Fandoms of Many

When you first started at ptmc, you made it a point to meet the nurses, residents, and attendings.

You wanted to be at least somewhat familiar with the people you worked with and for them to know you, even just by a name.

The only one you couldn’t manage to come in contact with was Dr. Brendon Park. He was the lead orthopedic attending and from what you heard, not someone to mess with.

This warning didn’t deter you as you still wanted to introduce yourself. The only problem was you could never seem to find him.

You inquired of his whereabouts and found out he strictly worked nights. At the time you were only on days so running into him was never on the radar.

Then one day Jack Abbot came to you and brought you onto the night shift due to a shortage of residents. The switch was indefinite as it was now month 4 of being on night shift.

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Tonight was another night as you came into the pitt, greeting the day shift as they were leaving and greeting your fellow nightcrawlers as they came in.

The chaos that normally ensued during the night came around leaving plenty of traumas to work on.

It was around 3 a.m. when one particular trauma came in. It was a nasty tibia fracture that had penetrated through the skin, exposing the broken bone.

“Get Park down here immediately. This is a bad one.” Jack said as he monitored the pain meds being given to the patient.

Finally, you’d get to lay eyes on the infamous Dr. Park.

You were double checking the chart when you felt a chill in the atmosphere. Voices became hushed and feet shuffled to move back.

You look up and there he is.

Tall, wide frame, and a scowl that should’ve scared you but was only intriguing.

His eyes meet yours for a brief moment and you swear they dilate with a sort of shine. One that acknowledged you as his prey.

Park walks up to examine the break, eyes roaming meticulously.

“Tibia’s definitely fractured but still slightly attached. It can be fixed. Bring it up to…”

His voice trails off and you notice his eyes locked in on the broken bone.

Or so you thought.

It seemed he was more so eyeing the blood that was still dripping from the open wound. Small beads trailing slowly down the man’s leg.

Park stared a little too intently and you almost miss it as his tongue pokes out just a tad as he swipes it across his bottom lip.

Looking almost… hungry for it.

No, no that can’t be right.

He’s just very focused.

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This continues for a few weeks. Small moments where you see Park show odd behavior.

Sniffing around bad traumas with bloody wounds, literally sniffing.

He also seems to be in trances, so intently focused on things that his eyes dilate like crazy. And you could swear they have a reddish shine in the light.

It’s probably all the caffeine you consume during a shift getting to you.

—-

Everything is speculation, a mystery really, until tonight.

There’s a lull in the pitt and you’re in search of a quick snack to keep you functioning until your post shift meal. The nearest vending machine with the good snacks is one floor down by the morgue.

An odd place for food to be placed but honestly you’re too desperate for a bag of Doritos to care.

You take the elevator down.

When you exit the first thing you notice is the empty silence of the floor. Not a soul around, which isn’t unexpected given it’s almost two in the morning.

With light but brisk steps you make your way to the vending machine. As you approach it, something catches your eye.

The door to the blood bank is slightly cracked.

That’s odd.

You approach quietly and peek through the crack.

Nothing out of place until slight movement makes you hold your breath.

Dr. Park.

He’s covered in blood as if he walked right out of a trauma surgery. And then you notice the broken blood bag by his feet. That must be the culprit of his early Halloween costume.

You go to turn away when you see him swipe some blood from his scrubs with a finger.

He looks at it closely before bringing it to his mouth and licking it clean off.

What the actual fuck.

He swipes some more off and repeats the action.

You’re so in shock that you don’t watch your step as you back up and your shoe lets out a loud squeak as it catches on the floor.

Park freezes and his head turns to the door with inhuman like speed, catching your gaze.

You move away and sprint towards the staircase to get back to the pitt.

It wasn’t real.

You didn’t actually see that happen.

He didn’t lick human blood and…enjoy it?

Nope, didn’t happen.

You rotate these thoughts to ease your mind as you continue the shift, Doritos long forgotten.

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Over the course of the week, Park seems to appear more and more. Always in your proximity with a stare that could unnerve a statute.

It’s almost like he’s waiting for you to tell someone what you saw.

But if it’s a figment of your imagination, what’s to tell?

It had to have been a hallucination, right?

—-

It’s not until around 3 a.m. that he peaks your curiosity again. Another bloody trauma rolls in and he’s needed as a consult for it.

He seems to hold his composure and then he starts staring a little too hard and you catch it.

The red shine appears again.

He makes the professional recommendation and then he excuses himself quickly.

This time you follow as you silently slip from the patient's room.

You follow behind him quietly, taking every turn carefully to not alert him.

Just as you turn a corner he went around, he’s gone. It’s like he was never there. You’d be inclined to believe it was your imagination but he had been in your sight for the consult and then as he left.

This was very real.

You look around and then you see it. The morgue door was left open just a touch.

He’s gotta be there.

You peek inside and see nothing out of the ordinary, so you venture further in.

As you survey the cold and dimly lit room, chills run down your arms. It feels like there’s eyes on you. Following your every move.

You chalk it up to the fact you’re in a room with bodies so technically there may be a pair of eyes on you.

There’s nothing around, it seems every dark corner is empty.

You huff in annoyance that you lost sight of him.

You were so close.

With one last look around, you reach your hand out to grab the door handle when a cold hand wraps around your throat from behind.

“It’s really not polite to follow people” the deep voice says into your ear.

You hold your breath.

“I-I um, was just curious.”

He chuckles softly.

“Curious about what?”

You take a quick breath as his fingers press into your throat. A bit of pressure to subdue you but not enough to harm you.

“I’ve seen you… acting weird. Something’s not right.”

“And do pray tell what you think is not right?”

You gulp as you feel his breath against your ear and cheek.

“T-The way you stare at an injured patient too long. Especially when it’s bloody. You also don’t ever work during the day, always gone before the sun comes up. Not sure what that’s about but I’m calling it weird. And your gaze, seems hungry for something or someone all the time.

His chest presses into your back.

“So… you notice me?”

“I mean yeah, y-you’re you.”

“Oh sweetheart,” something sharp drags along the side of your neck lightly, “that curious mind of yours may just cost you.”

A light flicks on and a mirror hangs on the wall across from you.

Then you see him.

Body stood behind yours but eyes holding your gaze.

Calculating.

Observing.

You then notice what had poked the side of your neck.

His mouth is almost on you, elongated canines pressed gently into your throat, not piercing the skin.

Although he easily could.

And his eyes, glowing a dim red as they watch your every breath.

Your mind races

He’s a…a vampire?

Weren’t those only in movies & old romance novels?

Yet here he was.

That would explain his weird behavior and mannerisms.

Your heart races with fear and…. Infatuation? Arousal?

Your lost in your thoughts until the calloused hand on your throat tilts your neck to the side. His other hand banding across your waist, hold you firmly against him.

“Well, let’s just say I’ve been watching you too.”

He now has his nose buried into your hair, taking a long inhale.

“I think I’d like very much to keep you sweetheart.”

His hand squeezes your throat a bit tighter.

“I think an eternity will do.”

You close your eyes to avoid his because you know if you look into them, you’d do anything he’d ask.

“So?” he says before dragging his tongue from your collarbone to the underside of your chin “What do you say?”

“Wanna join me in the dark tonight?”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Klaus had met Y/N in a bar. She was sweet and shy and completely untouched by darkness despite being a werewolf. Klaus had taken her back to a hotel room and deflowered her among the sheets. He’d taken pleasure and pride in being her first, even if he had no intentions of seeing her again.

The memory of her had briefly flashed through his mind when he found out Hayley was pregnant. He had slept with Y/N rather soon after Hayley, was it possible he had impregnated another wolf? Klaus pondered it but the idea was swept away with all the other drama he had tangled himself in.

So it was quite the surprise when he stood in the witches cemetery again, arms folded as he waited for Genevieve to make her big reveal, and Y/N was pushed out in front of him. Eyes wet and scared as she kept begging for something through the gag.

Klaus frowned and looked to the witch, his expression slipping into something more dangerous when another witch emerged holding a baby. One that drew an immediate cry of desperation from Y/N.

Nobody had time to threaten or do anything before both witches lay dead on the floor with snapped necks and Klaus held the baby. He couldn’t help but stare for a second, immediately finding the similarities between the little girl and himself. His head turned when Y/N whimpered again and he quickly came over, pulling the cloth out of her mouth and breaking the restraints from when wrists and ankles.

The infant was stolen from his arms, cradled lovingly as she cried quietly.

Klaus swallowed thickly, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder gently. “Y/N?” He whispered, checking it was definitely her.

Her eyes opened, looking back at him as she held her daughter a little tighter. “I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with us.” She sniffed. “Especially not enough to come take us in the night.” Her eyes still welled with tears and Klaus quickly shook his head.

“I didn’t order anybody to do this, love. I had no idea you’d had my child.” He quickly assured, feeling his own heart race as she looked at him with fear. “I didn’t know, love, I promise.” He cupped her face, attempting to convey how much he meant it through his eyes.

Y/N sniffed and searched his expression before nodding, believing him.

He glanced her down slowly, feeling worse when he realised the witches had literally plucked them from sleep. She as in pajamas, the little girl too.

Klaus brought her home immediately, his hand not leaving her as they went straight up to his room.

“What’s her name?” He had asked quietly on the way back in the car.

“Willow.” She answered, watching his eyes dart to his daughter’s sleeping face

“She’s beautiful”

Rebekah thought so too. The blonde couldn’t stop taking pictures of her and telling Y/N how devastated she was that they hadn’t known earlier.

“We have to get back home soon.” Y/N told them all one night at dinner and Klaus had immediately frowned.

“This is your home now.” His confusion was almost comical.

“I used all my savings on our house.” She told him, sadness filling her at the idea of not returning. “All Willow’s things are at home.”

So they went to visit this house of theirs

Klaus was in awe of the domesticated scene. Of the baby toys and items scattering the rooms. Things messy yet organised all at once.

He sat silently as Y/N read a story book to Willow, her tone changing for the different characters. His mouth twitched into a smile at her growing facial expressions.

“I don’t have a spare room.” She told him, her face blushing pink as she scratched the back of her neck. “I can get some spare blankets for you?” She offered and Klaus blinked at her.

With reluctance but without complaint, he slept on her couch with the spare blanket and one of her pillows. The scent of lavender filled his nose as he rest against it, his eyes fluttering closed easily.

The other Mikaelsons stayed at home, they were confident that Klaus would convince Y/N to come back to New Orleans.

However, he wasn’t so sure that was what was best. Not when he woke up in the night, thinking he’d heard Willow’s cries, climbed up the stairs and found Y/N nursing their baby to her naked chest.

Her eyes had gone wide and her face red when she realised he was there and one of Willows square blankets was hastily held over her bare skin.

“Oh god-“ she whimpered and Klaus smiled, amused by the innocent exclamation.

“It’s alright love, I’ve seen it all before.” He teased before coming to crouch down beside the rocking chair, gently moving the blanket to watch his child feed. “Besides, I’m not here to make you feel uncomfortable. I want to be here for you, both of you.” He murmured, his fingers gently stroking his daughter’s head, feeling the soft little hairs that had grown just barely.

“Okay…” Y/N shifted, adjusting Willow’s position making the baby fuss for a moment before latching back on. Klaus glanced up, seeing slight discomfort in the way Y/N’s brows pinched together.

“What’s wrong?” He asked immediately, his hand coming to the top of her back gently.

“Nothing, she’s just not getting much…” she mumbled, carefully moving Willow over to her other breast. Klaus watched her hand cup her own breast in a ‘C’ shape, encouraging the milk into Willow’s mouth.

When he noticed Y/N’s eyes starting to flutter, he gently replaced her hand, holding her breast with no vulgar intentions as she whispered to him how to do it better.

“Like that?” He asked and she nodded.

“Yeah, that’s good. See? She’s content.” Y/N smiled, both of them now watching Willow’s happy face.

Klaus helped put her back down to sleep, having Y/N guide him. His eyes lingered on their child as she slept peacefully. A slither of guilt wrapped around him, because he should have tried to find her when he found out he could have children. He had known deep down. Y/N had the same guilt for not finding him too.

“I’m really glad you’re here.” She whispered and he looked to her, a warm smile gracing his face as he leaned to gently kiss the corner of her mouth, careful not to look back down at her bare chest that she now clumsily tried to cover again with the little blanket. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Y/N smiled, heading back to her bedroom and letting Klaus admire their little girl for a moment longer before heading back down to the living room.

In the morning, Willow was sat in her bouncer babbling and squealing at him as he held different toys out in front of her.

He glanced over his shoulder seeing Y/N leant over the kitchen counter, caressing her temples gently whilst the kettle boiled and the toaster dinged. Again, a swirl of guilt hit him and Klaus got up, heading over to help her.

“Jam?” He questioned, undoing the jar of strawberry when she nodded and spreading it over her toast. He set it down in front of her, followed by decaf coffee, she told him Willow couldn’t have caffeine in her milk. Then he returned to Willow, keeping her entertained until Y/N was ready to feed her again.

“Can I?” He asked, wanting to help again. Y/N only smiled and helped him hold her right to ensure Willow was drinking.

“So, how old is Hope?” She asked.

“Almost eight months.” He smiled and Y/N tilted her head.

“Willow’s only six. I wonder if they’ll be in the same class at school.” Y/N mused and Klaus hummed, looking up at her quietly.

Things had fallen much easier into place with Y/N. No Dahlia, no Esther or Mikael.

Just Y/N and Willow.

Within a week, Klaus knew he wasn’t going to be bringing them back to New Orleans. No, very much the opposite. Instead, he brought everyone else to her.

Everyone was moving into their own houses throughout the neighbourhood and visiting frequently.

Hayley came over often, wanting to learn techniques and advice from Y/N because even though Willow was younger, Y/N had spent more time with Willow than Hayley had been able to spend with Hope. Y/N had more experience than Hayley.

At times, her eyes would prick with tears, like when Willow sat up for the first time with no support and everyone had happened to be around for dinner. They had all clapped and cheered, Y/N was overjoyed and Klaus had kissed her without thinking.

Not that anybody mentioned that. Y/N had gone bright red and turned back to Willow to celebrate her.

Or when Y/N would ask to have some privacy so she could breast feed, something Hayley couldn’t do after Hope got used to being bottle fed whilst away with Rebekah.

It was a completely different story for Y/N and Klaus. Things were just easier.

Y/N put her foot down, she didn’t want to live in a big house with everybody. She didn’t want to hear about witches and vampires.

Klaus would assure her that everything would be fine on the full moon, when she would go out into the woods and he would stay home alone with Willow and sometimes Hope too. Turns out looking after two infants was quite the handful.

Y/N would come home to find him fast asleep still sat up on the couch, both babies asleep in their cribs.

Klaus finally felt like a father.

You laughed, turning to leave the break room where she stood with you, “thanks, Dana.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, “you and those damn flowers,” she said shaking her head, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone is trying to woo you.”

You laughed, looking over your shoulder, “who’s to say I’m not already wooed.”

You heard her laugh as you made your way to the hub. And just as you expected, Perlah and Princess were interrogating the delivery guy.

“Listen ladies I just need a signature from a Dr.—” he looked down at the clipboard before saying your name.

“That’s me,” you said with a smile before walking up to them.

Perlah put the cash she was trying to bribe him with back into her scrub pocket as Princess rolled her eyes.

You scribbled your signature before thanking the man. He happily left the ED and you turned to the flowers, plucking the note off the side.

Wish me Luck -S

You tucked the note into your pocket after reading it, making Perlah and Princess groan.

“You’ve gotten flowers, 24 red roses to be exact, at least once a week for the last two months.” Perlah said matter of factly.

“And you won’t even give us a hint to who this mystery guy is,” Princess said, throwing her hands up in defeat.

You shrugged, leaving the roses and walking over to grab a chart. The truth is, it’s a rather private situation.

You have been dating Sidney Crosby, captain of the Pittsburgh Penguins for well over a year (more like two) and you had managed to keep it from everyone you worked with… as well as the entire world.

He sent you flowers before an away game two months ago simply because he missed you and you couldn’t be there. After they won that game, your extremely superstitious boyfriend decided to keep it up. Just over two months later now and they haven’t lost an away game since, so he’s sticking with the routine.

It was getting harder to explain to your coworkers though. And you did worry a certain Pens fan you worked with was starting to catch on to the timing of the flowers. Said coworker being Frank Langdon, who hasn’t washed his Penguins hoodie… well ever.

Every morning after a game he updated everyone on the stats. And you had to pretend you didn’t already know, or like you weren’t sitting in section 108 Row C Seat 7 of PPG.

—

You were able to keep the gossip under wraps recently since there was a solid string of on and off home games the next few days.

But then something you definitely didn’t have on your 2026 bingo card happened.

The Pitt was already feeling extra loud today. The monitors beeped nonstop. Somebody in hallway beds was yelling about pudding cups. Dana was arguing with radiology on the phone. It just felt like more than usual.

Then, a paramedic pushed through the trauma bay doors beside a stretcher and everything changed.

“Trauma two,” Robby called out to them.

“Male, thirty-eight, hockey injury, possible concussion. Head first into the boards, apparently not wearing his helmet at the time.” The paramedic presented more discreetly than he usually would, but you didn’t think anything of it.

You barely looked up from your computer at first. Then Whitaker said, “Holy shit, that’s Sidney Crosby.”

Every head at the nursing station snapped toward the stretcher.

“Oh my God.”

“No way.”

“Are you serious?”

“Move,” Dana barked immediately, shoving people aside. “He’s our patient people. Act like it.”

Your stomach dropped so hard it hurt and your heart rate immediately increased. Because unfortunately for you, Sidney Crosby was not just a patient.

He was your boyfriend.

Your very secret boyfriend.

For almost two years, somehow, you’d managed to keep the relationship completely private. No media leaks. No gossip. No teammates talking. And you prayed to some higher power that your relationship was not about to be exposed in the Pitt

The betting board didn’t even have one right guess on it as to who your “secret admirer was”. Nobody knew you occasionally spent your nights curled against Sidney Crosby watching terrible reality TV while he complained about practice.

Now he was being wheeled directly into your trauma bay with a concussion.

Fantastic.

Robby stepped forward first. “Mr. Crosby, look at me.”

Sid blinked slowly up at the ceiling lights. “Mm. Too bright.”

“Good sign,” Robby muttered under his breath sarcastically. “Can you tell me your name?”

Sidney looked offended. “You know my name.”

A couple nurses laughed.

The paramedic took his clipboard and smirked, “he’s been like this the whole ride. Coach said he was a little loopy.”

You stayed near the back of the room, arms crossed tightly, trying desperately to look normal.

Sidney’s gaze wandered lazily around the room.

Then landed on you and immediately his entire face softened.

“There she is,” he said quietly. His eyes were drooping slightly and his voice was shaky. It wasn’t the typical, stoic and professional Captain Sidney persona he portrayed in public.

Dana looked between the two of you instantly. You gave Sidney the sharpest warning glare of your life.

Apparently concussed Sidney Crosby feared neither death nor consequences.

“There’s my girl,” he now wore a lopsided grin, “I thought I was going to have to put in some sort of special request. Use my captain power, but here you are!”

The room went dead silent. Whitaker actually slapped a hand over his mouth.

Robby stopped mid-chart. “Excuse me?”

Your face burned alive.

Sidney smiled sleepily at you from the stretcher. “Hi, baby.”

“Oh my God,” Javadi whispered.

Dana’s eyes widened so much you thought they might fall out. “NO.”

You stepped forward immediately. “Okay, let’s get him to CT.”

Sidney reached for your wrist the second you got close enough.

“Sid,” you hissed under your breath.

His brow furrowed. “Why do you look scared?”

“Because you’re telling everyone our business.” Your tone was harsher than you meant, he was concussed after all.

Robby slowly looked between you both. “Hold on.”

The entire ER had somehow started migrating closer.

Nurses. Residents. Med students.

“Is this happening right now?” Whitaker whispered to no one.

“You’re dating Sidney Crosby?” Dana asked.

Sidney answered before you could.he basically puffed out his chest like a male bird. “She’s my girlfriend.” He said it as confidently as he could for his current state.

The Pitt erupted.

“WHAT?”

“No freaking way.”

“How long?!”

“I KNEW she was seeing someone!”

“You owe me twenty bucks,” Javadi told Whitaker immediately.

Whitaker looked devastated. “I thought it was a surgeon.”

Sidney squinted suspiciously at him from the bed. “Why would she date a surgeon?”

“Focus,” you muttered.

Robby pinched the bridge of his nose like he already had a migraine. “Okay. Great. Wonderful. Pittsburgh royalty is concussed and apparently dating one of my residents.”

“Secretly dating,” Dana corrected.

“That part’s over now,” Santos said helpfully.

You wanted to disappear. Sidney still had your wrist loosely trapped in his hand. “She’s really pretty,” he informed Robby.

Your face got even hotter. “Sidney.”

“What?” he asked innocently. “You are.”

Robby looked genuinely entertained now. “How long has this been going on?”

You sighed in defeat. “Almost two years.”

The reactions somehow got louder.

“TWO YEARS?”

“You kept that secret for TWO YEARS?”

“Do you know how insane that is?”

“Wait,” Frank interrupted suddenly, you’re not even sure when he got there. “Is that why she leaves exactly at seven on game days?”

He extended his hand towards Sidney, “Frank, by the way huge fan.”

You closed your eyes. Sidney shook his hand.

Dana pointed aggressively. “OH MY GOD THE ‘APPOINTMENTS.’”

Javadi gasped. “The mystery flowers!”

“The private car service!”

“The playoffs!” Frank shouted. “She requested off during playoffs last year!”

You buried your face in your hands, but Sidney looked delighted watching everyone solve the puzzle in real time.

“She’s smart,” he told them proudly. “Nobody figured it out.”

“We literally thought she a secret child or something.” Whitaker said.

Sidney blinked. “What?”

Dana was crying laughing now. “You disappeared constantly!”

“You always looked exhausted!”

“You never answered texts on game nights!” Frank added, unrelated but his way of processing nonetheless.

Robby pointed at you. “And you once got mad at me because I scheduled you during a Penguins game.”

“That could’ve been for normal… Pittsburgh reasons!” You said trying to defend your habits.

“No one cares that much about preseason hockey!” Robby said with a smile on his face.

Sidney raised a weak hand from the stretcher. “I do.”

“You are not helping.” You said with a groan.

Sidney ignored that completely, eyes finding yours again. Even concussed, the look on his face softened immediately when he looked at you.

It was embarrassingly obvious.

“Oh my God,” Dana whispered dramatically. “They’re in love.”

“We get it,” you muttered.

“No, seriously,” Javadi said. “That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”

Sidney nodded once, still wearing his goofy little grin. “I do.”

You stared at your boyfriend in horror. “You are never living this down.”

“Worth it,” Sidney said instantly. Then he winced and touched the back of his head. “Ow.”

Your irritation disappeared immediately.

You moved closer without thinking, checking his pupils again gently. “Head hurting worse?”

“A little.” His voice got quieter, “can you stay with me?”

You sighed softly and brushed your fingers carefully through Sidney’s messy hair.

“Yeah, honey,” you said quietly. “I’m staying.”

Sidney smiled lazily up at you like he’d already won.

“Alright everyone,” Robby clapped his hands together, “shows over.”

He waved everyone out of the room, to which most of them obliged, Frank had to be physically removed, but left nonetheless.

“I’ll make sure he’s next in line for CT,” Robby closed the curtains, shut the light, and closed the door behind him.

The noise of the ER became muffled and you finally felt like you could breathe again.

You grabbed his hand and moved your thumb over his knuckles, “no helmet?”

His smile faded, “Geno and I were just playing around okay? Please don’t be mad. It was an accident.”

You kissed his forehead, “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried. But we’ve had the helmet talk, babe.”

“I know I know, I’m sorry,” he said softly.

There was a knock at the door, breaking the moment between you two, “CT is ready,” Robby said, making his way over to Sidney.

“I’ll be right here when you get back,” you said releasing his hand.

“Love you,” he said sweetly, in a way that is usually reserved for home.

You smiled at him, “I love you too.”

You could see Robby biting back a laugh as he wheeled Sidney away.

Javadi, Whitaker, Santos, and Langdon all popped back into the room the second he was wheeled out of ear shot.

“You know this would make an amazing romance novel,” Victoria said happily, making you laugh.

You shook your head, “he’s so gonna regret this when the entire world knows we’re dating come tomorrow. I’m pretty sure Princess and Perlah already called TMZ.”

“It’s pretty impressive you know, keeping a secret like that for two years,” Langdon said, leaning against the door frame.

You shrugged, “I like that it was just ours.”

Santos made a gagging noise, “that’s my queue to go back to work.”

You laughed at her and they all filed out of the room.

—

Sidney was rolled back into the room about thirty minutes later, his smile faded and had been replaced with exhaustion.

Yup. Definitely not playing for a while.

“You okay?” You asked cautiously.

He nodded, “think it just hit me I can’t play.”

“I know.” You said understandably. You knew he wasn’t looking for a solution, because there wasn’t one. This man lives and breaths hockey. You understood that about him— you live and breathe saving lives. You both put your careers first and that’s why your relationship seems to work.

You have a deep understanding of the sense of determination you each have for your respective jobs.

He sighed, breaking you from your thoughts, “you gonna nurse me back to health?”

The smirk he wore made you giggle.

“Yes, Captain Crosby it would be my honor. I believe it’s my literal duty to Pittsburgh to make sure you’re up and moving for the playoffs.”

He smiled, it didn’t quite reach his eyes but you took it as a small win.

“So, I seemed to have really outed us, huh?” He asked.

You nodded slowly, “you came in here, guns a blazing honey.”

“Well, at least now you don’t have to lie,” he said, taking your hand in his and squeezing, “I just couldn’t help it. You look too good in your scrubs.”

“Yeah,” you squeezed back, “everyone knows I’m yours.”

He smiled at that.

And although he was loopy from his concussion when he did it, there was not one ounce of regret in what had happened.

You smiled at him lovingly as his eyes drooped shut, when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Frank: sooo… tickets?

You scoffed. And that’s exactly what you expected.

You: nice try. I’ll think about it.

Frank: not a no!

You laughed and put your phone back into your scrubs.

Everyone now knew that you, Resident in the Pitt, were Sidney Crosby’s girlfriend and good luck charm.

Colton Y/L/N. The analysts have been saying his name for months. “A generational playmaker.” “The most NHL-ready defenseman in the draft.” “A leader on and off the ice.” To you, he’s just Colton. The boy who scraped his knees on the driveway asphalt, who ate cereal for dinner more times than you’d like to admit, who held your hand in the emergency room when you broke your wrist slipping on a patch of black ice after one of his 5 a.m. practices.

On the massive, wrap-around screen, the commissioner is at the podium. “With the tenth pick in the 2025 NHL Entry Draft, the Utah Mammoth are proud to select …”

Colton sucks in a sharp breath. His hand, the one not currently being held captive by your own, clenches into a fist on his thigh. He was projected to go anywhere from eight to twelve. This is the zone. The air crackles.

You lean in, your voice a whisper meant only for him. “Breathe, honey. Just breathe. Whatever happens, happens. You got here. That was the mountain. This is just the view from the top.”

He turns to you, his eyes — your eyes — wide with a swirling storm of hope and fear. “What if they don’t … what if I just sit here?”

“Then you sit here,” you say, your voice firm, unwavering. “You sit here with your head held high, next to your mother who is so ridiculously proud of you it feels like my heart is going to hammer its way out of my chest. And then tomorrow, you go to whatever development camp you’re invited to and you skate circles around the guys they picked instead. But that’s not going to happen.”

The kid from Utah walks across the stage, a blinding smile on his face as he pulls on a jersey in a color combination that seems scientifically engineered to be unappealing. The camera pans across the remaining prospects. It lingers on Colton for a moment. He looks impossibly young, impossibly handsome, a man-child on the precipice of his entire life.

“And now,” the commissioner’s voice booms again, “we go to the Pittsburgh Penguins, drafting from their locker room at PPG Paints Arena.”

The screen splits. On one side is the stage. On the other is a live feed of Kyle Dubas, surrounded by his staff, looking intense under the fluorescent lights of the Penguins’ inner sanctum. A hush falls over your section of the arena. This is it.

Your grip on Colton’s knee tightens. He’s stopped breathing entirely.

Dubas leans into the microphone. There’s no dramatic pause. He’s all business. “With the eleventh overall selection, the Pittsburgh Penguins are proud to select, from the London Knights … defenseman, Colton Y/L/N.”

The world explodes.

Or maybe it just shrinks, collapsing into a single point of brilliant, blinding light. The sound rushes in — a roar from the crowd, a shriek from Colton’s agent, Jon, on his other side, and a choked sob that you realize, with some distant part of your brain, is coming from you.

Colton jolts as if struck by lightning. He turns to you, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. “Mom?”

He says it like he’s five years old again, asking if Santa Claus is real.

You launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck as he stands. He’s six-foot-three now, a solid wall of muscle, but in your arms, he is still the fifty-three pounds of boy you used to carry to bed. He lifts you off the ground in a hug that smells of nervous sweat and expensive fabric, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“You did it,” you whisper, tears streaming freely down your face now, messing up the makeup you so carefully applied. “Oh, my baby, you did it.”

“We did it,” he corrects, his voice thick with emotion. He sets you down, his hands framing your face. He looks at you, really looks at you, and the gratitude in his eyes is a physical force. “We did it.”

Jon is clapping him on the back, pulling him towards the stairs. “Let’s go, kid! Your future is waiting!”

The walk is a blur. Flashing lights from a hundred cameras create a strobing, disorienting effect. The roar of the crowd is a physical pressure against your skin. You watch him descend the stairs, shake the commissioner’s hand, and take the offered jersey.

The iconic skating penguin logo is stretched across his broad back. Y/L/N and the number 25 are printed beneath it. He pulls it on over his dress shirt and tie, and the fit is perfect. It looks like it has always belonged to him. He puts on the hat, turns to the sea of faces, and smiles.

It’s the same smile that once flashed a missing front tooth. The same smile that beamed up at you from the ice after his first goal in peewee hockey.

You stand at the bottom of the stairs, a fixed point in his swirling new universe, and you just watch. You watch him become someone else. Not just your son anymore. He’s the first-round pick of the Pittsburgh Penguins. He belongs to them now, in a way. To the city. To the fans.

The next hour is a whirlwind. He’s pulled from one media station to another. Print journalists, television crews, podcasters. You trail behind, a silent shadow, letting Jon run interference. You answer a few questions yourself when a reporter corners you.

“How does it feel, as a single mom, to see him achieve this dream?”

“It feels,” you say, your voice steadier than you expect, “like watching every single sacrifice pay off in one perfect moment.”

Eventually, the initial frenzy subsides. A team representative, a kind-faced woman named Peggy, leads you and Colton towards a quieter backstage area. “We just need to get some content for socials, and then we have a car waiting to take you to the team dinner,” she explains.

Colton nods, still dazed. He hasn’t let go of the jersey. He clutches it in his hand like a holy relic.

They lead you into a small, curtained-off room. It’s blessedly quiet. For the first time since his name was called, it’s just you, Colton, and Jon.

“Okay,” Jon says, his phone already pressed to his ear. “I’m getting the contract details ironed out. Colton, your phone is going to melt. Don’t even look at it for the next hour.”

Colton just nods, sinking onto a small sofa. He looks at you, a dazed, happy smile playing on his lips. “Penguins, Mom. Pittsburgh.”

“I know, honey. It’s incredible.”

“It’s …” He shakes his head, at a loss for words. “It’s Sid’s team.”

As if on cue, Jon’s eyes go wide. He lowers his phone slightly. “Holy … Colton. You need to take this.”

He hands the phone to Colton, who looks at it, confused. The screen is blank, a private number. “Who is it?”

“Just answer it,” Jon says, his voice uncharacteristically shaky.

Colton swipes to answer, putting it on speaker without thinking. “Hello?”

A voice comes through the speaker. It’s calm, familiar, and carries the unmistakable cadence of a Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia native.

“Hey Colton, Sid Crosby here.”

The air leaves the room.

Colton freezes. His eyes, wide as dinner plates, lock with yours. You feel your own heart skip a beat. Sidney Crosby. The Sidney Crosby is on the phone. Your son’s childhood hero. The reason he wore number 87 through his entire minor hockey career.

Colton swallows hard, his voice coming out as a squeak. “Uh. Hi.”

You want to laugh, you want to cry, you want to tell him to say something, anything, more articulate than ‘hi’.

Sid’s voice is warm, a low chuckle on the other end. “Just wanted to be one of the first to say welcome to Pittsburgh. We’re all really excited to have ya.”

“Th-thank you,” Colton stammers, finally finding a few more words. “Thank you, Mr. Crosby. It’s … wow. It’s an honor.”

“Please, call me Sid,” he says, and the easy-going kindness in his tone is disarming. “Listen, I know your head’s probably spinning right now. Just wanted to say congratulations. You earned it. Watched some of your shifts from the OHL playoffs. You’ve got a hell of a game.”

You watch as a slow blush creeps up Colton’s neck. Praise from the captain. From a living legend. “Thank you, Sid. That … that means a lot, coming from you.”

“Enjoy the night with your family,” Sid continues. “It’s a big moment. Soak it all in. But be ready to get to work when you get to town. We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Yes, sir. I will be. I’m ready.”

“Good to hear. Alright, I’ll let you go. See ya at camp, kid.”

“See you at camp. Thank you.”

The line clicks dead.

Silence.

Colton stares at his phone as if it might spontaneously combust. He slowly lowers it, his hand trembling slightly. He looks up, first at Jon, then at you. His expression is one of pure awe.

“Sidney Crosby,” he whispers, the name a prayer. “He called me ‘kid’.”

Jon is beaming. “That’s your captain, Colton. Welcome to the show.” He claps him on the shoulder again. “I have to go take five more calls. I’ll meet you by the car in ten. Don’t go anywhere.” He strides out of the room, already barking into his phone.

The silence that descends is different this time. It’s heavy with the weight of the moment. The adrenaline is beginning to fade, replaced by a bone-deep sense of accomplishment.

Colton turns to you, the dazed look in his eyes slowly clearing, replaced by an intensity that takes your breath away. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his brand-new Penguins hat askew on his head.

“Mom.”

His voice is thick again. The phone call, the jersey, the reality of it all, it seems to have finally broken through the wall of shock.

“I’m here, baby.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He just looks at you, his gaze tracing the lines of your face. It feels like he’s seeing all eighteen years at once. The late nights helping with homework after you got home from your waitressing shift. The beat-up station wagon you drove for a decade, the one that always smelled faintly of hockey gear and gasoline. The Christmases where his one big gift was a new pair of skates, and yours was watching him open them. The parent-teacher conferences you attended alone. The tuition for hockey camps you paid for by taking on extra shifts, your feet aching so bad you’d have to soak them in Epsom salts for an hour every night.

He sees it all. You know he does.

“Do you remember,” he starts, his voice cracking, “that tournament in Sault Ste. Marie? When I was twelve?”

You nod, a lump forming in your throat. You remember it perfectly. “The alternator on the car died in the middle of a blizzard, halfway there.”

“Yeah,” he says, a wet sheen in his eyes. “And we were stranded for six hours. And you used all the cash you had for the hotel room to pay the tow truck driver. And we slept in the car, in the freezing cold, so I wouldn’t miss the first game.”

“You had two goals and an assist,” you say softly. “It was worth it.”

“I sat there tonight,” he continues, his voice dropping to a raw whisper, “and all I could think about was that. And the hundred other things like that. You, working two jobs so I could play Triple-A. You, driving me to the rink when you were so tired you were falling asleep at red lights. You, telling me I could do this, even when I didn't believe it myself.”

He reaches out, his large, calloused hands — a hockey player’s hands — gently taking yours.

“I get to play hockey for a living. I get to play for the Pittsburgh Penguins. Sidney Crosby just called my phone,” he says, his voice breaking on the last part. “And none of it, not a single second of it, happens without you.”

The tears are back, hot and fast. You try to blink them away, but it’s a losing battle.

“You’re the one who put in the work, Colton. You skated until your feet bled. You studied, you trained, you did everything right.”

“Because you showed me how,” he insists, squeezing your hands. “You never quit. On anything. On us. So I knew I couldn’t either. Everything I am is because of you. We did this. Don't you ever think it was just me.”

He pulls you into another hug, and this one is different. It’s not the explosive, adrenaline-fueled hug from the stands. This one is quiet, reverent. It’s the hug of a young man who has just realized the full scope of his mother’s love and sacrifice, and the weight of that understanding is both beautiful and crushing.

You hold onto him, burying your face in his chest, inhaling the clean scent of his dress shirt and the faint, lingering smell of the arena. You hold onto your son, the boy you raised against all odds, the man who is about to step into a life that is bigger and brighter than anything you could have ever dreamed for him.

“I’m so proud of you, Colton,” you manage to say, your voice muffled by his suit jacket.

He kisses the top of your head. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you more.”

Peggy peeks her head through the curtain, her smile apologetic. “Sorry to interrupt. The car is ready when you are.”

Colton pulls back, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, a gesture so boyish it makes your heart ache. He gives you a watery smile, straightens his shoulders, and suddenly, he’s not just your son anymore. He’s Colton Y/L/N, property of the Pittsburgh Penguins.

He holds out his arm for you. “Ready to go to dinner?”

You loop your arm through his, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Lead the way.”

As you walk through the sterile backstage corridors, your heels clicking on the polished concrete, you feel the shift. The world has tilted on its axis. The quiet, predictable life you built for the two of you, a fortress of love and routine, has just been spectacularly breached. And as you step out of the arena and into the warm night air, towards the waiting black car, you can’t shake the feeling that everything — absolutely everything — is about to change.

***

The two days following the draft are a hallucinatory blend of champagne headaches, a thousand repetitive text messages, and the surreal experience of seeing your son’s face on ESPN every time you turn on the television. You fly back home to Orlando in a daze, the quiet of your house a startling contrast to the non-stop sensory assault of Las Vegas. The silence is cavernous. It’s the first time in eighteen years you’ve come home to an empty house that is going to stay empty.

Colton is in Pittsburgh for a whirlwind three-day development camp. A meet-and-greet, a tour of the facilities, a light skate. It’s a preview of the life that awaits him, and a preview of the life that awaits you.

You’re unpacking your suitcase when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Brandi.

Brandi: Have you been on Twitter?

You text back, a sense of dread pooling in your stomach. The internet is a place you generally try to avoid.

You: No. Why? Did someone say Colton looks bad in a Penguins hat? Because I will fight them.

A new message from Brandi pops up immediately. It’s not text. It’s a link to a tweet from an account called “Bardown Beauties.” The tweet contains a screenshot from the draft broadcast. It’s a candid shot of you, caught mid-laugh as Colton tells you a joke just before his name is called. Your head is tilted back, your eyes are crinkling at the corners, and the ridiculously expensive dress Brandi forced you to buy looks, you have to admit, pretty good under the arena lights.

The caption above the photo reads: Forget the prospects, the real first-round pick at the 2025 Draft is Colton Y/L/N’s mom. Absolute rocket. #NHLDraft #MILF

You stare at the screen. You read the word. M-I-L-F. You know what it means. You are not, despite Colton’s frequent jokes, a thousand years old. Below the tweet are thousands of likes and a cascade of replies.

She’s only 36! That’s insane.

Smokeshow. Colton got the good genes.

Suddenly I’m a huge Penguins fan.

Your face flushes with a heat that has nothing to do with the Florida humidity. It’s a bizarre cocktail of emotions. There’s a sliver of flattery — it’s certainly nicer than being called old and haggard — but it’s buried under an avalanche of indignation and a profound sense of … violation. This was your moment with your son. A moment of pure, unadulterated pride and love. And these strangers, these anonymous faces on the internet, have twisted it into something cheap. Something about you, and not him.

Your phone rings. It’s Colton. You force a lightness into your voice that you do not feel.

“Hey, superstar! How’s Pittsburgh?”

“It’s awesome, Mom. The rink is … wow. But that’s not why I’m calling.” His voice is tight, clipped. He sounds angry. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

You sink onto the edge of your bed. “Saw what, honey?” You lie, poorly.

“The tweet. The pictures. All of it,” he says, his voice laced with a protective fury that is so profound it makes your heart ache. “Jon sent it to me. I’m so sorry, Mom. It’s disgusting. They’re being so disrespectful. I’m going to tell the team’s PR guy to get them to take it down.”

“Colton, no,” you say, your voice firm. “Don’t do that. You’ll just make it a bigger deal. It’s the internet. It’s stupid and silly and it will be gone by tomorrow when they find something else to obsess over.”

“But they’re talking about my mom,” he says, the emphasis on the word making him sound about twelve years old. “It’s not right.”

“I know, sweetie. And I love you for being angry for me,” you say, your voice softening. “But honestly? I’m a 36-year-old woman. I’ve been called a lot worse than ‘smokeshow’ by men who were actually standing in front of me. I can handle a few anonymous trolls on the internet. This is your time. Don’t let this silliness taint it. Okay?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. You can hear the gears turning in his head, his anger warring with his instinct to listen to you.

“Okay,” he finally sighs, defeated. “But if anyone says anything at camp, I swear …”

“You will be a professional,” you interrupt gently. “You will be the bigger man, the one who doesn’t get rattled by nonsense. You are a Pittsburgh Penguin now. You hold your head high and you ignore it. Promise me.”

“… I promise,” he grumbles.

“Good. Now tell me everything. Does the locker room smell as bad as your old hockey bag?”

He laughs, the tension finally breaking. The conversation shifts to safer territory — to the intimidating size of the veteran players, the crisp, clean feel of the ice, the thrill of seeing the Stanley Cup banners hanging from the rafters. You talk for an hour, and by the time you hang up, the ugly incident has been pushed to the back of your mind.

It’s just the internet, you tell yourself. It will go away.

***

The summer passes in a blur of empty-nester prep. You help Colton pack. You make lists of things he’ll need for his apartment, should he make the team and get to move out of the team hotel. You have a “last supper” at his favorite hometown restaurant. You try, and fail, not to cry when you hug him goodbye as he gets into the car service that will take him to the airport, and to his new life.

“Call me every day,” you say, clutching the front of his shirt.

“Twice a day,” he promises, his own eyes suspiciously bright. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you more.”

And then he’s gone. The house is silent again, but this time, it’s a permanent kind of quiet.

The daily calls become a lifeline. He tells you about the grueling two-a-day practices, the punishing off-ice workouts, the sheer, breathtaking speed of the game at the NHL level. He’s exhausted, sore, and homesick, but beneath it all is a thrum of pure joy. He is living his dream.

You, meanwhile, are living a life you don’t quite recognize. You go to work — your sensible job as an office manager for a dental supply company — and you come home. You cook dinner for one. You watch whatever you want on television without having to fight for the remote. You have friends, you have hobbies, but the central organizing principle of your life for the past eighteen years is now a thousand miles away. You are unmoored.

It’s the third week of September. Main training camp is in full swing. Colton has survived the first round of cuts, the one that sends the junior-eligible kids and long-shot prospects home. He’s now skating with the big club, a minnow in a sea of sharks.

“I shared a line with Sid in a drill today,” he tells you during your nightly FaceTime call. He’s sitting on the edge of his perfectly made hotel bed, a towel slung around his neck, his hair still damp from the shower.

“Really?” You ask, propping your phone up against a pillow on your own bed. “How was that?”

“Terrifying,” he says without hesitation. “He passed me the puck and my hands turned into bricks. I completely fumbled it. It was so embarrassing.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing,” Colton says, shaking his head in disbelief. “He just circled back, picked up the puck, passed it right back to me and said, ‘Let’s try that again.’ Like it was no big deal.”

“He sounds like a good captain.”

“He’s … different,” Colton says, searching for the right word. “He doesn’t talk a lot. But when he does, everyone shuts up and listens. Even Geno. And he sees everything. It’s like he has eyes in the back of his head.”

You smile. “Well, you just keep your head down, work hard, and try not to fumble his passes.”

“That’s the plan,” he laughs. “Gotta go, Mom. Team meeting. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Love you.”

“Love you more.”

He hangs up, and you’re left staring at your own reflection on the dark screen. You feel a pang of loneliness so sharp it takes your breath away. You are proud of him, so proud it hurts. But you miss your boy.

***

The next afternoon, in the sprawling, state-of-the-art locker room at the UPMC Lemieux Sports Complex, the air is thick with the smell of sweat and liniment. Practice was a brutal, up-tempo bag skate, designed to separate the men from the boys. The veterans unwind with the practiced ease of men who have done this a thousand times. The rookies move with a quiet, nervous energy, trying to stay out of the way.

Colton is one of the last ones off the ice, getting in extra work with one of the assistant coaches.

Sidney sits on the stool in front of his stall, methodically untaping his skates. His movements are economical, precise. He’s thirty-eight now, his hair flecked with gray at the temples, but his focus is as sharp as it was when he was a rookie. He listens to the rhythm of the room — the snap of towels, the murmur of conversations, the clatter of sticks being put away. It’s the soundtrack of his life.

A few stalls down, two of the newer prospects are talking. They’re both first-year pros, up from the AHL, cocky in the way that only twenty-year-olds who haven’t been humbled yet can be. Their names are Poulter and Davies.

“Did you see Y/L/N out there today?” Poulter says, peeling off his sweat-soaked shoulder pads. “Kid can actually skate.”

“Yeah, he’s not bad,” Davies agrees. “Hey, random, but my buddy sent me this thing from the draft. A picture of his mom. Dude …”

Sid’s hands pause in their work. His focus doesn’t shift, his eyes remain on his skate laces, but his ears are open. He’s the captain. It’s his job to know the temperature of the room.

Poulter lets out a low whistle. “Oh, I know what you’re talking about. The one that was all over Twitter? She’s a total smokeshow. Unbelievable.”

“Right?” Davies says, his voice a little too loud in the cavernous room. “I saw the broadcast clip. My jaw hit the floor. Can’t believe she’s old enough to have a kid Colton’s age. She looks like she’s thirty, tops.”

“Total rocket,” Poulter confirms with a smug nod. “Y/L/N is one lucky kid. Hope she comes to the family Christmas party.”

A skate drops to the floor.

The sound is not loud, but it’s sharp, and it cuts through the chatter.

Sidney stands up. He doesn’t look angry. He looks worse. He looks disappointed. He turns his head slowly, and his gaze lands on the two young players. The room, which had been humming with low conversation, falls silent. Everyone can feel the shift in pressure.

“What was that?” Sid asks. His voice is quiet. It’s not a yell. It’s a low, cold query that carries more weight than any shout ever could.

Poulter and Davies freeze, their eyes wide. They look like two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

“Uh, nothing, Sid,” Poulter stammers. “Just … talking.”

Sid takes a slow step towards them. He’s not physically intimidating in the way that some of the bigger players are, but his presence, his aura, fills the space. “No, I heard you. You were talking about Y/L/N’s mother.”

Davies swallows hard. “We were just saying …”

“I know what you were saying,” Sid cuts him off, his voice still level, but with an edge of steel. “That’s his mother you’re talking about. His family. She’s not here to be a topic of conversation for you. She’s not here for you to rank or comment on. She’s not your entertainment.”

The two prospects shrink under his gaze, their faces burning with shame. The silence in the room is absolute. The other veterans are watching, letting the captain handle his business.

“This is a place of work,” Sid continues, his voice unwavering. “And that kid in here,” he gestures vaguely towards the showers, “is trying to earn a spot. The last thing he needs is to hear guys in his own room talking about his mom like she’s some piece of meat.”

He looks from one to the other, letting his words sink in. “Show some respect. For him. For her. For this room. Understand?”

“Yes, Sid,” they both mutter, their eyes glued to the floor. “Sorry, Sid.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” he says, his voice softening just a fraction, the lesson now delivered. He turns and walks back to his stall. The moment has passed. The tension begins to dissipate.

Just then, Evgeni Malkin, who had been silently stretching his giant frame on the floor nearby, gets to his feet. He saunters past Sid’s stall, a towel around his neck and a wide, mischievous grin on his face. He claps a hand on Sid’s shoulder.

“Is captain talk,” Geno says, his Russian accent as thick as ever. “Very serious. Good captain.”

Sid just shakes his head, a small, weary smile touching his lips. “Geno …”

Geno leans in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial rumble that is still audible to half the room. He looks at Sid, then glances over at the thoroughly chastened rookies, and then back to Sid. The grin widens, revealing a missing tooth.

“But …” Geno says, pausing for dramatic effect, “they are not wrong.”

He lets out a booming laugh, a genuine, infectious sound that finally shatters the remaining tension. He gives Sid’s shoulder another hearty slap and continues on his way to the showers, still chuckling to himself.

Sidney watches him go, the weary smile turning into a genuine one. He shakes his head again, a silent acknowledgment of his friend’s incorrigible nature. For over twenty years, Geno has been the one person who could always break through his captain’s intensity with a perfectly timed piece of absurdity.

He sits back down and picks up his other skate. The room slowly returns to its normal rhythm. But something has shifted for Sid. He thinks of the new kid, Y/L/N. A good kid. Works hard, keeps his mouth shut. He’d seen the photo from the draft, of course. It was hard to miss. A quick glance, an acknowledgment that, yes, she was a beautiful woman, and then he’d moved on. He hadn’t given it a second thought.

But now, he sees it differently. He sees the kid, trying to navigate the immense pressure of his first NHL camp. And he thinks of the mother, the one who was now the subject of locker room chatter, the one whose private moment of joy had been turned into public fodder. The one who had, by all accounts, raised this promising young man all on her own.

He makes a mental note. Look out for the kid. It’s his job as captain, but suddenly, it feels a little more personal. It’s about respect. It's about protecting the room, and that includes the families that support it.

Later that evening, you get your call from Colton. He sounds lighter, happier than he has in days.

“You’ll never guess what happened at practice,” he says, his voice buzzing with excitement.

“What?”

“We were doing this breakout drill, and I kept chipping the puck off the glass. It’s faster here, you know? The timing is different. And I was getting so frustrated. And then Sid skated by.”

“Oh?” You say, a smile in your voice. “Did he tell you to try again?”

“Better,” Colton says, practically bouncing. “He pulled me aside after the drill. He actually took five minutes and walked me through it. Showed me how to use my body to shield the puck, to get my head up a fraction of a second sooner. He said … he said I had good instincts and just needed to trust them.”

A warmth spreads through your chest. It’s one thing to be his teammate. It’s another to be his mentor.

“Wow, honey. That’s amazing.”

“I know! It was the coolest thing. He didn’t have to do that, Mom. Especially after I fumbled his pass the other day. I feel like … I don’t know. Like maybe I actually have a shot.”

“You do have a shot,” you say, your voice full of a conviction you feel deep in your bones. “You just keep listening to your captain. He sounds like a good man.”

“He is,” Colton says, his voice full of hero worship. “He really is.”

You hang up the phone that night feeling a sense of peace you haven’t felt since he left. Your son is in good hands. He’s being challenged, he’s being pushed, but he’s also being looked after.

You have no idea, of course, of the conversation that took place in the locker room. You have no idea that Sidney Crosby’s simple act of kindness was born from a moment of quiet, firm defense. A defense of a young player’s dignity, and by extension, a defense of yours. You just know your son sounds happy, and for now, that’s all that matters. You are a thousand miles away, but in a strange way, the orbit of your quiet life in Florida has just edged a little closer to the gravitational pull of a man in Pittsburgh you have never even met.

***

The call comes on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of sleepy, sun-drenched day in central Florida where the biggest event is the mailman arriving. You’re in your kitchen, humming along to a playlist of 90s rock, chopping vegetables for a salad you will eat alone. When your phone rings, displaying Colton’s name, your heart does its customary little flip.

“Hey, honey,” you answer, wedging the phone between your ear and shoulder as you scrape diced cucumbers into a bowl. “Don’t you have practice?”

“Finished an hour ago,” he says. His voice is flat. Devoid of its usual energy. A cold dread, sharp and immediate, courses through you. You put the knife down on the counter.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your own voice quiet. “Colton, what happened?”

This is it. The call you’ve been fearing for six weeks. The one where he tells you he’s been cut, that he’s being sent to the AHL affiliate in Wilkes-Barre, or worse, back to his junior team in London.

“I’m not coming home, Mom,” he says, and the words are a punch to the gut. You close your eyes, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles turn white. You were prepared for this. You told yourself you were. You were lying.

“Oh, baby,” you start, the sympathy thick in your throat. “It’s okay. It’s just one step back. You’ll work hard and …”

“No,” he interrupts, and for the first time, you hear a tremor in his voice. Not sadness. Something else. Something that sounds suspiciously like suppressed joy. “You don’t understand. I’m not coming home because Coach Muse just called me into his office.”

You wait, holding your breath.

“He told me to stop living out of a suitcase,” Colton says, his voice finally cracking, the emotion breaking through like a dam. “He told me to go find an apartment.”

The world stops. The hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a lawnmower, your own heartbeat — it all fades into a dull roar in your ears. You slide down the kitchen cabinets until you’re sitting on the cool tile of the floor.

“Colton,” you whisper, the name a fragile thing.

“I made the team, Mom,” he sobs, and now he’s not holding back at all. It’s a raw, ragged sound of pure, unadulterated relief. “I actually made it. I’m in the NHL.”

The tears come then, hot and silent. You cry for the exhausted eighteen-year-old on the other end of the phone, and you cry for the determined six-year-old who first stepped onto the ice, his ankles wobbling. You cry for every dollar you saved, every mile you drove, every doubt you pushed aside.

“You did it,” you say, your voice thick with tears. “Oh, my sweet boy. You really, really did it.”

“Get on a plane,” he says, his voice still shaky but now underpinned with a frantic excitement. “The season opener is Tuesday. Against the Rangers. At home. You have to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you promise. “Just tell me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Are you wearing a tie right now?”

He laughs, a wet, hiccupping sound. “No, Mom.”

“Good,” you say, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “Because I’m not there to fix it.”

***

Forty-eight hours later, you are stepping out of a cab into the crisp, alien air of a Pittsburgh autumn. The sky is a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the leaves on the trees are a riot of gold and crimson. You check into a hotel downtown, the city’s iconic black and gold color scheme seemingly imprinted on every street corner.

In your room, you lay the jersey out on the bed. It’s a real one, not a knock-off. Colton had it custom-made and overnighted to you. The iconic penguin crest on the front, and on the back, in bold, white letters: Y/L/N, and beneath it, the number 42. You trace the stitching with your finger. It feels sacred.

Colton meets you in the hotel lobby before he has to head to the rink. He looks exhausted and wired all at once, a human bundle of nervous energy. He hugs you so tightly you can barely breathe.

“I’m going to throw up,” he says into your hair.

“No, you’re not,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “You’re going to go out there and play your game. The same game you’ve been playing your whole life. The ice is the same size. The puck is the same size.”

“Sidney Crosby is not the same size,” he mutters, running a hand through his already messy hair.

You laugh, smoothing down his collar. “Just try not to hit him with a pass in the skates. Here.” You hand him a small, worn photograph from your wallet. It’s a picture of him at age seven, wearing a comically oversized jersey, a gap-toothed grin on his face as he holds up his first-ever trophy. “Put this in your stall. For good luck.”

He takes it, his expression softening. “Thanks, Mom.” He pulls an envelope from his pocket. “Your ticket. Section 104, row F. It’s a good one. You’ll be right by the glass for warmups.”

“I’ll be the one screaming the loudest,” you promise.

He gives you one last, quick hug. “Gotta go. I’ll see you after.”

And then he’s gone, swallowed by the revolving door, leaving you standing in the polished lobby, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

***

The energy inside PPG Paints Arena is a living thing. It thrums through the soles of your shoes, a current of anticipation and civic pride. You find your seat, the jersey feeling both like a costume and a second skin. The sheer number of people, the noise, the dazzling lights — it’s a world away from the cold, quiet rinks of his youth.

The lights go down. A hype video plays on the massive scoreboard. The music thunders. And then, the team emerges from the tunnel, a stream of black and gold skating onto the pristine white ice. You’re on your feet with everyone else, craning your neck, searching.

And then you see him. Number 42.

The team makes their way down the tunnel, and then, as if by some unspoken signal, they all stop, leaving the entire sheet of ice open. All except for Colton. A few players tap his shin pads with their sticks as they pause. He looks up, confused for a second, before the realization dawns on him.

It’s the rookie lap. The tradition. His solo moment in the spotlight.

A roar goes up from the crowd as they recognize the ritual. Colton hesitates for a moment, then a shy smile breaks across his face. He takes off, his skates carving clean, powerful arcs into the fresh ice. For one solitary lap, he is the only one out there, the center of this universe, skating under the bright lights with twenty thousand people cheering for him. For your son.

The tears you’ve been holding back all day finally spill over, hot and fast. You don’t bother to wipe them away. This moment is too beautiful to be blurred.

The game itself is a 60-minute anxiety attack. It’s faster in person, more violent. The sound of a body hitting the boards in front of you is a sickening thud that makes you flinch every time. You watch Colton’s every shift, your muscles tensing whenever he goes into a corner, your breath catching whenever he rushes the puck.

Late in the first period, it happens. Colton corrals a loose puck at his own blue line and makes a smart, simple pass up to his defensive partner, who then threads a long pass to a streaking Bryan Rust. Rust fires a wrist shot that beats the Rangers’ goalie clean. The horn blares, the red light flashes, and the arena explodes.

You’re screaming, hugging the strangers next to you. A minute later, the goal is announced: “PENGUINS GOAL! Scored by #17, Bryan Rust! Assists from #58, Kris Letang, and … #42, Colton Y/L/N!”

His first NHL point.

As the celebration on the ice dies down, you see Rust skate to the net, retrieve the puck, and toss it to the bench, where a trainer catches it. You know, with a certainty that makes your heart swell, that the puck is for Colton.

The game is a back-and-forth affair. It’s tied 2-2 late in the third period. The tension is unbearable. The Penguins are pressing. Colton, seeing an opening, jumps into the play, taking a pass at the top of the faceoff circle. It’s a defenseman taking a chance, a risky move for a rookie.

He doesn’t hesitate. He winds up and fires a slapshot.

Time seems to slow down. You watch the puck leave his stick, a black blur against the white ice. It rises, finding a hole through the tangle of bodies in front of the net. The goalie, screened, reacts a split second too late.

The puck hits the back of the net with a sound that is uniquely distinct. Thwack.

The eruption of noise is volcanic. It’s a physical force that pushes you back in your seat even as you leap to your feet. Colton is mobbed by his teammates, his helmet knocked askew by a joyous head rub from Evgeni Malkin. He’s laughing, screaming, pointing to the sky.

Your scream is lost in the roar of 20,000 others. You’re jumping up and down, tears and laughter mingling on your face. He did it. He scored. His first NHL goal.

As the scrum of players disperses, you watch closely. Sidney skates calmly to the net. He reaches in, picks out the puck, and gives the referee a nod. As he skates back to the bench, he passes Colton, gives him a firm tap on the helmet, and hands the precious souvenir to the trainer. The gesture is quiet, professional, and loaded with significance. It’s the captain, acknowledging the moment. Anointing the rookie.

The Penguins hold on to win 3-2. Colton is named the third star of the game. You watch, beaming, as he skates out one last time to acknowledge the cheering crowd.

***

After the game, you navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the arena to the designated family area, a polished hallway outside the locker room doors. It’s controlled chaos, filled with stylish wives, excited children, and proud parents. You feel a little out of place in your jersey, but you don’t care.

The door opens, and Colton emerges, his face flushed with victory, his hair still wet. He spots you and his face breaks into a grin so wide it looks like it hurts. He closes the distance in three long strides and lifts you into a bone-crushing hug.

“Did you see that?!” He shouts over the din, spinning you around. “Did you actually see it?! It went in! I scored! In the NHL!”

“I saw it!” You laugh, your feet dangling above the floor. “You were amazing! The whole arena was screaming your name!”

He sets you down, his eyes shining. “Okay, okay, check this out.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out two pucks, both encased in clear plastic and wrapped in white athletic tape. On the tape, in neat black marker, are the details.

Colton Y/L/N - First NHL Point - Assist - 10/7/25 vs. NYR

Colton Y/L/N - First NHL Goal - 10/7/25 vs. NYR

He presses them into your hands. They’re heavy. Real.

“They’re for you,” he says, his voice suddenly quiet, serious. “For the mantle. For everything.”

You hold the pucks in your hands. They’re heavy, solid. They feel like everything he’s ever worked for, everything you’ve ever sacrificed for, distilled into two dense circles of vulcanized rubber.

“Colton, they’re yours,” you whisper, your throat tightening.

“Everything I have is yours,” he says simply, and with a sincerity that makes your heart ache. “We did this, remember?”

You pull him into another hug, a tight, fierce one. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

“Mom,” he says, his expression shifting slightly. He looks over your shoulder. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

You turn. Walking towards you, looking impossibly larger in person even without his gear, is Sidney Crosby. He’s wearing a team sweatsuit, his hair is damp, and there are the faint, tired lines of competition etched around his eyes. He looks less like a superstar and more like a man who just finished a very hard day at the office.

“Sid, this is my mom,” Colton says, his voice full of reverence. “Mom, this is Sid.”

Sidney offers you a small, genuine smile and extends a hand. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice calm and low. “You must be incredibly proud.”

You place your hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, and calloused. You are acutely aware that this is the hand that has hoisted the Stanley Cup three times. “More than you’ll ever know,” you reply, finding your voice. “Thank you. For everything. For looking out for him.”

You gesture with the puck still in your other hand. “And thank you for this. It means the world to him. To us.”

His eyes, a deep, intelligent hazel, meet yours. He holds your gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. There is no hint of the locker room talk, no trace of anything other than sincere respect. 

“He earned it,” Sid says, his gaze shifting to include Colton. “Hell of a shot. It was the first of many.” He gives Colton a nod. “Great game tonight, kid. Keep it up.”

“Thanks, Sid,” Colton breathes, looking star-struck all over again.

With another polite nod to you, Sid moves on, disappearing into the crowd of families. The interaction couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but it leaves an electric hum in the air.

“Come on,” Colton says, pulling you from your reverie. “I’m starving. Let’s go get that celebratory dinner.”

As you walk away, arm-in-arm with your triumphant son, you can’t shake the feeling of that handshake, of that direct, unwavering gaze.

***

Sidney stands for a moment, watching you and Colton disappear down the hall. He sees the easy affection between you, the way you laugh at something your son says. It’s a world he is familiar with — the families are the bedrock of the team — but he’s always observed it from a slight distance.

A heavy hand claps him on the shoulder, making him jolt.

“Captain is thinking hard,” Evgeni Malkin rumbles beside him, a wide, knowing grin on his face.

“Just tired, Geno,” Sid says, turning to head back toward the locker room. “Long game.”

“Tired?” Geno says, easily keeping pace. “Or you see pretty mama and now your brain is scrambled egg?”

Sid shoots him a warning look, but there’s no heat behind it. “Don’t start.”

“She is good looking,” Geno continues, ignoring him completely. “I see from bench. Very nice. Young guys are not so stupid, eh?”

Kris Letang falls into step on Sid’s other side, toweling his perfectly coiffed hair. He looks impossibly fresh for someone who just played 25 minutes of hockey.

“He’s not wrong, Sid,” Letang says, his French-Canadian accent smooth as silk. “She’s very elegant. You can see where Colton gets his good manners from.” He winks. “And he’s a good kid. You’d be doing him a favor, really. Being a positive male role model.”

Sid stops, turning to face his two oldest friends, his two longest-tenured teammates. “Are you guys serious? That’s Y/L/N’s mom. He’s my rookie. He’s eighteen. Stop it.”

Geno just laughs, a loud, booming sound. “So? You are old. You need nice woman. She is nice woman. Is simple math.”

“It’s not math, it’s … inappropriate,” Sid insists, feeling a ridiculous flush creep up his neck.

Letang smirks. “Is it? Or are you just scared, Captain?”

Sid throws his hands up in exasperation, a gesture of pure defeat that only Geno and Tanger can elicit from him. He turns and walks away, leaving them laughing in the hallway.

But as he retreats to the quiet of the empty locker room, he can’t brush it off. He thinks of the way your eyes lit up when you talked about your son. He thinks of the strength in your handshake, the genuine gratitude in your voice. He thinks of the easy, unguarded smile you gave Colton as you walked away.

Don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself, pulling off his sweatsuit. She’s Colton’s mom.

But for the first time in a very long time, the ever-sensible, always-focused voice of reason in Sidney’s head sounds a little less convincing than he’d like.

***

The six weeks since the home opener have settled into a new, strange rhythm. Your life in Florida continues its quiet, orderly pace, while Colton’s life in Pittsburgh unfolds in a series of frantic, exhilarating highlights you watch on a screen. You’ve become an expert on the NHL’s streaming package, your evenings now dictated by the Penguins’ schedule. You learn the names of the broadcasters, the tendencies of the referees, and the particular way your son looks when he’s tired versus when he’s frustrated.

It's a strange, disconnected intimacy. You talk on the phone every day, but it’s not the same. You miss the comfortable chaos of having him in the house.

So when he texts you on a Tuesday morning, it’s like a beacon of light.

Colton: Hey Mom. We play the Lightning in Tampa on Saturday night. It’s a quick trip, just in and out. You should come.

Your fingers fly across the screen.

You: I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Already looking up hotels.

Colton: No need. I got you a room at the team hotel. It’s all set. Just drive down Saturday.

The casualness of it, the ease with which he can now provide for you, sends a fresh wave of pride washing over you. For eighteen years, you handled the logistics of his entire life. Now, he’s handling yours.

***

Saturday arrives, and you make the two-hour drive from Orlando to Tampa with the windows down, the warm November air a welcome balm. You check into the gleaming waterfront hotel, your room offering a panoramic view of the bay. It’s a level of luxury you’re still not quite used to.

You meet Colton in the hotel lobby for a quick, pre-game lunch. He looks good, if a little tired. The grind of an 84-game season is starting to set in.

“Are you excited?” He asks, stealing a french fry from your plate.

“Are you kidding? I’m ecstatic,” you say. “I can’t wait to see you play in person again. It’s not the same on TV.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “It’ll be good to have you there. It feels … normal.”

The word hangs in the air between you. Nothing about this life is normal, but having you in the stands, that’s a piece of the past he can hold onto. He gives you your ticket, hugs you tight, and heads off with the team for their pre-game meetings and nap. You’re left with a few hours to kill, your own nerves starting to hum with a familiar, pre-game frequency.

***

In the visitor’s locker room at Amalie Arena, the atmosphere is loose but focused. The Penguins are on a winning streak, and the mood is light. Players are getting their sticks taped, stretching, going through their individual rituals.

Sidney is sitting in his stall, methodically lacing his skates, his mind already running through the game plan. He’s trying to focus, but his two longest-tenured teammates are making it difficult.

“So, Captain,” Geno says, plopping down on the stool next to him with a dramatic sigh. He’s already in his full gear, minus the helmet. “You see rookie’s mom tonight? You say hello? Or you hide in here like scared little boy?”

Sid doesn’t look up from his laces. “I’m focusing on the game, Geno. We’re playing a very good hockey team.”

Kris, stretching his groin against the wall nearby, laughs. “He says that every time. Sid, the universe is giving you a sign. An away game in her backyard. You just have to walk up to her in the family area after the game and say, ‘Would you like to get a drink?’”

“It’s not that simple,” Sid mutters, pulling a lace tight with a sharp tug.

“Is that simple!” Geno insists, gesturing with his massive, gloved hands. “You are Sidney Crosby. She is beautiful woman. You say, ‘You, me, drink.’ What is problem?”

“The problem is that she’s the mother of our eighteen-year-old rookie defenseman who sits three stalls down from me,” Sid says, his voice low and firm. “It’s a line you don’t cross. End of story.”

“Excuses,” Kris says, switching legs. “You’ve been weird since you met her at the home opener. Just finally work up the balls and ask her out.”

“I’m not having this conversation …” Sid starts to say, but his voice trails off.

His eyes have flickered up and landed on the doorway to the trainer’s room. Standing there, holding a freshly sharpened pair of skates, is Colton.

Colton has frozen mid-stride. His eyes are wide. It’s impossible to know how much he heard, but judging by the way the color is draining from his face, he heard enough.

The joking banter in the room dies instantly. The handful of other players who were within earshot suddenly find the tape on their sticks fascinating. The air grows thick with a horrified, awkward silence.

Geno and Kris exchange a wide-eyed, ‘oh shit’ look.

Sid’s heart plummets into his stomach. This is it. This is exactly what he was afraid of. He’s embarrassed his rookie, made him uncomfortable in his own locker room, and shattered the professional boundary he values so highly.

He stands up, his skates still untied, and takes a step towards Colton. His mind is racing. He has to fix this.

“Colton,” he says, his voice low and urgent, full of sincere regret. “Man, I am so sorry you heard that. They’re just messing around, you know how they are. I want you to know, I have the utmost respect for you, and for your mom. I would never, ever cross that line. It was just a stupid locker room joke. It won’t happen again.”

He’s rambling, he knows it, but he can’t stop. He needs to convey how deeply he means it.

Colton just stands there for a second, his expression unreadable. Then he seems to shake himself out of his stupor. He walks past Sid to his own stall, sets his skates down, and begins to untie his shoes. He doesn’t say a word.

Sid follows him, his voice dropping even lower. “Seriously, Colton. I’m mortified. It’s unprofessional and …”

“Sid.”

Colton cuts him off, his voice quiet but firm. He finally looks up from his shoes, and his eyes meet Sid’s. There’s no anger in them. There’s something else. Something thoughtful.

“It’s okay,” Colton says.

Sid blinks, completely thrown. “No, it’s not okay. I put you in a terrible position.”

“No,” Colton says, shaking his head as he pulls off a running shoe. “Just … listen.” He takes a deep breath, and it feels like every other person in that corner of the room is holding theirs.

“My mom,” he begins, his voice steady, “she’s been a mom since she was eighteen years old. That’s it. That’s all she’s ever really gotten to be. Her entire adult life, every single decision she’s made, has been about me.”

Sid, Geno, and Kris are silent, listening with a new, sober attention.

“The jobs she worked — waitressing at night so she could drive me to practice in the morning. Where we lived — always making sure it was in the right school district for the hockey program. What she did on weekends … it was never for her. It was always driving to some tournament in the middle of nowhere, sitting in a freezing cold rink for six hours, just for me.”

He pauses, his gaze becoming distant for a second, lost in a memory. “She never dated. Not really. I remember she went on a few dates when I was in middle school. This one guy was a real jerk, and he made some comment about how much time she spent on my hockey. She came home that night, and I heard her crying in her room.” He swallows hard. “After that, she just … stopped. She told me once she didn’t have time for anyone who wasn’t 100% in on ‘Team Colton’.”

He looks back at Sid, his eyes boring into him with an unnerving intensity. “She deserves to have her own team now. She deserves to go to dinner with someone who isn’t her son. She deserves a good guy.”

He lets that hang in the air for a beat. “And you’re a good guy, Sid. I see how you treat people. The trainers, the staff, the rookies … everyone. You’re the best guy I know.”

Sid is speechless. This conversation has veered into territory he could never have anticipated. He feels a deeper respect for this kid blooming in his chest, so strong it almost knocks him off balance.

Then, Colton’s expression shifts. The softness hardens into something protective, fierce. It’s the look he gets before he’s about to clear the front of the net.

“But,” he says, his voice dropping a little, “I swear to God, if you ever, ever hurt her … you need to understand something.” He takes a half-step closer. He’s no longer a rookie talking to his captain, he’s a son talking about his mother.

“If you make her cry, if you aren’t completely honest with her, if you disrespect her in any way … I know what the deal is. I know you’re Sidney Crosby, and I’m some kid on an entry-level contract who could be on a bus to Wheeling tomorrow. I know you could probably make one phone call and I’d never play in this league again.”

He leans in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “But spending the rest of my career playing in the ECHL would be absolutely worth it to me if it meant I got to protect my mom from a broken heart. Are we clear?”

The silence in the locker room is now so absolute you could hear a pin drop. Geno and Kris are staring, their jaws practically on the floor.

Sidney Crosby, a man who has faced down 250-pound defensemen his entire life, who has played through immense pain in the crucible of the Stanley Cup Final, finds himself completely intimidated by an eighteen-year-old kid. And he respects the hell out of him for it.

He can only nod, his throat suddenly dry. “Crystal clear, Colton.”

And just like that, the tension breaks. Colton’s face relaxes into a small, wry smile. The fierce protector vanishes, replaced by the easy-going kid.

“Okay, good,” he says, as if he hadn’t just threatened the career of a living legend. He starts pulling on his hockey socks. “So, after the game … her favorite place is a little Italian spot about twenty minutes from the arena. It’s over in Ybor City. It’s called Bernini of Ybor. She loves their gnocchi.”

He stands up and claps Sid on the shoulder, a shockingly familiar gesture that makes Sid’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I expect her home by midnight, Captain.”

And with that, Colton Y/L/N turns, grabs his helmet, and heads out of the room towards the ice for warmups, leaving his captain, and two of the league’s most seasoned veterans, completely and utterly speechless.

Geno is the first one to move. He lets out a long, slow whistle.

“Wow,” he says, his voice full of awe. “Rookie has, how you say … very big balls.”

Kris is just shaking his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Kid’s got his priorities straight. Damn.” He looks at Sid. “Well, you got the green light, my friend. And a shovel talk from a guy who can’t legally buy you a beer.”

Sid is still processing the whiplash of the last five minutes. He feels like he’s just been through a full-speed collision. The kid’s fierce loyalty, his surprising maturity, his unconditional love for his mom … it’s overwhelming. He’s not just thinking about you anymore. He’s thinking about the incredible young man you raised.

The pre-game buzzer sounds, jarring him back to reality. He has a game to play. But as he finishes tying his skates, his mind is already miles away, replaying Colton’s words.

She deserves a good guy.

The question is no longer if he should ask you out. The question is how he can possibly live up to the impossibly high standard your son just set.

***

The game is a hard-fought, gritty win for the Penguins. A 3-2 victory where Colton plays solid, defensive minutes, finishing the game with a plus-one rating and a handful of blocked shots. You watch from your seat, your heart swelling with a quieter, more sustainable kind of pride. The shock of his first goal has worn off, replaced by the steady joy of watching him belong. He is an NHL defenseman. It’s no longer a dream, it’s his job.

After the final horn, you make your way to the designated family waiting area, a familiar ritual now. The space is smaller and less glamorous than the one in Pittsburgh, but the energy is the same — a low hum of relief and celebration.

The players begin to emerge. Colton spots you immediately, a tired but happy grin on his face. He comes over and gives you a sweaty, all-encompassing hug.

“You play so well tonight, honey,” you say, pulling back to look at him. “That blocked shot in the third was incredible.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, his face flushed. “Felt that one in my teeth.” He looks over your shoulder, then back at you, a strange, meaningful glint in his eye. “Hey, can you just wait here for a sec? Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

He says it with a forced casualness that immediately puts you on high alert. Before you can question him, he squeezes your arm and disappears back towards the locker room. You stand there, puzzled, watching the remaining players trickle out.

And then you see him. Sidney emerges from the tunnel, flanked by Geno and Kris. He’s laughing at something Geno said, his face relaxed. He looks up, and his eyes meet yours from across the room. The laughter dies on his lips. He freezes for a split second, a deer caught in the headlights. He gives you a small, hesitant nod of acknowledgment and looks like he’s about to make a sharp right turn and flee.

You watch, fascinated, as an entire silent drama unfolds in the space of three seconds. Geno stops, looks from Sid to you, and then back to Sid with an expression of profound exasperation.

“Sid,” Geno says, his voice a low rumble. “Go now. No excuses.”

Sid shakes his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes pleading. “Geno, I can’t.”

Geno is having none of it. He puts a massive, gloved hand on the middle of Sid’s back. “Yes. You can.”

And then he shoves him.

It’s not a gentle nudge. It’s a full-body, hockey-player push that sends Sidney Crosby — three-time Stanley Cup champion, future Hall of Famer — stumbling forward several steps in your direction. He catches his balance with the practiced grace of a world-class athlete, but his face is a mask of pure mortification. He whips his head around to glare at Geno, who simply beams, gives him a huge, toothy grin, and a double thumbs-up before steering Kris in the opposite direction.

And now, Sidney Crosby is standing five feet in front of you, looking more flustered than you’ve ever seen a human being look. It’s so unexpected, so completely at odds with his public persona, that you can’t help the small smile that touches your lips.

“Uh,” he starts, running a hand through his damp hair. “Hi. Sorry about that.”

“Hi, Sidney,” you say, your voice full of amusement. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Fine,” he says quickly, his eyes darting back towards where Geno disappeared. “He’s … strong.” He clears his throat, his professional composure starting to reassert itself, though his cheeks are still tinged with pink. “It was a great game tonight. Colton played really well. Very responsible in his own end.”

He’s deflecting, you realize. Using hockey talk as a shield.

“He did,” you agree. “I was so proud watching him.”

An awkward silence descends. It stretches for a beat, then two. He’s clearly struggling with something. He takes a deep breath, the kind a person takes before plunging into icy water. His gaze meets yours, direct and sincere now.

“So,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “I know this is … this is probably very forward. And maybe out of line. But Colton happened to mention that you like Italian food.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“And I was wondering,” he continues, the words coming out in a slight rush, “if you weren’t too tired, or if you don’t have other plans … if you would let me take you to dinner?”

The question hangs in the air between you, stunning you into silence. Sidney Crosby is asking you out on a date. You feel a thrill, a flutter in your stomach you haven’t felt since you were a teenager yourself. You glance over his shoulder and, as if on cue, Colton peeks out from the locker room doorway. He catches your eye and gives you two enthusiastic, frantic thumbs-up.

The pieces click into place. Colton’s strange behavior, Geno’s shove … it was all a conspiracy. A ridiculous, sweet, high-school-level plot to get the shy captain to talk to the rookie’s mom.

A real, genuine smile breaks across your face, erasing any hesitation.

“I’d love that, Sidney.”

The relief that floods his face is so obvious it’s almost comical. “Yeah? Great. That’s … great.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting across from him in a quiet corner booth at Bernini of Ybor. You’d ridden over in a black car service the team uses, the silence between you filled with the nervous energy of a first date. The restaurant is beautiful, all dark wood and exposed brick, with the low, warm hum of happy diners.

The conversation starts as you expected it would — stilted, polite, and centered around the one thing you have in common: hockey.

“The power play looked good tonight,” you offer, taking a sip of the red wine the waiter recommended.

“Yeah, we’ve been working on the zone entry,” he says, studying his own menu intently. “Getting the puck in with possession is key against a team that pressures like Tampa.”

You talk about Colton’s development, about the team’s schedule, about the different feel of the arenas around the league. It’s nice. It’s safe. But it’s not a date. It’s an interview.

Then, you decide to take a page out of Geno’s book and give things a little push.

“So,” you say, setting your menu down. “What does Sidney Crosby do when he’s not being Sidney Crosby? When the season is over and you can finally breathe. What do you do?”

The question seems to surprise him. He looks up from his menu, his guard dropping for a fraction of a second. “That’s a good question.” He pauses, genuinely considering it. “I go home. To Nova Scotia. I have a place on the lake. It’s quiet.”

“Quiet sounds nice,” you say.

“It is,” he agrees. “It’s the one place I don’t feel like … you know.” He gestures vaguely, a motion that encompasses the restaurant, the fans, the entire world of expectations that surrounds him. “I just fish. See my family. My sister, Taylor. My parents. It’s … normal.”

There’s that word again. The same one Colton used. The longing for normalcy from two people living the most abnormal of lives.

“It must have been a lot,” you say softly. “Being ‘The Next One’ since you were fifteen.”

He gives you a small, wry smile. “It had its moments. It’s a weird way to grow up. Your whole life is scheduled. Hotels, buses, planes, rinks. You miss a lot of stuff. High school dances, proms, just … hanging out.” He shrugs, a gesture of acceptance. “But I got to play hockey for a living. It’s a trade I’d make every single time.”

He leans forward, his elbows on the table, his intensity focused entirely on you now. “What about you? Colton told me … he told me you were eighteen when you had him.”

“I was,” you confirm, your voice steady. “A baby having a baby.”

“You sacrificed a lot for him,” he says. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact.

You feel a lump form in your throat, an old, familiar knot of emotion. “They never felt like sacrifices,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve ever said. “When you’re a parent, it’s just … what you do. His dream became my dream. There wasn’t a line between the two.”

“But you must have had your own dreams,” he presses gently.

You find yourself telling him things you haven’t articulated to anyone in years. About your plan to go to college for graphic design. About the part-time jobs that became full-time careers. About the loneliness of parent-teacher conferences and the specific, gut-wrenching fear of your car breaking down when you only have fifty-three dollars in your bank account until payday.

He listens. He doesn’t just hear the words; he actively listens, his eyes full of a deep, quiet empathy. He doesn’t offer platitudes or sympathy. He just nods, creating a safe space for you to speak.

Then, you turn it back on him. “What about you? All those years on the road. It must get lonely.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re surrounded by twenty guys all the time, but yeah. It’s a different kind of lonely. Everyone knows the hockey player. Not a lot of people know the person. It’s hard to know who you can trust.”

You talk for two hours. You talk about favorite movies, bad travel experiences, the weirdness of being recognized in public, and the simple joy of a home-cooked meal. You discover he has a dry, understated sense of humor that makes you laugh, a real, deep belly laugh you realize you haven’t done in ages. You feel a connection, a spark of recognition between two people who have lived strangely parallel lives of dedication and sacrifice, albeit in vastly different arenas.

For the first time in as long as you can remember, you are not just “Colton’s mom.” You are you. And the man across from you, he’s not just “Sidney Crosby.” He’s Sid. A kind, funny, surprisingly shy man from Nova Scotia with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

As he pays the bill — insisting over your protests — he smiles. “Colton was right. The gnocchi is amazing.”

“He’s usually right about things like that,” you say, smiling back.

The ride back to the hotel is different. The silence isn’t awkward anymore. It’s comfortable, companionable. He walks you all the way to your hotel room door.

“I had a really, really great time tonight,” he says, his voice sincere. He’s standing a little closer than he needs to.

“Me too, Sid,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

He just nods, his eyes lingering on yours for a long moment before he gives you a small, shy smile and turns to walk down the hall to his own room.

You let yourself into your room, your mind reeling. You lean against the door, a goofy, giddy smile plastered on your face. You feel light, hopeful. You feel like a teenager after a perfect first date.

There’s a soft knock on the adjoining door that connects your room to Colton’s. You open it.

He’s standing there in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his expression a comical mixture of a nosy best friend and a worried father.

“Okay,” he says, walking into your room and closing the door behind him. “Full debrief. Now.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up out of pure happiness. “Debrief on what, Mr. Nosy?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Mom,” he says, flopping down onto the edge of your bed. He crosses his arms, trying to look stern and failing miserably. “How was it? Was he a gentleman? Did he make you laugh? Did he say anything stupid? Do I need to go down the hall and kick my captain’s ass?”

“It was wonderful, Colton,” you say, your voice soft. You sink into the armchair opposite the bed. “He was a perfect gentleman. And yes, he made me laugh. A lot.”

The tension drains from Colton’s shoulders, replaced by a genuine, heartfelt relief. “Good,” he says, his voice losing its joking edge. “That’s good. You deserve that.” Then the stern look returns. “Because I meant what I said, you know.”

“I know you did, sweetie,” you say, your heart overflowing with love for this incredible young man you raised. “And that’s one of the million reasons why I love you so much.”

He smiles, a real, happy smile. “I love you too, Mom.” He gets up to leave, then pauses at the adjoining door, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Just one last thing,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“It’s 11:58,” he says, glancing at an imaginary watch on his wrist. “You cut it a little close on curfew.”

You grab the decorative pillow off the armchair and hurl it at him. He dodges it with a laugh, slipping back into his room and closing the door, leaving you alone in the quiet, happy glow of a night that feels, impossibly, like a new beginning.

***

The months that follow your first date in Tampa are a whirlwind of quiet moments stitched together across time zones. The relationship builds not in grand, sweeping gestures, but in the steady accumulation of small, private intimacies.

It’s in the nightly FaceTime calls that become as routine as brushing your teeth. You’ll be curled up on your sofa in Orlando, and he’ll be in a sterile hotel room in Calgary or San Jose, his face tired but his eyes lighting up when he sees you. You talk about everything and nothing — about your day at work, about a funny text Colton sent, about the book you’re reading, about the nagging soreness in his shoulder.

It’s in the dinners when the Penguins are on a home stand in Pittsburgh. He’ll send a car for you, and you’ll fly in for a weekend, staying in a hotel near his home. He introduces you to his favorite sushi place, a tiny, unassuming spot where the owner knows not to make a fuss. He holds your hand under the table, his thumb gently stroking yours, a silent, grounding connection in a world that is always watching him.

Colton, for his part, becomes the wry, supportive gatekeeper of your burgeoning romance. He develops a running joke with his captain.

“Taking my mom out again tonight, Sid?” He’ll ask in the locker room after a morning skate, a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t scratch my car.” The first time he said it, a few of the younger players nearly fainted. Now, it’s just part of the room’s rhythm.

Sid will just shake his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Not your car, kid. And I’ll have her home by curfew.”

The season grinds on. Colton solidifies his place on the blue line, his confidence growing with every game. The Penguins make a respectable playoff run, battling their way to the second round before being eliminated in a hard-fought six-game series.

The end of the season is always abrupt. One day, there is the singular, all-consuming focus of the Stanley Cup playoffs. The next, there is silence. Boxes to be packed, goodbyes to be said, and the sudden, yawning expanse of the offseason.

You’re in Pittsburgh for the team’s exit meetings, helping Colton pack up the apartment he moved into mid-season. Sid had insisted on taking both of you out for one last dinner before you all scattered for the summer.

You’re at a quiet steakhouse, tucked away in a corner booth. The conversation is easy, comfortable. You’re talking about summer plans. Colton is excited to get home to Florida, to feel the sun, to decompress for a few weeks before his intense training regimen begins.

“What about you, Sid?” Colton asks, polishing off the last of his steak. “Straight back to Nova Scotia?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” Sid says, swirling the ice in his water glass. He looks at you, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant. “I was, uh, actually wanting to talk to you both about that.”

You and Colton exchange a curious glance.

“I know the summer is a weird time,” Sid begins, his eyes focused on you. “Everyone scatters. But I go home. To my lake house in Cole Harbour. And it’s … it’s my favorite place in the world. It’s the one place I can just shut everything off.”

He takes a breath. “I was wondering, and I know it’s a lot to ask, and please feel free to say no … but I’d love for you to see it.” He shifts his gaze to include Colton. “I’d love for both of you to come up. For the summer. Or for as long as you want. Colton, you can train with me and Nate. We’ve got a pretty serious setup there. It’ll get you ready for next season.”

Then, his eyes find yours again, and his voice softens. “And you … you can just relax. Read a book by the lake. Go for a walk. Finally have a summer that isn’t about packing up gear and driving to a rink.”

The offer is so full of sincerity, so loaded with unspoken meaning, that it takes your breath away. This isn’t just an invitation for a vacation. This is an invitation into his life. Into his sanctuary.

You look at Colton. His eyes are wide, a slow, incredulous grin spreading across his face. He looks from Sid to you, and he gives the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod.

You turn back to Sid, a warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the wine.

“Sid,” you say, your voice a little thick. “We’d love to.”

***

Three weeks later, you step off a plane in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and the air is the first thing you notice. It’s clean, cool, and smells of pine and the faint, briny tang of the distant sea. It’s a world away from the thick, humid blanket of a Florida summer.

Sid is there to meet you, looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. He’s in a simple t-shirt, shorts, and a baseball cap. The ever-present tension he carries in his shoulders during the season seems to have melted away. He hugs you, a long, welcoming embrace that feels different here, on his home turf.

The drive to Cole Harbour is beautiful, all rolling green hills and glimpses of the sparkling Atlantic. You eventually turn off the main road and onto a long, winding gravel driveway, trees forming a dense canopy overhead. And then, the woods open up, and you see it.

His house is not the ostentatious mansion you might expect. It’s a beautiful, modern log-and-stone home, nestled perfectly into the landscape, with a wall of windows overlooking a serene, glass-like lake. It’s private, peaceful, and unpretentious. It’s perfectly him.

“Wow,” is all Colton can manage to say from the back seat.

“Yeah,” Sid says, a quiet pride in his voice. “It’s home.”

The summer settles into a rhythm that feels both brand new and deeply familiar. The mornings are for work. Sid and Colton, often joined by a ridiculously energetic Nathan MacKinnon, are gone by 7 a.m. for grueling workouts in Sid’s state-of-the-art home gym, followed by on-ice sessions at a local rink.

You spend your mornings with a cup of coffee and a book on the huge wooden deck that overlooks the lake. You watch the mist burn off the water, listen to the haunting call of the loons, and feel the layers of stress and responsibility you’ve carried for two decades begin to peel away. For the first time in your adult life, your only job is to simply be.

The afternoons are lazy and beautiful. Sometimes the three of you take the boat out, the cool spray a welcome relief in the afternoon sun. Colton learns to waterski, his athletic prowess translating surprisingly well. Other days, you and Sid just sit on the end of the dock, your feet dangling in the shockingly cold water, and talk for hours.

One Sunday, he takes you to his parents’ house for dinner. You’re nervous, but Troy and Trina Crosby welcome you with the easy, unpretentious warmth of Maritime hospitality. They treat you not as a guest, but as family.

Trina pulls you aside in the kitchen as you’re helping her clear the plates. She’s a woman with kind eyes and a no-nonsense air you immediately like and respect.

“I haven’t seen Sidney this relaxed, this happy, in years,” she says, her voice quiet as she stacks plates. “Since he was a boy, really. His whole life has been about the pressure. With you, it’s like he can finally just be himself.” She turns to you, her expression full of a mother’s gratitude. “Thank you.”

“He did that himself,” you say, deeply touched. “He’s a wonderful man.”

“Yes,” she agrees, a proud smile on her face. “He is. And he’s got good taste.”

***

One clear, cool night in August, after a long day on the water, you’re all sitting around a crackling fire pit near the edge of the lake. The sky is a deep, star-dusted velvet, the Milky Way a brilliant slash across the darkness.

“I can’t believe we have to leave in two weeks,” Colton says, poking the fire with a long stick. “This has been the best summer of my life.”

“You’ve earned it, kid,” Sid says, his arm resting comfortably around your shoulders. “You put in the work.”

“Thanks to you,” Colton says. “I feel twice as strong as I did last year. I’m ready.” He looks from Sid to you, a deep, mature gratitude in his eyes. He stands up, stretching his long frame. “Alright, I’m beat. I’m heading in. Don’t stay up too late, you two.”

He gives you a kiss on the top of your head and claps Sid on the shoulder before heading up to the house, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fire-lit dark.

You lean your head on Sid’s shoulder, watching the embers dance. “He’s really grown up this year,” you say softly.

“He’s an incredible young man,” Sid agrees. “You did a hell of a job.”

You sit in comfortable silence for a long time, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore.

“A year ago,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, “I was sitting at the draft in Las Vegas. I was so proud, and so terrified. I had no idea what was coming. I was just trying to hold on tight.”

“And I was in the Penguins locker room,” he says, his voice a low rumble next to your ear, “about to draft a kid from the London Knights who was going to completely change my life.”

He shifts, turning to face you. He takes your hand, his fingers lacing through yours.

“I love you,” he says. The words are simple, direct, and hold the weight of a truth he’s been settling into all summer. “I think I’ve been falling in love with you since that first night in Tampa.”

Tears well in your eyes, sparkling in the firelight. “I love you, too, Sid.”

“When I asked you to come here,” he continues, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, “I just hoped you’d like it. I hoped it would be a nice summer. But seeing you here, on the deck in the morning with your coffee, laughing with my mom in the kitchen, sitting right here … it feels like you’ve always been here.”

He brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

“It feels like home.”

He leans in, and his lips meet yours. It’s not the tentative kiss of a new romance, full of questions and uncertainty. It’s a kiss of deep certainty. It’s a kiss that tastes of woodsmoke and promises, of a shared past and a future you will build together.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You look past him, at the dark, peaceful water, at the sturdy, welcoming house, at the brilliant, endless sky. For eighteen years, home was wherever Colton was. It was a person, a responsibility, a fierce and unconditional love.

Now, you realize with a sudden, breathtaking clarity, home has expanded. It’s still the boy, now a man, sleeping soundly in the house behind you. But it’s also the man whose hand you’re holding, the quiet sanctuary he’s built, and the incredible, unexpected love that has filled a part of your heart you didn’t even know was empty. You’re not just Colton’s mom, and he’s not just Sidney Crosby. You’re partners. And you are, finally and completely, home.

***

Three Years Later

The locker room at PPG Paints Arena smells exactly the same. It’s a timeless mixture of sweat, clean laundry, and the sharp, metallic tang of sharpened skates. The energy, however, is different. It’s younger. There’s a new guard, a new rhythm.

Colton Y/L/N, now twenty-two and an alternate captain with a freshly stitched ‘A’ on his jersey, sits on the stool in front of his stall. He’s no longer the wide-eyed rookie trying to stay out of the way. He is the anchor of the defense, a leader in this room, fielding questions from a small cluster of reporters with an easy, practiced calm. The Penguins have just won their season opener, and the mood is buoyant.

“… yeah, I thought the new pairings felt good,” Colton is saying, peeling tape off his shin pads. “Communication was solid. We’ve still got things to clean up, but for the first game, you take the two points and build on it.”

A new voice pipes up from the edge of the scrum. He’s a young reporter from The Athletic, keen to find an angle the veteran journalists might have overlooked.

“Colton,” the reporter begins, “obviously this is the first opening night in a generation without Sidney Crosby being a part of this team. How weird does it feel to start a season without him around?”

Colton stops what he’s doing. He slowly looks up, his expression completely flat. The other, more seasoned reporters around the young man share a subtle, knowing glance. The kid has just stepped on a landmine he doesn’t even know exists.

A long, silent beat passes. Colton just stares, his gaze so incredulous it’s almost comical. Then, a low chuckle escapes his lips. It builds into a full, genuine laugh. He shakes his head, running a hand over his hair.

“Weird to not have him around?” Colton repeats, the question thick with amusement. He picks up his water bottle and takes a long drink, making the reporter wait. “Man, I don’t know,” he says, finally lowering the bottle. “It’s sort of hard to feel that way considering I ate breakfast across from him this morning while he was getting spit up on by my baby sister.”

A stunned silence falls over the scrum. The reporters exchange confused looks. The young journalist who asked the question looks completely lost.

“Your … your baby sister?” He stammers, his pen hovering uselessly over his notepad.

Colton’s expression shifts. He leans forward slightly, adopting the patient, overly-enunciated tone one might use with a small child who can’t grasp a simple concept.

“Yeah,” Colton explains slowly. “Callie. She’s six months old. You know. Little human? Cries, sleeps, spits up on my mom’s husband?”

He lets the words hang in the air, a breadcrumb trail the reporter is still failing to follow. The kid’s face is a perfect mask of incomprehension.

Colton lets out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh.

“Sidney Crosby,” he clarifies, as if explaining 2+2=4. “He’s married to my mom. He’s my stepdad. We live in the same house.”

The collective sound of frantic typing fills the room as the other reporters hammer out their new headlines. The young reporter’s jaw has physically dropped.

Colton grins, the last piece of the puzzle finally clicking into place for the poor kid.

“So, no,” Colton finishes, a triumphant twinkle in his eye. “It’s not weird not having him around.”

He takes another long swig of water, the universal sign for this interview is over. He stands up, stretching his tired frame.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Y/n spent her eleventh birthday out with her friends, Tarsem, Vineya, and Vineya’s cousin, Tah’ni.

Tah’ni had joined their little group two months ago. At first, Y/n had been excited. A new friend. Someone Vineya loved. Someone who might fit right in.

And Tah’ni was nice.

To everyone.

Everyone except Y/n.

It wasn’t loud or obvious. It wasn’t the kind of mean that adults would notice. It was quiet, careful, the kind of exclusion that slips in slowly until one day you realise you’re standing outside the circle you used to belong to.

Tah’ni walked close to Vineya, whispering jokes that made her cousin giggle. She linked arms with her, tugged her ahead, pulled her into conversations that didn’t leave space for anyone else.

Especially not Y/n.

And Vineya, sweet, bright Vineya, didn’t see it happening. She was too happy to have her cousin around again.

The first time it happened, Vineya looked apologetic.

“I’m sorry, Y/n, Tah’ni wants to go hunting today. We’ll play tomorrow, okay?”

Y/n smiled, because she always smiled. “Okay.”

The second time, Vineya didn’t even meet her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Y/n, I’m going with my dad, aunt and uncle. And Tah’ni. They invited her too.”

Another smile. “It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine.

Because every time Vineya said “I’m sorry,” Tah’ni stood behind her with that tiny, satisfied tilt to her chin, the kind that said good, stay home.

The only one who didn’t push Y/n away was Tarsem.

He still ran up to her first.

Still asked her to come along.

Still treated her like she mattered.

And somehow that made it worse.

Because whenever Tarsem stayed by Y/n’s side, Tah’ni’s comments sharpened, quiet, cutting, the kind of remarks an eleven‑year‑old shouldn’t know how to make.

“Oh, you’re coming too?”

“I guess we can slow down for you.”

“Tarsem, don’t wander off, you’ll get stuck babysitting again.”

Vile little things, wrapped in a child’s voice.

Vineya laughed at them, not because they were funny, but because she didn’t want to upset her cousin.

Tarsem glared, but he didn’t know how to speak up. Not yet.

And Y/n, she swallowed it. Every word. Every look. Every moment she was nudged a little further away.

On her eleventh birthday ,a day that should have been full of laughter and light, Y/n found herself walking a few steps behind her own friends, listening to Tah’ni’s soft snickers, watching Vineya drift further from her, feeling Tarsem’s worried glances.

And she wondered, quietly, painfully, when she had stopped being part of the group and become the one they could do without.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

A few months after her eleventh birthday, Y/n noticed the change.

Vineya didn’t just drift away, she pulled away completely.

No more greetings.

No more shared jokes.

No more “come play with us.”

She didn’t even look at Y/n anymore.

And it wasn’t just Vineya.

Her mother stopped talking to Neytiri.

Her father stopped speaking to Jake, except when respect demanded it.

Conversations that used to be warm became cold.

Smiles became tight.

Distance settled between the families like a fog.

Y/n knew why.

And she believed, with the heavy certainty only a child can feel, that it was her fault.

It had happened on a quiet afternoon. She and Tarsem had been throwing rocks into the river, laughing at whose splash was bigger. It was peaceful. Normal. Safe.

Until the screaming started.

Tah’ni and her parents burst from the trees, running for their lives, a thanator crashing behind them. The forest shook with its weight. The air filled with panic.

They jumped into the water trying to escape it.

Y/n and Tarsem ran toward them without thinking.

They tried to reach Tah’ni.

Tried to pull her away.

Tried to help.

But the ground was slick.

The riverbank steep.

And Y/n slipped.

Tarsem grabbed her arm, hauling her back before she fell over the edge. By the time they scrambled upright again, Tah’ni was gone, swept away by the river’s current, her small form disappearing into the churning water.

No body.

No chance to say goodbye.

Just absence.

Tah’ni’s parents survived.

But their daughter did not.

And grief needs somewhere to land.

They blamed Y/n.

They whispered that the thanator must have been the mate of the one she killed months earlier. That the creature had followed her scent. That it had come for revenge.

None of it was true.

But grief doesn’t care about truth.

And Y/n, only eleven, still healing from her own scars, carried their blame like a stone in her chest.

She replayed the moment over and over.

If she hadn’t slipped.

If she had been faster.

If she had been stronger.

If she had never killed the first thanator at all.

Maybe Tah’ni would still be alive.

Tarsem tried to tell her it wasn’t her fault.

Jake and Neytiri tried to comfort her.

Mo’at tried to explain that Eywa does not punish children.

But Y/n felt the weight anyway.

Because a child had died.

And the world around her had changed.

And every time Vineya turned away, every time her parents avoided Neytiri and Jake, every time silence replaced friendship.

Y/n felt the same thought echo inside her

“It’s because of me.”

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Some of the people whispered.

They didn’t mean to be cruel, grief rarely does, but their words still reached her.

“Why didn’t she see it coming?”

“Eywa speaks to her in dreams, why not this time?”

“If she’s a seer, shouldn’t she have known?”

Y/n didn’t understand either.

Eywa had come to her before.

Had shown her things.

Had warned her.

But not this time.

Not when it mattered.

That night, she lay in her hammock staring up at the woven ceiling, listening to the soft breathing of her siblings around her. Neteyam’s steady rhythm. Lo’ak’s occasional snuffle. Kiri’s quiet hums as she dreamed. Tuk’s tiny sighs.

Her father’s snores rumbled from the other side of the marui.

And then she heard her mother.

The soft shift of Neytiri climbing out of her and Jake’s shared hammock. Bare feet padding across the floor. A pause beside Y/n’s hammock.

Then the gentle dip of weight as Neytiri climbed in beside her.

Without a word, she pulled her daughter into her arms.

Y/n’s lip trembled.

Her breath hitched.

And then the dam broke.

She sobbed, loud, shaking, months of swallowed pain pouring out all at once.

“It’s my fault,” she cried into her mother’s chest. “It’s my fault.”

Neytiri held her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing slow circles on her back.

Y/n’s voice cracked. “I hated her, I wished she would leave me alone… and now she’s dead and it’s my fault. And you should hate me.”

Neytiri’s eyes filled with tears.

Her baby, her gentle, soft‑hearted child, had been carrying this alone. For months. Blaming herself for something no child should ever have to understand, let alone bear.

Y/n shook in her arms, small and hurting and only eleven years old.

Neytiri pressed her cheek to her daughter’s hair, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, ma’ite, no. No, my child.”

She rocked her gently, the way she had when Y/n was tiny.

“You did not cause this. You did not wish this. You did not bring this upon anyone.”

Y/n sobbed harder, clutching at her mother’s chest as if she might fall apart without something to hold.

Neytiri kissed the top of her head, tears slipping down her own cheeks.

“You are a child,” she whispered. “A child who tried to help. A child who almost fell herself. A child who survived something no one should have seen.”

She pulled Y/n closer, wrapping her completely in her arms.

“You are not to blame. Not for the thanator. Not for Tah’ni. Not for the grief of others.”

Y/n’s cries softened into hiccups, her small body exhausted.

Neytiri held her through every tremor, every breath, every tear.

Because her daughter, her brave, gentle, hurting daughter, had finally broken.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Neytiri held Y/n close, her fingers combing through her daughter’s hair in slow, soothing strokes. Y/n’s sobs had softened into small, broken hiccups, her face pressed against her mother’s chest.

“I’m sorry, mama…” she whispered again, voice raw.

“Do not apologise, ma yawn,” Neytiri murmured, kissing the top of her head. “You have done nothing wrong.”

A shift sounded from across the marui.

Jake’s snores had stopped.

For a moment, there was only silence, then the soft rustle of him sitting up, confused, listening. He knew the sound of his children’s cries. He knew the difference between a nightmare and something deeper.

“’Tiri…?” he whispered into the dimness.

Neytiri didn’t answer with words, she simply tightened her arms around Y/n, and that was enough for Jake to understand something was wrong.

He climbed out of their hammock quietly, padding across the floor until he reached them. The faint bioluminescence from outside caught the worry on his face.

“Hey…” he breathed, kneeling beside them. “What’s going on?”

Y/n tried to curl in on herself, ashamed, but Neytiri held her gently in place.

Jake reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek with the back of his knuckle. “Sweetheart… talk to me.”

Y/n shook her head, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. “I’m sorry, Daddy…”

Jake’s chest tightened. He hadn’t heard her call him that in months.

He glanced at Neytiri, who nodded softly, giving him permission to join them.

Jake eased himself into the hammock beside them, wrapping his arms around both his girls. Y/n was small between them, trembling, exhausted.

“Hey, hey…” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. “You don’t have to be sorry. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

Y/n’s voice cracked. “They all hate me…”

Jake’s breath caught. “No. No, baby, they’re hurting. That’s different.”

“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “I should’ve seen it. Eywa didn’t show me anything. I should’ve, I should’ve, ”

Jake cupped her face gently, guiding her eyes to his.

“Y/n,” he said softly, firmly, “you are a child. You are not Eywa. You are not responsible for every danger in this forest.”

Her lip trembled again.

Jake pulled her into his chest, holding her as tightly as Neytiri did.

“You tried to help,” he whispered into her hair. “You almost fell yourself. You did everything you could. And I am so damn proud of you.”

Neytiri rested her hand over Jake’s, their fingers tangling together across Y/n’s back.

“You are our daughter,” Neytiri murmured. “Our brave, gentle girl. Nothing will ever make us hate you.”

Jake kissed the top of Y/n’s head, his voice thick. “Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

And between them, held, protected, finally allowed to break, Y/n cried until her small body went limp with exhaustion.

Jake and Neytiri stayed awake long after she fell asleep, their arms still wrapped around her.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Y/n didn’t show up for training.

Mo’at waited longer than usual, giving the girl time, she knew Y/n had been struggling, even if the child tried to hide it. But when the sun rose higher and still no sign of her granddaughter, Mo’at set aside her tools and made her way toward the Sully family marui.

She didn’t announce herself. She simply stepped inside, her presence filling the space with quiet authority.

Jake looked up from sharpening his knife. Neytiri paused in braiding Tuk’s hair. The children glanced over, all except Y/n.

She sat in her hammock, knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing.

Mo’at’s eyes softened.

“Ma ’ite,” she said, her voice gentle but carrying weight. “You did not come to me this morning.”

Y/n didn’t answer.

Mo’at approached slowly, giving her space, then sat on the edge of the hammock beside her. The woven fibers dipped under her weight.

“Look at me, child.”

Y/n lifted her head only slightly, her eyes red and tired.

Mo’at reached out, brushing a braid from her face. “Why did you not come?”

Y/n swallowed. “I… I didn’t feel good.”

Mo’at hummed, not unkindly. “Your body is well. It is your spirit that is tired.”

Y/n’s lip trembled.

Mo’at continued, “You think Eywa has turned from you.”

Y/n’s breath hitched. “Everyone thinks I should have seen it. They think I’m supposed to know things. But I didn’t. And Tah’ni, ”

Her voice cracked.

Mo’at placed a steady hand over Y/n’s heart. “Visions are not a duty. They are not a promise. They are not a burden for a child to carry.”

Y/n blinked hard, tears gathering.

Mo’at leaned closer, her voice low and warm. “Eywa does not speak to you because you are meant to save everyone. She speaks because your heart listens. That is all.”

Y/n shook her head. “But I didn’t listen this time.”

Mo’at cupped her cheek. “Because there was nothing to hear.”

Y/n froze.

Mo’at continued, “Eywa did not show you Tah’ni’s path because it was not yours to walk. You could not have stopped it. You could not have changed it. You are not to blame.”

Y/n’s shoulders shook, the tears finally spilling over.

Mo’at pulled her gently into her arms, holding her the way she had when Y/n was a baby. “You are my granddaughter,” she whispered into her hair. “You are a child of Eywa. And you are not responsible for the grief of others.”

Jake looked away, swallowing hard. Neytiri wiped her eyes silently. Tuk crawled closer, resting her head on Y/n’s knee.

Mo’at stroked Y/n’s back in slow, soothing circles. “Come to me tomorrow,” she said softly. “We will train. Not because you must… but because your spirit needs healing.”

Y/n nodded into her grandmother’s shoulder, her small voice barely audible. “Okay.”

Mo’at kissed the top of her head. “Good. Now rest, granddaughter. You have carried enough.”

｡ ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Tarsem decided enough was enough. He needed to see his….. Y/n.

He arrived early, as he always did, carrying a small woven basket of fruit he claimed he “just happened to find on the way,” though Neytiri suspected he had picked each piece carefully.

Y/n brightened the moment she saw him, her shoulders lifting in a way Neytiri hadn’t seen in weeks. Tuk immediately latched onto Tarsem’s arm, demanding he help her braid flowers into her hair. He obliged, laughing as she bossed him around.

But it was the way he looked at Y/n that caught Neytiri’s attention.

He was thirteen now, taller, stronger, his voice beginning to settle, but when he looked at her daughter, all of that fell away. His expression softened, warmed, focused entirely on her.

Like she was the only person on Pandora.

Y/n didn’t notice. She never did. She just tugged him toward the river, excited to show him the new stones she and Tuk had found. She talked with her hands, animated and bright, and Tarsem watched her with a quiet awe that made Neytiri’s chest tighten.

Not in worry.

In recognition.

She had seen that look before, in Jake’s eyes, many years ago, when she was young and fierce and unaware of her own light.

Neytiri stood at the entrance of the marui, arms folded loosely, observing them. Y/n skipped ahead, calling for Tarsem to hurry. Tarsem didn’t take his eyes off her even as he jogged to catch up.

He wasn’t loud like Lo’ak.

He wasn’t boastful like some boys his age.

He simply… cared.

Deeply. Quietly. Steadily.

And Neytiri saw it all.

Jake came to stand beside her, following her gaze. “What’s going on?”

Neytiri tilted her head slightly. “Tarsem is here.”

Jake squinted. “Yeah, I see that.”

Neytiri didn’t answer, she just gave him a look.

Jake blinked, then looked again.

Tarsem was offering Y/n his hand to help her down a small slope. She took it without thinking, and he smiled like she had handed him the moon.

Jake’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

Neytiri hummed. “Yep.”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s… uh… he’s looking at her like,”

“Like she is precious,” Neytiri finished softly.

Jake exhaled. “She’s eleven.”

“And he is thirteen,” Neytiri said. “He is only looking. Nothing more.”

Jake nodded slowly. “He’s a good kid.”

“He is,” Neytiri agreed. “And he cares for her.”

They watched as Y/n splashed Tarsem with river water, laughing when he yelped. Tarsem didn’t mind. He never minded anything she did.

Neytiri’s expression softened.

“Eywa sends people into our lives for many reasons,” she murmured. “Perhaps he is meant to help her heal.”

Jake slipped an arm around her waist. “As long as he treats her right.”

Neytiri smiled. “He already does.”

And down by the river, Y/n laughed, a real laugh, bright and unburdened, while Tarsem watched her with that same quiet devotion.

All day she had been plagued by the worst headaches that were delving quickly into migraines until (Y/n) was practically seeing spots if she turned her head too quickly.

It was starting to make her feel sick; she had been zoning out on all the chatter in the room while she focused on packing away the ultrasound she had just done and making sure the IV and cannula were ready for any other administrations they would need.

She barely lifted her gaze when Robby uttered "I'm in," from his side of the bed opposite (Y/n).

Although he was teaching the others about what to do and coaching them through procedures, Robby had taken charge on this one. The patient received a lot of internal damage and trauma from a bus crash, they couldn't spend too much time teaching procedures when this needed to be done expertly fast. Robby would teach what he could and handle the rest himself.

When the pounding headache throbbed worse and made her eyes feel like they were about to pop out of her skull, (Y/n) tilted her head forwards. Both hands clenched into fists, relaxing then tightening again and again to try and gain some control over her senses and ignore that headache that was now at the forefront of her head and mind.

She tried to focus herself, to ignore the glint of the flurescent lights that shimmered and sparkled on the edges of the safety goggles she wore.

Reaching out to the little tray beside her she took the two metal clamps, ready for whenever Robby needed help to cut off the internal bleeding. There were a lot of little haemorrhages in the patient's stomach and intestines, they would have their work cut out for them clamping and sealing them all off.

"BP's dropping, gotta stop the bleeding soon."

(Y/n) glanced from Perlah to Robby, who nodded but didn't respond to those words. He was trying to do exactly that, he could see the BP on screen and the numbers that were starting to decrease. They could all hear the heartbeat monitor becoming louder as the pulse began to waver and turn faint. They didn't have long before they would have to get the crash cart involved.

The sound of the monitor and that rhythmic, fluttering beat was almost like a bass drum ticking away in the background. An unsteady rhythm that was about to change in tempo. It seemed to sound louder in (Y/n)'s ears than in anyone else's. She found herself focusing on that sound rather than any of the voices around her.

Everything felt like it was slowing down. The headache she had been so frustrated about all morning now felt different, weak, unbothersome. It was being pushed to the back of her mind as a fog started to roll in on her mind.

"Alright, (Y/n) clamp the bleeding in the stomach." Robby gave a little nod of his head as he spoke, his eyes intently focused on the incision he'd made.

He could see quite a lot of blood, and he was relieved he didn't have to say anything for Whitaker to lean over and begin suction to try and get rid of some of the blood so they could see what they were dealing with.

But then something caught Robby's attention. (Y/n) hadn't moved.

"(Y/n)?"

A frown morphed onto Robby's concentrated features and he lifted his head to look across at her.

His eyes creased, brows furrowing down as he tried to gage why she hadn't made a move. He'd told her he was ready, he said earlier she could help him clamp off the bleed and try and make some repairs while they had the patient open and ready. No point making incisions and doing very little to end up sending them up to the OR.

Fear struck Robby's chest as he analysed (Y/n), who looked so much like a statue that Robby actually contemplated the thought of her being frozen in time.

She was spaced out, that much was clear from her blank expression. But when Robby narrowed his eyes, he realised that (Y/n)'s pupils were blown, there was barely any iris left to see, just black voids that acted as black holes, drawing everything and everyone into them.

Her head was tilted to the right, her chin almost touching her shoulder as her body seemed to lean in that direction too, but she was as unmoving as a statue.

It didn't take long for it to dawn on Robby what she was doing, and why. She was having an absent seizure.

It had been a long while since Robby had seen (Y/n) have a seizure at work. With her doing more day shifts than nights, Robby was her attending and he had to know she was epileptic in case this happened or she collapsed while at work. He had to keep an eye on her, especially since Jack was always reminding Robby to check in with (Y/n). If she had a bad day or wasn't feeling right, chances were that Jack would message Robby and give him a heads up.

But he hadn't seen her have a seizure at work in a good few weeks, maybe even months.

"Whitaker, clamp the bleed instead."

He motioned towards (Y/n) before he looked back down, not wanting to cause any sort of scene. As long as (Y/n) was breathing and okay, they just had to wait for her to come back around.

Whitaker looked very dubious as he moved towards (Y/n) and he almost trembled as he reached over to take the clamp scissors from her hand and the tweezers in her other hand. He was surprised to see her fingers stayed taut, held in place like she was still gripping the instruments.

His eyes kept glancing back up at (Y/n), wondering if she was about to snap out of that state and snatch the scissors back off him or if she would be upset that he had taken over. It didn't take much to figure out she was having some kind of episode or seizure.

His elbow brushed her arm as he leant forward and took her place, beginning to find the bleed and cut off the artery that was leaking out like a hose pipe into her stomach.

It felt like a bumble bee was trapped inside (Y/n)'s head. A horrid buzzing filled her ears and made her head spin when her eyes came back into focus.

Everything had a hazy aura around it, like everyone had shimmering lights within them that were shining to the surface. Her eyes were so dilated and blown that it hurt to look around, she had to blink, close her eyes and look rapidly around the room to get them to zoom out again like a camera lens that was far too focused on one block of an image.

Her fingers flexed and a little gasp parted her lips when she looked down and realised there was nothing in her hands. No tweezers, no clamp scissors, just latex gloves rubbing and itching against her skin that felt just as tight and itchy.

(Y/n) managed to lift her head and get her vision back to normal in time to see Robby pointing for Whitaker to cut off another bleed in the patient's stomach.

She hadn't missed much, he was still trying to sort out the stomach, he hadn't moved on to check the liver or down to the bleeding in the intestines yet. Only a few seconds, maybe a minute had been skipped over.

"I- I'm sorry. What should I do?" Her voice was oddly breathless but her words were aimed at Robby, nobody else.

She didn't want to look around and see her colleagues glancing at her with worried expressions or panic written across their faces. She didn't want their pity or any smirks or funny looks. (Y/n) had dealt with enough pity over the years and people who tried to tell her she couldn't do this kind of job with her epilepsy.

With a curt nod of his head, Robby motioned for her to switch sides now that Whitaker was beside her.

"Come round here and take over suction for me." The understanding in his voice made (Y/n) want to cry.

Robby wouldn't make a scene, that was never his thing and he wouldn't ever want to embarrass or upset her. It had been a brief blip, just a little absent moment and as long as (Y/n) was alright and could get back into focus, Robby wouldn't send her out of the room. She was with them, she wasn't going to be a liability.

It took them half an hour to get the patient stable, all the bleeding under control, a transfusion in place and the woman sent up to the OR for the finishing touches she needed that they couldn't do down here.

(Y/n) looked down at her gown and gloves, all splashed with blood like she had been decorating a bedroom the shade of Ladysmith apples.

The headache that had plagued her all morning was still rolling through her mind and pounding at her temples, but it didn't feel as violent as it had done earlier. It must have been an indicator of the seizure, letting her know one was about to roll in like a storm.

Shedding the gown and gloves in the bin, (Y/n) tossed her goggles in the bucket beside the door and slowly left the trauma room behind. Her feet felt sluggish, legs barely able to lift them off the floor with each hollow step she took, but at least she wasn't trembling or being sick or so disorientated she had to go and lie down.

A hand fell on her shoulder when she was in the hall and she tensed, turning to look to her left in time to see Robby now standing at her side.

He had that tender look on his face, that warmth in his smile and a knowing look in his eye that told her not to bother lying to his next question.

"Are you good?"

"Yeah, yeah I've just had a headache today, that's probably why." She wasn't sure why she felt the need to touch her temple as if to prove her point, but she dropped her hand when it made her temple throb.

It felt like hours passed between them while Robby narrowed his eyes and looked her up and down, silently giving her an assessment. If her speech was slurred, if she couldn't stand upright or focus or make a coherent sentence then he would have sent her straight home. But (Y/n) snapped out of that seizure within moments. She got right back into the chaos without a grumble or a single complaint.

"Okay, well maybe try and keep King or Whitaker around you, in case you have any more. Don't want a patient getting confused if you freeze up."

The way he worded it was kind, understanding, more friendly than anyone else would have said, but (Y/n) knew Robby wasn't asking. He was telling. That was an order if she wanted to stay on shift today.

They couldn't have (Y/n) treating a patient alone and then suffering a seizure out of the blue. If she froze like that or if she started to shake or twitch or go into a full clonic seizure it would cause panic and complications not just for the patient but for (Y/n) too.

She needed another doctor or resident around her, someone who could take over if she froze up and be there to help just on the off chance this happened again. (Y/n) and Robby both knew that this might not be an isolated incident, she could be prone to more seizure activity today.

"Yeah, sure."

(Y/n) was used to feeling like she was being babysat. When she was at school and college, when she was taking her exams or doing her studies or doing her internships. She would have to tell people she was epileptic, she had teachers and mentors watching her closely, observing over her shoulder, checking in with her.

She'd been partnered up with other residents when she suffered little seizures or when she informed them she felt prone to a seizure like one was on the horizon.

It wasn't something (Y/n) felt bad or ashamed about, as long as no one started to make jokes or pry about it, then she coule cope just fine with being partnered up with someone for the remainder of her shift.

***

The quiet drumming of her nails against the apple to her left was starting to make her fingertips go numb, but (Y/n) didn't bother to stop. The rhythmic sound and feeling was soothing, and it helped to keep her mind focused on the notes in front of her rather than the headache that hadn't left her alone.

Both Robby and Whitaker had checked in with her every time they passed, making sure she felt okay. She didn't tell Robby her persistent headache still hadn't relented yet. Jack was on shift today and she didn't want Robby telling him and making her husband worry unnecessarily. She would tell them if she needed to.

She was sure she was about to puncture a hole into the apple she hadn't bothered to eat yet despite having a good few minutes spare, but she didn't feel like it. It had taken (Y/n) a good ten minutes to force herself to eat the pasta she and Jack had both packed for their lunches today, when usually she didn't need any persuading or coaching to have whatever meal she could scrounge up when she was on shift.

Closing her eyes, (Y/n) lifted her hand and cupped her throbbing temple, the pen still clasped between her fingers. She leant back in her chair and tried to take a few deep breaths to clear her mind. Maybe another drink would make her feel better.

"Hey, can you give me a hand with the patient in room two? She's been really vague about her accident, I think something's going on."

Opening her eyes, (Y/n) turned to look over her left shoulder and locked gazes with Santos.

The pair of them got along well enough, though her constant joking and abrasive attitude did grate on (Y/n)'s nerves from time to time. Santos was abrupt and forceful and did things without thinking or asking.

At least she was asking for help and for a second opinion right now, she wasn't bustling ahead with ideas and jumping to the worst case scenario.

(Y/n) tried to force a smile onto her lips, but she couldn't quite manage it. Her hand stayed massaging her temple as she nodded. A break from all the words on the charts in front of her might make her feel better and give her something different to focus on.

"Yeah, you th- you think s… she…"

The words wouldn't come out. They caught on (Y/n)'s tongue like they were trying to scramble back into her mind.

Her slow speech eventually trailed off, words left unsaid as her head lolled to the side and her hand dropped from her head, bashing down against the counter of the nurse's station in front of her.

A frown morphed across Trinity's lips and she cocked her head to one side as she looked down at (Y/n) sitting before her.

After a quick deduction, the dilated pupils, hanging jaw, slow breathing and the motion of (Y/n)'s head giving little jerks and twitches, she guessed it was a seizure. Trinity hadn't had the luck of seeing (Y/n) have one at work, she'd only heard the others when they asked (Y/n) how she was feeling or the gossip if she froze up or collapsed at such inappropriate times.

"Okay, maybe not."

With a shrug, she moved to lean against the desk, elbows digging down into the counter as she arched her lower back out. Her eyes kept drifting back to (Y/n) in between looking through the charts (Y/n) had previously been working over.

Though she did raise a brow when she felt someone brush past her, their aim clearly for (Y/n).

"Everything okay?" Mel gave Trinity one glance before she crouched beside (Y/n), being as tender and gentle as possible when she reached out to hold (Y/n)'s wrist to check her pulse. She could hear her mellow breaths that seemed to crackle ever so faintly like there was static in her lungs.

"Twitch over here is just having a moment." A slanted smile graced Trinity's lips as she nodded. It was nothing to worry about.

"Who the Hell is twitch?"

The hairs on the back of Trinity's neck stood on end and her frame bristled when that voice rung out through the air.

There was no humour in that voice, but no malice either as if she were being scolded for the nickname. But she knew she would within seconds when that person realised who she was talking about.

Both Trinity and Mel turned at the sound of Jack's voice, finding the other attending stood against the other counter behind them. His eyes were focused on the Ipad in his hands but after a moment of silence where he didn't get an answer, Jack looked across at them.

Being on the night shift so often meant he missed out on the day time gossip that he had to hear second hand from (Y/n) or Robby or when he had a catch up with Dana. The odd occasions when he did days meant he had to catch up on the little inside jokes that flitted about here. Although in Jack's opinion, they had much more fun on the day shifts.

But when Jack realised who was sitting rather silently in the desk chair, with her head ticking to one side and Mel crouched beside her, his skin bristled. He set down the Ipad and moved to stand beside them, his tense arm nudging against Trinity until she took a step back, unnerved by his hardened expression.

"Find a new nickname for my wife."

Despite usually having a comeback remark for just about anything, for once Trinity stayed silent, unable to lift her gaze from her feet at the crude tone to Jack's voice. She wouldn't be using that nickname anymore, whether Jack was on shift with them or not.

Mel quietly backed up. She might not be in on all the inside jokes and gossips around the Pitt, but she knew that Jack was (Y/n)'s husband, so she knew if he was here right now, she wasn't needed to watch over (Y/n).

His knee cracked as he crouched beside (Y/n), one hand on her thigh while the other reached up to cup her chin. His fingers danced around the feel the flutter of her pulse while he listened to her breathing that was shallow but starting to pick up.

It didn't take long before Jack was watching her pupils constrict and those beautiful irises came back into view.

"Hi," (Y/n) breathed, slightly stunned that her husband had appeared at her side, seemingly out of nowhere. At least to her.

"Hey, you back with me? Feeling nauseous?"

The feeling of his thumb stroking along the inside of her thigh was comforting and (Y/n) tried to focus on the soothing touch. She tilted her head back up straight, feeling the strain in her neck from whatever movement she had been doing during another absent seizure. Her second one of the day, how lovely.

She tried not to pull back or wince when Jack retrieved the pen light from his pocket and shone it across her eyes, checking they were constricting properly and going back to normal.

"Just a headache… sorry." Her words were a bit slower than usual, as if her tongue felt foreign in her mouth, but she was okay. She felt alright and Jack could see she had snapped out of it quickly. Not like the dozens of times he had held her after a seizure and seen her disorientated or frightened and confused or simply tired and unable to stay awake.

"Maybe you should go on a break, that's the second one you've had this morning."

Jack's brow raised and he glanced over at Mel, her words coming as a surprise to him. Why had no one told him that news? Why hadn't he known before now that his wife had already had a seizure today? This was important information that he should be kept up to date on.

When (Y/n) tried to loll her head down and look away, she found Jack's fingers curling around her chin, gently but firmly tilting her head back up so their eyes were level again. He was assessing her, looking for any anomaly or sign that she needed to go on a break or in fact go home.

"One more and you go home. Now go take a break."

There was no room for debate in Jack's voice and (Y/n) was nodding against his hand before she knew what she was doing.

She tried to hold back a sigh because she knew he was right, if she had another she couldn't stay on shift she would have to go home and rest. Three in one day was a lot of activity and it would start to take a toll on her.

Her lips curved into a smile when Jack leant against her knees and pressed a quick kiss to her lips, letting his hand linger beneath her chin and his other hand gave her thigh a squeeze before he got up. He had to get back to his patient, but he would be keeping a closer eye on his wife now.

With a mellow sigh, (Y/n) pushed up from her chair and tested her legs out, aiming for the break room. Perhaps a drink would make her feel better.

***

Trauma two seemed like a good place to be. For the last two and a half hours, (Y/n) had been drifting around the ER with Mel, going from triage to trauma, then back out to deal with a few minor patients that could be in and out within half an hour.

When a new trauma rolled through the doors, (Y/n) thought it would be a good idea to go along and help out.

Not only were Mateo and Javadi helping out on this one too, but Jack of all people had waltzed through the doors to take charge.

This way, (Y/n) wasn't doing anything on her own, she wasn't at risk if she had another seizure, no patients would be confused or at risk. And she could still do something to help out her colleagues and make herself useful.

With the patient's airways now clear, (Y/n) reached out for the clear plastic mask attached to the airbag. Once it was situated over the man's nose and mouth, (Y/n) began squeezing the bag in time with her own breaths. It wouldn't be wise to put him on a ventilator yet, they needed to see how his airways reacted once the pressure was off them and the bleeding was stemmed.

If he could breathe on his own after the strain was gone, then there would be no need for a ventilator. But while he was currently choking on blood and struggling to take a breath on his own, the manual breaths were necessary.

The chaos in the room was all second nature to each of them, but the longer it curdled in the air, the more (Y/n) realised she couldn't make sense of much of it anymore.

The voices all seemed to be mingling together. The air was thicker, like she too was struggling to catch a proper breath, like their patient. Her mind, still shrouded with a thumping headache that had persisted all day, now felt horrid like there was a thunderstorm raging behind her eyes and overtaking every single nerve within her body.

It was with a harrowing realisation that (Y/n) found that along with her focus that she struggled to contain, she was also finding it harder and harder to keep squeezing the air bag in her hands.

Her hands were tense, her fingers were starting to cramp and lock and her arms were subtly beginning to tremble.

Her eyes might have stayed in focus, unlike every other part of her body and senses, but she wasn't truly seeing very much. Her eyes were staring at a fixed point on the patient's shoulder, but her mind was already drifting as if she was about to turn into standby mode.

"S- switch."

Jack's head snapped up the moment (Y/n)'s wavering voice caught his attention, and he saw it on her face. The worry, the uncertainty, the faraway look in her eyes that were struggling to stay open.

She was about to go into a seizure. Jack's own hands tensed, blood dripping over his gloves and up to the sleeves of his gown as he fought to divide his attention between the patient and his wife.

"Mateo take over breaths; Perlah go next door and get Robby in here now."

Jack wasn't messing around and he wasn't going to turn a blind eye to this. He knew now that (Y/n) had already suffered two seizures today and she was about to go in for a third, he wasn't letting her stay at work any longer. He was going to sit with her through this seizure and then make sure she went home.

He needed Robby to come in and take over the trauma in here, then Jack's full attention could be on his wife.

Moving his hand to (Y/n)'s shoulder, Mateo gently weaved around her and stood at her side. He waited to see if she would move her arms towards him, but she was trembling so much she was barely squeezing the bag anymore. So he carefully took the air bag from her hands and began to give the breaths instead.

It was a relief that (Y/n) managed to take a few steps back so she wasn't crowding round the trauma bed. She didn't need to be up close with the patient if she couldn't help, especially if she was going to go into a seizure.

When Jack glanced up again, he was relieved (Y/n) was stood near the glass pannel wall that separated the larger rooms they used for trauma. The blinds were closed, keeping privacy in tact for the patients, and (Y/n)'s right shoulder brushed against the blinds as she managed to get herself out the way before it happened.

That distant look in her eyes that were barely staying open this time. The way her breaths became heightened and shallow like someone was constantly pushing down on her abdomen, not letting her take in a proper breath. how she became so still except for the way she wavered back and forth almost inperceptively. She was seizing.

Jack's attention snapped back down to the patient when the door behind him slid open and approaching footsteps snagged his attention.

Robby's hand briefly touched Jack's shoulder as he leant forward, trying to find out what was going on in here to need both attendings. "What have we got?"

"Two GSW to the abdomen, take over from me I've got most of the bleeding clamped off."

Just before a frown took over Robby's face and he was about to ask why Jack was stepping back, he happened to lift his head. He clocked sight of (Y/n) stood in the corner, looking much the same as she had done this morning when she had her first seizure.

"Sure."

The two attendings took care to try and switch places, so Robby could reach into the incision and press down where Jack had been applying pressure whilst Mel helped cut off the bleed and find the bullet.

As they traded places, Jack lifted his head to look ahead at (Y/n), wanting to make sure she was alright and see whether she was about to come out of the seizure or if it would last a bit longer than earlier.

But as he looked her up and down, his heart surged into his throat and his voice dropped an octave.

"She's gonna drop!"

No sooner had Robby taken his place than Jack stepped back, yanking off his gown and gloves that were drenched in blood and oil and gunshot residue from the patient's clothing.

He jerked forward and reached out just as (Y/n)'s body became unstable and started to wilt forward as she succumbed to jerks and trembles. She was going from an absent seizure into a clonic one.

Her head bashed into Jack's shoulder, arms flailing in between them as he held her against his chest, one arm around her waist while his right hand came up to cradle the back of her neck. Jack wasted no time in lowering them both down to the floor, he knew he couldn't stand here and try to hold her while she writhed and seized. She needed to be safe and on the ground.

(Y/n)'s body flailed over Jack's knees, her chest digging into his thighs in a manner that would undoubtedly have been uncomfy if (Y/n) were alert enough to sense and feel it. His hand slid around from her neck to cradle her temple so she didn't bash her head against the floor, but Jack could hear her breathing becoming ragged as she started to froff at the mouth.

"Who's next door?" His voice was low but his words were loud, crashing around the room like the waves hitting the shore as he pointed at the room next to him.

"I think Langdon's got an unresponsive kid in there, stable."

That was all Jack needed to hear.

With a nod of his head, he fumbled to try and lean forwards, creasing his abdomen over (Y/n)'s frame so he could reach out for the sliding door hidden against the blinds. With one rough swing, he slid the door open that connected the two rooms.

When Javadi turned away from the trauma patient and looked as if she was about to try and help Jack, one sharp look was all it took for her to freeze to the spot. He didn't want her help, nor did he need it. (Y/n) was his concern, his priority and he could take care of her just fine.

Jack slid his arms beneath (Y/n)'s jerking, writhing frame before he started to shuffle backwards.

He knew he must look a sight, the toes of his boots scraping against the floor, his muscles straining as he dragged his wife along with him like they had both been caught up in a brawl or as if he were attacking her.

Once he was over the threshold, he slid the door shut again and when he looked over his shoulder, he found Langdon and Mel staring at him with bewildered expressions and confusion pooling within their eyes.

"Uh, Abbot what are you-"

"She's seizing and I can't have her in trauma where she'll get hurt. Needed a nearby space."

Staying in the trauma room wasn't an option. Jack couldn't have kept (Y/n) in there, writhing and spasming in such a contained space like that. She would have been too close to equipment, to other colleagues who would have had to step around her and Jack and try not to bump into them.

People could, have tripped over her. (Y/n) could have hurt herself if she flailed near equipment or knocked it over. Jack wouldn't have her gaining any other injuries or having everyone staring at her or trying to get involved.

At least in here, this room was contained. It was only Langdon and Mel in here, treating a child who's parents clearly weren't in here at the moment. The child was unresponsive, they wouldn't see (Y/n) having this seizure and become afraid or cry or cause a scene. There was enough space in here for Jack to stay knelt on the floor with (Y/n) where she wasn't at risk of getting hurt or knocking into anything.

"Right…" A blank expression overtook Langdon's features and with a tip of his head, he nodded at Mel to go and help. He could spare her for a few minutes to give Jack a hand.

After pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, Mel crouched down in front of Jack. She locked eyes with the attending, silently waiting for an indication that he would be okay with her helping out because she didn't want to overstep any boundaries or cause issues.

The small nod of Jack's head was all Mel needed to inch forward. She slid one hand beneath (Y/n)'s neck, cautiously cradling her head with her other hand on (Y/n)'s back. When Jack moved his grip down to (Y/n)'s waist and thigh, they both eased her off his lap and onto her side on the floor.

This was the safest position to keep her in, where she was okay to have her limbs jerking, spasming and tensing like this without hurting herself or anyone else. And her breathing had gone shallow as spit started to foam at her mouth, they didn't want her choking or throwing up and inhaling anything into her lungs.

As soon as she was laid on her side, Jack cupped his hand against the back of her neck, taking Mel's place so (Y/n)'s head was tilted forward and his other hand curled softly around her hip. He didn't want to cling tightly to her or put any weight on her and cause any further damage, he just wanted to keep her steady and safe.

He watched Mel intently as she curved her chest over her knees so she could peer down at (Y/n), gently parting her lips just to make sure she wasn't biting down on her tongue or choking and to see that she was breathing alright. She felt her pulse, making sure it was stable along with the shallow breaths she was taking.

"Breathing and pulse are good- oh, okay." Mel reached down to grab onto (Y/n)'s forearms when one arm jerked and recoiled towards her chest, causing her hand to smack straight into her own neck.

As carefully as she could, Mel tried to pull (Y/n)'s arms down a little so they were stretched out in front of her. They didn't want her gaining any bruises or tender spots if she hurt herself during the seizure.

"There we go, come back to me baby." Jack mused softly, curving his hand over her neck so he could scrape some of her fallen hair away from her face and tuck it back behind her ear.

Her movements were less severe now, less violent and tense, though the shaking was still surging through her limbs.

They waited patiently, another minute rolling by while (Y/n)'s limbs finally began to mellow from their rapid movements. Jack knew she was going to have bruises littering her arms and probably a few on her chest tomorrow, but they wouldn't be severe. It wouldn't be as bad as it would have been if she hadn't of had any forewarning about the seizure. If she had fallen into any equipment or went straight down to the floor with a bang.

The shaking continued to roll through (Y/n)'s limbs like lasting shockwaves that were trying to evict themselves from her system. Her arms were shuddering against the floor and her shoes were lightly tapping against the gleaming tiled floor like she was becoming impatient for something.

A cough mixed with a groan spluttered past (Y/n)'s lips when Mel's pen light shone across her eyes and made her head jerk back with a wince. Her breathing differed when Mel's hand pressed gently to her neck, feeling her pulse to triple check she was alright and not in need of any meds to mellow out her system. Though they would have to check her blood pressure once she had settled down as that might be rather high after a seizure like that.

Mel seemed satisfied that (Y/n) was okay, so she rose to her feet and made her way back over to Langdon who had a stoic, calm expression on his face. It was clear he had only snook a few glances to the floor since Jack had shuffled into the room with (Y/n) on his lap. Langdon didn't want to intrude or stand around and stare, he knew it wasn't nice to get blatent looks and staring, nosey colleagues.

Now that (Y/n) was stable, Jack shuffled back a pace and smothered a groan as he shifted his legs around.

Kneeling down on the floor wasn't the easiest on his right leg, it made his knee ache horribly and caused his prosthetic to grind and itch at his leg. He moved so he was sitting down on the floor, both legs stretched out in front of him which felt a lot easier on him.

Once he was settled, he reached forwards and ever so carefully eased (Y/n) back towards him.

"Come here," he murmured as he eased her back up against his chest, letting her head lull back against his sternum while he curved his arms around her frame and attached his lips to her temple.

"Are you with me?"

At first, he gained a grumble, a vibration that he felt rocket through (Y/n)'s chest and shoot straight into his own. Then her head moved, nudging her cheek agains his scrubs as another whine left her lips and her violently shaking arms tried to coil up towards her chest.

"Jack, m… my head, hurts…"

"I'll fix that, baby." His lips pressed to her cheek, breathing in her scent as he tried to calm down his raging heart.

Once she was a bit more lucid and feeling more like herself, Jack would get either Mel or Robby to go get (Y/n)'s bag from her locker where her medication was. She could have that and then they could get her something from the pharmacy to try and settle her brain activity and hopefully prevent another flare of seizures.

"I'm gonna take you home soon." As soon as (Y/n) was lucid enough to go and had been checked out, Jack was going to get her back home where she would be safe and comfortable and could rest.

The impact of the shot sends you stumbling, as blood starts to spurt from Brian's neck.

Letting out a horrified cry, you drop the gun, kicking it away from you as if it might hurt you next.

Brian tries to speak, but blood is pooling in his mouth, and he falls to his knees. You watch the life drain from his eyes, the sight of his murderer the last thing he'll ever see.

You glance around at the watching Families, conscious of the continued silence. Those holding Titus have finally loosened their grip, and he strides over to you, pulling you into his arms.

"I knew you could do it, kid," He mumbles, lips pressed to your temple.

Some whispers break out across the other Families. It appears you and Titus were more subtle than you once thought, if there's surprise at the thought of you two being together.

You're allowed a single moment to enjoy his touch, before The Lawyer intervenes. "Congratulations, Ma'am. You are now the head of one of the Seven Families. Follow me, and we'll get started on all the logistical business."

Your legs still feel a little wobbly, but you nod. "I-I want Titus to come with me."

The Lawyer considers your request, before finally nodding. "Alright. Seems fair, after the ordeal you've just endured"

They don’t give you time to think about what you’ve done.

Or who you’ve just killed.

You’re guided - gently, but firmly - away from the body, across the grounds, into the Danforth Manor that feels different now. Titus is never far away, his hand settled on the small of your back.

The Lawyer walks ahead, already speaking.

“Your Family’s assets will need to be formally transferred into your name,” He says, tone calm, almost clinical. “Properties, accounts, personnel. There will be resistance in some areas - we’ll handle that.”

You blink, trying to keep up. “Resistance?”

“Those who would have preferred your brother,” The Lawyer clarifies smoothly. “Or who believe you may be… easier to challenge.”

“You’ll need to appoint trusted lieutenants,” He continues, turning forward again. “Re-establish lines of communication with the other Families. There are expectations - appearances, negotiations, obligations. You’ll be expected at the High Council within the week.”

A week. Your head spins slightly. “I don’t-” You swallow, voice quieter now. “I don’t know how to do any of that.”

“You will,” The Lawyer replies, not unkindly. “Or you will learn quickly. You’ll inherit your father's operations. Some of those individuals will not be loyal to you. Some may actively test you.”

Your chest tightens.

“Test me how?”

“In ways that require decisive responses,” He replies. “Hesitation will be interpreted as weakness. Weakness invites instability. Instability-”

“I just killed my brother.” The words come out sharper than you expect.

The Lawyer pauses, just briefly. Then nods once. “Yes. And now you must ensure it was not done in vain.”

Your stomach turns.

Your breathing picks up again, too fast, too shallow.

“I can’t,” You say, quieter now, panic creeping in at the edges. “I can’t run a Family, I don’t- I don’t even know who’s on our side, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next-”

Titus’s hand tightens slightly at your back. Grounding. But it’s not enough to stop the ragged breaths escaping.

“You will be advised,” The Lawyer continues, as if reciting something routine. “However, ultimate responsibility remains with you. Mistakes at this level tend to have significant consequences, particularly given the current instability-”

“Stop.”

Titus’ voice cuts in.

Low. Firm.

The Lawyer complies immediately, turning back toward you both.

“She’s not hearing you,” Titus says. “You’re just listing everything that can go wrong.”

“I am outlining reality,” The Lawyer replies evenly.

“And she’s about to spiral,” Titus interrupts. “So stop.”

A quiet falls, Titus' gaze fixed on you as he waits patiently for you to speak again.

“I don’t know how to hold onto this,” You admit, quieter now. “I don’t know how to stop them from taking t-the family, or-”

Titus doesn’t hesitate. "Then we make it so they can't. They won’t move on you if it means going through me."

The Lawyer goes still.

“…I see,” He says slowly, clearly caught off guard. “That is… direct.”

Titus doesn’t even look at him. "The Danforth Family has the resources to absorb it all. We get married, and I handle the rest."

“So this has been… discussed.”

Titus doesn’t bother denying it.

Another pause.

Then The Lawyer exhales, composure settling back into place, though the surprise hasn’t fully left his expression. “That would be a significant consolidation of power,” He says. “It would also bind both Families in a way that is not easily reversed.”

“I’m not planning on reversing it,” You say, and Titus looks at you approvingly.

"Very well," The Laywer considers. "If that is what you both wish... I'm sure the arrangements can be made.

Six weeks later.

You're still not sure what kind of magic Titus was able to conjure in order to get a wedding of this size and calibre organised within six weeks.

He'd simply asked you to send over all your preferences to a planner, and the entire thing had been sorted. You haven't seen a single price-tag, though looking at it now, you figure it must be in the millions.

He hadn't wanted you leaving the Danforth Estate until the merge was finalised.

Too many people who want to try and take what's mine, he'd said.

The money? You'd replied, teasing just slightly.

You.

Instead, he'd paid for a company to host a private wedding dress show right here in the Manor. Trucks upon trucks had shown up, with every kind of style you could possibly want.

Black is traditional for Family weddings, and you don't want to give anybody any reason to believe that you're not capable of becoming Mrs Danforth.

You'd settled on a high-necked, backless number. Not risqué, per se, but Titus' hand hasn't left your lower back all day. He's also spent half that time apologising for the rush in which things had to be conducted, promising to make it up to you in other ways.

As if this isn't already beyond your wildest dreams.

It's like you can finally breathe again, for the first time since killing Brian. While you're obviously still a target in this world, both politically and personally, Titus' protection goes further than anything else in the universe.

You know completely that he would move heaven and hell to keep you safe.

Currently, you're in the socialisation period of the wedding. You've lost sight of Titus, and are pretending not to be terribly bored by what's going on in front of you. Someone important is speaking - something about balance, about how remarkable tonight is, how unexpected.

You hum in the right places.

You don’t care.

“And of course,” He continues, lowering his voice like he’s offering something valuable, “such a union carries… implications. Expectations. One hopes it will be handled with the appropriate-”

A hand settles at your waist. Warm. Certain. You don’t even glance down.

“Excuse us,” Titus says.

It’s not loud, but it cuts cleanly through whatever the man was about to say next.

He falters immediately. “Ah - yes, of course, Mr. Danforth, I didn’t mean to-”

“I know.”

Titus is already moving, already guiding you away like the conversation never mattered to begin with. His hand doesn’t leave you, fingers firm at your side as he steers you back through the crowd.

You fall into step easily, leaning just slightly into him as you go.

“Your timing is impeccable,” You murmur.

“You were done.”

“I was being polite.”

“You were miserable.”

You let out a soft laugh. “That too.”

His grip shifts, thumb brushing once against your waist, absent but intentional. “They’ll learn,” he says.

“Doubtful,” you reply lightly. “I don’t think they like me very much.”

“They don’t like what you are.”

You glance up at him. “And what’s that?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “The most powerful woman in the room.”

You smile, shaking your head. “That’s not true.”

“It is.”

There’s no humor in it. No exaggeration. Just certainty.

You study him for a second, amused despite yourself. “You’re the one everyone’s afraid of. You have the power.”

His gaze drops to you, sharp and steady. “And I do whatever you say.”

Your breath catches - just slightly.

It’s not a joke.

He means it.

“Careful,” You murmur, your hand sliding up to rest lightly against his chest, fingers curling into his jacket. “That sounds like you giving up a lot of control. Don't think your family would be best pleased.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.” A beat. “I trust you.”

You look away first, a small smile tugging at your mouth as you shake your head. You let him to lead you back towards the head table, allowing you both a moment of privacy in a room where everybody wants something.

“This whole thing is insane,” You say, glancing around at the vast hall - the scale of it, the excess. “You ever going to tell me how much it cost?”

“Doesn't matter.”

You go to ask another question, but he cuts you off by pressing his lips to yours. Your hand goes to his hair, tangling just slightly in his curls as you settle into it.

It takes a second for you both to remember that you're being watched by hundreds.

His hand shifts slightly, fingers brushing along the fabric at your waist, before re-settling on your back. Claiming.

“You look like you belong here.”

You glance up at him, something softer flickering through your expression. “Do I?”

His gaze meets yours. “You always did. Those bastards in your own family made you feel like you didn't. But I knew you belonged with me.”

By the time you reach the table, the room is beginning to quiet - attention shifting, speeches about to start.

Titus guides you into your seat, his hand lingering at your waist a second longer than necessary.

Your fingers catch his as he pulls back, holding him there for just a moment before letting go so he can sit beside you, practically sharing a chair. Any closer and you'd be on his lap.

Titus speaks first - it's all pomp and circumstance, discussions of powers and unions. It isn't until he sits, and his father begins, that he starts murmuring into your ear, words meant just for you.

Promises of protection. Of giving you children. All the riches in the world.

Of killing anybody who dares threaten your safety again.

You squeeze his thigh softly, earning the faintest hint of a smile from him - the kind no one else would notice.

Across the table, Ursula does.

She’s watching the two of you with open interest, not bothering to hide it. If anything, there’s something almost approving in her expression now - something sharp and satisfied.

Power suits her.

This arrangement suits her more.

When your gaze meets hers, she lifts her glass slightly in your direction - a small, deliberate acknowledgment.

Not warmth.

But not hostility either.

It’s the closest thing to approval she’s ever given you.

*****

You know what happens now. The speeches are over, the guests are filtering out, and in just an hour, the hunt is going to begin.

The details are a mystery to you - all you know is that the prey has been specially picked from the Danforth family's many enemies. Your enemies too, you suppose.

Your arm is tucked through Titus' letting him handle the goodbyes as he weaves you both through the crowds, heading for the suite you've both shared since your move to the Estate.

“Mrs. Danforth,” He says suddenly.

It takes you a second to register. That's your title now. Heat flickers under your skin. You glance at him. “You’re enjoying that far too much.”

“Mm. I am.”

No shame. No hesitation.

“You've been awfully quiet the last hour,” He murmurs, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face as he leans closer. His lips barely graze your temple, and your chest tightens in response. Everything quietens as he leads you through the private wings of the house.

“I’m… listening,” You murmur, but your tone betrays you. "Taking it all in."

He chuckles softly, low and knowing. “You’re not listening. You’ve been lost in your own world.”

You smirk, pressing against him just slightly. “You're more observant than I gave you credit for,” you say, letting your hand brush along his chest. “Maybe I like watching you.”

“You’re insatiable,” He murmurs against your hair. “But I suppose I can live with that.”

His kiss is searing, everything he couldn't do in front of your guests. Part of you wants to drag him up to bed, hunt be damned.

You follow him quietly as he navigates through the hallways, the city of polished marble and silent servants falling away behind you. The thought of what’s waiting outside - the prey, the plan for the night, the fact that you can't consummate your marriage until your husband has at least one kill under his belt - floats uncomfortably in your chest, but you’re not ready to voice it yet. Not yet. You just keep leaning into him, enjoying the warmth, the steady thrum of him beside you.

He catches your hand, threading fingers with yours, tugging gently, grounding you as if he can sense the tension building. “What are you thinking about?”

You hesitate, glancing up at him briefly, a small, shy smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing important,” you murmur. “Just… everything.”

“Everything?” His voice drops, closer now, almost a growl. “Like what? The fact that we're bound together for life? That I'm going to make you the happiest woman on Earth?”

You laugh softly, just a little nervous, and shrug against him. “Like… tonight. All of it. The speeches, the guests, the-” Your words falter, chest tightening. You can feel your pulse speeding. “The hunt.”

His fingers squeeze yours lightly, stopping you in your tracks. “The hunt? I've given explicit instructions for the Estate Security to keep everyone but me from our suite. You will be completely safe-"

You bite your lip, hesitant, unsure if you want to say it out loud. The warmth of him, the safety of him, gives you courage. “I… maybe I want to see it,” You whisper finally, voice low. “I think… I think I want to watch. But only if you’re there. Only if you protect me.”

You can't explain the change. Maybe it's from killing Brian. Maybe it's because avoiding it for so long almost led to your death as a result of ill-preparedness. Were it not for Titus, you would have died almost immediately.

He pauses for a heartbeat, his eyes narrowing - not in anger, but calculation. Then a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “You… want to watch?”

“Yes,” You murmur, breath catching as you press closer, brushing your lips against his jacket. “I trust you. I just… I don’t want to be alone on our wedding night. A-And if a hunt makes you happy, I want to be there.”

Before he can reply, you catch him in a long, heated kiss, desperate and teasing, tugging lightly at him as if to convince him. He gets caught up in the movement, crowding you against the wall, his hand dropping to wrap around your neck. Not quite choking, but steadying. Ensuring your gaze stays on his.

When you finally pull back, just enough to catch your breath, your forehead rests against his chest.

“I want to stay,” You whisper, almost shyly, “and watch. With you.”

His grin is slow, approving, and dangerous in a way that makes your stomach twist deliciously. “I thought you’d never want anything to do with it,” He murmurs, brushing a lingering kiss along your jawline.

“I didn’t,” You admit softly. “Not at first. But… I trust you. I know you’ll keep me safe. I want us to be a united front.”

“Then we do it together,” he says simply, pressing his forehead to yours, thumb brushing gently along your cheek. “Always together. Always.”

'Til death do us part.

Tsu’tey wasn’t oblivious to your nurturing personality.

Usually, you looked expressionless or particularly annoyed. Now, this rare thing appeared on your face.

He didn’t know why he was so intrigued by your expression. Or why he found himself faltering around you these days.

“Is that her?” Tsu’tey asked, eyes never leaving the two of you.

You nodded as you grabbed what looked like a makeshift sling and strapped it across your chest.  “Grace’s avatar went into labor hours ago before the storm hit.” You picked her up and tucked her in the sling.

Tsu’tey’s face instantly softened at the way the infant snuggled into your chest. His heart lurches at how precious this child—his child, appeared.

And it didn’t—but it should’ve—bother him that she was so comfortable with you. But seeing you caress her head absentmindedly as Tsu’tey led you and the infant out of the shack and toward his ikran, Rai’uk.

You slowed as Tsu’tey approached the ikran. You frowned, “What about pa’li?” You felt the little one against your chest, and your stomach twisted uneasily. “She was just born, don’t you think it’s too soon?”

Half of you expected him to hiss back at you as usual, but instead, he frowned, looking from you to the baby with a contemplative expression.

“It is faster.” Tsu’tey insisted as he climbed onto his ikran. In Na’vi, he said, “Still has much to learn. Can’t even carry a baby correctly.”

You frowned, “You try running from a bunch of warriors with a newborn attached to you.”

Tsu’tey’s ears perked in restrained surprise. “You understand me?”

“I have been learning.” You pointed out in okayish Na’vi. “I can listen better than talk.”

He looked at you, appearing unimpressed. “You are still not good.”

“I did just fucking say I was still learning.” You snapped halfheartedly, too tired to fight him.

Thankfully, Tsu’tey didn’t push as he flicked his head, a gesture that meant for you to get closer. “Get on. We need to go back to the village, so she is safe.”

You still hesitated, unconsciously pulling her closer as you studied the ikran just as it studied you.

Tsu’tey noticed this and frowned. “I will not let you fall, dreamwalker. Nor the infant. You are safe with Rai’uk and I.”

You raised your brows despite getting closer. “You sure you haven’t thought about it before?”

 “Many times.” There was a smug look on his face as he offered his hand.

“Ha ha.”

The white crescent smile was foreign on his face, to you at least. It was nice, weirdly enough. A pleasant change from his usual scowl.

So, you carefully got on. Tsu’tey guided you to the front as he sat behind you. After making sure she was tucked safely in your chest, the ikran took off.

It was different than how you rode with Neytiri.

While she had you clutching to her from behind, Tsu’tey had you and the little one seated at the front. And he was right about having a secure hold on you, making sure that you didn’t fall off from the quick turns and the fast speed of the flight. You hugged the little one closer to your chest and squeezed your eyes shut from the wind.

The journey wasn’t long, thankfully. Fortunately, the shack you had hid yourself in wasn’t far from First Base. And it helped that the skies were clear.

Once Tsu’tey landed his ikran in a tree next to Mo’at’s hut, he got off first. Carefully, you attempted to slide off on your own, but Tsu’tey seemed adamant to help you and the child as he placed a hand on the small of your back and the other grabbed your free arm to guide you off.

He was surprisingly gentle, but you supposed that was so as not to disturb the infant who was looking at her surroundings through her squinted eyes.

“She is waiting inside.” Tsu’tey nodded to the hut.

The infant squirmed in your strap to get a better look at Tsu’tey when she heard his voice. He met her curious gaze with a soft smile.

“Hmm,” You hummed lightly. “The clan leader does have a heart after all.”

He responded with a grunt, wiping the smile off his face quickly as you made your way toward the hut. “Do not get used to it, dreamwalker.”

You entered the hut with Tsu’tey close behind you. Mo’at looked up as you entered, appearing both impressed and surprised. “Eywa has truly favored you, dreamwalker.” She gestured for you to come closer. “Let me see her.”

Carefully, you removed the small infant from your makeshift carrier, kneeling beside Mo’at and handing her over. She fussed a bit at this, but you gently comforted her as Mo’at held her. “Ssh, little one. You’re in good hands, okay?”

But the little one did not let go of your thumb. Fussed even more when you tried to get her to let go.

Mo’at shook her head. “Keep it there. She likes your presence.”

Tsu’tey then came over, almost as if hesitant. He knelt in front of Mo’at, that tenderness replacing his hardened features. You watched, unsure of what to do. He was meeting his daughter for the first time. And you just felt like you were intruding.

Gently, he reached forward and brushed the little hairs on her head. “She’s beautiful.”

You nodded in agreement, frowning at how delicately and hesitantly he was acting. “What is it?” Tsu’tey’s ears twitched, but he didn’t respond. Still hesitating to hold her. “Is it because she is half Sky Person?”

That spurred him, causing him to look at you with a defensive scowl. “It is not—”

“Then what are you afraid of?” Gently, you took the infant from Mo’at. The infant herself was more than willing to be in your arms as you gestured for him to open his arms. “Hold your new daughter, Tsu’tey.” With that, you placed her in his arms. “I didn’t get chased by angry warriors just so you would be scared to hold a baby.”

Tsu’tey sent you a small scowl at your bluntness but held her close to his chest, nonetheless. She didn’t fuss, thankfully. Mo’at shifted over to thoroughly check on her.

You watched again, quietly sitting away from them. You watched as Tsu’tey eventually began to smile down at her while she continued watching him curiously and looking at you every time you shifted or moved.

Your smile for her was small and subtle. “That’s your dad, little one. You’re pretty safe with him.”

Tsu’tey met your gaze and nodded to you. You returned his nod just as the flaps at the entrance fluttered, two more bodies entering the hut.

“Tanhi!”

You pushed to your feet as Neytiri rushed over and brought you into a tight hug. “Thank the Great Mother!”

You patted her back, “Yeah, I’m okay. Don’t worry, my luck hasn’t run out yet.”

“Yeah, you’re one lucky skxawng,” Jake commented as he drew closer. He looked relieved, exhausted, and annoyed.

Neytiri pulled away slightly, scanning your no doubt dirtied and bruised face. “Are you sure—”

You nodded quickly, “I’m sure, no need to worry about me. If anything, you should probably go and meet your new daughter.”

At that, Neytiri looked past you and gasped softly before joining Tsu’tey on the floor to get a better look at the infant.

Jake appeared beside you as you both watched Neytiri and Tsu’tey with her. The gentle expression was easy for Jake.

And by then, you knew your job here was done.

You patted Jake’s shoulder. “Take good care of her, she’s all yours now.

Jake looked at you by then, his expression unreadable.

“Where’s your dagger?” He asked, his voice raspy.

“Back at Hell’s Gate.”

“Reeds—”

You held your hands up. “Hey, scold me later. Go meet your daughter, Sully. I didn’t get chased through a forest for nothing.”

Jake’s face hardened. “You were chased—”

“Not important.” You started for the flaps. “I’ll leave you guys with her.”

With that, you stepped out of the hut. Sitting further away on a large branch was Norm, hunched over.

You jumped down onto the branch, and Norm snapped his head up at you in surprise. “Hey! Oh my god, you’re here!” He leaped up and hugged you tightly, surprising you. “Shit, I thought—are you okay?”

You patted his arm awkwardly. “Yes, Norm, I’m fine. The baby’s fine too.”

He sighed in relief and eventually let you go. “How many near deaths is that now? Two? Three?”

“Five, I think.”

“Shit, man.”

You nodded and sat on the branch. Norm mirrored you, ending up beside you. “I’m exhausted, Spellman.”

“I know. I am too.”

For a moment, the two of you just sat there. Staring at nature. The other huts, Children running about. And for the first time in weeks, the sun was out. Making everything beautiful again. But a certain tension remained.

You sighed and massaged your face. “Were you able to unlink yet?”

Norm nodded. “Max and the others were locked in the link room before Jake and Neytiri lured the warriors away to try and establish some sort of truce.” He sighed, already looking lost in his thoughts. “But we lost people on both sides. It’s not going to be easy.”

“No shit.” You chewed the inside of your cheek. “I’m pissed, though. I had a baby with me, and they wouldn’t stop.”

Norm squeezed your shoulder. “You did good, Reeds. She’s safe because of you. That’s what matters.”

You didn’t say anything to that. Instead, you picked at the bark of the tree until your fingers brushed over something cool and small. You picked it up and held it in your hands for a moment before tucking it in your pocket.

“Reeds.”

You and Norm turned to find Jake approaching, his expression unreadable. “We need you back inside.”

With a frown, you got up and followed Jake back inside Mo’at’s hut where you heard an infant’s cry.

Upon entering, you found Neytiri now holding the infant, but she wouldn’t stop crying in the woman’s arms. Her cries were similar to when she first came out of the womb.

“Okay,” Jake said as he went to sit with Neytiri and Tsu’tey. He looked to Mo’at, “She’s here, what now?”

“Come, dreamwalker.” Mo’at gestured for you to come closer. “Neytiri, give the child to her.”

Without hesitating, Neytiri handed the infant over to you.

“Get her to stop.” Mo’at gestured expectantly.

You furrowed your brows but began rocking her in your arms. “Are you all not parents? None of you can get her to stop crying? Seriously?”

“Reeds,” Jake warned.

“I’m just wondering how out of the four of you, you all couldn’t calm a baby down.”

Tsu’tey scowled. “You don’t even hold a baby right, you cannot judge.”

You rolled your eyes while rubbing your thumb between the infant’s brows. “This is how I hold a baby; you’re just petty.”

Tsu’tey glared before turning to Mo’at. “Why did you bring her back, Tsahik?”

This time, it was Mo’at who rolled her eyes. “Look with your eyes, boy. I cannot force you to see.”

Finally, the four of you noticed how quiet the little one had gotten. You looked down to find her staring up at you through droopy eyes.

She was quiet in your arms.

Jake frowned. “How did you do that?”

“What was that you did to her? Just now?” Neytiri asked as she stood and joined your side.

You shrugged. “My mother used to do it to me when I was young. It always calmed me down and I figured I’d try it out when she wouldn’t stop crying in the infirmary. Watch.”

You sat back down on the floor and happened to be sitting next to Jake as you handed her over to him. You gently thumbed a small circle between her brows for Jake to see. “Do that when she starts crying.” You moved to take your thumb back, only she grabbed it back in her small hands. “Though, of course, you still have her clinginess to deal with.”

“She likes you.” Jake chuckled as she squirmed in his arms.

You shook your head despite how your heart fluttered when she didn’t let go of you. “I’ve spent the most time with her. She’ll be attached to you all before you know it.”

“But until then, dreamwalker, I need you here with her. It seems that with you in proximity, or rather in the same room, she is calm. And I need her this way as I take a look at her.” Mo’at looked at Tsu’tey, who was sitting across from you with a frown. “Will that be a problem, Olo’eyktan?”

He didn’t seem happy about it as he stood.

“Tsu’tey,” Neytiri warned, shifting closer to you as he set his eyes upon you.

Jake tensed next to you, but all you did was return the man’s stare expectantly. Waiting.

There was no sound in the hut. Just the two of you in that moment.

Finally, Tsu’tey lifted his chin. “Do what you want. But I want her watched.”

The three of you were obviously surprised by his acceptance. While reluctant, you were half expecting him to fight you on it.

But instead, he grabbed his bow and left the hut.

“Huh,” Jake hummed next to you. “I think he’s warmed up to you, too.”

“She grows on you, huh?”

Tsu’tey looked up from sharpening his spear to find Jake standing in the doorway of their hut with a knowing look on his face. 

With a small huff, Tsu’tey continued his sharpening, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

His mate gave a short laugh as he soon joined him at his side, pressing a kiss to the side of his face. “She’s good with the little one. There’s no denying that.”

“Hmmph.”

Jake placed his hand on Tsu’tey’s shoulder and squeezed it, “I know you don’t like her here, with everything going on, we might just have to tolerate it for the time being. Besides, having her here isn’t as bad as you thought, is it?”

Instead of responding to that, Tsu’tey placed the spear down. “Have you been training her?”

“Yes, I have.” Jake nodded.

“And how is she?”

Jake hummed, “She’s good with a bow, not The People’s way, but she’s efficient. It’s a wonder she managed to survive Tipani’s warriors twice now.”

“But it is not enough.” Tsu’tey frowned at the spear, his grip tightening. “This fight between clans will not end soon. She is a Sky Person, their target. She must know how to defend herself well. Yes, she did protect Eywa’s blessing, our daughter, but that alone will not guarantee her safety.”

Jake was watching him, considering him, “I thought you didn’t care about what happens to her? What changed your mind?”

Instead of answering that, Tsu’tey stood, “There’s no ignoring Eywa’s favor. Nor the Tsahik’s words. She has saved my brother. She kept our daughter safe. Her soul is complex despite her belonging to the enemy clan. I cannot ignore this. What leader would I be if I did?”

For a moment, Jake watched him with a fond smile, “Then you would be the leader Eytukan always saw in you.”

Hearing that grounded Tsu’tey—his mates always did. His son always did. The people who were with Eywa now did. 

Tsu’tey returned the smile, although his was smaller and more somber, “Then that is good.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. Tsu’tey took his spear and rested it with the rest of his weapons. Jake remained seated on the floor, gaze cast down. He watched his mate quietly, trying to decipher this Jake Sully. Wondering which part of his mate he would be getting this time.

“Do you really think she’s meant to be our fourth?” Jake asked quietly, a look of uncertainty crossing his usual confident and guarded features. “Or do you think there’s more to it?”

Tsu’tey paused before responding, “I do not know how the Great Mother thinks. No one does. If she were to be our fourth, then I would mate with her. I am the Olo’eyktan. I must be the example for my people. But perhaps that is not what Eywa has in store for her.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps that is why she did not accept my proposal.”

Jake snapped his head up at him, eyes wide, “You proposed?!”

“Yes. When the Tshaik spoke of it, I thought I was performing my duties as a child of the Great Mother. But the dreamwalker refused me. She did not think that she was meant to be our mate—she thought I would be tortured by the idea of mating with her and so rejected my proposal.”

After recovering from his shock at the new piece of information, Jake frowned, clearly put off by this. “I thought that when—if we found a fourth, it would be a decision we’d come to together. What if she accepted it, Tsu’tey? How do you know that Neytiri and I would’ve accepted her?”

“Or if you would’ve accepted her.” Tsu’tey corrected, causing Jake’s frown to deepen. 

He was caught, and he knew it. 

There was no denying Jake and the dreamwalker’s complex relationship. One moment they hated each other, and the next they tolerated each other enough that it would be mistaken that they were friends. 

What a strange interaction between humans. Going back and forth as much as they did. 

Tsu’tey saw it clear as day, Neytiri probably saw it too—it was only Jake who was so oblivious to it. 

“Tell me, yawne.” Tsu’tey approached his mate and knelt down in front of him, cupping his face between his hands. “You know my dislike for her kind. But why is it that you seem to hate her even when you both share the same clan?”

Jake looked startled at the accusation, “I-I don’t hate her. Not after everything she’d done for Arvok and our daughter. I just—Artsut can barely accept me as your mate. What makes you think she won’t go fucking crazy over Reeds being our fourth?”

“If it comes to that, my mother cannot interfere. She knows as well as the rest of us that she can’t deny the Great Mother’s way.”

“And what if we can’t love her?”

Tsu’tey frowned and grabbed his hand. “It is whatever the Great Mother decides.“

“Yeah,” Jake chuckled, squeezing Tsu’tey’s hand, “I was afraid you’d say that.”

Night had come at some point. You hadn’t left Mo’at’s hut nor put the little one down since Jake had given her to you before leaving.

When had you become a glorified babysitter, you didn’t know.

While she slept in your arms, you held a long grass piece with a box of beads next to your leg. Currently, you were trying to choose a bead to start your songcord. You already knew what it would represent; all that was left was finding the bead that matched.

Mo’at sat further away, mixing something in her bowl. You never realized how peaceful it was in her hut. If you could, you would stay here as long as you could.

Neytiri entered the hut with Neteyam strapped to her chest. She smiled at you as she joined you on the floor. “Can I?” she asked, gesturing to the sleeping infant.

You nodded and gently handed her over without disturbing the sleeping infant. Fortunately, she only squirmed a bit before settling comfortably in her arms. Neytiri’s smile grew. “What a blessing you are.”

The three of you continued sitting comfortably in silence.

You continued your search until you stumbled upon a white bead that looked eerily similar to a bone at the end of your mother’s songcord. You added it to the grass string.

“Waytelem.” You looked to find Neytiri staring at your string curiously. “You have started your songcord.”

Blushing, you nodded. “Yeah, figured I’d start at some point.”

Neytiri smiled, resting her free hand on your knee. “And you have chosen your first bead?”

“For my mother.” You frowned at it for a bit while glancing at your mother’s songcord now wrapped around your wrist like a bracelet. “When she went to Eywa. I guess it kind of represents how much my life has changed. From the forest burning down, the RDA bringing me to Pandora, and seeing my mother’s grave. A different me. A different phase of my life.”

Neytiri gently rubbed your knee and squeezed it. “You are learning. That is why you change. I will keep teaching you our ways. Soon, you could be one of us.”

“But you are not one of the People, dreamwalker.”

You and Neytiri look up to find Tsu’tey and Jake entering.

Tsu’tey lifted his chin high. Not unless I say so. I will now see to your training and judge your progress.”

You couldn’t help the exaggerated dread set in.

Jake smiled at Neytiri and the babes as he sat with them, taking Neteyam in his arms. You glared at him. “Tired of me already, that you threw me to the wolves?”

He rolled his eyes and rested Neteyam against his chest. “I’ll still be there. Tsu’tey’s just gonna lead more.”

Now the dread set in. “Oh, it just keeps getting better.”

You found another bead as Jake scoffed. “It’s not like you’re a picnic either.”

“Says the masochist.”

“Aargh!” Neytiri hissed at both of you. “Enough. The babies are asleep. If you are loud, then you leave!”

Jake pulled his lips into a frown, but obliged while you went back to look through the beads.

“What do you think we should name her?” Jake asked after a while. Tsu’tey joined them on the floor, taking the spot next to him. “We can’t keep calling her Grace’s kid or little one for long. What about Cheryl?”

You scoffed. “If you want her to have a hard life, then just say that, Sully.”

Neytiri shook her head and sent her mate a look. “We are not calling her that.”

After sending you a quick glare, Jake sighed, “Fine. Sarah?”

“Why is Sully naming the kid?” You murmured, earning a light smack on your knee from Mo’at, who had been silent.

Jake scowled, “And you can come up with something better?”

“Better than Cheryl or Sarah? Absol—fucking—utely.”

“Not over the children,” Neytiri chided at you both again before looking at the infant in her arms. “Tua. We should call her Tua.”

Jake raised his brows at the name, “Tua? That’s pretty.” But he didn’t look too convinced by it. “Little Tua. I guess you win again with the names.”

Sure as hell better than Cherly or whatever the fuck that name was—was what you wanted to say, but you refrained this time.

Tsu’tey, who had been in the discussion, suddenly spoke. “On the day she was born, I saw the atokirina. Many of them. They led me to a place where the dreamwalker was hiding with the little one. Eywa led me straight to her. The little blessing. A gift from the Great Mother.”

You picked up a bead quietly. An indigo-colored thing that reminded you of poison. This one would represent your death as a human.

Instead of adding it to your songcord, you stared down at it for a long while.

“Kiri,” Tsu’tey said gently. “What about Kiri?”

You didn’t see Jake or Neytiri’s reactions, but their voices made their decision clear.

“Little Kiri.” Neytiri probably smiled.

“Yeah, I like that,” Jake added after a pause.

Kiri soon began to fuss.

That was when you looked up from the bead to find Neytiri attempting to calm her down.

“Do you want me to try?” You asked carefully as you tied your songcord around your right wrist and pocketed the bead.

Neytiri didn’t hesitate to give Kiri to you. You took her in your arms and stood, rocking her.

Her fussing went on for a bit, her fingers grasping bits of your hair. You hummed a quiet tune to her, rubbing her back in small circles.

You did this until she eventually calmed down, putting one of your braids in her mouth.

“I know. I get sad too sometimes.” You say quietly for only her to hear. “I don’t like my next bead, you know. Want to be on my songcord? I like experiencing you better.” A small noise came out of her in response as she nuzzled against your shoulder. “Kiri’s a cooler name for you, anyway, don’t you think?” She just kept sucking on your braid.

In the moment, you had forgotten where you were. Too wrapped up in Kiri that you missed the way Neytiri’s eyes glistened at the sight of you. Or how Jake couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, almost as if you had bewitched him in a trance. And how Tsu’tey just appeared somewhat okay—content with this domestic scene. Finally, at peace and away from the chaos. In the back of his mind, he began to wonder when you had become a part of that peace.

All four of them missed how Mo’at saw them. How she’s seen it all since the beginning.

He takes a deep breath trying not to think of the worst outcome. He rushes back onto the battlefield looking at all the bodies that were spread out across the ground. “Please be okay,” He repeats in his head as he searches for you. He doesn’t want to think that there was a possibility that you were gone, if he did then that would mean he would be truly alone in this world. 

After losing Sylwanin, he didn’t think he would find love again but then there was you, a strong warrior that stole his attention, he tried not to act on those feelings but the time he spent training you, hanging out with you in his free time, seeing your angelic smile that always made his day better. By then he just knew he couldn’t ignore it any longer and courted you before any guy could snatch you up. 

When you accepted his advances, he felt like he was the happiest man alive, he thought this to be his second chance at love and he wasn’t about to take it for granted. He starts to worry as he doesn’t seem to find you anywhere and tears start to form in his eyes as he begins to think of the thought that you might be dead. “She has to be okay… she just has to be,” he lets out a deep breath as his tail drooped sadly. 

He clenches his fists as he fights the tears back, "I just got you in my life, I can’t lose you, great mother, please… I beg of you…" His ears perk up as he hears a distant cough and he looks around hoping for it to come from you.

He starts to run toward the direction the cough came from and when he does he sees you trapped under a piece of metal, his eyes widen in fear and he immediately rushes over, easily picking up the scrap metal and throwing it to the side.

He examines your state, you had wounds that were placed on your stomach and arms but nothing too serious, he drops to his knees carefully taking you into his arms, and softly embraces you as he silently thanks Eywa causing a small groan to escape from your mouth.

“Oops, sorry tiyawn,” he adjusts you softly in his arms to make you more comfortable, he places his lips on your forehead giving it a kiss before looking at your beautiful eyes. 

“Tsu’tey, I’m so glad to see you,” you slowly raise your hand to caress his cheek, and a small smile appears on your face, he takes your hand kisses the inside of your palm, and holds it tightly as if he let go, you’d disappear.

“You scared me, tiyawn,” the tears that he held back finally spilling down his face “I’m never letting you go again, Nga yawne lu oer,” he kisses your forehead again making you smile but wince when you make a slight move.

“Alright, let's get you back so you can get treated.” He carefully picks you up and carries you in bridal style as he slowly makes his way to his ikran, again thanking eywa for bringing you back to him.

🔖 @livelaughloak, @jakesully-sbabygirl, @kenzi-woycehoski, @fanboyluvr, @onlytays, @amart-e, @vxncxntt, @blep24, @blackheart-stuff, @almondmilk8, @love-chx, @uniltsatirey, @23victoria, @saeayanaa, @aash3, @canaomfa, @neteyamsbaby, @0littlelucy0, @itszmedawn, @strawberryclouds22, @doulcha, @lixiesbrowniess, @liluvtojineteyam, @tinkerbelle05, @olivikiya, @neteyamyawne, @ratchetprime211.

A/N: Let's all pretend that the woman Ilia was supposed to marry is a real mean girl, so that he's not a bad guy for leaving her at the altar.

The first time she realizes something is wrong is when she sees Ilia standing at the end of the aisle, smiling like this is the happiest day of his life. Because she knows him. Knows the real version of that smile, the one that splits across his face when he lands something impossible, when he laughs too hard at his own jokes, when he looks at her like she’s the only person in the room. This one is practiced, polished, safe. And it makes her chest ache.

They used to joke about this years ago, when everything was easier and they were just two kids chasing medals and late-night conversations in empty rinks, he’d said, “If I ever get married, you have to be there. Front row. No excuses.”

She’d rolled her eyes. “Obviously. Someone has to make sure you don’t do something stupid.”

She hadn’t realised back then how serious that promise would feel. How much it would hurt to keep it. She sits there in the church, fingers clenched so tightly in her lap her knuckles ache. People whisper around her, guests, teammates, family, but it’s all just noise. Her entire world is at the altar. Ilia doesn’t look at her, not once. And that’s what convinces her he’s happy, he’s moved on. He never- She swallows hard, forcing the thought down before it can fully form. Because she had her chance, a hundred chances. Every late-night phone call. Every almost-confession that got buried under laughter. Every moment where it felt like something more until neither of them said anything, and the silence just- stayed.

So of course he found someone else, of course he did. The ceremony moves too fast. His voice is steady, warm, kind. That almost makes it worse, because this isn’t fake, he cares about the woman standing across from him. He’s just- not in love with her, she knows it. She knows him.

“And if anyone here has reason to object,” the officiant says, voice echoing through the quiet church, “speak now or forever hold your peace.”

There’s a pause. A breath. A moment that stretches so thin it feels like it might snap. Don’t. Her mind is screaming it. Don’t ruin this. Don’t ruin him. Don’t be selfish. Don’t- But then, she looks at him. Really looks at him and for the first time all day, he looks back. And there it is, buried under the composure, under the expectation, under everything. Hope. Terrified, fragile, impossible hope. Her heart stutters because- Oh. Oh, he doesn’t know.

There’s a silence, her last chance. She stands up with shaky hands and all eyes turn to her. Gasps ripple through the room, horrified whispers spreading like wildfire but she doesn’t see any of it. She’s only looking at him. “I-” Her voice breaks, and she swallows, forcing it steady. “I can’t let you do this.”

The bride turns, stunned. The room feels like it’s closing in. But Ilia, he is just staring at her like the world has stopped.

“I thought...” she laughs weakly, shaking her head. “I thought you didn’t love me like that and I didn’t want to ruin what we had, so I- I stayed quiet. I stayed your friend and I told myself that was enough.”

Her hands tremble, but she doesn’t stop. “I was wrong.” A breath. A step forward. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. And if you marry her without knowing that, without knowing that there was a choice, then I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

Her voice softens, barely holding together. “So yeah. Maybe you hate me after this, maybe I just ruined everything.” A broken smile. “But I couldn’t sit there and watch you marry someone else without at least telling you the truth.”

Silence. Heavy. Deafening. And then gasps erupt as Ilia take a step back. Then another. Then, he’s running.

“Ilia!” someone calls, but he doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even look back. He reaches her in seconds, close enough that she can see the way his hands are shaking, the way his breathing has gone uneven.

“You-” he lets out a disbelieving laugh, eyes glassy. “You love me?”

She huffs out something between a sob and a laugh. “Yeah, that’s kind of the problem.”

He cuts her off. “Do you have any idea-” his voice breaks, and he drags a hand through his hair, almost frantic, “-how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that?”

Her world tilts. “What?”

“I thought you didn’t.” He lets out a breathless laugh. “I thought if I told you, I’d lose you. And I couldn’t-” his voice drops, raw and honest, “-I couldn’t lose you.”

“Oh my god,” she whispers.

They stare at each other. Years of almosts, maybes, what-ifs crashing down all at once. And then he grabs her hand. “Come on.”

“What? Ilia?”

But he’s already pulling her toward the doors and behind them, chaos erupts. Somewhere in the noise, she vaguely registers his parents- thrilled, if anything. His mom literally laughing through what might be tears, his dad shaking his head like finally. But none of it matters, not when they burst out into the sunlight, not when the doors slam shut behind them, not when he pulls her in so fast she barely has time to breathe. And then he’s kissing her. It’s messy. Desperate. Years overdue. Her hands clutch at his jacket, his fingers tangle in her hair, and it feels like everything they never said is finally spilling out all at once. When they finally pull apart, both breathless, he rests his forehead against hers.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

She laughs, half hysterical. “Hi.”

A car horn blares. They turn and there, parked crookedly at the curb like something out of a rom-com, is a getaway car. A sign taped across the rear window: JUST MARRIED

She blinks. “Is that-”

“Yeah,” he says, already grinning, already pulling her toward it. “Guess we’re taking it.”

She laughs, really laughs for the first time all day as he yanks the door open. “Ilia, this is insane!”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, sliding into the driver’s seat. “But it’s us.”

She doesn’t hesitate, not this time. As the car speeds off, leaving behind a church full of shock and scandal and very relieved parents, he reaches over, lacing their fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it always should have been.

“I really thought I lost you,” he admits quietly.

She squeezes his hand. “You never had me,” she says softly.

He glances at her. A smile, real this time. “Yeah?”

She leans over, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “You do now.”

He didn't even let you finish. Before he started talking, you were about to tell him about your 2x1 breakfast coupon from a nearby restaurant. You have invited Ellis, Shen and Lena, but none of them could make it and your coupon expired that day.

I mean it wasn't a secret that you were harbouring a crush on your attending, but even you knew you were betting on losing dogs. So, you make your peace on being just colleagues.

But, what hurts you the most is that a couple of weeks later you hear from a nurse that he started dating Dr. Mohan. Who wouldn't prefer her over you? She's beautiful, has the patient of a saint and, she's an amazing doctor.

Maybe Jack wasn't interested in dating you. It would have hurt way less if he just told you that. That he wasn't interested in you.

Lena was the one comforting you, telling you that if you want you should take a couple days off for yourself, to take Jack Abbot out of your system.

----------------------------------------------------------

And you did that, you knew it would take time but at least you weren't grieving on something that never happened.

Unfortunately for you, you were thrown to every trauma that arrived alongside Jack. He noticed your behaviour, you weren't orbitating around him anymore and he wasn't sure if he liked that.

Before rejecting you, you used to read his mine and anticipate every of his movements while diagnosing. You two were a great team. Now you wait for his instructions and just anticipate movements when needed, nor more harbouring or orbitating.

After a rare lull when Jack was able to take a break to get off his prosthetic, a trauma arrived.

30 year old male, multiple wounds and blood lost. He coded on the way, and coded while you were working on him. Fortunately, you were able to bring him back and stabilise him before sending him to the OR with Walsh.

Fortunately, he made it out of surgery and they were waiting for him to wake up. Before finishing your shift, recovery paged your. Apparently your patient wanted to know the doctor who saved his life.

Titus knew Mr. Le Bail wouldn't abandon him, after all he and his family have always played by the rules. What he didn't expect is that he would send him an angel. When Titus saw you, he knew you were sent by Mr. Le Bail just for him. He didn't want to scare you, so after thanking you and being discharged he wanted to know you and he hired a PI to follow you.

He would suddenly appear in your favourite coffee shop, or in the farmers market you frequent on your days off. He started inviting you for coffee before your shift, one time you told him that sometimes you barely have time to eat, naturally he started to send you food. You expected a sandwich or a salad, no three-course meals from a 5 star restaurant. He didn't want the future Mrs. Danforth skipping meals if he wants you to bear his children.

Titus was worried about your safety, so he kindly set up a camera system so he could track any strange movements inside your apartment.

When he invited you on a date, you told him that unfortunately you have to work something about being short-staffed. As any provided male, he bought half the assets from the hospital and hired more nurses and brought more doctors to the night shift so you could go on a date with him.

Everyone was worried, especially Jack. He knew you were vulnerable, you don't have a support system that can help you realise that Mr. Danforth is up to no good with you. But they don't know that when Mr. Le Bail provides, you have to accept without complaining. Besides, having a doctor after every hunt is a plus for the family.

And still no epidural. The anesthesiologist was swamped, and you were minutes away from tracking him down, and killing him.

Your girls had been eager downstairs, but it seemed that now you were ready for them, they’d like to take their time. You’d plateaued at 7 minutes between contractions, and each time you were checked on, you were no more than 3 centimeters, 70% effaced. You hadn’t even broken your water yet. The contractions were — well, what you’d expect. Excruciating? Aching? Debilitating?

Yes.

Robby had one of your sweaty hands clutched in both of his, rubbing it soothingly as you breathed through another one. Hair was plastered to your forehead, and your cheeks were flushed with heat.

“I hate this,” you whined, as your pain tapered out.

“I know honey,” said Robby, kissing your knuckles. “Just a little bit longer.”

“I never pretended I could do this, you know,” you panted. “I was very clear about the drugs. I want the fucking epidural, for fucking fucks sake!”

Between contractions, your muscles felt tight. It wasn’t helped by the million monitors strapped to your belly. You could see Baby A’s heartbeat, Baby B’s heartbeat, and track the contractions. You didn’t really understand the point of that last one, you were pretty sure you could sense them just fine.

Robby looked physically pained as he watched you grimace.

“He’ll be here any minute,” he said, though he doubted it was true. “Just breathe.”

“I’m fucking breathing!” you snapped, not opening your eyes.

Robby didn’t say a thing, just kept rubbing your hand comfortingly. His eyes flickered over to the monitor like they did every two minutes. Baby A, Ada, was holding strong and steady with 140 beats per minute, never dipping lower, and Baby B, Naomi, was a little higher at 150. All good, all healthy, all within the normal range. Still, if there was one thing Michael Robinovitch was going to do, it was worry.

You squirmed slowly, pushing up slightly, adjusting your hips, only to collapse back down, no more comfortable than before. The sheets on the bed were kicked all the way down to the foot, and every inch of your skin glistened with sweat. Your jaw was clenched.

“Do you want to listen to some music, sweetheart?”

“No,” you grunted.

“Audiobook?”

“No.”

He fiddled with your wedding ring, desperate to help but unsure how to.

“Why don’t we call the nurse? We can try some —”

“Unless it’s a nurse anesthetist, I don’t wanna hear it!”

Deciding maybe that the best way to help was to shut up unless spoken to, Robby closed his mouth. A second later, the door opened, and the nurse that walked through it was probably even better than an anesthetist.

“Dana!” Robby greeted, still not letting go of your hand.

Your eyes shot open and you looked around for her, eyebrows pinching with emotion when you saw her. She held out her arms when she saw you, dropping the bags on the couch and going to the bed.

“Oh, Dana,” you sighed, falling into her arms. “Get me out of here.”

“Trust me, sugar,” she said calmly, patting your head. “This is the place you wanna be.”

You huffed, eyes closing again.

“Then why don’t I have a fucking epidural yet?” 

She chuckled, brushing your braids back.

“Because men are idiots,” she said. “I’m technically still working, I just came by to drop off the stuff Jack brought.”

You had asked Jack to grab some things from your house on his way in. Robby of course had emergency hospital bags in his locker in case of this situation, but you still wanted the going home onesies you’d had laid out for the twins, and although he wouldn’t admit it, Robby needed his special pillow to keep his neck from getting stiff.

“Thank you,” said Robby, grabbing the duffel and unzipping it.

“Don’t mention it,” she said, without glancing his way. “Are your sisters on the way?”

“No,” you said regretfully. “I’ll probably deliver in the OR, so they couldn’t be with me anyways. They’re heading here first thing tomorrow.”

The one thing you really wanted to have with you, second only to your husband and the epidural, were your baby sisters. But you had to make certain sacrifices with high risk pregnancies.

There was a part of Robby, a secret, guilty part he would never tell you, that was glad your sisters couldn’t come. He knew he’d have to fight them just to hold his own daughters. He was pretty sure you’d ditch him for either of them in a heartbeat, something he actually admired. He was eternally grateful his girls were going to have each other.

Dana kissed your cheek and stood.

“Well, I better be going,” she said, eyes still twinkling kindly down at you. “That place falls apart without me.”

“Don’t we know it,” said Robby with a smile. “Thanks for coming by.”

She gave him a kiss too, and headed for the door.

“Good luck, hun,” she said. “And hey — I know you’ve already decided on names, but it's never too late to change. ‘Dana’ has served me well for almost 60 years. Just something to think about.”

She winked as she shut the door. You and Robby could only smile at each other. What Dana didn’t know was that you had named a baby after her. Naomi Danielle.

“She’s gonna cry,” you said, smiling for real.

“Yeah, and agree to babysit for the rest of her life,” Robby chuckled, moving back to your side.

9:01 pm

You wanted to cry. You had cried, but you wanted to again. And again, and until you finally convinced that son of a bitch anesthesiologist to stick the damn needle in your back.

You were lying on your back, Robby pressing a stupid cup of ice chips to your forehead. You had been there for over three hours, fending off pain-induced nausea, and you were still feeling every little spasm, every little muscle tightening in contraction. Your headphones had calming ocean sounds covering your ears, but you felt far from calm.

You were just about to ask Robby to shake some of the ice chips into your mouth when a sudden warmth gushed down onto the Chux pad under your butt.

You jolted, pulling the headphones off one ear. Robby’s head snapped up, already on the edge of his seat.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded, looking down.

“Water,” you croaked. “Broke.”

Placing the cup on the table, he hurried to look under the edge of your gown. He let out a breath.

“It’s clear,” he said, relieved.

He pressed the call button, and Marsha, the 72 year old veteran, came bounding in, a smile on her rosy cheeks.

“You rang?”

“Her water broke,” said Robby, not matching Marsha’s smile.

She didn’t falter.

“Let’s take a looksie, shall we?” 

“It’s clear,” said Robby, hands on the back of his neck as he peered over Marsha’s shoulder. “Looks okay, right? They’re okay?”

“Looks just right,” she said calmly. “We just want to keep an eye on baby’s heartrate, because—”

The rest of her sentence was on deaf ears as the monitor began to alarm. Ada’s heartrate, which had been consistently bouncing between 140 and 145, was beginning to dip. 130, 125, 120…

Your heart began pounding uncomfortably, nausea stronger than ever, while Robby grabbed hold of your hand. You could feel his pulse racing at his wrist.

“What, what’s happening?” he croaked, looking pale.

“Deep breaths,” said Marsha soothingly. “This is completely normal, it's just some pressure on the cord from the fluid shift.”

Right, you thought, as she called on Dr. Atwood. You knew that. You still had to place a hand over your racing heart and take a second. Robby was right there with you.

“Let’s just move you over to your left, okay dearie?” said Marsha, taking gentle hold of your arm with calloused hands. “That’s it.”

You rolled slowly onto your left side, eyes glued to the monitor. Without having to ask, Marsha placed your peanut ball between your legs. For a few more painful seconds, Ada hovered around 110. Then, quickly, she began climbing back up. 

You could feel Robby relax with your back to him, feel his hand loosening its grip, feel the sigh of relief on the back of your neck. Dr. Atwood strolled in a bit too leisurely for your liking.

“How’s my favorite patient?” she asked, rubbing some hand sanitizer on and sitting on her stool.

“Baby A had a brief variable deceleration, but recovered quickly,” said Marsha. “And the water is officially broken! Exciting!”

You hummed noncommittally, eyes still watching the numbers on the screen.

“Looks good,” said Atwood. “Very good. Alright, I’d like to check up after this next contraction.”

“When’s — ah!” you cut yourself off, hands shooting to your belly.

You’d almost forgotten to be constantly dreading the next contraction, but your uterus was quick to remind you. Your thighs squeezed the peanut ball tightly, as you breathed through clenched teeth, eyes scrunched shut. One hand was taken up by Robby, the other by Marsha, who had a soft towelette dabbing at your forehead.

“Breathe, honey, breathe,” said Robby shakily, a finger smoothing along your brow. “In and out.”

In, out. In, out. 

“46 seconds,” said Dr. Atwood when it finally subsided. “Good job, Mama.”

“Didn’t feel like seconds,” you murmured wearily.

Robby pressed a kiss to your temple, breathing you in, even in your less than fresh state.

“That was so good,” he said.

Marsha pressed the towelette into Robby’s hands, who immediately took up wiping your damp forehead. She grabbed a hand towel and began to wipe the amniotic fluid from your legs.

“I’d like to do an internal, whenever you're ready,” said Atwood.

“Wait, will — will I drop the heartrate if I move?” you asked, still in your sidelying position.

“No, they’ll be fine,” she said.

“I’ll just grab this,” said Marsha, rolling up the soiled Chux pad and throwing it in the bin. “And I have a new, dry gown ready for you when you're done.”

“Thank you,” Robby said, because you were too tired to.

He and Marsha helped move your aching bones back onto your butt, and placed your feet in the stirrups for you. The monitor didn’t like that; it harped annoyingly at you, and Marsha tsked.

“Hold on, we’re losing Baby B here,” she said, adjusting the top monitor. “There we go.”

Atwood wheeled to the foot of the bed on her stool, pulling on gloves.

“Alright Mrs. Robinovitch,” she said. “You know the deal. A little discomfort, but there shouldn’t be pain.”

You nodded as she inserted her fingers. You disliked it at first, but after experiencing the discomfort of a contraction, this was nothing.

“Still holding fast at 3 centimeters,” she said apologetically, and you whimpered slightly, rolling your head into Robby’s shoulder. He brought a comforting hand to your head. “About 75% effaced, so progress. Baby A is well applied to the cervix, and definitely still cephalic.”

“That’s good,” said Robby desperately. “Really, really good.”

Dr. Atwood removed her hand and discarded the glove, then palpated your belly. Marsha was standing by with the ultrasound probe and gel.

“Seems like Baby B is still breech,” she said. “We’ll confirm.”

Marsha handed her the probe and squirted some jelly onto your skin.

“Sorry for the cold, hun,” she said quietly, while Atwood watched the screen.

“It’s actually kind of nice,” you said, still feeling hot as an oven.

Robby was watching the screen as intently as Atwood was, and saw the confirmation at the same time, tightening his grip. He still looked far more grim than she.

“It looks like Baby B is head up,” she said. “Fortunately, it appears to be Frank Breech.”

You racked your brains. Frank Breech. Right. Frank Breech was the easiest position to deliver vaginally, due to the legs being straight up against the body, rather than down or crossed.

“Okay,” you said.

“Is there an OR ready?” asked Robby anxiously. 

“I don’t want a C section,” you said grumpily.

“I know honey, I know, we just want to be prepared, right?” he said too fast, squishing your hand between his.

You opened your mouth to say something mean, but Atwood spoke first.

“There will be an OR ready for her at any stage,” she said. “But we’re still pretty early, there’s a chance Baby B flips on her own. Give it time.”

“And the epidural?” you asked. “Marie, I’m dying here. You gotta give me something. Tell me he’s on his way. Tell me he’ll be here in, like, five seconds.”

She gave you a sympathetic wince, and you knew the answer. You threw an arm over your eyes in despair. 

“I’m afraid Dr. Manning is still tied up with an emergency C section,” she said. “The second he’s free, he’s headed to you, I promise. We’ll go ahead and up your IV fluids in preparation.”

You let out a strangled moan in response. Robby spoke up again.

“And hemorrhage protocol,” he said. “Her blood type is A negative. In case of —”

“Jesus, Robinovitch, they know my fucking blood type!” you say, a little loud. “They have eyes! And a chart! You want to help? Go find Dr. Manning and threaten him with litigation!”

That shut him up. You hadn’t called him just Robinovitch since before you’d gotten together. Dr. Atwood excused herself, while Marsha, unphased, helped you into a clean gown. When she left, Robby reached for your hand again, but you pulled away. You put on your headphones.

“Go sit in your chair, with your penis, and your — your no uterus, and leave me in the misery you caused!” you huffed, pulling on a sleep mask so you didn’t have to look at him.

He wrung his hands nervously.

“Honey,” he said softly. “Do you want me to just go get a cup of coffee? Give you some sp—”

“Don’t you dare leave me here, Robinovitch,” you hissed in a deadly whisper. “I will divorce you so fast.”

He nodded a nod you couldn’t see and jumped into the chair like you told him.

You didn’t want to look at him, but you knew in five minutes, when you changed your tune, you’d regret sending him away.

10:32 pm

By the time Dr. Atwood came back with some good news, Robby had changed out of his scrubs into some sweats, and he was helping you through a contraction. You sat on your peanut ball, swaying slowly back and forth, hands and arms supported by Robby’s, who was crouching in front of you. When the door opened, he looked up at her, but you were focusing on your deep breathing.

“Get excited,” she said. “Dr. Manning is free and headed this way.”

Robby’s shoulders relaxed somewhat, knowing this pain would be ending for you. Your eyes were still closed as you let out a long, slow breath.

“That’s great,” he said. “Did you hear that, honey?”

 He leaned back down to meet your eyeline, but your eyes didn’t open. He waited for your heart rate to go back down, for your face to smooth out, before he tried again.

“Honey, did you hear that?” he asked, and you sleepily shook your head. “That epidural’s coming, baby. Almost here. Almost over.”

You didn’t seem to have the energy to express excitement.

“Really?” you said weakly.

His heart was quickly collapsing in on itself like a dying star. He’d seen you tired before, more than not, these past nine months, but the pure exhaustion in your eyes then was heartbreaking. This wasn’t what you signed up for, and you shouldn’t have had to do it.

“Really,” he said. “Want to get back up into bed?”

It took you a second to not. He and Dr. Atwood supported your hips and belly as you made your shaky way over and laid down, IV pole wheeling along behind you. He adjusted a pillow under your head and kissed your burning cheek.

“Mikey,” you slurred.

He leaned in close.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You let your eyes close again.

“I’m so tired.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, and stroked your hair.

“I know. It’s almost over.”

That was kind of true. Dr. Manning walked in about two minutes later, looking a little tired, but put together. Marsha trailed behind him. Robby looked from where he was rubbing your back, and jumped straight to his feet.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Manning, I’m —”

“The epidural, yes,” Robby cut him off, shaking his hand vigorously. “Yes, we’ve been waiting. Listen, she’s been on fluids for almost an hour, she’s ready to go.”

Dr. Manning nodded and headed to sit on your right.

“Hello, Mrs. Robinovitch,” he said kindly. “I’m Dr. Manning. I’m here to do your epidural.”

Not kindly enough.

“Where the fuck were you,” you croaked, not opening your eyes.

He took it in stride. No doubt you weren’t the first pregnant person to be upset with him.

“I apologize sincerely for the delay,” he said. “But we’re gonna get that epidural up and running as soon as possible, okay?”

“Okay,” you said drily.

“Shouldn’t be more than 25 minutes,” he said, squirting some hand sanitizer. “Do you have any drug allergies?”

“No,” said Robby automatically, and Manning shot him a look. “Sorry.”

You sighed, wishing desperately that Robby was allowed to do all the talking for you, and knowing that another contraction was right on its way.

“No,” you repeated.

“Wonderful,” he said absently, checking your chart. “And your platelet count looks good. Any blood conditions or spinal abnormalities?”

“No,” you croaked again.

“Okay, good,” he said. “Now Mrs. Robinovitch, I'm going to walk you through some of the risks of this procedure.”

“Dr. Robinovitch,” you corrected. “I know the risks. I give my consent. Please just do it.”

He blinked, hesitant, but ultimately conceded.

“Very well,” he said. “I’m just going to place a blood pressure cuff on you, so we can monitor it throughout.”

“I got it,” said Robby quickly, strapping the fabric securely in under two seconds.

Dr. Manning blinked again.

“I’m Dr. Robinovitch, too,” he said.

“I see,” said Manning. “I’m afraid you are going to have to sit up for this, Dr.”

You groaned. Marsha rushed in to help you up, and placed a stool at the side of the bed. As they got you to the edge, she placed your feet on the stool.

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to curl forward,” said Dr. Manning, donning his gown, mask, and gloves.

“Hug your babies,” said Marsha, in a calm, quiet voice. “Good, just like that.”

You curved your stiff spine forward and wrapped your arms around your middle. You felt the back of  your gown open, and what you knew was iodine being swiped across your skin. You shivered, and Robby got down on his knees in front of you, resting his arms on your knees for you to rest your forehead on.

“You’ll feel a small prick and some burning,” said Manning, voice muffled by his mask. “That’s the local anesthetic.”

You barely noticed the sensation. After a few minutes, all was numb.

“Here comes the big needle.”

You took a deep breath. There was acute pressure on your lower back, but no pain. The only sound was the beeping of the monitor, and your heartbeat in your ears. Then pain did start. Not the sharp sting of a needle, but the gradual, fast approaching ache of a contraction.

You twitched, and dug your nails into Robby’s arms.

“Try really hard not to move,” said Manning.

“Contraction,” said Marsha. “A little early.”

Robby placed his cheek against the top of your bowed head, gripping you harder as though attempting to take some of your pain for himself. You sucked short, shallow breaths in through your teeth. You longed to move, to stretch, to yell. You dreamed of your ball, or the bed, anything to take pressure off your abdomen.

“We’re in,” said Manning. “Stay still.”

You let out a whimper.

“You’re almost there,” said Robby, brushing a thumb along your knee. “You’re doing so good.”

“Catheter in, needle out,” said Manning. “Excellent job, Dr. Robinovitch.”

You waited in agony as he applied a mountain of tape and dressings to your back, then up around your shoulder.

“You’re all done,” said Robby. “You’re okay, honey, you’re okay.”

You collapsed slightly, into his arms, and he encircled you without a second thought. He helped you back into bed, onto your side.

“Your heart rate and blood pressure are holding up,” said Dr. Manning. “Same for the babies. I’m administering the bupivacaine and fentanyl."

The contraction started to wane, not a second too soon. You let your eyes slide back shut, taking in the familiar scent of Robby. He leaned close, hands finding yours. It was laundry detergent, and ink, and coffee, and just him. He muttered praises as you breathed, lips pressed against your temple.

It started at your toes; a slight tingling, like pins and needles. Then it slowly crept up your legs, one inch at a time.

“Michael,” you said. “Yeah, baby.”

“I think it’s starting to work.”

And it was that realization, not the needles or contractions, that sent tears to your eyes.

12:44 am

The epidural was everything. You had made the right choice, for you and your baby. However, with the pain gone, the nausea subsided enough to let your appetite shine through.

You hadn’t eaten since 3 pm. Robby hadn’t, either, but he didn’t complain. Not like you did.

“Chicken tenders from Cane’s,” you said dreamily, eyes closed. “With extra Texas toast, and extra sauce. I’d put that sauce on anything.”

You laid in bed with Robby, his arms holding you to his chest, where you happily rested. He hummed.

“Ooh, or a burger!” you gasped. “Ugh, I’d kill for some Five Guys right now. I’d get a —”

“Double patty, ketchup and mustard, and pickles on the side, a large fry, and a chocolate malt,” said Robby instantly. “You’ve gotten the same thing for 15 years.”

“That’s ’cause it’s great,” you said. “Oh my god. I can picture it so clearly.”

You waved a hand out in front of your closed eyes, and Robby chuckled and caught it, bringing it to his lips.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You opened your eyes sluggishly to peer up into his. They lowered the lights in your room, not that you’d be able to sleep with the rumbling hunger in your stomach or the beeping of the monitors. Not that Robby would be able to sleep without the monitors, steadily telling him his family was okay. Not that anything could keep you from recognizing the brown eyes you fell in love with.

“For what?” you whispered.

“For doing this,” he said, tapping your belly lightly. “For going through this. To get us these girls.”

You smiled, eyes burning again. He looked so open to you, eyes dilated and glistening. You couldn’t help but remember the scruffy gunner who you’d met all those years ago, who barely knew how to boil an egg by himself. Now, here he was, crying with joy at the idea of being a dad. No showy motorcycles, or nights out at bars, just this.

“You’re welcome,” you said back. “Thank you for being the person I’m doing it with.”

He kissed you softly.

“Can you believe we’ll meet them today?” he said, an uncontrollable smile pulling at his lips.

“Don’t jinx it,” you chided tiredly. “I’d hardly be the first person to be in labor for over 24 hours.”

“You won’t,” he said confidently. “I have a feeling we’re going to meet our daughters today.”

There was a soft knock on the door, and it opened. Dr. Atwood stepped in.

“Knock, knock,” she said quietly. “You awake over there?”

“Yes,” said Robby scratchily. “Awake. Forever.”

Dr. Atwood turned the lights on to low, but you still had to wince and blink to adjust. She examined the Toco tracing on the screen. You heaved yourself up, though the bed was already elevated.

“How have your contractions been?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” you said. “I haven’t been feeling a thing. Sometimes I think I feel some pressure in my pelvis, but I’m not sure. Nothing crazy.”

“Excellent.”

She clacked the keyboard, the sound feeling particularly loud in the dark silence.

“Well, the monitor shows them as every five minutes, lasting 55 seconds,” she said. “You’re moving along, but a little slowly. If you're not seven centimeters dilated, I’d like to start a low pitocin drip.”

You nodded, and Robby stood to place your heavy, numb legs in the stirrups. You were happy to lay still and let him move you however Atwood needed. As far as you were concerned, you wouldn't be moving until delivery. She gloved up and felt around.

“Yes,” she said, not happily. “Still only five. I’ll have Marsha come in and set up the drip. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” you said contentedly, sending a lazy thumbs up.

“Thank you,” said Robby, as Atwood retreated.

Once the drip was set, and you were back in the dark, just you and Robby, you wondered. The little babies inside of you were going to be out in a day's time. What would they look like? You pictured two little Michaels, but you were sure he pictured two little yous. Would they like medicine, would they be nurses or doctors when they grew up? Would they like sports? You could picture the name ‘Robinovitch’ on the back of a hockey jersey, winning gold.

“What are you thinking?”

You nudged back up under his chin, and his hand covered yours on your stomach, careful not to upset the monitors.

“I’m wondering if they’ll like hockey,” you said, quietly, despite being alone.

Something about the dark made you feel like you couldn’t be too loud. Robby did the same.

“Oh, they’ll like hockey,” he said. “And they’ll be Penguins fans.”

You scoffed.

“They will not!” you said, and you would have kicked him if your legs were at full function.

“I can’t raise Bruins fans,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, you’ll just have to try,” you said. “I’m the one who pushed them out of my vagina, I’m the one who gets to decide what sports teams they like.”

He sighed, unable to argue.

“Can’t we just each take one?”

“Oh yeah,” you laughed. “Then you can handle the meltdowns, and the fights, thank you very much.”

“Right,” he said.

“I’ll tell you what,” you said. “I get hockey and baseball, you can have football and basketball.”

“Deal,” he said, then he paused. “Although, I probably won’t show them football. I don’t want them to get interested in a sport that almost guarantees brain damage.”

“Good thinking,” you said. “Except, I’m still gonna show them hockey probably.”

He sucked his teeth.

“Yeah, it’s hard to get around that. Hockey’s the best.”

“The best,” you whispered.

You went quiet for a second. Robby’s hand went up to your hair, stroking your temple. You closed your eyes, but kept imagining.

“They better not have your eyes,” he said softly.

You made a face, pressed to his neck.

“I thought you loved my eyes.”

“I do,” he said, like it was obvious. “If they get your eyes, I’ll never be able to say no to them.”

You huffed a laugh.

“You won’t be able to say no to them anyways,” you said. “Besides, you think it’s easy for me to say no to your baby browns?”

“You say no to me all the time.”

You giggled a bit.

“Yeah, but I have to look away,” you explained. “Otherwise, you do make it hard.”

You sighed into each other, pulling close. As quiet fell, you could hear the ticking of a clock, as the beeping monitor faded into the background. Sleep, which had been sitting at the edges of your vision for hours, was winning over. You knew it would only be a matter of time before you were checked on again, so you let it take you. Enveloped by your husband's arms, breathing him in, you could think of no better place to be.

2:30 am

“I mean, I don’t get it. They already live together, why do they need to get married?”

“Becuase they love each other. And they want to celebrate that love with the people that are close with them.”

“If you wanna call that a reason!”

The sound of the laugh track was comforting and familiar, as you sat back against Robby’s chest, arms around your bump, munching on ice chips.

“Ross is such a wank,” you said.

“Hmm,” said Robby distantly.

You’d gotten about 45 minutes of sleep, not a bad amount, before Dr. Atwood came in to check and told you were seven centimeters, and would likely be ready to push within three or four hours. You were both thrilled and scared shitless at the idea. When she found Naomi was still breech, Robby got quiet.

You knew he was worried, and he didn’t want to worry you any further with his worrying. You’d made it very clear how you felt about that. But now he was just bottling it all up, and you were afraid he was going to explode. Not at you, never at you, but somehow, someway.

Sure, you were nervous, too. Every time you thought about having a c section, your heart felt about ready to crawl up your throat. But you also felt confident in the ability of your team, otherwise you wouldn’t have chosen them.

You felt weird, but okay. You were starving, you had a catheter in for the first time in your life, and you couldn’t walk on your own, but there was also this almost giddy sort of excitement, thinking about what was coming. You wanted Robby to have that too, but he couldn’t even pull himself out of his thoughts long enough to laugh about Joey’s smell-the-fart acting. You thought it likely he would chew his bottom lip clean off, so you gave it a kiss. You liked that lip.

He turned and gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Robby, honey,” you said. “What’s going on?”

He sighed.

“Nothing,” he said unconvincingly.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Then, what’s going right?”

It was a game you’d play, a coping mechanism. You’d walk each other through it when you got anxious. It was an exercise to help you focus on the positive, see what you had to work with, and make a plan. Robby closed his eyes for a second, then fixed them on your.

“Your epidural went well, and you aren’t feeling pain,” he said, and you nodded encouragingly, taking some more ice chips in your mouth. “Ada’s in perfect position and will almost definitely be a simple vaginal birth.”

“Definitely,” you interjected around your crunching. “She said definitely.”

“Definitely,” he corrected. “Both of them are measuring well, and might not even need the NICU. Their heart rates are good and consistent. You’re progressing normally so far. Your blood pressure is perfect.”

You smiled.

“What wonderful news,” you said. “Sounds like the girls and I are in good shape, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, not quite cheerful, but lighter still. “Perfect.”

He placed his large hand over where you knew Naomi’s head was, swiping his thumb back and forth.

Dr. Atwood had successfully delivered breech babies before, vaginally. You wouldn’t tell Robby this, quite yet, but you were determined. You knew he’d want you sent straight to the operating table the second there was even mention of a complication, but you also knew that if you trusted the doctors, and you listened to your body, you’d be quicker to try the old fashioned way a little longer. Robby would deal, but you didn’t want him trying to not try to talk you out of it.

“One of my clients died on the massage table today.”

“That’s a little more relaxed than you want them to get.”

That time, both you and Robby laughed along with the audience. Still, when Dr. Atwood came back in, you felt him tense beneath you. You turned the volume down on your show.

“How’s it going with you four?” she asked as she sat down.

“Great,” you said. “Some of us are a little nervous, but we’re working through it.”

She gave Robby a knowing look.

“Well, hopefully it eases your mind a bit to know that we’re pretty much all set up for delivery,” she said. “We’ve got an OR prepped, where it will happen, just in case we need to get a quick c section. We’ve got two warmers all ready, and the NICU team standing by.”

You gave Robby’s hand a reassuring squeeze, as Atwood propped up your legs and gave you a check.

“8 centimeters,” she said happily. “About one centimeter in one hour, so we’re right on track. And you said you’re feeling some pressure now?”

“Oh, yes,” you said, rubbing one hand along the base of your belly, the other still linked with Robby’s. “Definitely. And getting more intense.”

“But no breakthrough pain?”

“None.”

“Fantastic,” she said.

Robby spoke up.

“So, um, what exactly is the plan,” he said carefully, clearly trying not to let on just how much he’d been overanalyzing everything. “You know, if she’s still breech. Straight to c section, or…?”

You’d spoken alone with Dr. Atwood before, and she knew your priorities.

“Well, I understand Mom does not love the idea of surgery,” she said.

“I hate it.”

“Hates the idea of surgery,” said Dr. Atwood. “So, after Baby A is born, I thought I’d try external cephalic extraversion. It’s proven effective many times in my career.”

“Yes,” you said quickly. “Yes, I want that.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said. “If that doesn’t work, we can assess position, and go from there.”

You both thanked her as she left the room, air tenser still.

“You okay?” Robby whispered in your ear.

“Yes,” you said. “I just kind of want this to be over.”

He kissed your ear.

“Me too.”

3:56 am

The pain was gone, but you breathed heavy as Dr. Atwood came into the room, a little rush in her step.

“What’s happening?” she asked, gloving up already.

“I feel like I need to push,” you panted, “or take a shit. But if I feel like I need to take a shit, it probably means I need to push, right?”

Atwood checked under your gown and confirmed it.

“10 centimeters.”

Robby made a strange, quickly stifled noise, and gripped you tighter. Your heart was going at the speed of light just thinking about what was about to happen. As everyone began rushing around, moving you, donning PPE, preparing transfer, you started to panic, just a little.

“I think I’m gonna pass out,” you said, and Robby dropped down to meet your eye level.

“Honey, honey, look at me,” he said, cradling your face tenderly in his hands. “Breathe, okay? In and out.”

You watched his chest, rising and falling. Though faster than normal, it was slower than yours. You tried your best to copy it, letting everything around you fall into background noise. Just breathing. Yours and his. Your contraction passed, and you slowed down.

“Okay, Drs Robinovitch!” said Marsha, familiar round face discernable though her body was coated in blue, gown, cap, gloves, mask down on her chin. “We’re transferring to the OR now. Ready to have a baby?”

You weren’t sure.

They made Robby leave your side as they prepped you. They had to act as though you were headed to surgery, in case that’s how it ended up. When you saw him again as they rolled you in, he was wearing the same gear as Marsha.

You didn’t like it. It was bright, and crowded. Dr. Manning was there, so were a team of OB nurses, and two NICU teams prepped, one for each baby. The room was colder, and smelled strongly of antiseptic. You knew it was beneficial, but you couldn’t help but think that this was not the room you wanted your daughters to be born in.

You took another deep, deep breath as Robby found his way back to your side. Everything was moving so fast, but he was the calm in the storm. You knew he had a million different things going on behind his eyes, but he was hiding them from you. You also knew he would probably not maintain his composure past the first birth, but you were grateful for the front now.

Two nurses placed your groggy legs up into stirrups.

“Robby,” said Atwood. “Are you listening to me?”

He met her eyes.

“You are not a doctor for the next few hours,” she said firmly. “You are just a father. Understood?”

He nodded.

“I don’t want to see you down here, peeking over my shoulder and getting yourself worked up,” she said. “Your wife and your kids don’t need that. Right?”

“Right.”

She went back to work, and Robby let out a breath. You wished the guys downstairs could get a betting board for how long his determination would last, before he went making diagnoses.

“Okay, Mama,” said Marsha. “You ready?”

You couldn’t help but look around, at the orangey walls, glaring fluorescent lights, chemicals stacked in cabinets, sterile drapes, sterile sheets, sterile tools, sterile, sterile, sterile.

“Okay,” you breathed, heart rate picking up again. “Okay. Okay. Okay, okay. Okay.”

“Hey,” said Robby, crouching down, mask still resting on his chin. “Breathe.”

“You keep saying that,” you joked, but it came out weak and uneven.

He smiled nervously. 

“It’s kind of important,” he said. “Listen. It doesn’t matter what room we’re in, right? All that matters is that soon, our girls will be here too.”

You gave him a nod, eyes still wide, and reached out a shaky hand. He took it instantly, tightly.

“You can do this,” he said, and there wasn’t a single quiver of doubt in his cadence. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You gave his hand a squeeze back. Dr. Atwood called your attention.

“Okay, Dr.,” she said steadily. “The next contraction should be along in about 20 seconds. Push when you feel the need to, alright? Don’t fight it.”

You nodded again, stronger now, and worked yourself up to your elbows.

“Dad,” said Marsha, taking one of your legs and pulling it up towards your chest. “I need you to grab her other leg and pull it back like this. Got it?”

Robby looped an arm around your thigh, and held it up to your shoulder.

“Is this uncomfortable?” he asked you.

“No,” you said. “I think it’s coming.”

You could feel your muscles tightening and you leaned forward. Robby leaned with you, like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

"Okay, Mom, push,” said Atwood. “Push!”

You bared down with every fiber of energy left inside of you. You hadn’t missed it, but sweat started beading along your hairline, under your cap. You could feel the blood rushing to your face, pounding in your head.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Robby muttered under his breath. “Yes, yes, yes.”

You took a breath, and Atwood praised you without lifting her head.

“Good job, good job, now again.”

With each contraction, you pushed. With each push, the pressure in your pelvis grew heavier. By minute forty, you were heaving, dripping with sweat.

“That’s so good, Baby,” said Robby, breaking a hand from yours to dab at your head with a towel. “You’re so so good. I love you so much.”

“Alright, relax for a second,” said Atwood. “The next one should be along in about 90 seconds.”

You lifted a feeble hand and grasped the front of Robby’s gown. You were probably contaminating it, but your mind was a bit too preoccupied to think about that. You were trying very hard not to think about the whole picture. You were maybe a third, or maybe a sixth of the way to Ada. Then you had to figure out how you were even getting to Naomi. Your mind started to swim.

“Mikey,” you whispered desperately. “Mikey, I can’t. I can’t —”

“Yes, yes you can,” he said, leaning his forehead against your sweaty one. “You can, you can, if anyone can, it’s you. I know you can, you're almost there.”

You wanted a nap, but you felt the familiar clenching and gritted your teeth.

Every time you pushed, your eyes scrunched tight, your hands closed into fists, and your lips pulled back into a severe grimace. It felt impossible not to do. The pressure kept increasing, more than you thought it could.

“Okay,” said Dr. Atwood around minute sixty. “I can feel the head. It should be coming along with the next contraction.”

You could feel it, the urge, heightened, as you pushed next. Robby couldn’t help it — he peaked around your leg.

“I can see her,” he gasped, eyes welling up immediately. “Oh, there she is! She has your hair.”

You let out a strangled sort of laugh as you pushed. He grasped your slippery, sweaty shoulder as you rested. He was smiling, wider than you’d ever seen, wider even than your wedding day. 

“One more push,” he said, kissing your face and neck, and everywhere he could reach. “Just one more.”

He peeked back around when the next one came up.

“What do you see?” you wheezed, eyes still shut.

“Here comes her face!” he said, tears leaking down his cheeks. “Her shoulders are out clean, no problem; arms, and hands! Hands, with ten perfect little fingers!”

4:19 am

As the rest of her slid out, you felt the pressure release, and then a glorious, vigorous, strong cry cut the air, and you broke. You had to wipe the tears streaming from your eyes like a water faucet just to see your daughter's little red face.

Your daughter.

“Oh my god,” you wept. “Hi.”

She was perfect. She was the most perfect thing you could ever see, or hear. She was yours.

Then she was swept away. Your crying intensified.

“Where’d she go?” you sobbed.

Robby, crying next to you, held your trembling shoulders, while Atwood assessed you. One hand at your cervix, one hand maneuvering the ultrasound probe.

“They need to get her cleaned off,” he said, trying to blink his tears away. “And we need to get ready for Naomi.”

You were bone tired. Your muscles hurt, everywhere, all of them. Your chest rose and fell rapidly. You wanted to find your baby and go to sleep. As the nurses swarmed around you, shouting numbers, and the NICU team around them, inspecting your little girl, clouded your ears, your cries worsened still.

“I can’t… I can’t…”

Your legs were placed back in the stirrups.

“I know,” Robby shushed, stroking your sweat-saturated hair. “It’s almost over. We just need to get Naomi, and then we can go home.”

“Home,” you said softly.

“In your fuzzy pajamas,” he consoled. “And Jack said he’d bring sushi up as soon as he could.”

“Sushi,” you said, and your stomach stirred, making Robby laugh.

“Alright, Baby B is still breech, and higher up in the uterus,” said Atwood seriously. “I’m going to attempt an external version. It will be uncomfortable. Are you ready?”

You met her gaze, still slightly dazed, but nodded. Right. Two babies, one birth for each. You needed to bring Naomi home.

Atwood scooched forward on her stool and placed her hands on your stomach. With one hand near Naomi’s head, the other near her bum, she pushed deeply into your abdomen. You winced, a little. It was pressure, but not pain. Robby still gripped you like an iron fist.

“This isn't working,” Atwood said, a minute or two in. “I’m going internal.”

“Ah!”

You jolted as her hand breached your cervix, the other still pushing on top. As you watched the movement underneath your skin, all thoughts of sushi went out the window. An intense wave of nausea passed over you, as the pressure built up inside.

“Heart rate’s dropping!” said Marsha, and the nausea worsened.

Robby looked pale, and dotted with perspiration as he held your hand like a lifeline. He watched your baby’s heart rate fall from 150 down, down, down to 110, and further still. He finally tore his eyes away from the screen to see you, looking gray. His heart was constricting more with each passing second.

“Sick,” he said weakly, then stronger, “she’s gonna be sick!”

A basin was provided just as you chucked up whatever remnants of protein bar were left inside you. He stroked your forehead and let Marsha wipe your mouth off. You took a deep breath.

“Okay, this isn’t going to work,” said Atwood, retracting her hands.

Naomi’s heart rate was floating somewhat consistently around 95. Atwood changed her gloves and rolled to your side. She said your name softly.

“I know you don’t want this,” she said. “But at this stage, I’m going to recommend the c section.”

Your heart rate and respirations jumped right back up at those words. Your already wet eyes filled up with more, fresh tears.

“No,” you said, panicking now. “No… that’s not… no…”

Even Robby’s soft hands moving up and down your arms couldn't ground you.

“Honey…” he said hesitantly. “If it's what Naomi needs —”

“I said no!” you snapped shrilly, eyes wider than ever and absolutely pouring with tears again. “No! She needs to come out now, here! I can’t do a c section, Michael, I can’t!”

He pressed you into his chest the best he could, and met Atwood’s eyes behind you. His were filled with anxiety. He couldn’t stand to see you this way. It wasn’t fair. Not after all the pushing, and pain, and close calls. He started crying again too.

“What can we do?” he pleaded.

Atwood’s eyes flicked back to the monitor. The heart rate was climbing back up, however slowly.

“Still moderate variability,” she said. “We could attempt a controlled breach extraction. She’s still fully dilated and Baby A was smooth sailing. What do you say?”

“Yes,” you sobbed. “Yes, please, Michael.”

Robby wiped his forehead on his sleeve. It was more of a risk, but it was your call. And he didn’t want to see you going through a recovery you didn’t even need.

“Yes, yeah, let’s do it.”

Straight away, you were swarmed with nurses. Dr. Manning stepped in to make sure the epidural stayed secure as you were moved.

“We’re repositioning her to all fours,” said Marsha. 

It was a bit of a struggle to wrangle you into position, with your sluggish, numb legs and aching muscles. You tried to help as much as you could, but you felt weak, and exhausted. Mostly, you let a team of three or four nurses and Robby prop you up at the very foot of the bed, thighs held up by some pillows and knees spread wide. They had Robby meet you at the top and wrap his arms around you beneath your arms, which curled around his neck.

“Alright, the next contraction should be along any second,” you heard Atwood’s voice from behind you. “I’m gonna need you to push hard.”

You couldn’t even nod, just bowed your head. Robby followed suit, taking over your eyeline. His hair was flyaway, his eyes wide and panicked, forehead almost as sweaty as yours. But he was familiar. You latched onto him, trying not to think too hard about what they were doing down there.

“Now!”

You felt the pressure and pushed, but you couldn’t feel it building, and you knew, somehow, it wasn’t enough.

“Harder!” said a nurse.

You let out a whimper as the contraction ended, breathing heavily.

“Okay,” said Atwood, trying hard to be sensitive. “She’s not moving, you’re going to have to push harder. We’ll try again in a minute.”

You just cried. Robby wiped your tears.

“Just focus on me,” he said. “Just look right at me. You will get through this. And when you do, Naomi will be waiting for you.”

“I’m not strong enough,” you sniffed.

“You are, you are,” he said. “Tell me, what do you think Naomi will look like?”

You forced your eyes to stay open and on him, as the doctors geared up for the next contraction. You looked at his soft, dark hair.

“Your hair,” you whispered, as he dabbed your skin.

You felt pressure again, and bared down with all your will, lips pulled and arms shaking with fatigue. Robby adjusted his around you so more of your weight was supported on him.

“Keep going,” he said. “I think she’ll have your eyes. And your sister’s one fang tooth.”

You let out a distressed, quickly muffled laugh as you finished pushing and took a breath. Your sister always hated that one canine, longer than its twin, but Robby knew you thought it was charming.

“Good progress,” you heard someone praise behind your head.

He talked you through the next fifteen minutes. She’d play hockey. She’d love reading. She’d love the color purple. She’d hate math, but excel at history and english. She’d prefer her hair shorter and manageable, while her sister would want it long like Rapunzel. His low, soothing voice led you, until you heard it.

“I can see the buttocks. She’s almost here.”

Robby’s arms tightened around, but his eyes never wavered. You heaved. Your tears had never stopped, but they picked up in production and speed. You wished you could see it, but you knew it was probably better if neither you nor Robby could. This, believe it or not, was the tricky part.

“Hands off,” said Atwood. “Let the body come.”

You felt the stretch, different than before, as the trunk protruded further, leaving the legs hanging out. Atwood used only minimal support of the hips while you rested.

“She’s halfway through,” she updated you. “Next, we’ll get the arms.”

You could feel the rotation as you pushed. She gently pulled one arm free, then the other.

“Tell-tell us what’s happening,” said Robby, still unwilling to part from you.

“Arms out,” said Atwood, somewhat absentmindedly as she focused. “I’ve got her body on my arm. “Using the MSV maneuver… Push now, slow and steady.”

You did so, and perhaps you could imagine, more than feel, the head flexing, and Atwood moving it up and out.

5:11 am

You felt the pressure release, but with a pang, realized you couldn’t hear a thing.

It was this that finally broke your eye contact with Robby, as he snapped his gaze over you to see his daughter.

“What —”

They rubbed her chest, and then there was a sharp squeal, and you all took a breath. The cry wasn’t loud like Ada’s, but it was steady, and reassuring. You collapsed down onto the bed, turning to see her.

You were right, she had lots of dark, downy brown hair, just like her dad. Her limbs curled around nothing as though moving through water, as opposed to her sisters flailing.

Robby collapsed down above you, careful not to smush you, but laying comforting weight over your shoulders, tears dripping freely onto you  and your pillow. His head was still craned to watch her as they wiped her off.

“Would you like to cut the cord, Dad?”

Crying almost as much as you, Robby stepped forward, not letting go of your hand while with the other, he took the scissors. He’d cut cords before, other people’s, but it felt like a whole new experience as he tore cleanly through the spongy tissue that had kept the little baby alive for months. They’d had to whisk Ada away so quickly, he was glad he got to do one.

They clamped the stump and moved Naomi over to the warmer. Robby settled back down by you, kissing your forehead slowly.

“You did it,” he cried into your sweaty hair. “You did so good. They’re perfect.”

You sniffled into him, eyes tracking Naomi over to where she and her sister lay, crowded by teams of doctors and specialists. You wanted nothing more than to have them with you, but you had one more thing to worry about.

“Looks like the placentas are coming right along,” said Dr. Atwood. “Push when you need to.”

Much to your dismay, your feet were placed into the stirrups again, but the placental delivery was easy, barely two pushes.

“Are they —”

“Completely intact,” she answered your husband’s question. “No fragments, bleeding well controlled.”

After that, things were a daze. The only thing on your mind was your girls, as you were cleaned, patched up, and sent back to your room. The babies followed you and Robby through the halls, in their warmed cots. Atwood said they’d probably have some gaps in temperature regulation, so they’d have to stay monitored and on warmers until cleared. Other than that, they were free to stay with you.

Ada was robust, as expected. Seven pounds, one ounce, pink and chubby and loud. Naomi was slightly smaller, at six pounds five ounces, and slower, but catching up. By the time you were set up back in your room, they were ready to be held.

You couldn’t contain yourself as Marsha rolled them over. She picked up Ada first, who put up a bit of a protest, but settled quickly once she was placed against your chest. She was surprisingly warm, and wriggly, and perfect. Your arms, which had been trembling with both overuse and anticipation, steadied quickly around her, like your body knew the importance. 

Next was Naomi, who stayed fast asleep. She needed the rest, you thought, as she was placed next to her sister, little fist curling against you. You let out a dry sob around the lump in your throat. Robby was absolutely weeping next to you.

Marsha excused herself as Robby climbed into the bed next to you, one arm around your shoulders, the other supporting the babies. You could feel his tears wetting your head, but you didn’t say anything. He stroked Naomi’s little foot, and she cooed.

“I can’t believe they’re ours,” he wept softly, hiding his smile in your shoulder.

“I know,” you muttered.

You sat there like that for a while, just watching every little movement, memorizing every little sound. They’d never be that little again.

“You ready to hold ‘em?”

He broke into a whole nother level of noisy sobs, and had to put his head between his knees.

6:43 am

You thought your husband couldn’t get any hotter, but that was before you saw him do skin to skin with your girls. He sat in the hospital recliner, one on each side, just crying, biting his lip to keep from waking them up. It was your phone wallpaper in seconds.

Naomi really had needed her sleep — a breech birth wasn’t easy on any party involved — but Ada got hungry straight away. She started crying into Robby’s chest, which in turn, upset Naomi. Luckily, the lactation consultant got Ada latched fast. You weren’t surprised she got your appetite, when Robby wasn’t exactly picky either. To get Naomi to calm down, Robby started talking. Just talking, about anything that came to mind. It seemed all those late night bedtime stories, when they woke you up from kicking, had paid off. His voice soothed her instantly.

It was a soothing voice, you thought, as he jabbered on quietly. Your eyes were on Ada, watching her suckle away happily.

“So Mama said, she told me, she knew she put the plates in that cupboard, and if they weren’t there, I must have moved them,” he said, tracing circles on Naomi’s diapered butt. “And there’s one thing you should know about Mama, she is always right. Don’t even bother trying to argue with her.”

You smiled sleepily, shaking your head, as a knock sounded at the door.

“Hello, Robinovitch family!” said Marsha’s chirpy voice. “You have a visitor! Are you ready for him?”

“Jack?” you asked instantly, desperately. “Let him in.”

You knew he wouldn’t mind your breastfeeding. You’d known him almost as long as you’d known Robby, and there was no such thing as being shy when you spent that long as ER doctors. Besides, the most important part, he had promised sushi.

You actually started salivating as he walked in, two large bags in one strong hand. You’d been provided with graham crackers and ginger ale, but you needed a real meal. And you’d been thinking about a dragon roll since the positive pregnancy test.

“Hey,” said Jack in his raspy voice, approaching slowly so as not to startle the babies. “How’s it going?”

Robby opened his mouth, to gush, probably, but you had an agenda.

“Fantastic, hand me that sushi or you’ll never know their names.”

You and Robby had sent out a group text after the babies were born, just to let everyone know they were here, and doing okay, but you hadn’t wanted to reveal the names until you’d had a chance to tell Jack and Dana in person.

You actually moaned in ecstasy as you popped the first roll into your mouth. You shoved a second one in before you had even finished swallowing. You had to wipe a drop of sauce off of Ada’s head, but you were too famished to care. She was, too.

“Please don’t aspirate,” said Robby worriedly, tamago in hand. “I don’t think I could handle them without you.”

“M fine,” you mumbled around your chewing.

Robby, who had fasted in solidarity, or, partially because he knew you’d kick him out if he’d had the gall to eat in front of you, was almost as hungry. Jack allowed the two of you to gorge yourselves sick for a few minutes before opening his mouth.

“So,” he said, a smile already pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Now can I know their names?”

You and Robby glanced at each other. You thought Jack really should be holding Ada to hear her middle name, so you nodded towards Robby.

“Her first.”

Jack rubbed on about a ton of hand sanitizer, rolled up his sleeves, and sat in his chair expectantly, arms outstretched. Robby, very carefully, stood and transferred the baby from his chest to Abbot’s arms.

“The head,” said Robby, compulsively.

He leaned back, fingers twisted together nervously, as Jack let Naomi settle into the crook of his elbow. Her brow tweaked just slightly, before she fell back into a deep sleep. He smiled warmly down at her, and poked her little chubby cheek.

“This is Naomi,” said Robby, watching her over his friend’s shoulder. “Naomi Danielle.”

“We named her after Dana,” you said, still stuffing your face, and rightfully so.

“Hi, Naomi!” Jack whispered, running a finger over her fuzzy head. “Oh, Dana’s just gonna lose it when she meets you, isn’t she?”

As you started on your shrimp tempura, Ada began rejecting your nipple. She pulled back with a slight whine, but seemed in and out of sleep. You pulled your gown up, and Robby smiled at you. He reached down and took Naomi back, much to Jack’s chagrin.

“Wh — I wasn’t done with her yet,” he said indignantly. “I know how to hold two babies at once.”

“Calm down,” said Robby, placing Naomi down in her warmer. “We’ll have the second with you in a moment.”

You were jittery and excited as Robby lifted Ada from your arms.

“Oh, she’s a big one,” he said, as Ada was handed to him. “What is she?”

“About seven pounds,” Robby said. “Naomi’s six, and six ounces.”

Jack whistled.

“I know,” you said. “I shudder to think how big they would have been if they’d had those last few weeks to cook.”

Jack chuckled, bouncing Ada slightly to settle her. An arm broke free of her blanket, and her hand latched securely onto Jack’s finger. You knew, logically, that that was nothing more than a reflex. But you couldn’t help the lump in your throat.

“So what’s this one’s name?”

One look at Robby told you you’d have to be the one to say it. His eyes were red, and he rubbed his upper lip harshly. You cleared your throat.

“Ada James,” you said, and Jack froze. “Ada for Dr. Adamson, and James after…”

You didn’t have to say it. Jack was already blinking furiously, curling his arms closer into his body.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Oh.”

That was all he could say, for a while. He just rocked her back and forth. He’d had the foresight to remove his germy scrub top, so he was in a white t-shirt, soft and clean, just like the babies. He rubbed his eyes, then covered them all together and leaned his head back. You smiled. He wasn’t a dumb stunted man, he was in touch with his emotions, just not a lot of things drove him to tears. You were pretty sure the only other time you’d seen him cry was after his wife’s passing. 

“We got ’im,” you said, somewhat triumphantly. “We got you. Didn’t we?”

He just nodded and heaved a breath, hand still over his eyes. Robby clapped him on the shoulder, choking back tears of his own.

“Screw you guys,” he sighed, letting his hand fall and revealing pink rimmed lids. “Just screw you.”

“Hey, not in front of the babies,” Robby chuckled gruffly.

“Now I gotta go back downstairs and do hand off,” said Jack. “If I let those guys see me crying, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He reluctantly handed the baby back to Robby. He gave him a half hug, careful of Ada, then went over and gave you a peck on the forehead.

“Thank you,” he said. 

You just smiled, and patted his chest. When he was gone, Robby let out a heavy breath.

“I think I need to be hooked up to an IV,” he said. “I’m losing too many damn fluids.”

“Oh, we still need a photo,” you said. “For my sisters. They made me promise.”

So Robby squished the girls together on Naomi’s cot and snapped a photo. You sent it to the family group chat.

December 1, 2025.

Ada James, 4:19 am, 7 lbs, 1 oz

Naomi Danielle, 5:11 am, 6 lbs, 6 oz