hadn’t expected before now, since he’d spent most of his time in the E.R. sitting behind the portable radiology machine. He has to look down at you from the bridge of his broad nose from this angle, with eyes so dark they’re almost black. 

He’s almost effortlessly handsome. Like, Disney prince sort of handsome. The kind of handsome that makes it impossible to look into his eyes without blushing like a schoolgirl.

“I’m normally a lot more responsible than this, but… I figured all things considered…” you trail off with a sheepish shrug.

“Yeah, you’re talkin’ to the girl who hasn’t taken a day off since I started here— Two years ago,” Ahmad scoffs. “I think you deserve to let loose every once in a while, Doc, all things considered.”

He taps you gently on the head with his notepad. You roll your eyes and reach into the pocket of your scrubs, cheeks burning under the weight of the sudden attention you’re getting. 

“Just put me down for $10—” you say, but cut yourself off when Ahmad hisses through his teeth. “…What is it?”

“Minimum this time twenty,” he grimaces.

Your shoulders deflate with a sigh. “Seriously?”

“We had to up the ante this time, kid— Rules of the game.”

“Then I guess put me down for twenty…” you huff and pluck your wallet from your scrub pockets. “For… unrequited…”

“Unrequited by who?” Ahmad presses with his brows raised to his hairline.

“I don’t know. Samira, I guess,” you shrug, half-timid, ‘cause it’s not like you totally believe it either. You’re just trying to take a page out of Trinity’s book, really, and manifest something good for yourself for a change — pretending that Abbot isn’t into her in the hopes that it’ll make it somehow real.

“What?” Ahmad laughs like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t believe in love?”

You flash him a solemn look in return. “I’ll start believing in something again when the systems come back up,” you answer in a monotone.

“Touche…” he nods slowly while Dr. Barker exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. 

A familiar voice comes suddenly from the entrance:

“I think that is the single sanest answer I’ve heard all day,” Jack Abbot himself hums in a gritty deadpan. 

You nearly break your neck with how fast your head whips over your shoulder, finding the man leaning against the doorway with his toned arms crossed over his chest and a smug smirk dancing on his lips. 

Your skin prickles with a red-hot heat while your pounding heart drops to your stomach. If he wasn’t into you before, he certainly won’t be now — not with you making bets on his love life like a crazy person with nothing better to do. (Though, in many ways, that is exactly what you are.)

“Dr. Abbot…” Ahmad croons, trying to play casual despite knowing his secretive betting ring’s finally been found out. “That’s funny— We were just talking about you.”

“Robby may or may not have told me,” Jack confesses as he saunters slowly into the security room, boots heavy on the white linoleum. “Wanted me to tell him if there was something going on with Mohan and me, so he could recoup the money he lost in the last bet.”

“…Well, is there?” Nick wonders lowly.

“C’mon, Barker. Where’s the fun in that?” Jack scoffs a dry laugh, then goes strangely solemn again in a flicker. “Even though, as an attending, I think I have to say that I am very against this— I feel like this has H.R. violation written all over it.”

“Well, what Gloria doesn’t know, won’t hurt us, right?” Ahmad quips.

“I’ve been livin’ by those exact words for years, brother.”

Your hands are clammy and trembling for a reason you can’t name as you pull two crumpled bills from your wallet — a dingy, pastel Polly Pocket billfold you’ve had since you were twelve — as if you needed another reason to look any less cool in front of Jack. The pale pink interior is left glaringly empty, save for a few folded receipts and miscellaneous fortune-cookie slips.

“Wow…” you huff as you pass Ahmad the twenty. “That is all the cash I have to my name. I’m officially more broke than I was in med school— I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“I can take you out to dinner with my winnings, if you want,” Nick offers suddenly. 

Your head snaps in his direction, and his eyes widen, as though surprised by his own forwardness. He swallows hard, pronounced adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, scruffy with a five o’clock shadow. 

“You know, if you— if you wanna… let loose or whatever.”

Your lip flickers upward in a shy smile when Dr. Barker sighs and shakes his head to himself. A few rogue strands of dark hair fall from their gelled quaff and hang over his forehead until he pushes them back in place again. 

“Sorry, that, uh…” He chuckles awkwardly at himself. “That came out weird.”

“I might be stuck in charting jail for the rest of the night, actually,” you say with an apologetic grimace, wringing your clammy fingers into knots. “Can I get back to you on that?” 

“Yeah!” he blurts, a little quicker than he means to. He clears his throat and, in an octave lower, repeats himself. “Yeah. Totally. No worries.”

You dismiss yourself with a quiet smile and lack the courage to look Jack in the eye when you pass him on the way to the door. He watches you leave and waits for you to glance back at him with his heart in his throat. You never do. 

Still, though, he can’t help but feel a little proud of himself; after watching you turn down the handsome radiologist every woman on this floor has been fawning over all day. He turns back around and hisses through his teeth, trying not to look as smug as he feels. 

“Damn,” Jack deadpans. “That was cold, man…”

Nick’s dark eyes widen and flit wildly between the two men on either side of him. “Wait— Really?”

“Ice cold…” Ahmad affirms with a slow nod. “Girl said she’s broke, and you think she’s gonna say ‘no thanks’ to some free food? In this economy? Yeah… She’s not into you, man.”

Jack claps the solemn boy hard on the shoulder. “You win some, you lose some, kid… Don’t take it too hard.”

You forget all about the stupid bet and Nick’s offer some hours later, when Robby sticks you with Ogilvie and tells you to walk the MS4 through your canthotomy patient. 

You talk aloud as you slice your scalpel through the young girl’s eye, where the socket is raging red and bulging from the pressure behind it. The boy doesn’t say a word the whole time, just holds the plastic cup where the bright crimson blood drains from the eye, and doesn’t move a muscle until it stops.

“I think that’s the closest I’ve come to puking since I started med school,” the boy confesses when it’s done, standing just over your shoulder while you fill out the patient’s med slip. “I didn’t even get that close during cadaver lab, when all of us started craving meat from the formaldehyde— I’m pretty sure five people dropped out that day alone…”

His voice trails off when Samira catches your eye, rushing by the desk with her wild curls falling from her claw clip. She wears the hard shift all over as she makes a beeline directly for Jack, planting herself ahead of the older man; so close she has to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. 

Your hand freezes around the pen as you keep your eyes on the two of them, staring harder than you probably realize as you struggle to make out their conversation. Their words are drowned out by Ogilvie’s rambling, and the surrounding beep and chatter of the crowded E.R. 

Mohan talks wildly with her hands and says something about “a letter,” while Jack nods along sympathetically and says something along the lines of “give me your number.” 

Your chest flares with a white-hot feeling when you watch the man pass Samira his phone to plug her number into. It’s like the world has fallen out from under you and swallowed you whole, like you’re drowning in the fire of your own envy. 

You’re barely seven hours on the job, and you’ve already lost all your cash — you’ll be doomed to the three-day-old leftovers in the fridge, if the newfound heartache hasn’t already snatched your appetite for the evening. That means you’ll be running on fumes tomorrow morning — still broke, still hungry, still heartbroken.

Then you remember Dr. Barker — Disney prince Dr. Barker — and his offer of dinner from earlier in the security room. 

You make the terribly impulsive decision to take fate into your own hands and forget to properly dismiss yourself before dropping the finished order slip off across the room. Ogilivie is quick to follow close behind, lacking any real sense of personal space. He nearly trips over himself to keep from running into you when you freeze suddenly in place.

“You don’t have to follow me anymore,” you tell him.

“Oh… Well, then… What am I supposed to do?” the blonde boy shrugs.

“I don’t know. Do whatever you want…” you trail off and glance around the bustling work station. You spot Trinity standing at the chart rack and motion over to her. “Go help Dr. Santos with her next patient.”

The dark-haired girl turns at the sound of her name. 

“Oh, please don’t—” She cuts herself off with a sigh when Ogilvie makes his way towards her anyway. “Fuck. Fine…”

You continue your trek to the other side of the crowded work station, where the portable radiology machine takes up the majority of the room. You can smell the man’s expensive, musky cologne before he ever comes into view.

“Hey, Nick…” you greet, then wince at how weird it sounds a second later. “I mean, Dr. Barker— Sorry—”

He glances up from his work at the sound of your voice. “Nick is fine,” he assures with a kind grin and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes.

You try to smile back, but your nervousness makes it look more like a grimace. “It’s not, like, totally too late for me to take you up on that offer for dinner, is it?”

“No!” he blurts with a shake of his head. “Of course not!”

“Great…” you say with a relieved sigh.

“Yeah, I’ll— I’ll text you the details later.”

“Oh. Well, you don’t…” You scrunch the bridge of your nose in a sheepish look. “You don’t have my number…”

His mouth falls softly agape with the realization. “Oh. Right. Duh.”

You smile wider despite yourself, ‘cause he’s almost as awkward as you are, which you didn’t think was possible before now — especially not for someone as pretty as he is. 

You turn away and grab the nearest pen, clicking it on with your thumb before reaching for his arm. You scribble your number over the dark blue veins on his wrist with a newfound confidence — one that you never had before now, one spurred on by the man’s obvious shyness. 

You feel Nick’s eyes on you when you look away, flitting wildly across your profile. 

“This isn’t… This isn’t just because of the bet, is it?” he wonders with a waver in his voice.

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You know, the whole thing you said about… losing all your money or whatever,” Dr. Barker explains with a sheepish laugh. “You’re not just going out with me for a free meal, are you?”

“Well, isn’t that kinda the point of going on dates? The free food?” you joke with a dry laugh, which fades instantly at the confused look Nick gives you in response. Your face floods with horror a second later. “I’m kidding! I’m totally kidding— Of course not.”

“Okay,…” Dr. Barker says with an awkward chuckle. “Good.”

“Good,” you echo with a sigh and rise to full height again.

“I’ll, uh— I’ll text you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” you chirp with a polite nod and a giddy grin, which ebbs the second you turn away from him. You shake your head as you slink back through the bustling emergency department, squeezing your eyes shut and murmuring under your breath in disgust, “I’ll be waiting—?”

You nearly trip over yourself when you ram suddenly into a firm body. Two calloused hands grasp gently at your elbows as you stumble backwards. You almost lose your breath when you find Jack Abbot towering over you.

“Shit… you huff. “Sorry, I— I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Where’ve you been hiding?” Jack squints. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Your shy smile fades into a disbelieving squint almost instantly; at the bitter reminder of Jack and Samira — of the seemingly intimate conversation they’d shared just minutes ago, and of the bet you know you’re bound to lose now.

“No, you weren’t,” you deadpan.

“I was,” he insists. “I feel like I always am, some way or another.”

Your chest warms at his words. You choke on the funny feeling when you force yourself to swallow it down. “I was just— walking one of the interns through a lateral canthotomy,” you stammer as you step back out of his hold.

“Gnarly,” Jack hums with a slow nod.

“Did you, uh… Did you need me for something?”

“Yeah, I have a patient over in Trauma 2— Sliced through his left hand with a circular saw,” Jack explains, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose as he crosses his strong arms over his chest. “But the crazy part is, he used his right hand to take the nail gun and—”

“Oh, my god,” you blurt before you mean to. “He tried to put his hand back on with the nail gun, didn’t he?”

“Close…” he hums with a knowing glint in his eyes. “He used the gun to fire two nails into his temple— Said he thought it would distract him from the pain in his hand. And the weird thing is, he’s walking and talking just fine.”

“Holy shit…” you mumble, wide-eyed. “Why do you always get the cool cases?”

“You can have it,” he assures you, with something soft swimming in his eyes. “That’s why I wanted to find you— so you could do it with me.”

Something about it feels way more intimate than being asked out for dinner.

You finish the rest of your shift as normal — feeling like a shell of your former self after hours of running on fumes; both excruciatingly tired and buzzing with white-hot adrenaline all at once. 

The only real difference between today and every other day before this one is that, for the first time in a long, long time, you actually have plans outside of work — almost like a real human person with a social life would.

You return home after the long day, only for an hour or so, to shower and change out of your scrubs. You wash away the scent of blood, sweat, and antiseptic from your skin, and only cut your knee once when you shave your legs for the first time in weeks. You pull out a nice top, a short skirt, and a real bra from the depths of your closet. You go as far as to break out the expensive perfume that you’ve had for years, ‘cause you only use it on extra special occasions, which tend to be few and far between for you.

You feel like an entirely different person when you meet Dr. Barker at the address he’d sent you a few hours ago — a nice bar, just a few blocks down from your apartment building, that you’d been meaning to visit for years but found every excuse in the book to stay home instead. You find the man sitting alone in a far booth in the dimly lit room, sipping slowly at the beer he nurses in his hand, and feel a little like a fraud when you slide into the vinyl seat across from him. 

Nick has only known you for the better part of a work shift, to be fair, not counting the handful of times you’d smiled politely in passing when you clocked out for the day. You know he’s got some version of you in his head already, like all men do — someone much cooler than you really are, someone much better at separating their work life from their personal life than you are.

You prove him wrong in record time, sharing a plate of loaded nachos between you and forgetting to eat any of it as you get too easily lost in your ramblings. You tell him of the long shift, and of the man you met with two nails in his skull, and fail to remember that not everyone can talk of blood and gore over a meal as easily as you can.

“—Honestly, I’m still surprised it didn’t hemorrhage! The X-Ray showed one of the nails was, like, half an inch away from nicking an artery,” you ramble with a giddy grin. “I pulled them out with some local anesthetic, and he was totally fine— Well, except for the hand, obviously. ‘Cause he did lose a few fingers, but… Dr. Abbot took care of that, so…”

“Did he?” Nick hums, hiding his smile behind the pint he brings to his mouth. 

He thinks this must be the fifth or so time you’ve brought up the man’s name tonight alone — not that you seem to notice. He doesn’t know whether that’s supposed to make him feel better or worse.

“Yeah— I always tell him he would’ve been an amazing surgeon if he didn’t have the hand-eye coordination of, like… A half-blind sloth,” you say, then swallow hard at the playful look Nick gives you in response. “‘Cause, you know, sloths are really clumsy, and they… Sometimes mistake their own limbs for branches, so… They fall a lot…”

You trail off and reach for the glass of water at your side, becoming very suddenly self-aware of your inability to stop rambling.

“You talk about him a lot,” Nick observes with a kind smile, licking the sheen of alcohol from his lips.

 “…Who?” you wonder with furrowed brows.

“Dr. Abbot.”

Your features flood with terror. “Do I?”

His broad nose scrunches with a breathy laugh. “A little bit, yeah.”

“Oh, god…” you groan and hide your face behind your hand. Nick’s laugh gets lost in the rock music playing overhead. “That’s so annoying. I’m sorry—”

Your phone glows to life as it buzzes against the wooden table it sits on. You reach over to flip it face down before you can read the message on the screen.

“I didn’t… I didn’t even notice… I’m so sorry.”

It vibrates again, twice more in quick succession.

Your stomach twists with the anticipation of what it might say.

“It’s whatever,” Dr. Barker shrugs, pushing the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. “I get it. He’s your boss and everything, so…”

Your phone buzzes on the table once more, for longer this time, now with a phone call. 

You tense, but make no move to answer it, for fear of making this more awkward than you already have — though your pretending not to hear it doesn’t make it any better. 

The corner of Nick’s lip twitches into a sympathetic smile, ‘cause he can tell that you’re trying to be polite, even though you’re fidgeting at the thought of answering it. Because your friends usually only ever text you, so if someone’s calling, it’s bound to be important.

“You can get that if you need to—”

“Thank you,” you sigh before he’s properly gotten the words out, scrambling for your phone with anxious hands. “I’m so sorry. It’ll be quick, I swear. I’m sure it’s just… Fuck.”

The call ends before you can answer it. 

Nick’s eyes widen at your reaction. “Everything okay?”

“It’s Parker…” you answer with your eyes trained on the blue-white screen. Your chest deflates with a heavy sigh beneath your skin-tight top. “And I know it’s serious because she despises double-texting and she just sent me four back to back, so…”

Your eyes are wet and preemptively apologetic when they dart to the man across the table, who meets the disaster of you with a tender grin.

“You gotta go back in, huh?” he squints.

“I do…” you sigh. “I’m so sorry—”

“Just make it up to me next time,” Nick shrugs, watching with kind eyes as you scramble for your phone and purse. “When I win that bet, I mean. I’ll take you out somewhere nice— We can do this for real. If you want.”

You slide out of the cracking vinyl booth with a grimace — equal parts unnerved at the idea of doing this a second time and half-surprised that Nick would even want to, after you did nothing but anxiously ramble before bailing on him out of nowhere.

“Yeah…” you waver anyway as you stand to full height again. “Yeah. Sure. Maybe.”

“Thank you again— I’d kiss you right now if I could,” Dr. Ellis tells you when you pass her in the ambulance bay, where she hurries out of the E.D. on long limbs. She calls over her shoulder, moments before she’s out of earshot. “You look hot, by the way!”

The passing reminder of what you’re showing up to work in hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

The double doors of the PTMC part for you, and the air-conditioned emergency room wraps its cold fingers around every inch of your exposed skin — your shaven legs, arms, and collarbones; all of which are normally concealed by your dark scrubs and undershirts. 

You can’t help but feel a bit like you’re doing the walk of shame as you race past the work station with your head bowed, barely noticing that the systems are up and running again as you go. You’re too busy trying to make yourself as small as possible on your way to the scrub dispenser down the hall.

Jack smells you before he sees you.

He gets a sudden whiff of something sweet and creamy, like whipped vanilla and fresh raspberries, something candied enough to eat. Then he looks over his shoulder, from where he’s stood at the front desk, and finds you rushing past him in a hurry. His neck nearly cracks with the strength of the double take he gives at the back of you — short skirt swishing around your thighs, tight shirt showing a sliver of your lower back. He feels a little like he’s in middle school again, going wild at the mere sight of a girl’s bare shoulder. 

By the time his brain starts working again to greet you, you’ve already turned the corner.

“Whoa, gotta hot date tonight?” he hears Shen ask as you walk by.

“Just left one, more like,” you scoff.

“Damn. Poor guy,” the man quips, then laughs when you flip him off.

“…What the hell?” Jack mutters under his breath, with his eyes still trained on the empty hall you’d just disappeared down.

“What? You didn’t hear?” McKay wonders aloud, from where she’s hunched over the monitor across from him, still closing down for the day now that the ED isn’t in analog hell anymore. She peers up at him with tired blue eyes, half-hidden beneath her wild fringe. “Don’t tell Princess, but apparently, she went out with that Dr. Barker guy from radiology.”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums, nodding slowly to feign interest. He hopes the hurt flaring in his chest doesn’t show all over his face as he turns back to his computer. “Sounds fun…”

Javadi eyes him from behind McKay’s shoulder. Her dark, observant stare traces the edges of his face as she twirls the string of her lavender jacket with her pointer finger. 

“Well, don’t look so upset about it, Dr. Abbot,” she jokes with a quiet laugh, half-dazed from the long day. “I have a lot riding on this bet about you and Mohan, you know—?”

Cassie flashes the younger girl a wordless look.

Victoria’s eyes go wide when they flit back to Jack’s. 

“—Which I wasn’t supposed to mention in front of you…” she blurts and fakes an awkward laugh. “There is no bet, actually. I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Jack doesn’t ease the tension by telling her that he already knows; that he has known all day. He just flashes her a half-smile and a pair of squinted eyes as he steps back from the monitor. 

“Real smooth, kid…” he jokes before he walks away.

He leaves the work station and turns the corner to find you cradling a pair of black scrubs to your chest and making a beeline for the restroom nearest to the break room. He rushes on long legs to catch up with you, limping slightly from his prosthetic. You freeze at the sound of your name from his lips, echoing from down the long hall. Your skirt swishes around your thighs as you spin in place to face him.

“Hey…” Jack greets, only slightly out of breath when he towers finally over you.

Your brows lower in confusion at the sight of his flustered state, but you smile nonetheless. “Hey…?”

“How was the, uh… The date?”

“Date?” you scoff. “What date?”

“The one you had with Dr. Barker.”

His biceps strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest, peering down at you from the bridge of his nose. Your cheeks flare instantly. You can’t help but feel like you’ve been caught, like he’s just found out you’ve been cheating on him or something — even though the two of you aren’t even together, even though it’s abundantly clear that he wants someone else.

“Well, it wasn’t— it wasn’t really a— a date,” you stammer and turn away. “It was just… dinner.”

“Right,” Jack scoffs and follows behind you the short distance to the bathroom. “Because the two of you weren’t flirting in the security room or anything.”

You huff an emotionless laugh and roll your eyes at him, even though you know he cannot see you. “Yeah, because you and Samira weren’t flirting in Central 4 this morning or anything…” you echo in a gritty monotone.

Jack catches the bathroom door before it can shut behind you. You glance over your shoulder when you hear it hit his palm. You find the man looming in the doorway with something mischievous glittering in his narrowed eyes.

“I’m trying to get changed,” you deadpan, despite the distant fluttering in your chest.

Jack passes through the threshold and lets the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone in the empty bathroom, where the white-blue fluorescent lights buzz overhead. 

“Am I hearing things, or do you sound a little jealous?” the older man quips, glittering eyes trained on the back of you as you duck into the singular stall across the room.

It clicks shut behind you. 

“Aren’t you the one who came chasing after me, Dr. Abbot?”

“Aren’t you the one who ran off from your date just to come back in?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” you laugh.

“C’mon,” Jack scoffs. “You know what.”

Your short skirt pools around your feet with a quiet thud. You step out of it and toe off your right shoe, sliding on the adjoining pant leg before slipping the sneaker back on again. You do the same for the left side, and Jack has to shake the visual of your half-naked body from his head.

“I thought we had… You know, I thought we had a thing going on…”

“A thing?” you repeat, half-muffled, as you slide your shirt over your head. You hang it over the stall before reaching for your scrub top. “I wouldn’t exactly consider flirty comments and lingering eye contact a thing.”

Jack catches a glimpse of your bare spine through the sliver in the door frame. He swallows hard and forces himself to look down at his feet.

“You say that like I don’t wish I could do more,” he tells you. “I’m an attending— I can’t just go around making moves on my residents. It’s not a good look.”

The stall door squeaks open again. You come into view, now dressed in your scrubs, and wearing a hardened scowl on your dolled-up face. “Well, that didn’t stop you from getting Samira’s number, did it?” you argue. “Or letting her patch you up this morning?”

“I gave her my number because she asked for a recommendation letter, and I told her I’d give her one,” Jack confesses, watching you with a glittering gaze as you storm past him with your clothes cradled to your chest. He makes room for you by the sink and fights back a grin while you scrub angrily at your hands. “And I was patching myself up, actually, until she walked in looking for her patient.”

“Well, how convenient…” you grumble.

Jack smiles wider. “You are jealous,” he croons.

“I am, actually,” you deadpan, with your eyes trained on the soap you suds between your fingers. Even still, you can see the man in your peripheral vision, standing in the mirror just behind you. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and smell the cologne lingering on his clothes.

“So that’s why you went out with the Barker guy, huh?” Jack lilts. “You just wanted to make me jealous…”

“No, actually,” you tell him. “I went out with Nick because I figured I should probably stop chasing after a guy that obviously doesn’t want me.”

You turn off the faucet with your fist and reach for the paper towel dispenser at your side.

Jack follows your every move.

“Yeah?” he hums lowly. “And who said I didn’t want you?”

You turn around to glare at him despite the newfound heat swimming in the pit of your stomach. 

“Well, I think you’ve made it pretty clear, Dr. Abbot,” you deadpan. “I don’t think the entire floor would be betting on you and Samira otherwise.”

Jack takes a daring step closer, until you have to tilt your chin to keep his gaze when he towers suddenly over you. With his hands crossed over his chest, he bows his head and tells you, “Well, I don’t want Mohan. And I don’t care about that stupid bet. Is that clear enough for you?”

Your chest warms with a familiar feeling. Your features crumple under the weight of it as you murmur sheepishly, “Okay. I’m not even trying to be funny right now, but if you’re trying to tell me that you do like me, you’re going to have to say that outright, or else my brain won’t—”

You feel his hands on you, wide and warm around the outsides of your elbows. You feel your feet stumbling on the tile, and your chest colliding with his, and then his mouth pressing against yours. You feel his chapped lips, his coarse scruff, and his exhaled breath from his nose as it fans warm over your skin. 

You freeze against him, too stunned that he’s kissing you at all to remember to kiss him back.

Jack pulls away from you a dizzying second or more later. He peers down at you with a heavy gaze and smiles when he realizes you haven’t yet taken your eyes off him.

“I like you…” he tells you slowly, as though to make sure you’re really hearing him. “Are we clear now?”

You swallow hard and nod your head, licking at your kissed lips in a feeble attempt to taste him again. 

“Crystal,” you quip drily.

You rise to the tips of your toes and wrench your free hand in his scrub top, with every intention of kissing him again — for real this time. You flinch in a fleeting panic when the bathroom door squeaks open a second later. 

Samira slips inside, too distracted by the phone in her hand to see what she’s walking in on. You and Jack freeze against one another accordingly, as if being so still will somehow make you invisible.

The door closes behind her and muffles the never-ending chaos outside. Only when it clicks shut again does Samira look up from her phone, dark eyes wide as they flit wildly between the two of you.

“Holy shit…” she mumbles under her breath, almost as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all.

You push the man away from you on instinct. 

“We weren’t doing anything!” you blurt, hardly convincing in the matter.

Jack’s soft eyes cut over to you. “Real smooth,” he mumbles.

Samira’s look of shock ebbs into a giddy smile. 

“I knew it!” she exclaims, voice ringing through the tiled restroom. “Ahmad looked at me like I was crazy when I put forty dollars on the two of you, but I knew I was right!”

Your brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“The bet,” she shrugs with a smile. “I put mine on the two of you. Which means I just got a couple hundred dollars richer, at least.” 

  The realization hits you like a punch to the stomach. 

“Which means I just lost all of my money…”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I can spare some of my winnings. I mean, it’s only right, right?” Samira says with a pretty laugh. “You guys can go out for drinks or something special. My treat.”

It becomes suddenly very difficult to imagine yourself from five minutes ago — back when you were overcome with jealousy just by the sight of her alone — knowing now that she had been rooting for you this whole time. Jack seems to know this, too, based on the smug smile he gives you.

“This real nice of you, Mohan,” he says. “But if I’m taking my girl out for drinks on a first date, I’m gonna be the one payin’ for ‘em— No offense.”

“None taken,” she shakes her head. “Means more money for me.”

You’re still catching your breath in the meanwhile, ‘cause the newfound title has all but punched the breath from your lungs. My girl, he’d said, and god, you wanted nothing more than to be his girl.

“We should, uh—” You clear your throat when the words get stuck there. “We should probably get out of here before the others think something weird is going on…”

“Something weird is happening— The entire E.D. is betting on my love life,” Jack scoffs as he follows you out of the bathroom, where the chaos of the E.R. finds you almost instantly. “Sorry you lost, by the way. The bet, I mean…”

He catches himself nearly reaching out for your hand. He balls his own into a fist instead to fight the urge. You can see the longing to glittering in his eyes, anyway, when you turn to flash him a sheepish look in response.

“Well, I didn’t lose completely,” you lilt with a lazy shrug. 

“No?” Jack hums.

“No…” you grin. “I think I won where it mattered.”

Now she understood something important.

Being a mother wasn't the end of her story.

It was one chapter.

A beloved chapter.

But not the last one.

The knowledge settled deep inside her and transformed something fundamental. She no longer felt caught between gratitude and longing. She could love her life exactly as it was and still wonder what came next.

The two things weren't opposites.

They were companions.

As a result, she began to glow again.

Beau noticed first.

One morning she caught him watching her across the kitchen while she packed Eliza's lunch and bounced Ella on her hip simultaneously. The look on his face was warm and knowing.

"What?" she asked.

His smile widened. "Nothin'."

She narrowed her eyes. "Beau."

"I just like seein' you smile again, darlin'."

The simple honesty of it made her laugh.

And she was smiling more these days.

Not because life had suddenly become easier.

God knew it hadn't.

Life with a kindergartener, a toddler, and a seven-month-old baby could hardly be described as peaceful.

Eliza remained a force of nature.

Every afternoon brought new reports from kindergarten, elaborate wolf-and-duck diplomatic incidents, and increasingly complicated imaginary adventures that somehow required the participation of every family member. Beau had recently been appointed Wolf General. Emily had been named Ambassador to the Ducks. Caleb had been promoted to "Tiny Chaos Monster," though Eliza insisted that was a respected title.

Caleb, for his part, seemed determined to experience every moment of existence at maximum speed.

The boy ran instead of walked. Climbed instead of sat. Explored instead of rested. He approached life with the absolute confidence of someone who had never once considered the possibility of consequences.

Y/N spent a shocking amount of her day preventing him from launching himself off furniture.

Then there was Ella.

Sweet, observant, increasingly mobile Ella.

The baby who had once remained happily wherever she was placed had developed opinions.

Strong opinions.

She wanted to be where the people were.

Wanted to watch her siblings.

Wanted to investigate absolutely everything.

She wasn't quite crawling yet, but she was trying with impressive determination, which meant Y/N spent much of her time discovering that Ella had somehow migrated across rooms through sheer stubbornness.

Thankfully, she wasn't alone.

Emily remained a blessing.

Between college classes and her growing relationship with Peter, she still found time to help whenever she could. She picked up Caleb from daycare on days Beau ran late. She entertained Eliza with movie discussions that inevitably devolved into wolf politics. She cuddled Ella while Y/N showered or folded laundry or simply sat down for ten uninterrupted minutes.

Watching Emily with her younger siblings filled Y/N with quiet affection.

The young woman was thriving.

College suited her. Peter suited her. Confidence suited her.

And she carried all of it with a grace that made Y/N proud.

Then there was Beau.

Always Beau.

The steady center of everything.

The sheriff's department kept him busy. There were storms and budgets and mayors and emergencies. There were long days and occasional late nights and enough paperwork to make any reasonable man question his life choices.

Yet somehow he still came home and immediately threw himself into family life.

He helped with homework.

Read bedtime stories.

Built blanket forts.

Changed diapers.

Made dinner when Y/N was exhausted.

Loved all of them with a wholehearted devotion that never seemed performative or forced.

One evening, Y/N stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and simply watched.

Beau sat on the floor with Caleb climbing over him like a mountain. Eliza was explaining some critical wolf legislation. Emily was laughing at something Peter had texted her. Ella sat in Beau's lap, fascinated by his watch.

The room glowed with lamplight and laughter.

It wasn't perfect.

There were toys everywhere.

Someone had spilled juice.

The dishwasher needed unloading.

But standing there, Y/N felt something settle peacefully inside her.

The future no longer frightened her.

Work.

School.

Something entirely different.

Whatever came next would come.

And when it did, she wouldn't face it alone.

Because that was the true gift Beau had given her.

Not permission.

Freedom.

The freedom to imagine a future while knowing she already had a home.

Eight months brought changes to Ella almost weekly.

Not dramatic changes. Not the sort that announced themselves with fanfare.

Instead, Beau and Y/N kept finding themselves stopping mid-conversation and saying, "When did she start doing that?"

At eight months old, Ella had become mobile—or at least determinedly mobile.

She wasn't quite crawling properly yet, but she had mastered a highly effective combination of scooting, rolling, and dragging herself forward that allowed her to appear in places no one expected. She could sit independently now, reaching for toys without toppling over, and she had developed a fascination with dropping things from her highchair solely to observe whether adults would retrieve them.

The answer, unfortunately, was yes.

Every time.

Her babbling had become more elaborate too.

"Mama."

"Dada."

"Baba."

Whether she understood the words was debatable.

Whether she enjoyed the reaction they produced was not.

This morning she sat proudly in her highchair wearing approximately half her breakfast.

The other half was distributed across her tray, bib, cheeks, hair, and somehow one eyebrow.

Ella seemed pleased with this arrangement.

Across the table, Emily was eating toast while simultaneously helping Y/N manage the morning chaos.

Eliza was explaining why wolves absolutely required library cards.

And from upstairs came Beau's voice. "Buddy!"

Y/N closed her eyes briefly.

"What happened?" she called.

"Your son committed a crime."

"Our son."

There was a pause.

"Our son committed a crime."

Emily laughed into her coffee.

A moment later Beau appeared at the top of the stairs holding a juice-stained shirt.

Apparently Caleb had decided that drinking juice was less entertaining than launching it directly onto his father.

Beau disappeared again to change.

Meanwhile, Y/N wiped applesauce off Ella's chin.

Ella immediately smeared more onto her own face.

"Helpful," Y/N murmured.

Ella grinned.

The baby had recently discovered that smiling could get her out of almost anything.

It was proving alarmingly effective.

Emily reached over to rescue a banana slice before it hit the floor. "She's getting sneakier."

"She's learning from Eliza," Y/N said.

"I heard that!" Eliza announced.

"Good."

Eliza nodded, satisfied.

Y/N laughed softly and turned back to Ella, who was now enthusiastically squishing scrambled eggs between her fingers.

Then a thought struck her. Not sudden exactly. More like a seed finally breaking the surface. She looked over at Emily. "Hey."

Emily glanced up. "Yeah?"

Y/N hesitated for just a second. Then asked, "Could you get me a copy of the college catalog?"

Emily blinked. "The catalog?"

"Yeah."

Y/N reached for a napkin, wiping Ella's hands before the baby could decorate herself further. "I thought maybe I'd like to look through it. See what classes they offer."

Silence fell for a heartbeat.

Not uncomfortable.

Just surprised.

Emily lowered her toast. "You mean... for you?"

A faint smile tugged at Y/N's lips. "Maybe."

The answer was simple, but it sent a spark through the room.

Emily's eyes widened. Then slowly, beautifully, she smiled. The kind of smile that came from witnessing someone open a door they hadn't realized was still there.

"Yeah," Emily said warmly. "I can do that."

Across the room, Eliza looked up. "Is Mama going to kindergarten too?"

Y/N laughed. "Something like that."

At that exact moment, Beau returned in a fresh shirt, Caleb on his hip. "What'd I miss?"

Emily looked positively delighted. "Mom might be thinking about college."

Beau stopped.

Then smiled.

A slow, proud smile.

The kind Y/N had come to recognize.

The kind that said there she is.

And for the first time in a long time, thinking about the future felt exciting.

Lunch was quieter than breakfast.

Not silent—there was still an eight-month-old involved—but quieter.

The house had settled into its midday rhythm. Eliza was at kindergarten, undoubtedly negotiating treaties and organizing wolf affairs. Caleb was spending his half-day at daycare, likely charming teachers while simultaneously testing every boundary available to him.

For the first time all morning, the house belonged mostly to Y/N and Ella.

Ella sat on the living room floor surrounded by toys, happily entertaining herself by repeatedly dropping a stacking ring and then looking offended that gravity continued to exist.

Y/N had just settled onto the couch with a sandwich when the front door opened.

Emily stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Y/N replied.

Emily grinned and held up a thick book. The college catalog. "I come bearing knowledge."

Y/N laughed. "That was fast."

"I had an hour between classes."

Emily kicked off her boots and crossed the room before dropping onto the couch beside her.

The catalog landed heavily in Y/N's lap. For a moment, neither of them opened it. The weight of it felt oddly significant. Not because it was a catalog. Because of what it represented. Possibility.

Emily glanced over. "So."

Y/N looked up. "So?"

"What are you thinking of studying?"

Y/N laughed softly. "That's the problem. I have absolutely no idea."

Emily smiled. "That's fair."

She reached over and opened the catalog between them. Page after page of possibilities greeted them.

Business.

Education.

Communications.

Psychology.

Accounting.

History.

English.

Criminal Justice.

Social Work.

Healthcare.

Art.

Y/N stared. The sheer number of options was overwhelming.

"How does anyone pick?" she asked.

Emily laughed. "They panic first."

"Good. Glad to know that's normal."

"It is."

Ella chose that moment to successfully move herself three feet across the floor through determination alone.

Both women stared.

"Was she over there?" Emily asked.

"I thought she was."

Ella looked delighted with herself.

Y/N shook her head and got up to retrieve her before she reached the coffee table.

When she sat back down, Emily was still flipping through the catalog.

"You know," Emily said thoughtfully, "you're really good with people."

Y/N adjusted Ella on her lap. "So are a lot of people."

"Yeah, but you genuinely like helping them."

The observation made Y/N pause. She thought about the years before Beau. The jobs she'd held. The people she'd met.

The satisfaction she'd always found in helping someone solve a problem. "I don't know," she admitted.

Emily nudged the catalog toward her. "You don't have to know today."

Y/N looked down at the pages. That was true. Nobody was demanding a decision. Not Beau. Not Emily. Not herself. This wasn't about having answers. It was about allowing herself to ask questions.

Her finger traced over a few program descriptions. She paused over one. Then another. Emily watched quietly, wisely resisting the urge to push.

Outside, snow drifted lazily past the windows.

Inside, Ella babbled happily from Y/N's lap. And for the first time, Y/N wasn't looking at a future she feared. She was looking at one she might actually get to choose.

The front door opened a little after five-thirty.

Immediately, Beau knew two things.

First, he was home.

Second, absolute chaos was underway.

"Caleb, we do not climb the furniture!"

That was Y/N.

"Ducks don't follow rules!"

That was Eliza.

A crash followed.

Then Emily's voice. "Nobody move. I think we're still okay."

Beau grinned before he even got his jacket off.

The Arlen household.

Never boring.

He stepped into the living room to find Caleb halfway up the couch cushions, Eliza sprawled on the floor conducting what appeared to be an emergency wolf council, and Emily attempting to save a tower of blocks from imminent destruction.

The only calm person in the room was Ella.

And that was because she was sitting in the middle of the carpet happily chewing on a toy giraffe.

"Daddy!"

Eliza launched herself at him.

Beau caught her automatically. "Status report."

"The ducks are causing problems."

"Again?"

"They never learn."

"Understandable."

Caleb immediately abandoned his climbing expedition and attached himself to Beau's leg. "Da!"

"Hey there, tornado."

Y/N emerged from the kitchen carrying a bowl of vegetables and a look that said she had survived another day.

Barely.

Beau crossed the room and kissed her. "How was your day?"

"Productive."

"That sounds suspicious."

"It probably is."

He laughed. Then his eyes landed on the coffee table. A thick book sat there. His gaze narrowed. Recognition dawned.

And suddenly his entire face lit up. "The catalog."

Y/N smiled despite herself. "The catalog."

Beau carefully extracted himself from Eliza and Caleb and picked up the book. The excitement that crossed his face was immediate and genuine. Not polite support. Not forced enthusiasm. Actual excitement.

He flipped it over in his hands. "You got it."

Emily looked up from where she was helping Ella investigate a stuffed rabbit. "I brought it home after class."

Beau sat down on the couch, catalog in hand, looking absurdly pleased. "Have you found anything interesting?"

Y/N laughed softly. "I've barely started."

"That's okay."

He patted the couch beside him.

"Come here."

She rolled her eyes but sat anyway.

Beau wrapped an arm around her shoulders and opened the catalog between them.

Eliza immediately climbed onto the opposite side. "What're we reading?"

"College classes."

Eliza gasped.

"Mama's going to kindergarten."

Emily burst out laughing. "Basically."

Beau's shoulders shook with amusement.

Y/N covered her face. "Oh Lord."

"I think Mama should take wolf classes," Eliza informed them.

"Do they offer those?" Beau asked solemnly.

"Probably."

The conversation dissolved from there.

Eliza insisted on reviewing the catalog despite being unable to read most of it.

Caleb attempted to turn pages at random.

Ella eventually managed to grab one corner and tried to eat higher education.

Through it all, Beau remained impossibly enthusiastic.

Every few minutes he'd point something out.

"What's this one?"

"That sounds interestin'."

"Didn't you always like that kinda thing?"

There was no pressure behind it.

Just curiosity.

Support.

Excitement at seeing Y/N excited.

At one point she caught him watching her instead of the catalog. "What?"

His smile softened. "Nothin'."

She narrowed her eyes. "Beau."

His hand found hers beneath the catalog. "I just like seein' you dream again, darlin'."

The words hit her harder than they should have.

Around them, the children continued their usual brand of cheerful mayhem.

Emily laughed at something Eliza said.

Caleb climbed into Beau's lap.

Ella squealed triumphantly after successfully stealing a page corner.

The house was loud.

Crowded.

Alive.

And sitting there in the middle of it all, surrounded by the family she'd built and the future she was beginning to imagine, Y/N found herself smiling.

Not because she had a plan.

Not because she had answers.

But because she finally believed she was allowed to have both a present she loved and a future she could still shape.

And judging by the look on Beau's face, her husband was ready to cheer her on every step of the way.

The house settled slowly that night.

Eliza required one final discussion about wolf patrol routes before agreeing to sleep. Caleb fought bedtime with the determined stubbornness of a child convinced he was missing something important. Ella, exhausted from a day of scooting across floors and terrorizing educational materials, finally surrendered after a bottle and a lengthy cuddle.

By the time the last bedroom door clicked shut, silence felt almost startling.

Not complete silence.

The familiar kind.

The hum of the refrigerator. The distant rush of the heater. The small sounds of a house breathing around them.

Beau found Y/N in the living room.

The college catalog still rested on the coffee table, now adorned with a few bent page corners courtesy of Ella and several sticky notes courtesy of Eliza, who had apparently marked programs she believed involved wolves.

Beau smiled when he saw it.

He sat beside Y/N on the couch and immediately reached for her, pulling her into his side until she fit comfortably against him. His arm settled around her shoulders, his hand rubbing absent circles along her arm.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The catalog sat open on her lap.

Pages dog-eared.

Possibilities highlighted.

Dreams still unnamed.

Eventually Beau tilted his head toward it. "So."

Y/N smiled. "So."

He chuckled. "You got any idea what you wanna do?"

She looked down at the pages.

There were so many options.

So many lives she could imagine herself living. "I don't know yet."

The answer surprised her with how much peace it contained.

A few weeks ago that uncertainty would have frightened her.

Now it felt exciting.

"I really don't know," she admitted. "Part of me thinks about going back to work. Part of me wonders about school. Sometimes I look at these programs and think, maybe. Then I turn the page and think maybe something else."

Beau listened quietly. No judgment. No expectations. Just listening.

Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder. "I know that probably sounds ridiculous."

"It sounds normal."

She laughed softly. "I just..." She searched for the right words. "I feel excited."

The confession made her smile. Because it was true. Not anxious. Not trapped.

Excited.

The future no longer felt like something happening to her. It felt like something she could help shape. Beau's entire face softened. God, he loved hearing that.

He bent his head and pressed a kiss into her hair. "I'm happy for you, darlin'."

The sincerity in his voice wrapped around her like a blanket. "I mean it," he continued. "You spent years puttin' everybody else first. If you're excited about somethin', I wanna hear about it."

Y/N looked up at him. "Even if I don't know what it is yet?"

He laughed. "Especially then."

His hand found hers, threading their fingers together. "You know what I see?"

She shook her head. "What?"

"I see a woman who finally realized she's allowed to dream again."

The words hit harder than he intended.

Her throat tightened.

Because that was exactly it.

Not that she hadn't been happy.

She had.

Not that she regretted a single choice.

She didn't.

But somewhere between pregnancies and diapers and school pickups and sleepless nights, she'd quietly stopped imagining anything beyond the next day.

Now she was imagining again.

And Beau looked positively delighted by it.

"I love you," she whispered.

His smile deepened. "I know."

She rolled her eyes. "That wasn't an invitation to quote Star Wars."

"It wasn't?"

"No."

"Missed opportunity."

Y/N laughed despite herself.

Beau grinned and pulled her closer until she was practically curled against him. "Whatever you decide," he murmured, kissing her temple, "we'll figure it out."

We.

Not you.

Not me.

We.

The word settled warmly between them.

Y/N closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat.

The catalog remained open.

The future remained unwritten.

And for the first time in a very long time, that felt wonderful.

Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2

@foxyjwls007, @katastrophicmind, @globetrotter28, @deansimpalababy, @daisychaingirl

@nancymcl, @deans-baby-momma, @kickingitwithkirk, @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick

@hobby27, @hellsbratonthet, @mandee7

Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Comment here and I'll add you! And check out my other stories that are currently being written!

The door clicked open softly, the smell of greasy fries sneaking in ahead of Sam. He was balancing a tray of drinks in one hand, a crinkled bag of burgers in the other, looking like the world’s most overqualified delivery guy.

Behind him, Lilah burst in like a firework and her arms full of a bouquet so big she could barely see over the top. “Daddy!”, she whisper-shouted, which defeated the purpose, but at least she tried.

Dean was in the armchair by the window, Henry cradled against his chest in a bee-print onesie you hadn’t even known existed. He looked tiny. Three weeks early had left him all delicate wrists and scrunched-up nose, but his little fists were pumping like he already had demands.

“Hey, Buzz”, Dean whispered back, his grin blooming despite the dark circles under his eyes. He nodded toward your sleeping form on the bed. “Shhh. Mommy’s out”.

Lilah tiptoed in dramatically. She stopped dead when she saw Henry. Her bouquet slipped dangerously sideways until Sam caught it, rolling his eyes fondly.

“He’s so small”, Lilah breathed, climbing up onto Dean’s knee without asking. Her little hand reached out, hovering, not quite daring to touch. “And he’s got bees!”. She giggled, pointing at the onesie.

Dean huffed, pressing a kiss to her curls. “Yeah, figured it was only right”. He shifted Henry carefully, angling him so Lilah could peek without squishing him. Henry squawked, tiny and impatient. Dean sighed, already reaching for the bottle he’d half-prepped on the side table. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, kid. Give your old man a second”. The baby squawked louder. Lilah gasped. “Daddy! He’s mad!”.

Sam set the flowers down on the counter with the food, shaking his head with a smile. “Guess impatience runs in the family”.

Dean muttered under his breath as he jiggled Henry gently, “Man’s three hours old and already yellin’ at me for bein’ too slow”.

Henry hiccupped, let out a high little cry, then latched onto the bottle the second Dean got it in place, still frowning even in his sleepiness.

Dean smirked, rocking him gently. “Attitude. Just like his uncle”.

Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a faint grin. But the longer he watched, the more his brows crept up. “You’re… actually feeding him”, Sam said, surprised.

Dean shot him a look, adjusting the bottle with care as Henry suckled noisily. “No, genius, I’m playin’ poker with him”.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I mean… you’ve got him swaddled right, you’re holding his head, the angle, hell, you look like you’ve done this before”.

Dean rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. “The nurse showed me three times, Sammy. Three. I wasn’t about to screw it up in front of her and get that look”. He shifted Henry slightly, his palm cradling the tiny back of his son’s head, softer now. “Besides… not exactly rocket science”.

Henry let out a greedy little grunt, his eyes squeezed shut, fingers twitching like he was still arguing.

Sam grinned, unable to resist. “Still. Didn’t think I’d walk in and see my big brother like this”.

Dean glared at him, cheeks pinking as he instinctively slowed his rocking motion. “Shut up”.

Lilah giggled, leaning into Dean’s side and petting Henry’s blanket like it was a puppy. “Uncle Sam, Daddy’s the best bee daddy ever”.

Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, smile softening. “Yeah, Buzz. Looks like he is”.

Eventually you woke up slowly.

Dean caught your movement instantly. His eyes snapped up, that protective instinct kicking in before anything else, and when he saw you awake, his whole face softened. “Hey”, he murmured.

Lilah bounced once, careful not to jostle Henry. “Mommy! Daddy’s feeding him all by himself! And Uncle Sam brought fries!”. She beamed like it was the best news in the world.

Your lips curved, even through the heaviness weighing down your limbs. “I see that”.

Lilah tugged on Dean´s sleeve. “Daddy”, she whispered. “Can I hold him now? Please? Please? I’m big enough. I’m five”.

Dean glanced at you, the kind of look that said you hearing this? before sighing like a man already defeated. “Buzz… you gotta sit real still, alright? No wiggling. No spinning. He’s not a doll”.

Lilah gasped. “I know that! He’s Henry!”.

Dean chuckled under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe his life these days. “Alright, Buzz. C’mere. Sit right there—”, he nodded toward the foot of your bed, tone all mock-sergeant—“and grab that pillow”.

Lilah scampered over and plopped herself down exactly where he told her, dragging the hospital pillow onto her lap like she was preparing for a mission. She looked up at Dean with the wide, serious eyes of someone about to be knighted. “Ready”, she whispered.

Dean’s mouth tugged into a grin he couldn’t fight. “Alright, big sis. Let’s do this”. He angled Henry carefully, cradling his tiny head with one big hand, and lowered him slowly onto the pillow in Lilah’s lap.

At the same time, you leaned back against the bedrail with your burger in one hand, fries in the other, and moaned around a mouthful. “Ohhh, Sammy, you’re a saint. Actual angel. Fries and a double cheeseburger? This is the real post-birth medicine”.

Sam smirked, flipping the top of the bag closed. “Glad to be useful”.

You swallowed down another bite and reached for a fry, your voice softer now, shy under the hum of machines and the quiet little family gathered around. “And… thanks for the flowers too, Sam”, you said, lifting your gaze to him with a small smile. “They’re beautiful”.

Sam ducked his head, ears tinged pink. “You deserve it”.

It hit you then how different this was. Lilah’s birth had been quiet and lonely, no one waiting outside, no warm food smuggled in, no laughter filling the air. Just you and a baby, scared. This time… this time you weren’t alone. And it felt like a weight had lifted you hadn’t even realized you were still carrying.

At the foot of the bed, Lilah leaned so close over Henry you were surprised her curls didn’t tickle his face. Her little hands stayed folded in her lap just like Dean had shown her, but her eyes were huge, drinking in every inch of her baby brother. “He’s moving!”, she squeaked suddenly, looking up at Dean. “Daddy, look—his hand, it moved!”.

Dean chuckled low, crouched beside her, one steady hand still hovering under the pillow. “He’s sayin’ hi”.

Lilah’s mouth dropped open in awe. “He’s sooooo small”, she whispered, her whole voice reverent. “I can be careful. I’ll always be careful”.

-

Four weeks later, the rhythms of your life had shifted into something you never quite believed you’d have: messy and loud, freaking exhausting, but steady. Dean was thriving. Daycare drop-offs? He handled them like a bro. He’d walk into Lilah’s classroom with her bee backpack slung over one broad shoulder, her little hand swinging from his, and somehow leave with half the staff giggling like teenagers. Lilah loved it. “Daddy’s the coolest”, she’d declare when you picked her up later, already covered in paint and glitter.

At home, Dean had claimed the laundry like it was a hunt. Sorting loads with military precision, even if he still occasionally shrank a sweater or dyed the socks pink. Dishes? Done. Counters? Wiped. Floors? Well, floors were negotiable, but damn it, he tried.

Cooking, though? That was another story. The first two times he’d attempted a “real” dinner, anything beyond pancakes or scrambled eggs, the smoke alarm went off so loud Henry startled awake and Lilah declared, very seriously, “Daddy’s banned from dinner forever”. Dean took it on the chin, grumbling about “ungrateful critics” while you rescued the kitchen. After that, he stuck to breakfast duty and left the rest to you.

But where he wasn’t perfect, he more than made up for it with the kids. Henry, barely a month old, was already used to Dean’s arms. He’d settle faster against his chest than anywhere else. You’d find them in the recliner, Dean humming under his breath, Henry’s tiny hand clutching his shirt in sleep. Lilah, meanwhile, had her dad wrapped around her finger. Swing pushes, coloring sessions, elaborate Lego castles, he was there for all of it.

And watching him? Watching Dean Winchester turn fatherhood into second nature? It was enough to make your chest ache.

-

Today, Henry had been fussing all morning, the kind of colicky cry that made your nerves hum. Dean had scooped him up, one arm cradling the tiny bundle against his shoulder, bouncing gently while muttering under his breath about “how come I can take down a nest of vamps but one ten-pounder’s got me sweatin’”.

Meanwhile, Lilah had turned the kitchen table into a war zone of glitter, glue and construction paper. She was determined to make “welcome home banners” for Henry—never mind that Henry had been home for five weeks already. When the glue bottle clogged, she squeezed harder until the lid popped clean off. A geyser of sticky paste shot across the table. “Daddy!”, she wailed, throwing her hands up, now sparkly to the elbows. “It exploded!”.

Dean adjusted Henry with one practiced motion, the baby tucked into the crook of his elbow, bottle balanced in the same hand, while reaching for paper towels with the other. “Alright, Buzz, don’t panic. Nobody move. This is a Code Glitter”.

Henry suckled noisily, oblivious. Dean dabbed at the glue, grabbed the glitter jar before it tipped further, and tossed a fresh towel across the table toward Lilah. “Wipe what you can, and for the love of God, don’t sneeze”. She giggled at his mock-serious tone, smearing glue across her cheek in the process.

By the time you walked in from swapping laundry, Dean looked like he’d been through a small war. Dean glanced up at you, hair mussed, chest rising like he’d just finished a hunt. “Don’t. Say. A word”.

-

Lilah stood in front of the mirror with her brand-new backpack. Bee-yellow with black stripes and almost as big as she was. Her curls were neatly braided (Dean’s work, of course; he was faster at it than you. Way faster), and she clutched Henry’s soft bee rattle like it was battle gear.

Henry babbled from his play mat, hands slapping at the toys, drool soaking his onesie. At eight months, he was sturdy and curious, already trying to pull himself upright on anything in reach, including Dean’s jeans when Dean crouched to tie Lilah’s sneakers.

“You sure about this, Buzz?”, Dean asked, his voice caught somewhere between proud and worried. “We don’t have to rush. School’ll still be there next year.”

Lilah rolled her eyes, the exact same way you did when Dean was being dramatic. “Daddy, I’m six soon. I have to go. I’m gonna learn to read big books and paint, and I already know my numbers”.

Dean’s mouth pulled into a smile that cracked at the edges. He tied the last knot and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Alright. But you better not forget about us little people when you’re famous”.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat as you helped her into her jacket. “You’re gonna do amazing, baby girl”.

The drive to school was quiet and heavy with anticipation. Lilah sat shotgun like always, her backpack buckled beside her, Henry gurgling in his car seat, kicking his feet.

When you pulled up to the school, the sidewalk buzzed with other kids and other parents. Lilah bounced in her seat, suddenly shy but determined.

“C’mon, Buzz”, Dean said gently, lifting her out. He crouched, adjusting her straps, brushing a curl out of her face. His voice cracked just slightly when he added, “Go show ‘em what a Winchester can do”.

She threw her arms around his neck, squeezing hard. “I love you, Daddy”. Then she hugged you too, carefully kissed Henry’s forehead, and marched up the steps.

You and Dean stood there long after she vanished inside. He slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. His eyes were damp, but his grin was boyish and so damn proud. “She’s really growing up”, Dean murmured, forehead resting against your temple. “And we… we made it here. All of us”.

And for the first time in years, you believed it.

-

It was late-August. Your hallway smelled like coffee and pancake syrup.

“Shoes!”, you called, tying your own laces by the door.

“I have shoes!”, Henry declared, skidding in socked feet around the corner. Six now, all big opinions, he wore a tiny flannel over a animal tee, his backpack already sticker-bombed with cars and a single, stubborn bee. He held up his sneakers triumphantly and then, because he was Henry, tried to put them on without sitting down.

Dean caught him mid-wobble by the back of the shirt. “Easy there, Hot Rod. Park it”. He dropped to a knee and laced Henry’s shoes. “You gonna show first grade who’s boss?”.

Henry grinned, missing-tooth wide. “Already am”.

“Attitude”, Dean muttered, but he was smiling so hard it softened the whole line of his jaw. He flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Buzz? You almost ready?”.

Lilah stepped out of the hallway. Eleven: taller, wearing ripped jeans and bee pendant on her neck. Dean had braided her hair in two neat plaits that made her look like the exact midpoint between little-kid and almost-teen. She posed, deadpan. “Voted least likely to cry today”.

Dean pressed a hand to his heart. “Least likely to cry? You wound me, Buzz. After all I’ve done for you. Braids, rides, endless glue refills…”.

Lilah smirked, tugging her jacket straight. “Yeah, yeah. You’re slipping, old man”.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Old man?”. He shot you a quick glance. “Did you hear that? She called me old”.

You bit down on a grin. “Well… you did make that dad noise when you sat down last night”.

“Traitor”, Dean muttered, then turned back to his daughter, squinting in exaggerated menace. “Slipping, huh? You think just ‘cause you’re all middle-school fancy now, I can’t still—”. Before Lilah could react, Dean swooped forward, scooping her up around the waist. She squealed, kicking her sneakers in the air, but he had her hoisted effortlessly. With one practiced flip, he had her upside down, legs dangling, hair flying like a curtain of curls. “—do this?”, Dean finished, grinning ear to ear.

“Dad!”, she shrieked, laughing so hard her voice cracked. “Put me down! My jeans!”.

“You sure about that?”, Dean teased, walking in a slow circle. “’Cause I can keep this up all day. Gotta prove to you I’m not that old”.

“Mom!”, Lilah tried to appeal, upside-down face red with laughter. “He’s embarrassing me!”.

You leaned on the doorframe. “First day of school and already upside down. Pretty sure that’s a record”.

Dean patted her calf with mock solemnity. “Say ‘Dad’s not old’, and maybe I’ll let you down”.

“Never!”, Lilah yelled, still laughing, trying to twist herself right side up.

Dean just chuckled, tightening his arm around her middle like it was the easiest thing in the world to carry an almost-teenager. “Stubborn. Definitely my kid”.

He held her upside down a few more beats, her laughter shaking his shoulder. He grinned, but in his chest it twisted, because her laughter wasn’t the same high-pitched squeal it used to be. It was older now. Not the sound of a toddler or a four-year-old climbing into his lap with sticky fingers and curling up like a kitten.

“You’re heavy, you know that?”, he teased, spinning her carefully until her sneakers tapped the floor again.

Lilah staggered upright, cheeks flushed, hair half out of its braids. She swatted at his chest with one skinny arm. “You’re just weak”.

Dean caught her wrist, tugged her in, and kissed the top of her head before she could wriggle away. “Nah. I’m strong as hell. Just—”. He paused, swallowing something thick. “You’re not little anymore, Buzz”.

Her grin softened, just for a second, before she rolled her eyes in the way only an eleven-year-old could. “Duh, Dad. That’s how time works”.

Dean huffed a laugh, ruffling her hair even though he’d just braided it. “Smartass”.

But when she turned toward the mirror to fix her jacket, Dean’s smile slipped. He remembered nights on your couch, her tiny body stretched across his chest, her fists tucked under her chin, legs no longer than his forearm. He remembered her head fitting under his jaw, her weight a feather compared to the heaviness in his heart back then.

And now? Now she was almost as tall as his chest. Quick wit, her own world beginning to spin separate from his. He loved it, loved watching her grow into herself, but God, it pinched too.

“Hey”, Lilah said suddenly, catching his reflection in the mirror. “Don’t look all sad. I’m still your favorite bee, right?”.

Dean cleared his throat, his voice rough. “Always, Buzz”.

She smiled, satisfied, before starting to bounce toward Henry. Dean reached out, hooked two fingers through the strap of Lilah’s backpack, and reeled her back in before she could escape down the hall.

“Dad!”, she squeaked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

He ignored her protest, wrapping both arms around her in one of those bear hugs that pinned her arms. He buried his face in the crown of her hair, breathing her in like he had when she was tiny, when her curls still smelled like baby shampoo and syrup.

“Daaad”, she complained again, though there was no real fight in it. “You’re crushing me!”.

“Good”, he muttered into her hair. “Keeps you from growing too fast”.

She rolled her eyes, but after a beat, she softened in his arms. She let her head tip against his chest, her hands tugging lightly at his shirt instead of wriggling free. Sassy, yes, but still sweet. Still his little girl.

“I’m not little anymore”, she reminded him gently, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Dean pulled back just enough to look at her. “Don’t matter, Buzz. You’ll always be my kid. My first bee”.

That earned him a small, real smile. She squeezed him once, quick but strong, before stepping back and shrugging her straps into place.

Dean’s hand lingered in the air a second after Lilah slipped out of his grasp, the absence of her weight hitting harder than he’d admit. He cleared his throat, blinking once, and turned toward Henry. The kid was already standing with his backpack zipped. There was no hesitation in his stance, no glance back for reassurance.

Where Lilah had always curled into Dean’s lap, Henry had been different from the start. He’d cry when he needed to, Dean had made damn sure both kids knew tears weren’t weakness, but even then, Henry cried like he had a point to prove. Quick, fiery bursts, then jaw set, fists balled, moving on before anyone could coddle him.

Dean saw so much of himself in the kid it hurt sometimes. That stubborn tilt of his mouth, the way his eyes flicked over a room like he was cataloguing exits, the quiet determination that made him seem older than six. It wasn’t that Henry wasn’t soft, he could be, especially with you, and sometimes when Lilah coaxed him into her games, but his softness was earned, deliberate. He didn’t give it away easily.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, watching Henry check his jacket pockets. “You good, Champ?”.

Henry gave him a thumbs-up, no hesitation. “Yeah. I’m gonna sit in the front row so the teacher knows I’m serious”.

Dean huffed a laugh. “That’s my boy”.

Lilah snorted, rolling her eyes but hiding her smile. “Of course you’re sitting in the front”.

“Where else am I supposed to sit?”, Henry shot back, all righteous indignation. “The back’s too far from the board”.

Dean grinned despite himself, heart squeezing tight. Lilah: soft edges, open heart, always reaching out. Henry: all Winchester grit, jaw set even when nobody asked it of him. Dean loved them both so fiercely it scared him, but in different ways. One reminded him what he’d almost lost. The other reminded him who he’d been and who he wanted to be better for.

A few minutes later, Dean pulled onto the road.

After a while, Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel, glanced at the rearview, then at you. His grin tugged up slow, dangerous. “You know”, he drawled, “Buzz’s got middle school now. Champ’s already takin’ over first grade. Feels like I blinked and they stopped bein’ little. Might be time we—”. He lifted his brows, eyes twinkling. “—made ourselves another one”.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “Dean”.

Lilah snapped her head around, horrified. “Oh my God, Dad, ew! Don’t even say that! You’re ancient”. Dean barked a laugh, one hand thumping the wheel. “Ancient? That’s cold, Buzz”.

Henry, without looking up from tracing the stitching on his lunchbox, chimed in matter-of-factly: “Babies cry too much. Don’t do it”.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, shaking your head. “See? Even your son’s voting against you”.

Dean flicked a look at Henry in the mirror, mock-offended. “Traitor”. Then, softer, his hand reached over to squeeze your knee where it rested between the seats. “Don’t care how big they get, though. Always gonna be ours”.

Lilah slumped deeper into her seat with a dramatic groan. “Can you not be gross before school?”.

Dean chuckled while his gaze flicked to the mirror and caught your eyes and… winked—slow, deliberate and freaking shameless. Heat crawled up your neck instantly, and you had to look out the window before Lilah caught you turning red. Of course, she caught enough.

“Ew! Mom, are you blushing?!”, Lilah groaned, burying her face in her hands. “No. Nope. I don’t wanna know. I know how babies are made now and—ugh—I’m never forgiving health class”.

Dean nearly choked on his own laugh, coughing into his fist. “Health class beat me to it, huh?”.

Lilah shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t. Don’t say another word. If you even think about talking about it, I’ll walk to school”.

Henry perked up in the backseat, curiosity written all over his little face. “What’s health class?”.

“Nothing!”, Lilah yelped, spinning back around so fast her braids slapped her shoulders. “It’s nothing, Henry. Don’t ask. Ever”.

Dean snorted so hard the wheel wobbled in his grip for a second but he recovered quickly with that boyish grin. “Relax, Buzz. I’m not gonna—”, He leaned back more. “I’m just sayin’, me and your mom… „.

“DAD!”, Lilah shrieked, smacking the dash with her palm. “Stop! Oh my God, stop! I’m getting out right now!”.

Henry cackled from beside you, no clue what he was laughing at but thrilled by the chaos. “Buzz is mad”, he sing-songed.

Dean chuckled, but his smirk softened as he peeked back at Lilah, who had now yanked her jacket over her head like a makeshift shield. “Alright, alright. I’ll cool it”. He paused just long enough to make it suspicious. “But, you know, you’re gettin’ older. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to have that talk”.

Lilah groaned dramatically, muffled by denim. “No. No talks. Ever”.

-

Two weeks later, the house felt too quiet.

Lilah was at Mia’s for a Friday-night sleepover with movies and nail polish, and the kind of giggle-storm that always ended with Sam texting you both “send help (kidding) (maybe)”. Henry had finally fallen asleep upstairs, warm and heavy with a little flu, the humidifier purring and the baby monitor whispering white noise through its tinny speaker on your dresser.

You were already in bed, propped on pillows, scrolling just to keep your eyes open. The bathroom door opened and Dean padded out in nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. He let himself plop onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated groan, like he’d just hauled salt bags across three states. Then he flopped onto his back with all the theatrics of a man begging for attention. The mattress dipped, bouncing you a little.

You didn’t look up from your phone. Not once.

Dean cracked one eye at you, then huffed. “Seriously? My wife can’t even appreciate the effort? I showered”. He sniffed his shoulder pointedly. “Smell pretty damn good, if I say so myself”.

Still nothing.

“Unbelievable”, he went on, rolling onto his side to face you, towel gaping a little too conveniently. “I even shaved”.

That made you flick a glance up. His jaw was exactly as scruffy as it had been this morning. Your brows arched. “Uh-huh”.

Dean grinned. “Not here”.

Your phone slipped a little in your grip as you bit down hard on a laugh. He looked so goddamn pleased with himself, with his green eyes gleaming, waiting for you to take the bait. When he saw you fighting that laugh, he smirked and propped himself up on one elbow. The towel slid a dangerous inch lower, his voice dropping into that husky, drawling tone you remembered from years ago. The one that used to make your knees weak back when you were too young to know what the hell to do with it. “Y’know…”, he murmured, tracing one finger lazily up your shin, under the blanket, “all those years ago, you couldn’t keep your eyes off me either. Don’t think I didn’t notice”.

You tried to scoff, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

Dean leaned in, close enough for his breath to brush your ear. “Hell, I remember you lookin’ at me like I was already in your bed—”, his grin widened“—and we both know what happened when I finally got you there”.

Your breath hitched despite yourself.

He chuckled, low and satisfied, nipping at your earlobe before dragging his lips down your throat. “You were so sweet, so easy to ruin… And damn if you didn’t make me work to keep up after. I swear, you were tryin’ to kill me”. His hand slid higher up your thigh, warm and.. so heavy. “Still are”.

“Dean—”.

He pulled back just enough to catch your gaze. “Don´t Dean me like that. I put two kids in you, and I’m not done yet”.

Your pulse jumped.

He grinned and kissed the corner of your mouth before whispering against your lips, “Now, tell me again you don’t wanna find out how smooth I shaved”.

You tipped your head back against the pillow, glaring at him even as your lips twitched. “You’re insufferable”.

Dean grinned wider, his hand inching higher under the blanket. “Insufferable? Please. You were climbing me like a tree when you were barely legal. I’ve still got the scratch marks”.

You smacked his chest lightly, but he just caught your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his warm skin. His heart thundered beneath your hand. “C’mon”, he drawled, his lips brushing down your throat again. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember the way I used to make you cry for it. Beggin’ me. Neighbors probably thought I was killin’ you”. He chuckled. “Turns out I was just teachin’ you how good it could feel”.

You sucked in a sharp breath, and he smiled like he’d won. “Still teachin’ you, baby. And you still can’t keep quiet”.

Aaand… you broke. You always did with him. Your phone slid to the side, forgotten, as you grabbed the knot of his towel and yanked. It fell open and Dean’s smug laugh turned into a groan as you wrapped your hand around him. “Geez, sweetheart—”. His hips bucked into your palm before he caught himself, biting back a curse. “Fuck, I missed your hands on me”.

You smirked, kissing down his chest, and he tangled a hand in your hair, guiding you, half desperate, half reverent. “Yeah—yeah, that’s it. Damn, you’re gonna kill me tonight”.

The towel hit the floor. Dean hauled you under him, mouth hot and messy against yours, grinding into you through your thin sleep shorts. His cock pressed hard and insistent against you, making you gasp into his kiss.

“Tell me you want it”, he rasped. “Tell me you want me to put another one in you”.

Your answer was a broken moan, your hips arching into him, and that was all the permission Dean Winchester ever needed.

But when he hovered over you, one arm braced on the mattress, the other tracing down your side, from your ribs to your hip, his grin softened. His eyes roaming your face like he couldn’t quite believe he still got to be here, with you, after everything. “You know”, he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw, “I could’ve had a lot of lives. None of ‘em would’ve been worth a damn if I didn’t end up right here”.

You swallowed, your fingers curling in his wet hair. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I let you in my bed”.

He chuckled before pressing his mouth to your collarbone. “You were way too good for me back then. Still are”. His lips trailed lower, lingering at the top of your breasts. “Guess I just got lucky”.

You shook your head at him, shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Shut up”, you whispered, and leaned up to catch his lips before he could say something else that would make your heart ache in that helpless way.

Dean kissed you back without hurry, like he had all the time in the world. His palm slid up to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing behind your ear. When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin faded into something softer, something that lived only in the lines around his eyes.

“Not gonna shut up”, he said quietly. “Not about this”. He shifted so his forehead rested against yours. “I ain’t ever been good at the whole ‘big speech’ thing”, he murmured. “But I’ve spent most of my life running head-first into stuff that didn’t matter near as much as I thought it did. This—”, he gave a small, crooked nod toward you, the bed, the closed door, the whole life the two of you had built—“this is the best damn thing I’ve ever been part of. You. The kids. I love you, and I’m not gonna stop sayin’ it just ’cause I sound like a sap”.

Your eyes stung, but you laughed anyway, brushing your nose against his. “You really do talk too much”.

“Yeah”, he said with a huff of a laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Lucky for you, I mean every word”.

"I know", you whispered, the sound catching against his mouth as you kissed him again. “But stop talking for now”, you whispered, “and help me make another one”.

Dean’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest, warm against your skin. He brushed another kiss to your forehead, softer this time. “Yes, ma’am”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

“Hey, Kitty. There’s a guy out front asking for you. Think he wants a private dance or something.”

You rolled your eyes as Candy – whose stage name was as real as yours – passed over the information.  You ran your blusher brush over your cleavage once more and stood with a resigned sigh.

You’d never planned to work in a strip club, but needs must, and as much as you disliked doing private dances, you disliked living without heating and lighting more. It’s just that most of the guys, while loaded, were gross, thinking that paying for privacy meant something more. Luckily, you worked in a decent establishment, with emergency buttons installed in the dance rooms and very enthusiastic security.

Pushing your shoulders back you sashayed out, ready to negotiate with tonight's rich asshole. And what should your eyes behold, but the most ass of all the holes. Andy Barber. Ex-DA and ex-boyfriend.

You scowled as you stalked up to him, glad that he was at least waiting off to the side where there was a modicum of privacy.

“What are you doing here,” you hissed, disliking the way his eyes roved over your outfit.

“I could ask you the same thing, Kitty.” He flicked the cat ears on your head with his pointer finger.

“Well I wasn’t left with many options after you torpedoed my life, Andy.”

“It’s why I came to find you. I feel awful. Can we go talk somewhere?”

Over the tannoy, you heard Greg the DJ announcing your name as the next stage dancer. You turned away, but he stopped you with a hand on your shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“On the stage. In my heels. It’s where I belong,” you replied sarcastically with a glower, before stalking off to your awaiting public.

Jack must be getting home. Your apartments are the only ones on this floor, your doors directly across the hall from each other. As you go to lock your door you do your best to try not to think about where Jack has been and why he's getting home at 10 p.m. on a Thursday. You know from chatting last week that he got off this morning and is off the next few days.

Your entire body freezes when the realization hits you, preemptive jealousy and rejection flooding your system. What if he walks off the elevator with someone?

It's been over nine months of this… thing between you and Jack. You're neighbors, yes, but you're clearly so much more. And while it's clear that you're more than neighbors, it's unclear what you actually are, together and to each other.

The two of you flirt, sometimes subtly and with an intimate gentleness that almost makes your hearts ache, and sometimes intensely, both of you lit on fire by the other's words and body movements and facial expressions. There have been so many what you're both 99% sure were almost-kisses that you've lost count.

You have nicknames for each other. One day you'd called him Bugs, it had just slipped out without you even realizing. It took Jack about twenty seconds to put it together and figure out where it came from. You were going to apologize and assure him you'd never call him it again but he spoke first, responding to whatever you said and calling you Tweety.

Jack has invited you over and cooked you dinner and the two of you have eaten at his table sharing a bottle of wine or a six pack of whatever before you chill on his couch until you start to fall asleep, sometimes watching something on TV, but most of the time just facing each other and chatting. You've invited Jack over and the two of you have eaten takeout on your couch while showing each other your favorite movies and watching new ones together, trying to find movies that are so bad they're good and leave you both crying with laughter on your couch.

You’ve met his friends and the people who he’s closest with and who mean the most to him, some from the Pitt, some from his army unit, some from his SWAT unit. He’s met a couple of your more casual friends, knows that your closest and who mean the most to you don’t live in or particularly close to the city. 

Jack has hugged you so tightly and for so long on some of your worst days, until enough pieces of you have been put back together that you feel like you can function again, made you your favorite or ordered it in if you could stomach it, made you something light if you couldn't so that you had some food in your system. He always seems to know just what to do and just what you need. 

You've made Jack breakfast and eaten with him while he sat silently on your couch trying to process some of his worst shifts, ones that were hell or where there was more death than life or patients that particularly got to him, been with him however he needed on some of his worst days, never expect or ask him to talk or explain what's going on. You always seem to know just what to do and just what he needs. 

He knows all the gossip from your job. You know all of the Pitt gossip that Jack knows, which is pretty much all of it because people just tell him things without him asking or even hinting that he'd like to know. 

You tease each other in every sense. You've both been obviously jealous when there have been the occasional dates the other has gone on, have both acted out a little bit over said jealousy.

You text each other every day, some days more than others. It's not uncommon for you to go four or five days without seeing each other in person or hearing the other's voice, you're not spending every night at each other's house or constantly going over for dinners or just to hang or whatever. While there's less pressure to have a reason, much less a legitimate sounding one, to invite the other over, you both still frequently try to offer one, no matter how lame it ends up sounding.

You know each other's secrets, things neither of you have admitted to anyone else except maybe your therapists. You know each other's past, each other's present and each other's dreams for the future. You've become best friends in the most unique way despite how little time you actually spend together. You can't imagine life without each other.

Jack knows he's falling in love with you.

You know you're falling in love with Jack.

But Jack can't understand for a single second why you'd ever be interested in him, convinces himself that he’s making up all the evidence that you are.

And you can't understand for a single second why Jack would ever be interested in you, convince yourself you’re making up all the evidence that he is.

You're both scared. Neither of you want to lose the other.

So you just continue on in this perpetual state of limbo that's so far beyond better than nothing at the same time as it's absolutely fucking nowhere near enough.

You're fumbling with your key when you hear Jack step off the elevator. There's no footsteps behind or next to him. He's alone. A sense of relief you know you have no business having washes over you.

"Hey, Tweety." Jack watches you turn your key the opposite direction than he expects. His eyebrows raise slightly. "Heading out this late on a Thursday?" 

As he makes his way closer and stops walking he realizes you have a duffel bag with you, though it doesn't look like there's a ton in it. That observation has his eyebrows furrowing. He didn't realize you were going somewhere and wouldn't be around the next few days. He does his best to keep his voice light, curious but not intrusive. "Ah," he drawls, nodding at your duffel. "Escaping somewhere this weekend?"

He won't lie, he'll be disappointed if you are. He was kind of hoping to invite you over this weekend just to hang out at his place and make you dinner.

"Not quite," you laugh softly. "My, um, my hot water heater broke. I was planning on just dealing since they're either fixing it or replacing it tomorrow, but I don't know." You shrug at him. "I just need to wash the day off me." You let out a breath and smile at him. "A coworker sent me a pass to her gym so I'm going to go use the shower there. What about you? 10 p.m. on a Thursday." You force a smirk and raise your eyebrows. "Hot date?"

Jack snorts. "Hardly. A group of us from work went out to a bar to decompress."

You hold your smirk and tilt your head at him despite the way you want to cry and your heart sinks at the potential for what you say next to be true. "Could still be someone special there you haven't told me about who made you want to go."

He rolls his eyes at you playfully, but he can feel the butterflies in his stomach and fluttering of his heart caused by you seeming to care and maybe even being jealous at just the thought that there could be someone else. "I can assure you there's nobody special at work. You know there's absolutely nobody at work I'm remotely interested in and that I don't shit where I eat," he smirks back at you. "Why don't you just use my shower? Save yourself the time of getting to the gym and back."

"Oh, I, I," you titter, lick your lips and force yourself to pull it together. "I couldn't impose like that. It's getting late and it'll take up your time and, and… you know. It's very sweet of you to offer though, truly."

"You using my shower is so fucking far away from being an imposition. And it is getting late, yeah. Which is all the more reason for you to do the much safer thing and use my shower that's just across the hall." He cocks his head at you and raises his eyebrows. "You know if you go to the gym I'm going to stay up until you text me that you're home safe."

You let out a breathy laugh. He's right. You know he will. And you know there's something so protective with almost a possessive edge to it that makes your heart race and warmth bloom in your lower abdomen. "You don't have to do that, Bugs."

"I know," he nods once, "but I will anyway." Jack's voice drops to a murmur, his eyes dark and piercing yours as he holds your gaze. "I won’t be able to help it."

You're not sure how or when it happened exactly, but there's something in the air and the look in Jack's eyes that makes you think it might finally happen, that the two of you might finally kiss and give into this thing between you. When Jack's eyes leave yours and drop down to look at your lips you swear the tension in the hallway becomes so great that it's physically harder to breathe from the weight of it. Suddenly all you can really think about is Jack dragging you into his place and having his way with you until he's sated and ready to take a shower with you and scrub the day and his cum and sweat off you.

Jack's eyes drag back up to yours just in time for him to watch yours drop down and look at his lips. When you bring your eyes back to his the look you give him is so doe eyed and wanting and almost fucking demure Jack can feel the blood start to rush to his cock as he thinks about how you'd wear that look with your mouth full of his cock.

"I know… You’re silly like that aren't you?" you breathe, take a small step toward him.

"Yeah." The word is almost all air as Jack mirrors you and takes a small step toward you. "Only for you, though." And then the tension shatters. 

But not how either of you want it to. It's the loud thud of someone dropping something in the elevator on the floor below you that does it. Both you and Jack look away from each other, annoyed at the noise and regretting not having acted quicker on the moment you were clearly having. He clears his throat as you look at each other again. "I wasn't like that for the guy that lived there before you," he smirks. He takes the few steps to his door. "Come on."

You give him a small smile and shift on your feet. "You're sure?"

"100%." Jack winks at you and opens his door, holds his one arm up and out to invite you in.

You feel lightheaded at his wink. So lightheaded you have to bite your lip hard to ground yourself with the pain. You shake your head at him and laugh softly as you walk into his place. "Thank you."

"Of course," Jack hums as he steps in behind you and shuts and locks the door.

As he sets his keys down and gets his shoes off he realizes he's been saying my shower this whole time. But it can't really be his shower. He has to show you to his guest bathroom's shower. Right? It would be weird to take you to his shower in the en suite bathroom off his bedroom because then you'd have to walk through his bedroom and that feels weird and what if it was somehow pressuring? Or felt like he was trying to say something?

Obviously there's this thing between the two of you that you haven't defined or given into, this thing you both know is there and want but just haven't let happen because there's no way the other can truly feel the same. With the attraction, physical and sexual and emotional, between you a permanent undercurrent whenever the two of you are together now, the last thing Jack wants to do is make you feel like he's using that, or trying to, or being weird or creepy or like he's doing anything other than just trying to help you out. Because that's all he's doing, trying to help you out.

As you stand by Jack and get your shoes off and move them out of the way near a pair of Jack's while he does the same you're struck by how familiar and comfortable Jack's apartment has become. If you're honest with yourself you wish you never had to leave.

"I'm guessing you don't need anything other than towels?" he asks as you both walk further into his place. He loves seeing you in his space. If he's honest with himself he wishes you never had to leave.

"I don't even need towels. I packed some." You smile at him, a hint of a smirk to it. "I can use them, save you the laundry."

"Yeah, okay." He rolls his eyes at you playfully. "Or I can just give you proper towels so you don't have to use the thin pool towels I know you packed."

You scoff at him with mock offense and a wide smile. "I resent that."

"But noticeably didn't deny it." You can hear the smirk in his voice as he turns and starts walking down to his hall closet. "Where's the gym anyway?" Jack calls to you as he pulls out a couple towels of various sizes.

"Squirrel Hill South."

"Squirrel Hill South?!" Jack repeats with teasing incredulousness, huffing. He starts walking back toward you, holding your eye contact how he loves to do. "You were seriously going to trek to fucking Squirrel Hill South for a shower instead of just asking me?"

"Well, I don't know," you shrug, voice a little higher pitched with mock defensiveness. "I don't like to be a burden or impose and I didn't know if that was appropriate or would be awkward or weird or what!" you laugh. "I didn't want to put you in an awkward position."

"You could never be a burden or an imposition and it's not inappropriate or awkward or weird." Jack offers you the towels and you take them. He stays standing in front of you, raises his brows and gives you a small smile. "Would it feel that way if I asked you if I could use your shower?"

"Well, no. But, but that's-"

He shakes his head and interrupts you gently, sets his hands on your shoulders, fingers a little too far in toward your neck to be strictly platonic, his thumbs against your collarbones. There's an intimacy to it that makes you breathe a little harder. You have half a mind to drop the towels and your bag and grab his face, pull it down to yours as you step even closer to him. "No buts." He flicks his eyebrows up at you and nods in a silent yeah? "And no it's not different. Anytime you need, yeah? Anything. A shower, a bed, someone to listen, stitches, a distraction." He smirks deeply at you. "A cup of sugar or whatever it is they say."

You try to match his smirk but it's a little too soft and smiled. Jack's words warm you from your core. You want whatever this is between you so badly. Those are things you say to a close friend, sure, but they're things you say to your partner too. Your girlfriend or boyfriend. And the way Jack said it, his tone of voice and his facial expressions, there was something so boyfriend reassuring his girlfriend about it all that drives you insane and makes your heart flutter and makes you want and need him and makes you a little sad almost. Because he's not your boyfriend. 

"The same goes for you with me at my place, you know?" You click your tongue and bob your head to the side. "Minus the stitches, of course."

"I know," Jack chuckles. He gives your shoulders a little squeeze and then releases them and takes a step away from you.

"Good." You don't know why you do it or where the move comes from or where the confidence to comes from but you reach out and squeeze his upper arm. "Thank you, Jack."

The way you say his name there isn't special. It isn't whispered or breathy or giggled or moaned or anything special. It's normal. Like you always say it. And it rips through him in the best way, like hearing you say his name always does. It makes him want to kiss you and hold you and never let you go, makes him want to take you to bed and hear you moan it over and over again underneath him as he makes you feel better than you've ever been made to feel before, makes him want to cry with how much care you always say it with, how much warmth. It makes him want to get on his knees in front of you and ask you to be his, to go on a date with him, give him one chance.

As though all the times you've shared takeout on your couch or he's cooked you dinner and you've eaten at his place weren't, in reality, dates, even if you didn't label them as such.

"Did something happen today?" You furrow your brows and tilt your head at him, confused. "To make you need to wash the day off. You don't have to say, just I'm… here, like I said. To listen or distract or talk or whatever. Help how I can."

"Oh." You shake your head and shrug. "No, nothing happened. It was just a long day and sometimes showering helps me let it all go. I like my long, hot showers, you know," you laugh softly, your words a throw back to you telling Jack while you were both a little tipsy on his couch one night how much you love taking long, hot showers.

"Okay, good." Jack gives you one of those small, closed lip smiles that's all in his eyes and you melt.

"Thanks for checking." You give him a similar smile back and then start to walk toward the guest bathroom.

"Oh," Jack calls after you. "The fan in there doesn't work by the way, sorry. I've been meaning to get it fixed but never really had a reason so I just haven't."

"That's okay." You turn and look at him when you get to the door. "I like the extra steam."

"Perfect then. Take your time. They're good hot water heaters when they're not broken. Perfect for long, hot showers," Jack teases you with a smile.

You fake glare at him. "You better not have spoken them replacing mine with some shitty one into the universe."

Jack laughs and the sound makes you weak. You want to hear that sound always, every day, you want to be the one to pull it from him, the one to make him laugh and smile and be happy. "If they do, I promise I'll give you a key to my place so that you can come take your long, hot showers as frequently as your heart desires."

You swallow hard at the thought of Jack giving you a key to his place so that you could come shower. Your mind can't help but think about whether he'd ever join you eventually, whether that would be the start of something more, of you both just finally saying how you feel and exploring what's so obviously between you.

"Guess we'll have to see." You give him a lopsided smile and open the door.

"Guess so," he nods. "Enjoy."

"Thanks, Jack." You hold his gaze for a moment and then step inside the bathroom.

Jack knows he's going to think about the way you just said his name and the smile you gave him for the rest of his life.

Being in Jack's shower, even just his guest bathroom's shower, is a fucking trip.

You're pretty sure you spend the first five minutes just standing there thinking about it. Nothing actually specific. Just the fact of it, of where you are. It's almost like you're frozen in a way, mind present and thinking about how you're in Jack's fucking shower, but also so spaced out.

It's only once you unfreeze and come back to yourself that specific thoughts start to hit you as just below scalding water rains down on you. And all of those thoughts, of course, involve you in Jack's shower, but in Jack's shower, in the en suite off his bedroom. With Jack in the shower with you.

You know he has a nice built in bench in his shower, you guys talked about it once, how they let him build it in. You don't remember why or how it came up, but it doesn't matter.

You wonder if he'd let you kneel between his legs and suck him off. Your mouth feels so empty at the thought that you're pretty sure you pout to yourself a little. You think Jack might fight it a little at first, not want you to hurt or bruise your knees. But as you convinced him it's what you really want, what you need, you think he'd let you.

Maybe he'd let you take control and set the pace. Maybe sometimes he'd take control, hold your head with one hand, maybe both, and move you up and down just how he wants.

You're sure he's too seasoned of an emergency room doctor to be super into shower sex, has probably seen some gnarly injuries from it, but maybe your mouth on his cock would help convince him otherwise.

Maybe Jack would say your name lowly, voice even more gravelly than it usually is, dripping in need and lust and affection. Maybe he'd get you positioned perfectly standing between his legs and then tell you to turn around so that your back is facing him. Maybe he'd reach forward and run his fingers through you planning on rubbing your clit to get you nice and wet for him, huff a groaned laugh when he realizes you're already beyond ready for him. Maybe he'd guide you back further with his hand on your hips, get you in the right position and himself notched right at your entrance and then pull you down onto his cock before letting you fuck yourself on him.

Maybe… Maybe you need to get a fucking grip, you chastise yourself when you realize how deep into that day dream you are and how wet you know you must be with how prominent your heartbeat feels between your legs.

You force yourself to actually start showering. You know Jack said to take your time but you should still be considerate. It's late enough.

But as you shower the thoughts don't really stop. All you can think about when you finally turn the shower off and wrap one of Jack's towels around you are his hands all over your body and soft words of adoration and appreciation and maybe even love being whispered into your ear as he helps dry you off.

Once you disappear into the bathroom and he hears the shower start Jack realizes he's going to have to do everything possible to keep himself busy so that he doesn't just sit on his couch and think about showering with you. He makes himself act like it's just any other night, do what he would normally do and what he would've done if he'd gotten home tonight without seeing you. Or at least he makes himself try to act like it's just any other night.

Jack heads into his room and changes his shirt, grabs a pair of sweatpants and sits on the side of his bed and takes his prosthetic off, checks over his leg and cleans it and his prosthetic, pulls his sweats on and knots the one leg to keep it from getting caught under his crutches. From his room he goes to his kitchen to grab a drink and then crutches to his couch and sits in his usual seat, grabs the medical journal and opens it to the page he left off on and starts to read. Or at least he tries to read.

By the time you get out of the shower and walk out of his bathroom Jack's read a single paragraph about twenty times and has absorbed approximately none of it, his head far too full of thoughts of you. It's a miracle he hears you leave the bathroom and shut the door behind you and that you don't just walk out to him staring at a page of the journal completely spaced out and lost in his own little world. And hard.

Very obviously hard in his gray sweatpants. 

You smile at him almost a little bashfully as you get closer. "Thank you for that."

Jack sets the journal in his lap and returns your smile with an easy one of his own. "Anytime. Feel better?"

"Yeah," you nod, "I do. I really appreciate it. It was very nice not having to trek across the city."

"I'm sure it was," he chuckles.

There's a beat of comfortable silence between you. There's no awkwardness to it at all. Something about it is almost poignant and expectant. You and Jack find yourselves where you always seem to. Both of you desperately wanting the other to make a move to confirm this thing between you is real and reciprocal and wanted and needed, followed by neither of you making it, you unconvinced that Jack could feel for you how you do for him and Jack unconvinced that you could feel for him how he does for you.

"Well." You let out a long breath and then walk over to his front door, Jack sitting up a bit to keep a better view of you. "I'll let you get back to your night." You pause with your hand on the door handle and look over at Jack.

The words are on the tip of his tongue. You can stay if you want. 

Words that would be an unspoken ‘please want to stay.’

But he can't get them out. Not quick enough at least.

"Thank you again, Bugs." The smile you give him this time is absolutely unquestionably bashful and Jack wants to make you his, needs to. "I really appreciate it. And you. I really appreciate you. I hope you know that."

"I mean it. Anytime." Jack's smile is a little flustered and there's something so adorable about it that you bite your bottom lip which just makes him more flustered and his cock throb. "And I know. You make sure I know. I hope you know I really appreciate you too."

"I know," you nod, "you make sure I know." You shift your duffel and give Jack one last smile for the evening. "Goodnight, Bugs. Make sure you lock up." You wink at him, teasing him playfully about the way he always reminds you. You mean it though, you care about him just as much as Jack does about you.

Jack is floored the wink doesn't stop his heart or make him come untouched.

"Goodnight, Tweety." He gives you one last teasing smile for the night as you walk out, already knowing what he's going to call to you as you do. "Make sure you lock up too!"

Jack can hear your soft giggles as you pull his front door shut behind you. He's still for a moment, his brain trying to process everything that's happened tonight.

Jack has absolutely no idea what compels him to do it, but something in his subconscious does. He tells himself he's going to get the towels you used to throw them in the washer. He tosses the medical journal aside and gets up and crutches to the guest bathroom.

When he opens the door he's greeted with warm steam that smells like you, like your body wash mixed with your shampoo and conditioner. Jack immediately realizes his subconscious knew that's what would happen. He's frozen by it for a second before he quickly crutches into the bathroom and shuts the door so that no more steam can escape.

As he stands there, Jack's cock throbs even harder, the racing beat of his heart quickly the only thing he can hear. The thought crosses his mind as he breathes in deeply through his nose.

No. Absolutely not. No. He can't. It's wrong.

Before he fully realizes what he's doing Jack crutches over and puts the lid down on the toilet and sits, rests his crutches against the wall. It's not particularly comfortable but it doesn't matter. He's not going to be here long, he tells himself. Just another thirty seconds or so. He'll let himself sit in the steamy warmth that smells like you for just another thirty seconds or so.

Jack's hand brushes over his cock and his breath catches at the feeling. He didn't really mean to do that. He just didn't pay enough attention to where his hand was as he was bringing it up to run through his hair.

But it felt good. God, it felt so fucking good.

The way he brings his hand back down and starts to palm at his cock over his sweatpants is undeniably deliberate. This is wrong. He shouldn't. He can't.

Jack palms himself a little harder, bites his lip and groans. Does he seriously have this little self-control when it comes to you? So little that he can't just get up and go back to his couch or to bed and let his erection fade away?

Apparently he seriously has this little self-control when it comes to you because instead of getting up Jack shifts and pulls his sweatpants and boxer briefs down enough to free his cock and then nearly tears his shirt off. He lets out a heavy breath as he takes in another deep breath of your scent through his nose and rubs the bead of precum that leaks from his slit into his head.

This is so, so wrong. Getting off to the scent of you. This is so fucking dirty and probably a little creepy and, god what would you think of him if you knew what he was doing?

The thoughts fade quickly as he lets his eyes flutter closed and starts stroking himself properly as he continues breathing you in. You're all he's been thinking when getting himself off for a good while now, but this, this is different. The warmth of the air around him and the way it smells like you and the way the scent clings to him because of the steam makes it so different, makes it feel more real.

Maybe you'd like it, if you knew. Like that he was touching himself to the smell and thought of you. If the situations were reversed, though, he wouldn't mind. If he'd showered in your guest bathroom and you walked in once he left to warm steam that still smelled of him he wouldn't mind at all if you sat somewhere and touched yourself while you breathed him in and thought of him. He'd fucking want you to.

Jack doesn't know why, doesn't truly have a single fucking thing to draw the conclusion from, but he thinks you'd like it too. He thinks you'd find it hot.

If you knew he was doing this would you ask to watch? Ask him to show you what he likes? Would you slowly get closer to him so you could study every movement? Would you ask him what he was thinking about? Ask him to tell you all the things he thinks about when he touches himself? All the things he wants to do to you? Would you tell him all the things you want to do to him? Would you drag him to bed so you could both be more comfortable? Would you ask to take over? With your hand? With your mouth? Would you want to watch him come? Would you take your pants and underwear off and position yourself so he could come all over your cunt? Would you sink yourself down on him just as he started to come?

A million questions and possibilities run through Jack's mind, a million scenarios, ones he's imagined before and new ones. But his mind eventually settles.

"Jack?"

You and Jack are in his bed together, naked. You're tangled together on your sides, both of you breathless from making out. You press a couple of kisses to his jaw and scratch your nails at the v of his hips and whine slightly at the way you can feel his cock throb.

"Show me, please. Show me what you like," you whisper. "How you touch yourself. Please."

He swallows hard but nods. In addition to how fucking hot it is, there's something incredibly intimate about the ask, about the idea of touching himself with you watching. "Okay, Baby." Both of you shift and sit up against the headboard, Jack’s back propped up against it with some pillows comfortably and you pressed into his side, the position easier for you to bring your dominant hand across his body. Jack brings a hand that he has to focus way too hard on keeping steady to his cock.

"No, Jack," you interrupt before he can truly start, shaking your head at him. You hold your hand out to him. "Show me. Teach me. I want to be able to make you feel good."

"Fuck," Jack breathes, a heavy jolt of pleasure running up his spine. "I don't need to show you, Sweetheart. Just you touching me will make me feel good. Shit, just you watching makes it even better."

"But I want to know what makes you feel the best. I want to make you feel good, the best you've ever felt." You hit him with a pout that has him squeezing the base of his cock hard so he doesn't lose it just from that. "Please."

"Yeah, of course," Jack pants, reaches out and grabs your hand. "Anything you want, Baby. Anything and everything."

The groan Jack lets out as he imagines your hand wrapping around his cock at the guidance of his is ripped from deep in his chest. He knows that the feeling he's imagining would be nothing compared to the real thing, to how small your hand would feel in his and wrapped around him and how soft your skin would be against his cock.

Jack starts moving your hand up and down his cock slowly at first, picking up the pace with each pass until you're at a steady rhythm. He twists when he gets to his head and as Jack watches you watch your hand he can almost see you noting in your brain exactly where to start the twist to give him the most pleasure. He can't believe anybody, let alone you, would care for him enough to pay such close attention just so you can make him feel good.

"You're so big Jack," you moan softly as you work his cock. "I don't know how you're going to fit." Jack's hips buck at your words and your eyes meet as you look up at him. "You will fuck me tonight, right Jack? I need it. Need you."

"Yeah," Jack pants, "yeah, I'll fuck you tonight. I'll do whatever you want to you tonight."

"I want you to take whatever you want, want you to use me however you want." You look so truly desperate for it that Jack's hips buck just as desperately again. "I want you to do everything you've ever wanted to me, Jack."

He lets out a shuddery breath with a hint of a laugh to it. "That list is way the fuck too long for one night, Baby."

You giggle and bite your lip, twist your hand on your own just to surprise him and pull a loud groan of your name from his chest. It's like you can tell he's getting close despite this being the first time you guys have ever given in and done this, seen each other and kissed each other and touched each other like this. Jack can feel the way he's about to come, starts to draw in air to try to form the words to tell you, but instead his brows furrow in confusion when you slow your hand and then pull it away. He just barely swallows down most of a whine.

You hum soothingly, roll your head a little to kiss his skin wherever you can as his orgasm ebbs and then look up at him with an eager need in your eyes. "I want you to show me something else now."

"Oh yeah?" Jack has a feeling he knows what you mean, his heart somehow thundering harder at just the thought.

"Yeah." You move so that you're between his legs and facing him. And then you start to lower yourself and get comfortable laying between his legs on your stomach.

"Oh, Baby, you don't, you don't have to do this." He brings a hand down to your face where you rest it on his thigh and look up at him. "Your hand is more than enough."

"I know I don't have to, Jack." You smile at the precum he leaks when you say his name. You lift your head up and kiss his inner thigh up to his cock. "I want to, I promise" you murmur. "Show me how you like it, Baby, please."

You take his head in your mouth and swirl your tongue around it as you suck and moan. "Fuck!" Jack rasps, voice strained with pleasure. "Oh god, Baby, fuck. Fuck your mouth is so good, oh fuck."

As you slowly start to bob your head up and down one of your hands grabs one of his and brings it to your head as you look at him pleadingly. Jack knows it's a silent request for him to take control and show you how he likes it. He lets out a shuddery breath as he does what you asked.

Jack's hand speeds up, tightens around himself even more. He's close. He's so fucking close and it hasn't even been that long and he should be embarrassed but he's not. He's just fucking not. That's what you do to him. This is what you do to him. 

And you’re not even fucking here. 

He thinks he might be drunk off your scent. Jack never wants this to end, never wants the steam that smells like you and envelops him to dissipate. Not unless he can have the real thing. Not unless he can be fucking you with his nose pressed up against your neck or hauling you into the shower with him to make more steam that smells like you. Not unless you're his and he's yours.

"Jack." The way you say his name is almost moaned, your lips fluttering against his tip so you can take him back in your mouth as soon as you finish speaking. "Come for me."

Jack does with a breathy groan of your name, body almost trembling at how fucking good it feels as he watches his cum paint his chest and abdomen, a little hitting his collarbones and lower neck. His head drops back and he lets his eyes close as he keeps working himself through it, your name falling off his tongue over and over.

He works himself to a little painful overstimulation and then lets go of his cock as he pants and tries to come back down, aftershocks of pleasure ripping through his body as he basks in the post-orgasm haze and the smell of you. Jack can't remember the last time he came that hard. He's not sure if he ever has before. And all it took was the scent of you.

He's so astronomically fucked.

He's falling in love with you. With your beauty and smile and laugh and your personality and wit and how vibrant you are. With the light you bring into his life just by being his neighbor.

He craves you, wants you like he's never wanted someone before. He wants all of you, the good and the bad and the parts you haven't shown him yet and the parts of you that you haven't even discovered yet, in every possible way, sexual and otherwise. Jack wants you. All of you. All the time. 

You guys have your thing, but it's probably harmless flirting to you, not something that would ever go anywhere. He told himself you'd probably find this hot, but would you? Would you really? Or would you find it sad? A man his age touching himself.

Jack finally comes back around to where he always seems to land. Why would you ever want him?

He grabs some toilet paper and cleans his chest off. He stands up and opens the lid, tosses it in the toilet and flushes. It's as he pulls his shirt back on that his hearing apparently fucking comes back.

There's a knock on his door. "Bugs?" His unlocked door. He never locked it after you left, and he knows you, he knows you'll be concerned that he hasn't answered and you'll try it and he's in the fucking bathroom you were just in, that he has no reason to be in, that he never uses, always just goes to his, and you're too smart for your own fucking good and you'll put together why. You'll know.

So he needs to get out of here.

"Jack?" He hears the door start to open. "I'm coming in."

He just gets the lights off and makes it out of the bathroom and into the hallway a little bit, hopefully enough that it doesn't seem like he was coming out of there. "Hey, sorry," he calls to you as he crutches closer as you walk in. "I didn't hear at first…" He tries to think of some sort of excuse about why he didn't hear when he's always heard every other time, but he decides to let it go. You'll see right through him and the lie. 

"That's okay." You smile at him, cocking your head just slightly with a subtly suspicious smile. Jack looks different than you've ever seen him before. He looks… caught, almost. 

As you move closer to each other and you get a better look at him you realize he's flushed from the neck up, skin red and pink and a little blotchy, sweat making some of his curls stick to his forehead and his temple and neck a bit shiny. He looks hot. Literally and metaphorically.

You're so transfixed by him and thinking about what it would be like to have him on top of you while looking like he does right now that you don't even stop to think about why he looks like that right now, about what he could've been doing.

"You didn't lock your door." You raise your eyebrows at him and give him a teasing smile. "You need to."

Jack smirks at you. "Worried about me?"

"Yeah, actually," you laugh, the teasing sliding out of your smile and replaced by something so genuine Jack has to cover the way his breath hitches. "You'd be so mad if you discovered my door unlocked."

"Not mad," he shakes his head, "concerned and worried."

You shoot him an oh please look, but you know he's telling the truth. You know it would be that kind of anger that's really just a mask for intense and deep worry and concern. You lick your lips and take a breath. "I came back because I think I left my body wash."

Jack nods. "Ah, well we couldn’t possibly have that sitting in my guest bathroom until the next time you came over and grabbed it at your convenience. Absolutely required you getting out of bed and coming back over," he teases, crutching toward the bathroom with you.

"Nope," you pop the 'p.' "You might use it when you miss me," you smirk at him as you step by him to walk into the guest bathroom, your chests nearly brushing, something that isn't completely unusual, it's happened before and you guys hug. But there's something much more keyed up to the way your chests almost touch when combined with your words.

Your words that make Jack glitch for a moment. Do you know? Could you have figured out what he was doing before you came back in? No. There's no way you could've. You're just fucking around. He needs to fucking relax and be normal before he gives it away.

"Oh," Jack drawls with teasing amusement as you grab the bottle from the shower and then turn back to him and walk toward him, "is that your way of asking for a bottle of my body wash for when you miss me?"

The beat before you reply is just a few seconds too long for it to mean nothing, and fuck, Jack realizes, you might actually want that. But why? How? He has to be wrong. He's projecting.

You're undeniably a little flustered though, that much is obvious to Jack, but not flustered in a he made you uncomfortable way, more in a you've been caught kind of way. It makes his head spin.

Where the fuck everything that happens next comes from, where the confidence to do any of it comes from, you have no idea. It just seems to happen.

You stop in front of Jack, chests less than a centimeter from brushing. "You know one time you had me over you'd left a bottle of your body wash on the kitchen table for you to take into your bathroom the next time you went back there," you murmur, eye contact with him direct and unbelievably heady, a small ghost of a self-satisfied smile on your face. "So for all you know I already have a bottle in my shower just for that purpose."

Your smile pulls up a little wider on your face when Jack's breath catches in his throat and he swallows heavily. His brain tries to come up with something to say but just fucking can't because you just said that. You just said that and it’s how you said it and that smile and your murmured voice and the look in your eyes and fuck. 

You really just said that.

And Jack has no idea whether you do or don't but is now so beyond desperate to know.

"Thank you again, Bugs." You lean into him and up and press a soft kiss to his cheek, something you've never done before. "Have a good rest of your night."

You step back and smile at him before turning and walking to his front door, Jack almost frozen to his spot because you just said that and then kissed his cheek. Your lips had contact with his skin. Your lips.

You pause at his door again and turn back to him. "Make sure you really lock up this time, Bugs, yeah?" You flick your eyebrows up at him for a second in emphasis. "And have sweet dreams, Jack."

I want to be his neighbor he's falling in love with so badly. 😭 I hope it was okay and enjoyable enough that you'd like to see more of them! Let me know if you would! I love hearing your thoughts and comments and reactions, they often make my day and give me so much joy! ♥️ Thank you again for all of your support and for taking the time to read!! ♥️

Want to be added to my Jack Abbot tag list? Interact with this post! If you've interacted and aren't getting tagged send me a DM!

Want more Jack and the Pitt content? Check out my masterlist here. I also write for other characters, see below!!

If you'd like to get added to my other tag lists, interact with the links below! Each tag list is separate, so be sure to interact with each post for each character you'd like to be tagged for!

Andrew Pope Cody tag list! Brett Richards tag list! Charlie Reid tag list! Titus Danforth tag list! Grant Reilly tag list! Rabbot/Rabbot x Reader tag list! Robby Robinavitch tag list!

He appeared at the end of the hallway forty seconds later breathlessly.

You knew his footsteps. You’d told him that once, in the early days, and he’d looked at you like you’d said something that undid him completely. Right now those footsteps were fast and deliberate and trying very hard not to be a run.

“Hey.” He reached you and his hands went to your arms immediately, dipping his head to look at your face. “Talk to me.”

“It’s a headache,” you said. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bracing yourself against a wall.”

“I’m leaning.”

“Let me take your blood pressure.”

“Jack—” I frowned.

“Please.” The word was quiet and direct and left no room for argument.

You let him guide you to the nearest empty room. He drew the curtain and helped you onto the bed, and you watched him wrap the cuff around your arm with the focused efficiency he usually reserved for patients in serious trouble. His face gave nothing away. That was how you knew he was scared.

The reading came back.

He looked at it for just a moment too long.

“What is it?” you asked, even though you already knew. You were a doctor. You knew what too long meant.

“154 over 102.” He set the cuff down carefully. “We’re going to run some labs.”

The number settled over the room like a change in weather.

This number at this stage of pregnancy is dangerous. Protein in the urine, you’d bet, if the headache and the swelling were part of the picture. You’d diagnosed it in other people before. You’d explained it to frightened patients in careful, reassuring language. You’d said we caught it early, that’s the important thing more times than you could count. But after everything you’ve gone through, this feels like dealing with the grief of the miscarriage all over again. Only worse.

“Jack,” you said. He knows what’s going through your head. The same thoughts are spiraling in his too.

“Let’s wait for the labs,” he said. His voice was even and professional and you hated it.

“Don’t do that.” He looked up. “Don’t be my doctor right now. Just be my husband and talk to me.”

Something in his expression shifted. He pulled a chair to the side of your bed and sat down, and reached for your hand the way he always did—not gently, but firmly, like he meant it.

“I’m scared,” he said simply.

“Me too.”

“We caught it early. The numbers are high but they’re not—” he stopped, recalibrated. “You’re going to be okay. She’s going to be okay. I need you to let me take care of you right now.”

You looked at him… at the careful set of his jaw, the steadiness he was working so hard to hold and simply nodded. The baby would be okay.

The labs came back an hour later and confirmed it. Preeclampsia. Dr. Al-Hashimi delivered the news herself, sitting across from both of you with the quiet authority of someone who understood that the hardest patients to treat were the ones who already understood exactly what you were telling them.

Modified bed rest. Twice-weekly monitoring. Blood pressure medication starting today. Delivery no later than thirty-seven weeks, possibly earlier depending on how the next few weeks went.

You asked the right questions. You used the right vocabulary. You nodded at the right moments. And then Dr. Al-Hashimi left the room and Jack closed the curtain and you put your face in your hands crying silently.

“Hey.” He was beside you instantly.

“I know it’s manageable,” you said, voice muffled. “I know we caught it early. I know the outcomes are good when it’s monitored properly. I know all of that.”

“But?”

You lifted your head. “I’m so tired of being scared, Jack.” Your voice cracked on the last word, the first real crack since the morning, and once it started you couldn’t quite close it back up. “I just wanted one stretch — just one — where I could be pregnant and happy like other women without waiting for something to go wrong.”

Jack didn’t say anything for a moment. He just moved closer and pulled you carefully against him, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting over your stomach.

“I know,” he said into your hair. “I know, baby. I’m sorry.”

You stayed like that while the sounds of the hospital floor continued just beyond the curtain. The usual ER carried on as if the world inside this room wasn’t holding its breath.

“She’s okay,” he said quietly. “Heart rate is perfect. You caught the signs early because you’re brilliant and stubborn and you know your own body even though you didn’t want to admit it at first. We are ahead of this.”

You exhaled slowly against his shoulder.

“You have to actually rest,” he continued. “Which I recognize is going to be the hardest part of this for you, sweetheart.”

You made a sound that was almost a laugh. “I have residents who need—”

“Covered.”

“And my shift isn’t over and my patients—”

“Covered.”

“Jack—”

“Covered.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, and there was something in his eyes that was both exhausted and immovable. “You and her. That’s the only case either of us is managing right now. Understood?”

You held his gaze for a long moment. You loved this man so goddamn much.

“Understood,” you said quietly.

He pressed his lips to your forehead and kept them there, and you felt the slight unsteadiness in it. The version of him that existed underneath the calm, the one that had been absolutely terrified since Dana paged him forty minutes ago.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your skin. “Both of you. I’ve got you.”

And you wholeheartedly knew he did.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The hardest part wasn’t the medications or the monitoring appointments or even the enforced stillness of modified bed rest. The hardest part was the nights.

During the day there were things to do like online shopping, watching TV, reading books you’d been meaning to finish for two years, video calls with Trinity and the rest of our group that somehow always ran an hour long. Jack worked his shifts switching between days and nights and came home and sat with you and pretended he hadn’t been checking his phone every twenty minutes in case you called.

But at night, when the apartment was quiet and Jack was working or asleep beside you with one hand resting on your stomach even in sleep, the thoughts came. The ones you couldn’t logic your way out of. You’d lie there cataloguing every sensation… every twinge, every shift, every small movement from her and feel the fear from when you lost your first pregnancy.

You sit quietly in the corner of the room or lean on the bed frame, trying to remind yourself that you knew better than most people that some things couldn’t be controlled no matter how closely you watched for them.

On the fourth night, Jack woke up and found you staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just moved closer, tucked you against his side, and put his hand back where it had been.

“Still here,” he said. He meant all of it. Her. Him. The two of you, doing this together. You covered his hand with yours.

“Still here,” you replied back.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, you finally fell asleep.

—

I have another angsty chapter coming soon. I apologize in advance. Thanks for reading!! <3

Cookie-making with a three-year-old was not baking. It was controlled chaos with measuring cups. Owen stood on his kitchen stool in a fresh shirt, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, curls still wild from his nap. His stuffed triceratops had been placed on the counter far enough from the mixing bowl to remain “safe,” but close enough to supervise.

Jack had washed Owen’s hands. Then Owen had insisted Jack wash his own hands.

Then Owen had turned to you with both eyebrows raised.

“Mama,” Owen said.

You held up your hands. “Already washed.”

Owen studied you with Jack’s full skepticism. “Really?”

Jack leaned against the counter, arms crossed, mouth twitching.

You looked at him. “Do not look proud of that.”

Jack’s expression did not change. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” you said.

Owen reached for your wrist and inspected your hands with great seriousness.

After one long second, he nodded. “Clean.”

You exhaled. “Thank God.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh.

Owen looked at him immediately. “Daddy.”

Jack straightened. “Yeah, bud?”

Owen lifted one hand. “No jokes with flour.”

You pressed your lips together.

Jack nodded gravely. “No jokes with flour.”

Owen turned to you. “Mama too.”

You nodded. “Understood.”

Owen looked satisfied. For approximately four seconds. Then Jack pulled the flour canister closer, and Owen’s entire face lit with purpose.

“I do it,” Owen said.

Jack paused with the measuring cup in hand.

You leaned one hip against the counter. “Gentle hands?”

Owen nodded immediately. “Gentle hands.”

Jack looked at you. You smiled. He handed the measuring cup to Owen and kept one hand close, not touching. Ready, but not taking over.

Owen dipped the cup into the flour. Slow. Careful. Focused. Then he lifted it with both hands and dumped half of it directly onto the counter.

Silence.

Owen looked down.

Jack looked down.

You looked down.

A soft white cloud bloomed across the counter between them.

Owen’s mouth parted. “Oh.”

Jack closed his eyes. You bit your lip.

Owen looked up at you, worried. “Mama.”

You stepped closer and brushed one hand over his back. “That surprised you.”

Owen nodded. “The flour jumped.”

Jack made a sound. Owen turned sharply. “Daddy.”

Jack covered his mouth with one hand. “I’m fine.”

Owen narrowed his eyes. “Really?”

Jack looked at you.

You lifted both hands. “I didn’t teach him that.”

Jack lowered his hand, but his eyes were warm. “You absolutely did.”

Owen looked between you, then back at the counter. “Flour is messy.”

“It is,” you said. “And we can clean it.”

Owen’s shoulders eased. Jack reached for a towel. “We can.”

Owen watched Jack wipe the counter, then looked at the bowl.

“Try again?” Owen asked.

Jack’s face softened. “Yeah, bud,” Jack said. “Try again.”

That was how the cookies went. Little spills. Little corrections. Big feelings. Tiny recoveries.

Owen cracked an egg with both hands, and Jack caught half the shell before it could fall in.

Owen stared at the egg. Then at Jack. 

“I used gentle hands,” Owen said.

“You did,” Jack said, fishing one tiny shell fragment out of the bowl. “Eggs are just fragile.”

Owen considered this. “Like banana.”

You turned your face away. Jack’s mouth softened. “Yeah. A little like banana.”

Owen nodded. “But we made banana happy.”

“We did,” you said.

Owen looked down at the bowl. “We make cookies happy, too.”

Your chest squeezed. Jack looked at you over Owen’s head. ‘There she is,’ his face said.

You pointed one finger at him. “Don’t,” you warned. 

Jack smiled.

Owen added sugar with intense concentration, then brown sugar, then softened butter that he called “squishy.”

Jack guided the mixer while Owen kept one hand over Jack’s wrist like he was assisting in a delicate procedure. The dough came together slowly.

Owen leaned closer. “It smells good.”

You nodded. “It does.”

Owen looked up at Jack. “Can we put chocolate chips now?”

Jack glanced at the recipe card. “Almost.”

Owen’s face fell. You touched his back. “Waiting is hard.”

Owen sighed. “Very hard.”

Jack looked down at him. “You’re doing it.”

Owen blinked up at him. “I am?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. You’re waiting.”

Owen considered that. Then he smiled, small and pleased. “Good job, me.”

You made a soft sound. Jack’s face went tender. “Good job, you,” Jack said.

When the time finally came for chocolate chips, Owen treated the bag like treasure. Jack opened it carefully and handed Owen a small measuring cup. Owen looked into the bag. Then at the bowl. Then at you.

“Chocolate chips make happy,” Owen said.

You smiled. “They helped the banana.”

Owen nodded. “And they help cookies.”

Jack leaned one hand on the counter. “That’s the theory.”

Owen poured the chocolate chips into the dough. Several missed the bowl. One landed on the counter. One landed on the floor.

One disappeared into Owen’s mouth with the speed and precision of a tiny thief.

Jack looked at him. Owen froze. His cheeks rounded. You covered your mouth with one hand.

Jack lifted an eyebrow. “Bud.”

Owen chewed quickly. “Fell in my mouth,” Owen said.

You turned around. Jack lowered his head.

Owen swallowed, then patted Jack’s arm. “It’s okay. Accidents happen.”

That ended you.

You laughed into your hand, shoulders shaking, while Jack stared at your son with the expression of a man who had no one to blame but himself for the creature standing in front of him.

Owen looked at you, concerned. “Mama happy?”

You nodded, wiping under one eye. “Mama’s happy.”

Owen seemed satisfied and turned back to the dough.

Jack looked at you. “You’re encouraging crime.”

“He used emotional language,” you said.

“He stole chocolate,” Jack replied. 

You smiled brightly, “He processed it beautifully.”

Jack’s mouth twitched despite himself. Owen stirred the dough with a wooden spoon, both hands wrapped around the handle, while Jack held the bowl steady. His tongue poked out at the corner of his mouth. Jack’s concentration face sat on his little features again, devastating and familiar.

You watched them for a second. Jack and Owen. One large hand holding the bowl. Two little hands stirring with all the force his body could manage. Both of them bent over the same task, serious and careful, like cookies for Uncle Robby at Mama and Daddy’s hospital were important enough to require full attention.

Because they were.

To Owen, they were.

And somehow, that made them important to all of you.

When the dough was ready, Jack handed Owen the little scoop.

“One scoop for one cookie,” Jack said.

Owen nodded. “One scoop.”

Jack held up one finger. “Not huge.”

Owen held up one finger too. “Not huge.”

You stepped closer with the baking sheet. “And we leave space between them.”

Owen nodded again. “Cookies need personal space.”

Jack looked at you. You stared back. Then Jack said, very quietly, “He is absolutely yours.”

Your heart warmed. Owen scooped dough onto the tray. The first cookie was small.

The second cookie was a little bigger. The third cookie was mostly chocolate chips and optimism. Jack stared at it. Owen stared at it proudly.

You leaned in. “That one looks special.”

Owen beamed. “For Uncle Robby.”

Jack’s mouth softened. “Of course it is,” Jack said.

Owen looked up at him. “Because he helped.”

“He did,” Jack said.

Owen pointed to another spot on the tray. “This one for Daddy.”

You smiled. “Daddy gets one?”

Owen nodded. “Daddy fixed banana.”

Jack went still. Just briefly. Just enough.

Then Owen pointed to another empty space. “This one for Mama.”

You pressed one hand to your chest. “What did Mama do?”

Owen looked at you as if the answer were obvious. “You held me,” Owen said.

Everything in you went quiet. Jack’s eyes came to yours immediately.

Owen turned back to the dough, unaware that he had just taken you apart with four small words.

Jack’s voice was soft when he spoke. “Yeah, bud. She did.”

Owen nodded, scooping dough with great care. “Mama helps big feelings.”

Your throat tightened. Jack reached for you beneath the edge of the counter, his fingers brushing yours once. You held onto them. Just for a second.

Then Owen looked up. “Hands,” Owen said.

Jack let go immediately. You both lifted your hands like you had been caught doing something suspicious.

Owen frowned. “Cookie hands.”

You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you.

“We are very sorry,” you said.

Owen nodded, forgiving but firm. “Wash later.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Understood.”

The first tray went into the oven.

Owen stood in front of it with his hands on his hips, watching through the glass.

Jack stood behind him, one hand hovering near Owen’s shoulder without touching the hot oven door. You leaned against the counter and watched both of them.

Owen glanced back. “They are growing.”

Jack nodded. “They are.”

Owen looked at you. “Cookies get bigger in oven.”

“They do,” you said.

Owen’s eyes widened slightly. “Like me.”

Jack’s hand went still. You smiled softly. “Yeah, baby. Like you.”

Owen looked back through the oven glass, satisfied by the comparison.

By the time the kitchen smelled like butter and sugar and warm chocolate, Owen was practically vibrating. Jack pulled the tray from the oven while Owen stood behind the imaginary line Jack had made with one dish towel on the floor.

“Hot line,” Owen whispered to himself.

You crouched beside him. “Good remembering.”

Owen nodded. “Hot is for Daddy.”

Jack set the tray on the stove. “Hot is for grown-ups.”

Owen looked at him. “Daddy is grown-up.”

You nodded. “Most days.”

Jack glanced at you. “Most days?”

Owen copied him instantly, turning to you with narrowed eyes. “Most days?”

You laughed.

Jack’s face shifted. Soft. Pleased. “There she is,” he murmured.

Owen looked around. “Where?”

You bent and kissed the top of Owen’s head before Jack could answer. “Right here,” you said.

When the cookies cooled, Owen insisted on counting them. He counted eight correctly, skipped nine, declared twelve twice, and somehow ended with “lots.”

Jack accepted this math. You found a container with a lid. Owen carefully placed the special cookie for Robby in first. The oversized, mostly chocolate chip one. Then he paused.

“Uncle Robby gets big cookie,” Owen said.

Jack nodded. “He does.”

Owen added another one. “For Dana.”

You smiled. “Dana too?”

Owen nodded. “Dana asks Mama first.”

You froze. Jack froze too. Owen kept arranging cookies, entirely matter-of-fact. Your chest went tight. Jack’s hand found your lower back.

Owen added another cookie and looked up at you. “Mama and Daddy’s hospital has lots of people.”

Jack’s hand stilled against your back. “It does,” Jack said.

Owen patted the lid once it was closed. “Cookies help.”

Your throat tightened again.

 Jack crouched beside him. “Yeah, bud,” Jack said quietly. “They do.”

Owen smiled with Jack’s face. Then he reached up and patted Jack’s cheek.

“Good job, Daddy,” Owen said.

Jack closed his eyes for half a second.

You looked away because watching Jack survive that twice in one day felt indecent.

When you looked back, Jack had opened his eyes, and Owen was already reaching for his shoes.

“Mama and Daddy’s hospital?” Owen asked.

You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you. Then he smiled. “Mama and Daddy’s hospital,” Jack said.

By the time you reached PTMC, Owen was holding the cookie container like it contained something far more important than chocolate chips. Jack had offered to carry it. You had offered to carry it. Owen had looked at both of you from the back seat like you had suggested handing the cookies to a stranger in the parking garage.

“No,” Owen had said, both arms wrapped carefully around the container. “I hold.”

Jack had met your eyes in the rearview mirror. You had pressed your lips together.

Owen had patted the lid once. “Gentle hands.”

So Owen carried the cookies. All the way through the parking garage. Into the elevator. Down the hall. One hand under the container. One hand on the lid. His triceratops tucked under your arm because cookies required both of Owen’s hands, but his dinosaur still needed to see Daddy’s hospital. And Mama’s hospital.

Owen announced, very officially, “Cookies for Mama’s department first.”

That had nearly taken you out before you had even made it to the right floor. Now, standing outside the Child Life office, you looked down at your son. Owen looked back up at you, cookie container pressed to his chest.

“Ready?” you asked softly.

Owen nodded. “Ready.”

Jack stood on Owen’s other side, one hand in his pocket, the other resting loosely at his side like he was pretending he was not emotionally invested in this stop. He was failing. You knocked lightly on the half-open door.

Inside, Abby’s voice floated out first. “If that bubble wand leaked again, I’m quitting.”

Sarah answered immediately, “You said that last time.”

“And I meant it last time,” Abby said.

Brie laughed. “You absolutely did not.”

You pushed the door open a little wider. “Is this a bad time?” you asked.

All three heads turned. For half a second, nobody moved. Then Brie’s whole face changed.

“Oh my God,” Brie whispered.

Sarah’s chair rolled back so quickly it bumped the cabinet behind her. “Owen?”

Abby pressed both hands to her mouth. “No.”

Owen looked up at you. You smiled. “Say hi, bud.”

Owen took one careful step into the office. “Hi.”

Brie stood slowly, like moving too quickly might startle him or herself. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Sarah’s eyes were already shiny. “Look at you.”

Abby looked at the cookie container, then at Owen, then at you. “He’s carrying things now?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “He’s been carrying things for a while.”

Abby pointed weakly at Owen. “I know that logically.”

Brie came closer and crouched, her smile soft and helpless. “Hi, Tiny Abbot.”

Owen stopped. His brow furrowed. Jack’s brow. Jack’s exact little line between his eyes.

“No,” Owen said.

Brie froze. “No?”

Owen lifted his chin, cookie container still held carefully against his chest. “I’m Owen,” he said.

Your heart flipped. Then Owen added, proud and formal, “Owen Henry Abbot.”

The office went silent. Sarah made a small sound. Abby’s eyes filled immediately.

Brie pressed one hand over her heart. “Oh.”

You looked at Jack. Jack was watching Owen with a softness that made your chest ache. Proud. Ruined. Trying very hard to keep it contained and not succeeding at all.

“Nice correction, bud,” Jack said quietly.

Owen looked up at him and nodded. “Thank you.”

Sarah turned away for one second. “I need a minute.”

Abby pointed at her. “You don’t get a minute because I also need one.”

Brie laughed, but it broke a little in the middle. Owen looked at all three of them, mildly concerned by the emotional state of the room.

Then he lifted the container. “I made cookies.”

That brought everyone back.

Brie gasped. “For us?”

Owen nodded. “For Mama’s friends.”

You put one hand over your mouth. Jack’s eyes came to yours.

Sarah pressed both hands to her chest. “I am unwell.”

Abby nodded quickly. “Same.”

Owen looked up at you. “Mama?”

You crouched beside him. “They’re happy, baby.”

Owen studied Sarah and Abby carefully. “Happy crying?” he asked.

Sarah immediately made another sound. Abby whispered, “I’m actually not surviving this.”

Brie smiled through bright eyes. “Yes, honey. Happy crying.”

Owen nodded, satisfied by the explanation, then looked down at the container. You helped him set it on the little round table near the door. Owen opened the lid with great care. All three women leaned closer. The cookies were imperfect and beautiful. Some round. Some lopsided. One still aggressively large from Owen’s declaration that Uncle Robby needed the biggest cookie because he was his doctor uncle. There were smears of chocolate on the side of the container and one tiny fingerprint in the corner of a cookie you were fairly certain Owen had already licked.

You loved every single one. Owen reached in and selected a cookie with careful fingers. He held it out to Brie first.

“This one is for you,” Owen said.

Brie blinked. “For me?”

Owen nodded. “Mama said you held me when I was tiny.”

Brie’s face crumpled. You closed your eyes. Jack’s hand found the middle of your back.

Brie took the cookie like it was something precious. “I did,” she said softly. “You were very tiny.”

Owen looked at her with deep interest. “I was?”

Sarah laughed through tears. “Very.”

Owen looked down at himself, apparently assessing the plausibility.

Then he nodded. “Now I’m three.”

Brie smiled. “Now you’re three.”

Owen picked up another cookie and turned to Sarah. “This one is for you.”

Sarah crouched in front of him. “Thank you, Owen Henry Abbot.”

Owen’s face brightened at the full name. You nearly lost it again.

Sarah accepted the cookie. “Why do I get this one?”

Owen looked at you. Then back at Sarah. “You said Mama is your favorite,” Owen said.

Your breath caught. Sarah’s face softened all over.

“I did say that,” Sarah whispered.

Owen nodded. “Mama is my favorite too.”

Jack made a quiet sound beside you. You looked at him immediately. He looked down at Owen.

His eyes were bright around the edges.

Sarah held the cookie close to her chest. “That makes sense.”

Owen turned to Abby with another cookie. Abby was already wiping under one eye.

Owen studied her carefully. “This one is for you.”

Abby sniffed. “Thank you.”

Owen held it out. “Because you cried.”

Abby laughed immediately, watery and helpless. You covered your mouth with both hands.

Jack looked toward the ceiling.

Owen’s brow furrowed. “Happy crying?”

Abby took the cookie and nodded quickly. “Happy crying.”

Owen seemed satisfied. “Okay.”

Brie looked at you, still holding her cookie.

You smiled. “We tell him stories.”

Jack’s hand moved once against your back.

Owen looked up at you. “Mama says you loved me when I was tiny and still in her belly.”

The room went quiet again. A softer quiet this time. Brie’s eyes filled.

Sarah pressed one hand to her mouth. Abby clutched her cookie like it might be the only thing holding her together. Jack looked down at your son with the same expression he had worn in the kitchen when Owen told him he fixed the banana new. You crouched beside Owen and brushed one hand over his curls.

“They did,” you said softly. “They loved you very much.”

Owen looked around the office. Then he smiled. “Thank you,” he said.

Brie gave up first. She set her cookie carefully on the table, then opened her arms just enough to ask without crowding. “Can I have a hug?”

Owen looked at you. You nodded. “Your choice, baby.”

Owen considered Brie. Then he stepped into her arms. Brie hugged him gently. Carefully. Like part of her still remembered the tiny newborn she had held against her chest three years ago, sleepy and warm and devastating an entire office by existing.

Owen patted her back twice. “There,” he said.

Brie laughed into his hair. “Thank you.”

Sarah got a hug next. Then Abby. By the time Owen stepped back, all three of them looked emotionally compromised, and Owen looked pleased with his work.

Jack crouched and closed the cookie container.

Owen touched his arm. “Not all. Some for Daddy’s hospital.”

Jack smiled faintly. “Right. Some for Daddy’s hospital.”

You looked at your son. “And Mama’s department got theirs first?”

Owen nodded. “Mama’s friends first.”

Your throat tightened again.

Jack stood and looked at you. “There she is,” he said quietly.

You shook your head, smiling through the sting in your eyes. “Jack.”

Owen sighed. All four adults looked down. Owen had one hand on the cookie container, his head tilted, Jack’s face arranged into your exact expression.

“Daddy,” Owen said.

Jack blinked. “What?”

Owen pointed toward the door. “Uncle Robby is waiting.”

Sarah made a sound. Abby turned away. Brie pressed both hands over her mouth. Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack.

Then Jack nodded solemnly. “You’re right. We should not keep Doctor Uncle Robby waiting.”

Owen smiled, satisfied. He picked up the cookie container with both hands. Gentle hands. Full name. Jack’s face. Your heart. And together, the three of you left Mama’s department to bring the rest of the cookies downstairs.

The ED was already in the strange overlap of shift change when you got downstairs. Day shift finishing notes. Night shift coming in. Coffee cups on the desk. Badge reels swinging. Phones ringing. Someone asking for the good pens. Someone else answering a call light with the exact tone of a person who had already answered it three times. PTMC, moving like PTMC.

Only this time, Owen walked into the middle of it with both hands around a cookie container and the complete certainty that he had important work to do. Jack walked on one side of him. You walked on the other.

Owen’s triceratops had been returned to your arm because, according to Owen, “cookies need two hands, and dinosaur needs Mama.”

Owen stopped just outside the nurses’ station and looked around, eyes wide and bright. Then he saw Robby.

“Uncle Robby!” Owen shouted.

Several heads turned.

Jack winced faintly. “Walking feet, bud.”

Owen immediately slowed to an aggressive march that fooled absolutely no one.

“Fast walking feet,” Owen corrected.

Robby was standing beside Dana near the desk, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, his shoulders slightly hunched like he had been pretending not to watch the hallway. The second he saw Owen, his whole face changed. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just completely.

“Hey, kid,” Robby said, already crouching.

Owen barreled into him carefully, which was somehow very Owen. Full force in feeling, controlled in contact, because gentle hands had become a household philosophy. Robby caught him with one arm. His other hand steadied the cookie container automatically.

“You made it,” Robby said.

Owen leaned back enough to look at him. “I brought cookies.”

“I see that,” Robby said.

Owen held up the container. “For you.”

Robby looked at the cookies. Then at Owen. Then at Jack. Jack lifted one shoulder like he had absolutely no control over any of this.

Robby looked back at Owen. “For me?”

Owen nodded. “You helped banana.”

Robby’s face softened. “I did?”

Owen nodded harder. “You said Daddy can fix it.”

Robby’s eyes moved to Jack again. This time, softer. “He did fix it,” Robby said.

Owen beamed. “He fixed it new.”

Dana made a quiet sound beside Robby. You turned toward her. Dana was looking at Owen with the kind of softness she usually kept hidden beneath seventeen layers of competence. Then her eyes moved to you first. Just like they always did.

“How are you?” Dana asked.

Your throat tightened. Three years later. Same question. Same Dana. Still looking at you before the miracle.

You smiled. “I’m good.”

Dana’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

You laughed softly. “Really.”

Owen turned immediately. “Mama is good.”

Dana looked down at him. “Is she?”

Owen nodded with authority. “She had happy banana.”

Jack coughed once into his fist. You closed your eyes.

Dana looked slowly from Owen to Jack. “Happy banana?”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “There was an incident.”

Owen lifted the cookie container. “Banana broke.”

Dana nodded solemnly. “That sounds serious.”

Owen’s eyes widened with relief. “Very.”

Robby looked at Dana. “It required a consult.”

Dana looked at you. You looked at her. “It did,” you said.

Dana’s mouth twitched. Owen shifted closer to Dana, still holding the container. “Dana.”

Dana crouched too, smooth and patient. “Hi, Owen.”

Owen studied her for a second. Then he opened the container with help from Robby, reached inside, and pulled out one cookie with careful fingers. The cookie was not the biggest one. Not the smallest one. It was one of the prettiest.

Owen held it out. “For you,” Owen said.

Dana blinked. You stopped breathing a little. Dana looked at the cookie. Then at Owen.

“For me?” Dana asked.

Owen nodded. “Because you ask Mama first.”

The station seemed to quiet around that. Not fully. PTMC never fully quieted. But enough. Enough that you felt the words land. Dana’s expression shifted. Small. Controlled. Deep.

“Owen,” Dana said softly.

Owen held the cookie a little higher. “Good one.”

Dana took it carefully. Her eyes lifted to you. You pressed one hand to your chest because apparently your son had decided to emotionally destroy everyone before the cookies had even been fully distributed.

“Thank you,” Dana said to Owen.

Owen nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Robby looked down at him. “What about me?”

Owen turned back to the container. “You get big one.”

Robby’s brows lifted. “I do?”

Owen nodded. “Doctor uncle.”

Robby’s mouth softened. Jack looked away. You saw it anyway. Robby watched Owen dig through the cookies until he found the oversized one that had been mostly chocolate chips and optimism. Owen held it out with both hands.

“This one,” Owen said.

Robby took it like it was something sacred. “This is a serious cookie.”

Owen nodded. “Because you helped.”

Robby swallowed. “Anytime, kid.”

Owen’s face brightened. “You said that.”

“I did,” Robby said.

Owen leaned closer. “And I called.”

Robby’s eyes went wet. He tried to hide it by looking down at the cookie. He failed.

“You did,” Robby said, voice softer now.

Jack’s hand found your lower back. You leaned into him. Then Santos appeared from around the corner so suddenly it was like she had been summoned by the smell of sugar and emotional vulnerability.

“Oh my God,” Santos said. “Tiny Abbot brought cookies.”

Owen turned toward her. Jack immediately said, “His name is Owen.”

Owen lifted his chin. “I’m Owen.”

Santos put one hand over her heart. “My apologies.”

Owen straightened a little more. Then, proud and formal, he added, “Owen Henry Abbot.”

Santos went completely still.

Javadi appeared beside her and made a sound like she had been physically struck. “Oh, no.”

Mel stepped around the desk, smiling already. “Full name?”

Cassie pressed both hands to her chest. “He has a full name now.”

Crus came in behind Shen and Ellis, coffee in hand, his face softening the second he saw Owen. “Serious introduction.”

Shen looked down at Owen. “Clear boundary.”

Ellis smiled openly. “Good correction.”

Owen looked around at all of them, pleased that everyone seemed to understand. Jack looked painfully proud.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “Do not look that pleased.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “I’m not.”

Robby looked up from his cookie. “You absolutely are.”

Dana’s mouth twitched.

Santos crouched a safe distance away and lowered her voice like she was addressing royalty. “Hello, Owen Henry Abbot.”

Owen nodded. “Hi.”

Santos looked at the container. “Did you bring tribute?”

Jack stared at her. You bit your lip.

Owen looked up at you. “What is tribute?”

You brushed one hand over his hair. “A gift.”

Owen looked back at Santos. “Yes. Cookies.”

Santos’s face softened. “For us?”

Owen nodded. “For Daddy’s hospital.”

Behind you, Jack went still again. Santos heard it. You knew she did because her eyes flicked briefly to Jack, then softened in a way she tried to cover too quickly.

“For Daddy’s hospital,” Santos repeated, gentler now.

Owen looked up at you. “And Mama’s hospital.”

Your throat tightened. Jack’s hand pressed lightly against your back. Santos looked between you and Jack, and for once, she did not make the obvious joke.

“Best hospital,” Santos said.

Owen smiled. “Yes.”

Javadi crouched beside Santos. “Did you make the cookies?”

Owen nodded. “With Mama and Daddy.”

Mel smiled. “That sounds fun.”

Owen thought about it. “Flour jumped.”

Cassie laughed softly. “Flour does that.”

Jack looked at her. “Do not encourage that narrative.”

Owen turned to Jack, one hand lifting slightly. “Daddy.”

Jack stopped. You stopped. Robby’s mouth began to curve. Owen sighed. Then he tilted his head, Jack’s face arranged into your exact expression of loving exasperation.

“The flour jumped,” Owen said.

The ED went silent for half a beat. Then Santos made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. Javadi covered her mouth.

Crus looked at you. “That one was you.”

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

Jack looked down at Owen, helplessly soft. “There she is,” Jack said.

Owen looked around. “Where?”

Dana looked at you. “Everywhere, apparently.”

That almost did you in. Owen’s attention returned to the container.

“Everybody gets one,” Owen said.

Robby shifted beside him. “Want help, kid?”

Owen nodded. “Gentle hands.”

“Gentle hands,” Robby agreed.

Together, Owen and Robby began distributing cookies. Owen gave Santos one and explained that chocolate chips were “clinically indicated.”

Jack said, “They are not.”

Robby said, “They are.”

Shen looked at the cookie in his hand. “There is insufficient evidence.”

Owen frowned at him.

Santos whispered, “Careful. Full-name energy.”

Shen looked down at Owen. “I accept the cookie.”

Owen nodded. “Good.”

Ellis took hers with a soft smile. “Thank you, Owen.”

Owen looked at her. “You said Daddy looked happy.”

Ellis blinked. Jack’s head turned.

“When?” Ellis looked at you.

You lifted both hands. “Not getting involved.”

Owen nodded. “Mama said.”

Jack looked at you now. You smiled sweetly. “Stories.”

Ellis’s smile softened. “He did look happy.”

Owen looked at Jack. Then back at Ellis. “Daddy is happy,” Owen said.

Jack’s face shifted. The whole station seemed to feel it. Robby looked down. Dana looked at you. You reached for Jack’s hand without thinking. Jack took it.

Crus cleared his throat and crouched to accept his cookie. “Thank you, Owen Henry Abbot.”

Owen smiled at the full name. “You’re welcome.”

Crus looked at Jack. “Still has your face.”

Owen turned to you immediately. “And Mama’s words.”

Your breath caught. Jack went very still. Robby’s face softened.

Santos pressed both hands to her chest. “I can’t keep doing this.”

Javadi whispered, “No one can.”

You crouched beside Owen before your legs decided to stop working.

“Who told you that, baby?” you asked.

Owen looked at you like the answer was obvious. “Daddy.”

Your eyes lifted to Jack. Jack looked down at you. Soft. Certain. Home.

“I did,” Jack said quietly.

Owen nodded. “Daddy says I have Mama’s words.”

Your throat tightened.

“And Mama’s hands,” Owen added, lifting one of his own as if to prove it.

Cassie made a tiny sound. Mel blinked quickly. Dana looked down at the cookie in her hand. Robby covered his mouth with one fist. You looked at Owen’s small hand. Then at his face. Jack’s face. Jack’s thoughtful mouth. Jack’s serious brow. Your words. Your hands. Your son.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Owen studied you. “Happy cry?”

You nodded, smiling through the sting in your eyes. “Yeah. Happy cry.”

Owen set the container carefully on the floor and put both hands on your cheeks.

“You okay, Mama?” Owen asked.

You laughed softly, broken and warm. “Yeah, baby.”

Owen narrowed his eyes. “Really?” he asked.

Behind him, Jack laughed under his breath. You looked up at your husband. He was smiling at both of you. Warm. Certain. Proud in a way he had stopped trying to hide.

“Really,” you said.

Owen studied you for another second. Then he smiled. “There she is,” Owen said.

The whole ED went a little blurry. Jack crouched beside you and brushed his hand over Owen’s hair. Owen leaned into the touch automatically.

Then he looked at Jack and reached into the container again.

“For Daddy,” Owen said.

Jack accepted the cookie. “Thank you, bud.”

Owen pressed it into Jack’s hand with both of his. “Good job fixing banana.”

Jack’s expression changed. Again. Soft. Stunned. A little ruined. Robby looked away first. Dana looked at you. You smiled through the sting in your eyes.

Jack’s voice was quiet when he answered. “Thank you, Owen.”

Owen leaned forward and kissed Jack’s forehead. Just like Jack kissed yours.

“There,” Owen said.

Jack closed his eyes. You were done. Completely.

Santos whispered, “I’m not okay.”

“No one is,” Javadi whispered back.

Jack opened his eyes and looked at Owen. Then he looked at you. And there it was again. That old, familiar softness. That look that had started in quiet kitchens and hospital rooms and grown into this. Owen turned back toward the group, apparently unaware he had just emotionally flattened half the department. He picked up the container and held it out to Mel.

“Cookie?” Owen asked.

Mel laughed through tears. “Absolutely.”

The rhythm of the ED picked up around you again. Phones. Monitors. Voices. Shift change moving forward because it always did. But for one impossible second, you let yourself stand still in the middle of it. Jack beside you. Owen in front of you. Robby crouched close, eating the biggest cookie like it mattered. Dana holding the good one Owen had chosen because she asked about you first.

Child Life upstairs with cookies of their own.

The ED around you, full of people who had known Owen as a secret, as a scan, as Tiny Abbot, as a newborn sleeping in Jack’s arms, and now as Owen Henry Abbot with chocolate on his fingers and a full name he knew how to carry.

For three years, everyone had told you Owen had Jack’s face. They were right. He did.

He had Jack’s profile. Jack’s thoughtful mouth. Jack’s serious little brow. The same devastating softness when he looked at you like loving you was something he had learned before he ever had words for it.

But standing in the middle of PTMC, offering cookies because sad things deserved care and broken things could become happy again, Owen Henry Abbot sounded exactly like you.

He loved like Jack. He felt like you. He belonged to both of you.

And this time, no one had to tell you.

You saw it.