Emma

Rain lashed the windowpanes in sheets, a steady drumbeat against the storm's low growl that rattled the ancient keep to its foundations.

You lay on your side, facing the dark, the weight of your belly a familiar, heavy anchor that pulled at your spine, making every shift a negotiation with gravity.

The child within stirred, a foot or a fist pressing against your ribs, and you gasped softly, your hand moving to cradle the spot.

Behind you, the massive bed groaned as Lyonel shifted in his sleep, a mountain of warmth and muscle. His arm, thick as a ship's timber, slid across the furs and found your hip, his fingers splaying possessively over the curve of your waist.

He was still mostly asleep, but his body knew where you were, always reaching for you in the dark. His breath, warm and even, brushed the back of your neck, stirring the fine hairs there.

“Can't sleep, my lady?” His voice was a low rumble, gravel-thick with sleep, vibrating against your back as he pressed closer. His cock, half-hard from the warmth of the bed and the press of your body, nudged against your thigh, thick and heavy even in its drowsy state.

You felt the familiar stir of heat low in your belly, a hunger that had only grown sharper in these final months, a craving for his weight, his heat, the feeling of being utterly filled.

“I need you,” you whispered into the dark, the words raw and honest, stripped of the courtesies and decorum of the day. You pushed back against him, your hips finding the shape of his, the jut of his cock pressing into the cleft of your ass through the thin linen of your shift. “Lyonel. I need you inside me.”

He woke then, fully, the shift in his breathing telling you he was no longer dreaming. His hand slid from your hip up your side, over the swell of your ribs, until he cupped your breast, heavy and tender with milk.

His thumb grazed the nipple, hard and sensitive, and you moaned, your back arching into his touch. “My lady,“ he murmured, his lips pressing against the curve of your shoulder. “You'll be the death of me.”

There was no fear in the words, only a kind of worshipful awe. He shifted, rising on one elbow, and you felt the cool air rush in where his body had been.

Then his hand was on your hip again, tugging the shift up, baring your thighs, your belly, the damp curls between your legs.

“Look at you,” he breathed, his voice rough. “Carrying my child. My son. My daughter. You're the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

You turned your head, meeting his eyes in the dim glow of the dying fire. His storm-grey eyes were dark with want, his jaw tight.

He lowered himself behind you again, his cock sliding along the wet seam of your cunt, slick and ready, and he groaned at the contact.

“Seven hells,” he muttered. “You're soaked.”

“I've been waiting,” you said, your voice breaking. “All day. I couldn't... he wouldn't let me rest. Kicking. And I just wanted you.”

He answered by pressing forward, not driving, but a slow, deliberate push that stretched you open around the thick head of his cock.

You gasped, your fingers gripping the furs, as he slid deeper, inch by inch, the angle adjusted to cradle your belly against the mattress.

He paused when he was fully sheathed, his balls resting against your wet flesh, his cock pulsing deep inside you.

“Gods,” he groaned against your hair. “You feel... you're so tight. So hot.”

You could only whimper, the feeling of being so completely filled overwhelming. He was everywhere, his chest against your back, his hand on your breast, his cock stretching you, the other hand pressing flat over the curve of your belly where his child floated.

The baby kicked, a sharp jab against his palm, and Lyonel laughed, a low, broken sound. “Even our babe knows,” he said. “Knows I'm where I belong.”

He began to move, a slow roll of his hips that withdrew him almost completely before pushing back in, deep and steady. The rhythm was a tide, pulling you under, each thrust a wave of pleasure that built and receded.

His hand on your breast squeezed gently, matching the rhythm, his thumb rubbing your nipple until it was hard and aching. “Lyonel,” you gasped, your hips pushing back to meet him. “More. Please.”

“Shh,” he soothed, his voice a low growl in your ear.

“Let me take care of you. Let me love you.” He moved faster, the slap of his hips against your ass a wet, obscene sound in the quiet room.

The head of his cock hit a spot deep inside you that sent sparks behind your eyes, and you cried out, your cunt clenching around him.

“Yes,” he hissed. “That’s it. Squeeze me. Take me.”

The pleasure built, a coil of heat and pressure that pulled tighter with every thrust. You were lost, drowning in him, his scent, his heat, the feel of his body surrounding you, protecting you.

The storm outside raged, but inside, there was only this: his cock sliding into you, his hand on your belly, his breath in your hair.

“I’m close,” you gasped, the words torn from you. “Lyonel, I’m going to...”

“Let go,” he commanded, his voice rough with his own restraint. “Let go for me. I have you.” He thrust deep, grinding against you, his hand leaving your breast to grip your hip, holding you open for him.

The pressure broke, a wave of heat and pleasure that ripped through you, your cunt clenching hard around his cock, milking him as you cried out his name, the sound swallowed by the storm.

He followed a heartbeat later, a deep, guttural groan against your neck as he emptied himself into you, his hot seed filling you in long, pulsing spurts.

He held himself still, buried to the hilt, his body trembling against yours as the aftershocks rolled through him.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the rain against the glass.

He stayed inside you, softening, his weight a comforting anchor. His hand moved, stroking the curve of your belly, tracing the path of his seed that trickled out around his cock.

“I love you,” he said, the words simple and absolute. “You and our child. My whole world is in this bed.” You felt a tear slip down your cheek, not of sadness, but of a relief so profound it ached.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, the confession slipping out before you could stop it. “What if something happens? What if...”

He pulled out, the loss of him a sudden emptiness, but before you could mourn it, he turned you, his big hands gentle on your hips, guiding you onto your back.

He loomed over you, his face above yours, his dark hair falling forward, his grey eyes blazing in the dim light.

He took your face in his calloused palms, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks.

“Listen to me,” he said, his voice the low, commanding rumble that quieted rooms, that made lords bend their knees.

“I am Lyonel Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End. I have never broken an oath, and I will not break this one. I will keep you safe. I will keep our child safe. I will burn the world to ash before I let a single harm come to either of you. Do you understand?” You nodded, unable to speak, the weight of his vow settling over you like a shield.

“I will not let you face this fear alone,” he continued, his voice softening as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“I am with you. Every step. Every pain. Every joy. You are not alone.”

He lowered himself beside you, gathering you against his chest, your belly pressed against his side. He pulled the furs up, covering you both, his hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together over your heart.

The storm beat against the walls, but the bed was a fortress, and Lyonel was its lord.

You closed your eyes, the exhaustion of the day, the weight of your body, the release of the pleasure, all pulling you toward sleep.

You felt him press a kiss to the crown of your head, his lips lingering.

“Sleep, my lady,” he murmured against your hair. “I will watch the door.” The rain softened to a whisper, the wind fading to a sigh.

The child inside you settled, finally still, as if feeling the safety of its father’s promise.

Lyonel’s hand never left your belly, his thumb tracing slow circles over the stretched skin, and in the warmth of his arms, the fear that had coiled in your chest for weeks began to loosen its grip.

You drifted in the half-dark, suspended between waking and dreaming, Lyonel’s heartbeat steady against your cheek. His chest rose and fell with the deep rhythm of a man who had given everything and held nothing back.

The fire had burned low, orange embers casting long shadows across the stone ceiling, and the rain had become a lullaby, distant and soft.

But sleep would not take you fully.

Something tugged at the edges of your awareness, a restlessness that had nothing to do with the child.

The fear Lyonel had soothed was still there, buried now, coiled in the space between your ribs.

You opened your eyes, staring at the curve of his jaw, the dark stubble that shadowed his skin.

He looked younger in sleep, the lines of command smoothed away, his mouth slightly parted.

You loved him so fiercely it hurt.

The child kicked, a sharp jab against your belly, and you gasped, your hand flying to the spot. Lyonel stirred, his arm tightening around you, but he did not wake.

You felt the shape of the movement under your palm, a foot or a knee pressing outward, and you smiled in the dark, a fragile, trembling thing.

“You’re restless too,” you whispered, so low it was barely a breath. “You feel it, don’t you? The storm. The change.”

The baby kicked again, as if in answer, and you pressed your palm flat, trying to soothe them both. The fear was still there, a cold thread winding through the warmth of Lyonel’s love.

The maester had said the birth would be difficult. Your hips were narrow, the babe large.

He had used words like “complication” and “risk,” his voice carefully neutral, but you had seen the worry in his eyes.

You had not told Lyonel. You could not.

He would lock you in this room, surround you with every maester in the Stormlands, and burn the Citadel to the ground if it meant keeping you safe.

And you loved him for it.

But you also needed him to be strong, not frantic. You needed him to be the Lord of Storm’s End, not a man consumed by fear.

So you had smiled and thanked the maester and said nothing. But the fear had grown, a shadow that followed you through every corridor, that sat beside you at every meal, that whispered in the dark when Lyonel’s breathing evened into sleep.

What if something went wrong? What if you bled out on the birthing bed, your child pulled from your cold body?

What if the babe came early, too small to survive?

What if you held your son or daughter in your arms and watched them fade?

You blinked, and felt the sting of tears you had not realized were falling. They slid down your temples, soaking into Lyonel’s chest. You tried to breathe quietly, to keep the sob trapped in your throat, but your body betrayed you, a shudder running through your frame.

“My lady?” His voice was thick with sleep, but the alertness was already there, the warrior waking. His hand found your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. The dying fire caught the grey in his irises, turning them to storm clouds. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, unable to speak, the tears coming faster now. You pressed your face into his chest, hiding, ashamed of your weakness.

He was supposed to be the one who protected you, and here you were, weeping in his arms like a child. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, his lips pressing against your hair.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice low and steady, the voice he used to calm frightened horses and rebellious lords. “Whatever it is, we face it together. That is the oath I swore.”

“The maester,” you whispered, the words breaking on the way out. “He said... the birth will be difficult. My hips. The babe is large. He said there are risks.” Lyonel went still. The only sound was the rain and your ragged breath.

“When did he tell you this?” His voice was flat, controlled, but you felt the tension coiling in his muscles, the hand on your belly tightening.

“A fortnight ago. After the examination. I didn’t... I couldn’t tell you. I knew you would...”

“I would what?” He pulled back, his eyes finding yours, fierce and bright. “I would protect you? I would move the Seven Hells themselves to keep you safe? Yes. I would. And you hid this from me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you said, your voice small. “You have the keep, the lords, the harvest. You have so much to carry. I didn’t want to be another weight.”

His expression cracked, something raw and wounded surfacing.

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks.

“You are not a weight,” he said, his voice rough. “You are the reason I carry anything at all. Without you, there is no keep. No lords. No harvest. There is only an empty hall and a cold bed.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm on your lips. “I will send for the best midwife in the Seven Kingdoms. I will bring every maester from Oldtown if I must. I will build a birthing chamber lined with silk and guarded by a hundred swords. Whatever you need, it is yours.”

“I need you,” you said, the words a whisper. “I need you to be there. To hold my hand. To tell me I am not alone.”

“I will be there,” he said, the vow absolute. “I will not leave your side. Not for a moment. Not for anything.” He kissed you then, soft and slow, a promise sealed with lips and breath.

When he pulled back, his eyes were wet, and he did not bother to hide it. “You are my wife,” he said. “You are carrying my child. You are the future of Storm’s End. And I will not let you face this fear alone. Do you hear me?”

You nodded, your throat too tight for words.

“Good.” He lay back, pulling you against his chest, his hand finding its place on your belly.

“Now sleep. Tomorrow, we plan. Tonight, we rest.”

You closed your eyes, the fear still there, but smaller now, held at bay by the warmth of his body and the weight of his promise.

The rain had stopped, the silence of the storm’s passing settling over the keep like a blanket. The child kicked once more, a gentle nudge, as if to say they were listening too.

You pressed a kiss to Lyonel’s chest, just over his heart, and let the darkness take you.

No matter how many years together, he still treats you as he did when you were his betrothed. But in the sense that his chivalry knows no bounds. Only now, knowing you more. Always walking a step behind you, but with his hand raised to your lower back. Bringing flowers by hand to your solar or chambers when he returns home. Unclasping his cloak from himself to drape it around your shoulders on colder nights. It’s become second nature now.

And he secretly loves when you steal them from him, letting it fall into your hands even when his men eye him from behind. He could care less, so long as you’re the one doing it.

You’re the last person he sees before battles, if the time will allow him. It’s a ritual he has, already in his armour, tucking his helm under his arm before standing in front of you.

“Do you have to go?” You blink up at him, still fussing with the steel placed on his arm.

“You know that I must. I only want to make sure your face is the last I see.” His voice is a delicate rasp, not once tearing his eyes from you as his fingers raise you strike your cheek.

Your hand plants into the metal under your hand, nudging him as he tempts a smile, the action barely knocking him back at all. And then he leans, placing a kiss to your cheek, one longing and lasting, nudging his nose to yours as he breaths. Another one captures your lips, this time more fervent, both palms smoothing to the sides of your face as he draws you near. So that should it be the last, it’s the only thing to remember him by.

Speaking of battle and being taken from you, he brings souvenirs and gifts back with him as often as he can. Pressed flowers in his handkerchief at his breastplate, ones far from what you’re used to, summer flowers, wildflowers, and herbs in vibrant colours. Trinkets and delicate pieces of jewellery that are dainty enough to fit into his pockets. Or simply just the small letters he sends more frequently than he should by Raven.

Always signed with the signature of his name and beneath it:

Forever Yours.

The most protective in the quiet way. Because even if he can’t be beside you, his eye always is. Though jealousy isn’t something strong with him, he is weary of those around him, with full trust and care of you. He had seen how depraved men can be, how ruthless they become with a quick turn. At feasts he pulls out your chair, sliding an arm around you, or settling lowly on your knee, at ceremonies or in large crowds he’s at your side. And when others raise their voice or get too close, he’s slipping impossibly close just to put himself between you and the danger.

Gwayne doesn’t do titles, at least only for the times when duty doesn’t require it, and he introduces you as such. To him you are not just lady.. he speaks your name first, and that alone, before he continues.

“My wife..” A proud smile appearing on his face as he draws you closer to him. Though for whatever reason, he still uses ‘My Lady’ to tease in the softer moments, wrapping his arms behind you as you stand in front of your vanity, lips pursing at your neck. Because the titles and endearments are for you, no one else.

His favourite pastime is just being in the quiet with you, existing together, more so reading. Sometimes he will read with you in his lap, one hand combing gently through your hair as you listen, drifting slowly. Other times he’s the one laid behind you, your back pressed into his chest, his arms curling around you as you hold the book. Those are the rare times he truly feels like he relaxes, eyes closing, breath warm at your neck, listening to the soothing tone of your voice.

He reserves the more lighthearted sides of himself in private. Most people would describe him as plain, a chivalrous, good man, but perhaps in some people’s eyes boring. He doesn’t stand and shout amongst the other men, or become raucous in crowds, but he isn’t without humour. It’s dry, and sarcastic like he is. Like the looks he gives you from the side when a lord drones on too long, or the sly comments he makes behind someone else’s back that make you both laugh when you’re attempting to stay serious. There is more to him than most know, and he’s often mocking them at their own expense, just to see you smile.

When the weight of the realm feels impossibly heavy, he simply rests his forehead against your own, in company or without it. It’s your shared way of grounding one another, and how he vows to you silently, over and over, that he is yours. He’s here to protect, and be by your side more than any other responsibility that befalls him.

“Yours, before all else.”

The first clue should have been the lunches and not because they were extravagant, you didn’t seem like the type for extravagant anything, but because they were consistent. The same way a child’s school lunch is.

Every day around noon, a neatly packed lunch appeared in the break room refrigerator with a small sticky note attached. Everyone saw it, everyone talked about it, yet very few actually knew who placed the lunch you were eating in the fridge.

Don't forget to eat today. -B

Protein. You've skipped breakfast three days in a row. -B

Or everyone's personal favorite: If you trade these vegetables for coffee again, I will find out. -B

"Who writes threatening vegetable notes?" Santos asked one afternoon, holding up the latest message while the rest of the residents crowded around.

"A spouse," Whitaker said confidently.

"An overbearing spouse," Santos corrected, pointing at him.

"An attentive spouse," Javadi argued with a shrug. "Honestly, it's kind of sweet."

Santos narrowed her eyes, “you're only saying that because you've never dated anyone who monitored your diet.”

”Correction Trinity, I have never dated anyone… ever,” Javadi said back, stating the last word quietly as she realized that was not the comeback she initially thought it was.

Santos simply rolled her eyes in response.

Just outside at the nurses station you sat quietly charting, seemingly oblivious to the debate raging on the other side of the break room door. The thing the residents didn’t know is that you were far from oblivious to the situation, you simply chose not to acknowledge it.

Which, according to the well seasoned nurses of the Pitt, only made things more fun.

"It has officially been seven months," Princess announced during a lull in the ER. "Seven months since the new crop of residents arrived, and none of them know who our favorite sweetheart's mystery husband is."

Perlah looked up from stocking supplies and shook her head, “pathetic.”

Dana, sitting at the charge desk, didn't even bother hiding her amusement, she had a smirk that said everything she didn’t.

“It's not pathetic,” Whitaker protested, his tone laced with offense, “she literally never talks about him.”

“Or her,” Santos added, “could be a wife.”

"True," Javadi agreed.

Dana laughed without looking up from the work she was focused on.

“Oh, you think that's funny?" Santos said immediately, “you all know, don't you?"

Dana carefully sipped her coffee, "I know lots of things,” she shrugged, “I’ve been working at this nursing station longer than you’ve been alive.”

"That means yes," Whitaker whispered.

Princess grinned, "Dana's known for years."

"You know?" Santos demanded.

"I might,” Princess shrugged casually.

"Who is it?" Javadi deadpanned.

"Nope,” Perlah and Princess said at the same time.

"Come on!" Santos said with a huff.

"No,” Dana said.

"Please?" Javadi begged with a fake pout.

"Absolutely not,” Dana said.

Whitaker looked betrayed, "I thought we had a mentor-mentee relationship.”

"We do,” she said casually.

"Mentors share information,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

Dana smiled pleasantly, “not other people’s personal information.”

By the end of the week, the betting pool had begun, as it did with every class of residents.

Technically, the experienced nurses had been running it for years. Every new class of residents eventually became obsessed with discovering the identity of your mysterious spouse.

The rules were simple. One guess per resident. No cheating. They had one more week to put in their final guesses, and if there is any cheating, the residents have to buy the nurses dinner.

The winner gets free dinners for a week, courtesy of Dana, Princess, and Perlah.

The catch? Nobody has ever guessed correctly.

"Firefighter," Santos declared confidently with her arms crossed thoughtfully.

"Why?" Javadi asked, pursing her lips.

"Because she's calm in a crisis, organized, and way too good at lifting patients. Firefighter spouses rub off on people,” Santos said matter of factly.

Whitaker frowned, “that's not science. Those are also all qualities of a good trauma doctor."

Santos shrugged again, "it's vibes."

"My guess is professor," Javadi said. "Maybe literature."

Everyone stared at her.

"What?" she asked defensively.

"Why literature?"

"She says things like 'that's an interesting perspective' when she's angry. That's someone married to an academic. Plus she’s super calm and probably likes to read books," Victoria said, defending her thesis.

"Okay," Whitaker said. "I think it's another doctor."

The nurses exchanged looks and Dennis noticed immediately.

"Oh my God,” Dennis said as his eyes widened.

"No," Dana said instantly, shaking her head in indifference.

"Your face did something,” he said pointing towards her.

"My face did not do something,” she deadpanned.

The investigation intensified after that.

Santos began casually asking questions while the two of you sutured a laceration together or when you let her perform certain tests and procedures under your supervision.

"So," she said casually, "what does your husband do?"

You glanced up, "he's actually a surgeon."

Santos nearly dropped the forceps, she mumbled an apology to the patient who was now concerned. "WHAT KIND?" She whisper-yelled over the limb.

You smiled innocently, “surgical."

"That's not an answer,” she said, rolling her eyes.

You shrugged your shoulders, not looking up from the incision in front of you but biting back a smile.

Santos groaned in frustration.

Javadi tried next.

"How long have you been married?" She asked innocently as you held up the X-ray images in front of her.

"Eight years,” you said, keeping your eyes on the broken femur in front of you.

"Children?" She asked innocently.

You nodded, “a dog."

"Name?" She continued, seemingly catching you in one of your chattier moods.

"Lily,” you said sweetly, finally peeling your eyes away from the tablet and looking at her.

"Awww I love dogs, do you have any pictures?” She asked, testing her luck.

You immediately brightened and pulled out your phone, proudly showing off approximately three hundred photos.

To her disappointment, not one included your husband. And she had to sit there and watch you scroll through photos for eight whole minutes and left with no information.

Whitaker resorted to espionage and failed spectacularly.

He happened to be standing beside you at the front desk when your phone rang.

The screen lit up: Husband ❤️

Whitaker practically launched himself sideways trying to see more.

You bit back your laugh and answered anyway.

"Hi, honey."

Pause.

"No, I remembered lunch."

Pause.

"Yes, I actually ate it."

Another pause.

You sighed, "I ate it all."

Whitaker mouthed husband Santos across the department while slyly pointing to where you sat on your phone.

You looked over slowly, moving the phone away from your ear, "Dr. Whitaker."

He froze, "yes?" Trying to cover up his nosiness with a polite smile.

"You know eavesdropping is generally considered rude,” you said simply.

"I wasn't eavesdropping,” he said, still smiling.

"You are basically hanging upside down over the desk,” you pointed out.

He removed himself from the uncomfortable position he hadn’t even realized he had folded himself into while trying to listen. He mumbled an apology, took his chart, and sulked away. Once he was gone, you put the phone back to your ear.

When he approached Trinity she was already bent over laughing, “real smooth.”

Months later, no one was any closer and that made the nurses even more insufferable.

"At this point," Santos complained, "I'm starting to think you all made him up."

You looked genuinely offended, "I assure you my husband exists."

"Prove it,” she quipped back.

You considered it for a moment, even pursing your lips in thought, “no.”

The reveal happened completely by accident. The Pitt was beyond its natural state of chaos. Every room was full, EMS kept rolling in, and you hadn't stopped moving for six straight hours.

The bets were currently in: Whitaker - Doctor names Ben, Santos- undecided named Brian, Javadi - vet named Bobby.

Dana had all her money on Whitaker getting it right, while Princess and Perlah stood firmly on the side of no one getting it.

Dana finally cornered you, “take ten minutes.”

"I'm fine,” you huffed.

"That wasn't a suggestion,” she said.

You sighed, “yes, Mom. If I take ten, you take ten.”

Dana pointed toward the lounge, “go. I’ll meet you in there.”

Five minutes later, a tall orthopedic surgeon walked into the emergency department carrying a takeout bag.

Several heads turned.

Mostly because Dr. Brendon Park from Ortho rarely ventured into the ER unless someone had broken something particularly impressively, and even then he usually sent a resident down to consider whether it was worth his time.

"Hey, Dana," Brendon said, “she around?"

Dana looked up from the desk and a slow smile spread across her face.

"Oh, this should be fun,” she said slyly.

Santos, Whitaker, and Javadi all looked over, but unable to hear Dana amidst all the commotion.

Brendon frowned, but ignored the stares, “heard it’s been rough down here today.”

Dana nodded towards the break room door, “she's in the lounge.”

"Thanks,” he tapped the counter in acknowledgment before heading in your direction.

The residents all followed him with their eyes as he disappeared into the break room.

Whitaker frowned.

Two minutes later, you emerged from the lounge carrying coffee, smiling in a way no one in the department had ever seen before.

Brendon followed behind you, but the catch was… he was almost smiling. The tips of his ears were slightly pink, and he almost looked happy.

You both stopped outside the door and faced one another. Without hesitation, he reached over, tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Try to sit down for at least ten minutes," he said.

"I will,” you said.

"You said that yesterday,” he said back with a sigh.

"I mean it this time,” you said quickly.

"You also said that yesterday,” he murmured.

You smiled sheepishly, "I love you."

"Love you too,” he said quietly.

Brendon finally noticed everyone staring. "...Why is everyone looking at us?"

You looked around then, meeting Dana’s eyes and immediately giving her a knowing smirk.

"Dinner's on you three for the next week,” Dana said pointing at all the residents.

Santos looked like she'd been struck by lightning, “how is this cheating? He cam down here.”

Whitaker's mouth had actually fallen open, “I was at least somewhat close. In my defense, I thought his name was Shark.”

Javadi simply whispered, "orthopedic surgery. Of course."

You blinked, "oh."

You looked between everyone, “were you all still trying to figure out who my husband was?"

"STILL?" Santos shrieked.

You looked genuinely confused, "I thought it was obvious."

The nurses dissolved into laughter. Dana wiped tears from her eyes, “tonight I would really like that Chinese place with the eggrolls.”

Then she turned to you. “Sweetheart, you've been married eight years and half this department wasn't convinced he was real. The other half still doesn’t know.”

You considered that, “huh.”

Beside you, Brendon smile, “to be fair, she's very private and quiet.”

"You're one to talk," Dana shot back.

Brendon looked offended, "I talk."

Princess snorted without looking away from the triage board, "you speak exclusively about bones and your wife."

You quietly slipped your hand into his and Brendon immediately relaxed.

"Oh my god," Trinity whispered. "They're adorable."

"Disgustingly so," Dana agreed with a smile.

And somewhere in the distance, Perlah was already planning the next betting pool.

Tags (all): @ilocuras24 @nyxmoretti @kmc1989 @destinyg237

Tags (the Pitt): @sexychickenmagnet @thehockeynerd30 @woderfulkawaii @renegadebirch

Jack Abbot was never really the type to feed himself the way a person should eat. He lived off of vending machine food and granola bars. He could cook—he’s actually a very good cook—but didn’t see the point after a twelve hour shift that left him dead on his feet.

But for you? He’d cook a three course meal if you asked. He made sure you had dinner when he was off, waited on you hand and foot.

You did the same for him. But more so; you kept him fed.

You started meal prepping lunches for him to take to work; sometimes just leftovers from the previous night or something you made new entirely the day before while he was at work. Then you started adding desserts and snacks; a donut or pastry from the corner bakery you both loved, homemade cookies or brownies.

You left yogurt and homemade granola, veggie sticks with dip, beef jerky. But the dinners you packed? God, Jack could die on that hill.

He couldn’t explain how happy and domestic it made him feel to open up his lunchbox and find you’d packed him leftovers from the lasagna you’d made. Or chili, or a sandwich that looked like it came straight from a deli. Wraps that were filled to the brim with turkey and lettuce and everything he liked in them. He’d groan every time he took that first bite, leaning back in his chair with a content sigh. Something dangerous playing in his heart.

You—his sweet girlfriend of a few months who lived in his t-shirts and padded around his apartment with a giddy step and had more kindness in your pinky than most people had in their entire body—packed him lunch like it was nothing. Taking care of him like it was second nature. For you, it was.

People noticed, because Jack Abbot didn’t eat on shift unless it was a handful of nuts or whatever stale thing fell out of the vending machine when he kicked it after it ate his money.

But along with Jack eating good, came the changes in his body. Not anything drastic or bad but…he got thicker. At first it was just a little more pull at his scrubs, nothing he couldn’t handle by adjusting his arms a little.

He didn’t get fat or out of shape just; broader, healthy fat lining his muscles. His pecs and biceps always strained against his shirts, but now they looked like they were seconds away from busting the seams open. His ass got rounder, cheeks slightly more plush that you grabbed every time he kissed you; making him yelp a noise of protest. Every. Single. Time.

Don’t even get started on his torso. Layered with a slight pudge at the bottom when he wore his belt, abs and back muscles visible and flexing underneath his movements. He looked divine. He was stronger, more solid and filled out. His scrub top looked more than two sizes too small, hanging on for dear life.

Even if people noticed, they didn’t say anything; not at first. But of course Robby would be the one to put a stop to that; coming to a halt as he walked by with an ipad in hand, looking at his best friend like he’d just committed a felony in front of him.

“Jesus brother”, Robby says; “Let that shirt breathe.”

Jack turned to look at him, pushing his elbows off the counter of the hub; “What?”

“You look like your shirt’s two seconds away from ripping”, Robby points out, like it’s common knowledge.

“I don’t-“

Dana appears out of thin air next to them; “He’s right. You’ve been eating actual food too.”

Jack’s mouth stays open for a second, before a smirk takes its place; “So what? People eat.”

“You”, Robby says, pointing at him with a look over his glasses; “Don’t eat.”

“This feels like a personal attack”, Jack scoffs, still slightly amused; “You don’t eat either.”

“Correct. But i’m not suddenly showing up two months later looking like an honorary Avenger about to bust out of his scrub top.”

Jack’s jaw ticks, eyes flicking between the two; “You’re unbelievable.”

Jack grabs his own tablet, throwing a mock glare at the two in front of him; “I have patients to see, you know, like a real doctor?”

Then he walks away, throwing a half-hearted wave and a middle finger at whatever Dana and Robby are calling out after him.

Robby shifts on his feet, scoff leaving his mouth; “Damn.”

Dana gives him a look; “Whatever you’re thinking Robinavitch; don’t.”

Robby shakes his head; “No…Abbot’s got a better ass than me.”

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

A week later Jack finds himself standing in the break room, pulling out the lunch box you packed for him—leftovers from dinner the night before. Pasta and bread that he happily reheated in the microwave and toaster oven.

A small yellow sticky note was stuck to the top of the container, his lips already twitching at the corners.

‘Baby! I can’t wait to see you today. Go kick ass & save lives, sexy doctor man !! I love you sooooo much !! PS: I left you a surprise from your fav place !!’ with a little smiley face and heart drawn below it.

Jack’s heart skipped a beat, feeling the heat climbing up his neck and ears; settling on his cheeks as he slipped the note into his pocket to hang in his locker later with all the other notes of yours he kept.

He settled at the round table in the break room, looking further into the lunch box where sure enough—he found a pastry from his favorite bakery around the corner from his apartment.

He took a bite of it, sighing and letting his eyes close as the sweet taste hit his tongue. Shoulders dropping a bit as he relaxed a little into the chair.

He didn’t even open his eyes when the break room door swung open, whoever was stepping inside slipped to the back of his mind.

“Woah, is that homemade pasta?”, Shen’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Jack grunted quietly in response, nodding as he leant forward to take a bite; “Maybe.”

“You got a professional chef at home we don’t know about?”

Jack smirked a little; “Something like that.”

He took another bite, knowing more questions were coming and secretly hoping Shen would just do whatever he came in to do and let him eat in peace—but this was the ED, the night shift nonetheless; and Jack knew that was wishful thinking.

The door swung open behind them, Ellis sliding up next to Shen—stopping in her tracks.

“Abbot’s got homemade pasta”, Shen says, eyes wide.

Ellis leans over to inspect; “Now I know you didn’t cook that yourself.”

Jack raises his brows; “I can cook.”

“Not like that”, Ellis defends; “You burnt the noodles at last year’s potluck.”

“Robby was distracting me.”

“Excuses.”

Jack huffed and took another bite of his food.

“A pastry too? Who’s packing you this stuff?”

Jack takes the last bite of his pasta, pushing himself out of his chair and packing up the empty container; “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He can feel the eyes on him as he puts the lunchbox back into the fridge, pulls out a water and slips past them with a smirk; “Enjoy your break, crawlers.”

Ellis scoffs, turning to Shen; “Fifty bucks says he’s got a woman at home. He’s not cooking like that.”

“Sixty-five”, Shen says, holding out his hand.

Ellis shakes it; “Done.”

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

The buzz of Jack Abbot’s sudden new eating habits—that actually benefited his body more than a vending machine dinner—quickly reached every corner of the ED. Various bets and hushed whispers of different theories floated around med students and residents alike. Hell, even Robby’s name had made it up on the betting board.

Jack himself couldn’t care less, the hushed whispers of the bet made him smirk to himself; knowing it was driving his coworkers crazy.

He wasn’t keeping you a secret exactly; it had just never directly or seriously come up.

He didn’t pay too much mind to all the whispers about his new size, either—mostly brushing it off as teasing or Robby and Dana just trying to get him all riled up.

But now, as he stood in the bathroom of his apartment—tugging a soft grey t-shirt over his head after a much needed shower; he was starting to think what Robby had said may have some truth to it.

You can hear him huff to himself in the bathroom, words you can’t quite pick up on as you flip through TV channels. A soft groan of frustration or disbelief echoes through Jack’s room, making you sit up more.

“Baby?”, You call, “Everything ok?”

There’s another quiet murmur of something before Jack comes out of the bathroom; hair still damp, greying curls lightening up as they dry. Boxers clinging low on his hips, the grey shirt he has on doing almost nothing to cover the contour and outline of his muscles—clinging to him so close he might as well not even bother wearing it.

Your mouth goes dry, watching as he sets his crutches against the bedside table and slumps down onto the end of the bed—every muscle in his back moving and pulling the shirt fabric even tighter.

“M’fine”, He says, messaging his residual limb; “Just starting to think maybe Robby’s right.”

“Ok…?”, You breathe; “Don’t ever say those words again…but about what?”

Jack huffs a laugh; “I’m serious!”

You shimmy out from underneath the covers, walking on your knees to the end of the bed and letting your hands roam over Jack’s shoulders. He instantly leans into it—like he didn’t even have to think about it anymore.

“He said my scrub top looked too small”, Jack sighs.

“Really?”

“Well actually his exact words were ‘let that shirt breathe, you’re about to rip it’ but I was phrasing it nicer.”

You laugh; “What makes you think he’s right?”

Jack shrugs; “Didn’t notice anything until I tried to put this shirt on and it barely fits. It used to be loose on me…”

He trails off, something in his mind making him think extra hard.

You hum softly, continuing to rub at his shoulders and a little down his arms; playing with the damp curls at the nape of his neck.

It’s quiet in the room as Jack continues to massage the tension out of his leg, eyes flicking over whatever TV channel you’d landed on before he came out. You press a soft kiss to his nape.

“Am I bigger?”, He asks suddenly.

Your eyes widen, a surprised laugh escaping your lips; “W-What?”

“Am I bigger?”, He repeats; “Have I put on weight?”

You soften immediately, realizing by the scrunch in his brow; he’s insecure about this.

“Baby, no”, You coo, slipping around to settle into his lap.

His hands come up to your waist, immediately steadying you.

“You’re just eating good”, You assure him.

His brow stays furrowed, a slight pout on his face and lips; eyes not looking at you.

“I mean maybe you’ve put on a few pounds, but with your job and SWAT; it’s all muscle, my love”, You say, letting your fingers comb through his hair.

He doesn’t answer yet, but his brow softens, eyes flicking towards yours now as you move your face in front of his.

“You’re so broad”, You whisper, hands roaming his shoulders again; “So strong.”

“Yeah?”, He asks, eyebrows raising a bit.

You nod, bottom lip between your teeth; “Yeah.”

You giggle softly when you feel his fingers flex at your waist, the way he shivers when you let your hands drift under his shirt—palms pressing flat against his torso. You let them settle there for a moment, fingers tapping against skin before you pull them back—tugging upwards at the hem.

His ears are pink now, but he doesn’t hesitate; pulling the shirt up and over his head with one pull at the back of the collar. It lands somewhere on the floor, but your attention remains on him.

Pale skin with a slight farmers tan disappearing by his elbows; laid out bare in front of you. His eyes flicking around the room, hands back at your waist.

With a soft hand on his jaw, you force him to look at you.

“You’re so thick”, You murmur, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder.

His grip of your waist tightens, a breath leaving his nose.

Your kisses travel over his skin, trailing over his shoulders and torso; leaving no spot unmarked.

“So full and filled out.”

Kiss.

“So muscular.”

Kiss.

“So handsome.”

Your compliments start drifting elsewhere as you let your kisses trail over him.

“So kind.”

Kiss.

“So caring.”

Another kiss.

“So good to me.”

A kiss to his neck.

Your hands stop at the bottom of his torso, just below his belly button where the slightest bit of softer skin sits just above his waistband. You smooth your hands over it, feeling the muscle below it tense.

You look up, finding Jack’s cheeks the same color as his ears—his eyes wide and waiting. You pinch his skin once, before letting your hands roam back up his freckled arms to his shoulders; cupping his nape in your hands.

“You’re so beautiful, Jack”, You murmur.

A shaky breath leaves him, your lips against his cheeks and nose. He pulls back, eyes searching yours.

“God, I love you”, He huffs, pulling you in for a kiss.

His lips press firm against yours, hands traveling up your back and settling on your ribs. Jack’s forehead stays against yours when he pulls back, eyes still closed.

“It’s your fault, ya know”, He smirks.

You shrug; “I know, and I’m gonna keep feeding my man good.”

He lets out a noise between a groan and something of disbelief when you move off his lap, finding your way back to your spot on the bed. He follows you, rolling over to lay on his stomach; arms framed around his head and tucked under his pillow.

“Besides”, You say, mischievous smile growing; “Your ass looks ridiculously good.”

He yelps when your hand comes in contact with his ass, eyes wide as pink practically runs up his neck.

“Baby!”

“M’not even sorry”, You say, leaning in to capture his lips before he can protest any further.

─ ─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── ─── ─── ─

Something in Jack settles after that, most of the insecurity gone. He takes all the comments from Robby and Dana in stride. He still eats what you pack him, still keeps your notes.

He frowns when he goes to get his lunchbox out, finding it missing with a note in its place.

‘No lunch today, baby. Got a surprise for you!’

He can’t help the way his lips turn up at the corner, curiosity taking over when the door behind him swings open.

“Abbot! We got a MVA coming in”, Dana’s voice cuts him out of his thoughts.

“How long?”

“About two minutes.”

Jack sighs once, putting his bag away and following Dana out the door; the part of him trying to figure out what you were up to slipping to the back of his mind.

About two hours later, the bay doors open around you; boxes stacked in your hands as you wander towards the hub.

“You need help there, hon?”, Dana’s voice comes.

She’s standing at the hub, brows quirked in amusement and confusion.

“Oh hi!”, You chirp; “I just brought some lunch for my boyfriend and his co-workers. Not really sure where to put it though.”

Dana’s smile grows; “Well why didn’t you say so? Follow me, we’ll put those in here.”

She shows you to the break room, holding the door open as you slip in.

“So boyfriend huh? Which one of our lucky med students gets all this food?”, She asks, leading you back to the hub.

“Oh! He’s not a med student, he’s a doctor! Uh, Jack?”, You say.

Dana’s smile widens even further; “So you’re the one who’s feeding our grumpy guy?”

Robby’s head whips up from the other side of the hub, Ellis and Shen slowing to a stop behind him.

You can’t help the laugh the slips out; “He looks grumpy sometimes, but he’s actually not. It’s all a ruse.”

It’s Dana’s turn to laugh; “Huh.”

“He thinks he’s got everyone fooled, but he’s just a big—“

“Sweetheart?”, Jack’s voice breaks through.

Your eyes light up immediately, rushing to meet him halfway; “Jack!”

You meet his chest with a soft thud, arms wrapping around him as you lean up and press a kiss to his lips. He’s frozen for a moment, but immediately melts into the kiss once your lips meet his. His strong hands find your waist, smoothing over them; keeping you both grounded.

Nothing else around him matters in that moment—not whatever trauma he’d just stepped out of, not the fact that his leg was a little sore, not the fact that the ED had fallen almost silent around you; and not Robby or his coworkers bewildered gazes.

He’s melted into you as you wrapped your arms around his torso, tucking yourself under his arm; hand rubbing softly over his ribs.

“Baby!”, You hum; “I missed you.”

Jack’s eyes wander over you; “I missed you too, sweetheart.”

There’s a moment where his brain catches up, and he’s suddenly tilting your head up to look at him; worried eyes checking over your features.

“What’re you doing here? Are you ok? Are you hurt?”, His questions come rambling out.

You giggle, squeezing his side; “I’m fine! I brought you and your friends some lunch. It’s in the break room.”

Jack softens, a small graze of his lips against your head; “Sweetheart, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I know”, You shrug; “But I wanted to.”

The gazes around you narrow, mouths agape at this Jack.

Jack Abbot was a lot of things in the ED; assertive, leading, confident, level-headed, kind, always looking out for everyone in his own quiet way; but he wasn’t soft.

But with you? Jack crumbled under your gaze, the strong-willed and grumpy looking attending was a smiling and sweet puddle in your arms.

“I got that coffee that you like”, You hum.

Jack dips his head down closer to hear you; “From the deli?”

“Mhm, it’s at home on the counter. Where do you think I got the sandwiches from?”

Something sparkles in his eyes; “That’s what you brought us for lunch? Baby, that’s too much.”

But the glint of excitement stays in his eyes.

You tsk and wave him off; “Not for you.”

His face goes unbearably fond, eyes and smile soft. His lips brush against your ear.

“You’re gonna spoil us”, He says, voice low and raspy.

“Let me”, You smirk.

Behind you, Robby finally clears his throat; “Jack you gonna introduce us or do we all just not exist now?”

“You don’t”, Jack rolls his eyes, smirking as Robby feigns hurt.

Jack introduces you, pointing to each of his colleagues that have gathered around; “That’s Robby, he’s annoying.”

You smack his chest; “Be nice!”

Jack doesn’t falter; “That’s Dana, she makes this place run smoothly. Behind her are Ellis and Shen.”

“Oh! You’re Dana!”, You smile; “I’ve heard so much about all of you.”

“Oh really—“, Robby starts before Dana stops him with a flick to the back of his neck; “Ow!”

Jack takes that as an opportunity to steer you away from the crowd and into the break room; Whitaker slipping out the door with a mouthful of sandwich from one of the boxes.

“Well it seems like they like the sandwiches”, You say, watching as Jack himself digs into the boxes you’d left on the counter.

“I labeled yours”, You add.

Jack finds his as the words leave your mouth, unwrapping it as he lowers himself onto the small couch—patting his lap; “‘Cmere.”

You drift towards him with a magnetic pull you’ll never be able to explain, finding your spot on his good leg. Hands drifting up to play with the curls on his head; a little sweaty now from working.

He hums around another bite of sandwich, his free arm resting at your back; “Thank you for this, really sweetheart.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Jack. I like taking care of you”, You tell him.

The smile on your face matches his as he presses a kiss to your temple, offering you a bite that you gladly accept.

“Your friends seem nice”, You add; “Kinda quiet though.”

Jack scoffs, smirk crooked; “Give them a chance.”

“We should have them over sometime, for a barbecue or something.”

Jack hums, palm circling your lower back; “Whatever you want, baby.”

You reach out and grab his chin, catching him off guard; his mouth still half open as he went in for another bite—brows in his hairline.

“I love you”, You coo, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He chases after your lips; “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You let his lips take over yours, warm and present. You jump when you pull back, checking your watch; “Oh! I gotta get going, I’m gonna be late.”

Jack pats your bum as you press another kiss to his lips, slipping out of his lap and heading towards the break room door. You turn back when you get there, smiling at Jack whose eyes have never left you.

“See you at home?”, He asks, not really wanting you to leave.

You nod, bottom lip between your teeth; “With dinner and a hot bath ready.”

Jack groans, already aching to be cuddled up with you and unwind from his shift. You blow him a kiss with a soft wave, that he happily returns before you slip out the door; leaving him alone in the break room.

He can still feel your weight on his lap, your fingers in his hair and your lips against his—a blush and smile creeping up on him as he leans forward for another bite of his sandwich;

“So ‘baby’, huh?”, Robby’s voice comes.

“Shut up, Robinavitch”, Jack juts.

The sound of a clipboard hitting the floor and Robby yelping as he jumps out of the way are all that Jack hears as the door swings shut; humming softly to himself—more than ready to come home to you.

"You wanna ride some rides?" you ask.

"Meh," Travis shrugs, seemingly content just to walk a few steps ahead of you and Mac.

"You wanna ride some rides?" you tease, giving Mac a nudge. He scoffs in response, because you know damn well he's not gettin' on any of those rickety-ass carnival rides.

You walk the big circle twice, waiting for something to catch Travis's eye. You pass rigged games that he used to beg to play, but he doesn't seem interested anymore. You still have a stuffed bear that Mac won for you on the first official family outing. Too bad Waylon's not here, you could give those kids a few bucks and not see 'em again until midnight.

But he's not, so your sullen child wanders alone down the fairway, taking in the sights. Mac catches your eye, and you share a smile that says "we tried."

"Hey!" a somewhat familiar kid in a polo shirt who's planted himself in front of Travis greets. "I'm Brantley. You're the new kid from the end of my street, right?"

Travis looks back to you, like he needs permission to speak. Apparently, the look on your face grants it.

"Yeah?" he says, turning back to... Brantley? The hell kind of name is Brantley?

"You wanna come hang out with me and my friends?"

You clock Travis's uncomfortable squirm from behind.

"Look," the kid says, pointing to a gang going to town on a cone of blue cotton candy. "That's my brother Buckley, and those are our friends. We've got an odd number, and most of the rides seat two, and Dane's tired of riding with strangers. Wanna roll with us tonight?"

Roll with us? Is your son about to be initiated into a child gang? Mac bites back a laugh beside you.

Travis looks back, and… doesn't appear entirely opposed to the idea?

"He's gonna need a bracelet, though," the kid says, finally addressing you. "For the rides."

You make eye contact with your child, trying to read him without having to ask in front of a potential friend.

"Please?" he asks, giving you the puppy eyes. He's actually into it? He's voluntarily going to hang out with kids his own age, instead of laying around the house with his mom and step-dad?!

You can't get your wallet out fast e--Mac beats you to it, handing Travis enough cash for a ride-all-you-can-ride bracelet and a snack.

"Thanks, Mac," he grins.

"Meet us right here at," you pause to check your watch, "9:00, on the dot."

Travis gives you a mock-salute, and the two kids run off to join the others. Quick introductions are made, and then Travis scrambles off in the direction of the nearest ticket booth for an ugly orange bracelet that'll let him ride all night.

"Did I just give my son permission to join a gang?" you wonder.

Mac laughs and wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

"Gotta let him go sometime, Mama," he whispers, kissing your temple. "But right now, it is imperative that you feed me a funnel cake."

"Do I have to actually feed it to you, or can I just help you eat it?"

"Oh, no, you gotta feed it to me," he insists. "Them's the Carnival Rules."

"If you say so," you laugh, heading for the funnel cake line.

It's 9:09 and your son is not where he's supposed to be.

You and Mac are facing opposite directions, watching for your dang kid to show up. You're checking your watch every ten seconds, like that's gonna make him get here faster.

"He probably thought he had time for one more ride," Mac says calmly, eyes scanning the crowd on his side. "He'll be here."

You can't think of anything to say, so you don't. Your eyes rake over the crowd, arms crossed. You're seconds away from leaving Mac and going kid-hunting. When you find the little twerp, you're going to toss him over your shoulder and bring him back like a damn deer.

"There he is," Mac says, reaching out to touch your arm. You swirl around with fury, and Travis's eyes widen when he sees you. You aggressively lift your wrist and point at your watch. 9:14.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing Travis says. "We were in the Starship 3000. Buckley assured me that the ride would be over in time. He also didn't tell me that I wouldn't be able to walk when I got off it. I stumbled around for a while 'cause I couldn't see straight."

Damn this kid's innocent eyes… and his green face.

"Okay," you whisper, pulling him to your side. He leans into you like he's grateful for the support. "You alright?"

"Yeah."

"You ready to go?"

"Yeah."

You look to Mac, who's watching you both. You give him a smile, grateful that he didn't let you go kid-hunting at 9:05 like you wanted to. He returns it, and you all start walking toward the exit.

"You have fun?" you prod.

"Kinda."

"Only kinda?" Mac asks.

"It's…" Travis sighs. "It's not like it is when I go with Waylon. They all know each other. Nobody really talked to me. I was just kinda there."

"That's the joy of a carnival," you shrug. "The rides are the main event, so you can just hang. It's low-pressure. Nobody's expecting you to carry on a conversation, 'cause there's so much fun stuff to do."

"Meh," Travis shrugs.

You and Mac share a look over his head. This is the first time he's hung out with kids his own age since you moved here, and his reaction is a meh?

"Did you guys have fun?" Travis asks.

You look to Mac and smirk. You fed each other a funnel cake. You shared a powdered sugar kiss that would've sent Travis retching. You walked around and watched people lose money at rigged games. You tailed Travis and his new gang for a little bit. And then you parked yourselves on a bench and ate sno-cones like the old married couple you are.

"Loads," Mac grins.

"Best carnival ever," you smile.

"Not until you're sunscreened," you rule.

"You sunscreened me before we left the house!"

"And now I'm gonna do it again."

He groans and flops dramatically on the beach towel with a scowl. You look to Mac with a poorly concealed smirk, and he offers you the bottle of high-SPF sunscreen that you did indeed coat everyone in before leaving home. You apply another layer to the impatient child, and as soon as the bottle cap closes, he asks again: "Can I go?"

"Knock yourself out."

Travis flies across the sand and into the ocean, stepping into the Atlantic for the first time. He knows he's not allowed to go in deeper than his knees without you or Mac with him, and you trust him to stay close, where it's shallow. He stands still, holding out his arms and looking up at the sun…

"What the hell is he doing?" Mac asks.

"Being a dork," you laugh, reaching for another towel. Mac helps you get this one on the ground too, then he sticks an umbrella in the sand between them. It's not providing much shade at the moment, but you'll be grateful for it in a little while. "More sunscreen?"

"Sure," he shrugs.

Mac keeps an eye on Travis (mostly) while you apply another coat to his face and forearms.

"You gonna take that off?" you ask, tugging at the sleeve of his t-shirt. He shakes his head, not taking his eyes off of Travis. So you make sure to get around his neck, and the tops of his ears.

"Want me to do you?" he offers.

You give him the sleaziest smirk you can, and he laughs as he reaches for the bottle. You whip off the shirt you were wearing as a cover and change positions, watching Travis while Mac carefully coats you in sunscreen. Your kid has started building a sand castle.

"Feel like I missed anywhere?" Mac asks.

"I feel sufficiently screened," you grin. Mac puts the bottle back into the bag and drops onto the towel beside you to watch Travis.

A toddler wanders close and starts talking, and Travis quickly recruits him to help build his sand castle. They play and laugh together, and Travis teaches him how to pack sand… stop it.

You packed sandwiches and chips and cans of soda for lunch. Nothing tastes as good as a sandwich from a cooler after a day of swimming.

You remember the first time Travis put Doritos on his bologna and cheese sandwich. He balked when you initially suggested it. "Ew, gross!" But you conned him into trying just a single bite of yours, and his little eyes lit up, and… yeah, he ate your whole sandwich. A Proud Mom Moment.

Stop it.

Mac shifts, and you look over at him.

He's been watching Travis play with this toddler, too.

"Don't even think about it," you order.

"Think about what?" he asks, but you can see it in his eyes. He knows.

You look back toward the kids, because you can feel tears pooling.

Mac scoots closer and puts a greasy, sunscreened arm around you. His chin rests on your shoulder.

"I have the perfect family," he whispers.

He would've made such beautiful babies.

"If I'd met you ten years ago…" you breathe.

"Then we wouldn't be who we are now," he whispers. "I wouldn't be able to appreciate how perfect you are, because I wouldn't have anything to compare you to. I'd probably still be drinking. You'd leave me because I was an ass."

"I can't imagine you being an ass."

"I did some stupid shit under the influence," he admits. "I know better now."

You sigh.

"Plus," he continues. "Travis wouldn't be Travis. Shawn may be kind of a dipshit, but he co-created the most awesome kid ever made."

Dammit. He's right.

"You know what's pretty cool, though?"

"Hm?" you hum.

"I'm still on track for living my entire life without ever having to change a diaper."

"Big deal," you laugh, trying to subtly wipe away a tear. "Lots of dads get by with never helping in that department."

"Must be some pretty shitty dads," he shrugs, reaching into the cooler for a water bottle. He drinks, then offers it to you. You take it. "Parenthood should be a partnership."

You sip and pass the bottle back and wait 'til he takes a drink to say, "Well, guess you better go tell Travis we have to go home now so you can knock me up, then."

Water shoots out of Mac's nose.