ceci

‧₊˚༘˚⋆𐙚

He didn’t say anything to rush you. While the rest of the Cody family viewed your compulsions as an inconvenience or something to be brushed past, Andrew understood the weight of a mind that wouldn't let you rest.

"I'm coming," you muttered softly.

You stepped out, pulling the door shut behind you. It clicked into place. You inserted the key, turning it until you heard the clunk of the mechanism.

Then, you pulled the key out.

This was where the trap sprang shut in your mind.

Because this was one of those days.

Is it actually locked?

What if it didn't catch?

What if someone enters while you're out?

Andrew shifted his weight slightly, blocking you from Deran’s annoyed glares.

You reached out, your fingers wrapping around the doorknob.

Twist left. Push. The door held fast.

Twist. Pull. It didn't budge.

You let go, taking a breath. You stepped back one pace.

But the itch in your brain immediately flared up.

Did you pull hard enough?

What if it opens if someone pushes it with more force?

You stepped forward again, wrapping your hand around the knob a second time. You gave it three rapid, firm shakes. Locked. Solid.

"Guys, c'mon, let’s go!" Deran’s voice barked, throwing his arms up.

Andrew turned his head just enough to look at his younger brother.

"Shut up, Deran," Andrew warned.

Deran muttered something under his breath about everyone being crazy, slamming the truck door shut.

You felt a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck.. You hated feeling like this. You hated that your brain forced you to play out these little rituals just to feel safe leaving your own home.

Andrew stepped closer. He reached down, his hand gently wrapping over yours, lifting it away from the doorknob. His skin was warm.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice softening. "It's locked. I saw it. I heard it."

You looked up into his eyes, finding absolute patience and sincerity there.

"You're sure?" you whispered.

"I'm sure," Andrew nodded once, a firm gesture. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. "It's locked."

Sometimes, when Andrew -or someone who wasn't you- said it was safe, your brain actually believed him.

"Okay," you breathed, offering him a smile. "Okay, let's go."

Andrew kept his hand at the small of your back as you walked down together, guiding you toward the truck. Deran was glaring through the windshield, but under Andrew’s eye, he didn't dare say another word.

Before opening the truck door, you paused, your eyes darting back up to the door one last time. Just to be absolutely sure.

A softness broke through Andrew.

A genuine smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

To Andrew, this was just a part of who you were. He found the seriousness of your focus completely captivating.

It was just another piece of you he got to protect.

Feeling his gaze, you looked up.

"What?" you asked, a slight blush creeping onto your cheeks.

"Nothing," Andrew murmured, his smile widening just a fraction as his thumb brushed comfortingly against your waist. "You're just cute."

He opened the truck door for you, making sure you were safely inside before climbing in.

Deran shaked his head with a smirk on his face. He looked at Andrew, then at you, completely amused by the rare display of softness from his older brother.

"Man," Deran chuckled. "You are so whipped for her."

-'🖤⛓ ⁠*⁠.⁠‧₊˚

Weeks.

Not one day.

Few weeks.

You had rehearsals tomorrow.

If you missed a weeks of training, your placement was gone.

The routines you’d memorized until your muscles burned: all gone.

"I can't..." you whispered, the breath hitching painfully in your throat. "No, no, no. I have to... Dr. Langdon, I can't rest, I'm a dancer."

Frank paused, his eyes instantly dropping to your face.

He saw the precise moment the color drained from your cheeks. He saw the rapid rise and fall of your chest, and the way your hands began to tremble violently as they clutched the rough hospital sheets.

"Hey," Frank said, his tone instantly shifting. He set the tablet down on the bedside table and took a step closer. "it's okay, you just need some rest. Don't overthink it."

But you couldn't. The room was tilting. Your heart was hammering against your ribs so hard it felt bruised. "I can't dance for weeks," you choked out, a sob tearing from your throat, tears finally spilling over. "If I can't dance, I don't... everything is gone. It's over. I ruined it."

"It is not over," Frank said, his voice cutting through your panic. He extended a hand, palm up. "Listen to me, your body is going into overdrive, but you are okay. Match my breathing. Come on."

You tried to mimic him, but your lungs refused to cooperate, catching on a pathetic gasp.

"B-But my career..." you whimpered, your vision blurring with tears.

"You will handle the dancing. I promise you, you will handle it," Frank said, keeping his voice calm. "But right now, I need you to breathe with me. In for four seconds. Do it for me. One... two..."

You stared into his eyes desperately clinging to his voice like a lifeline. You forced your lungs to open.

"Good. Hold it. Now let it out, nice and slow," he guided, watching you intently. "Again. In... and out."

You repeated the cycle, your hands still shaking against his arm, but the roaring in your ears slowly began to recede.

Frank stayed right there. He didn't let go of your arm.

After a few long minutes, the hyperventilating stopped, leaving you weeping quietly from the sheer comedown of the adrenaline.

Frank gently squeezed your forearm before finally pulling his hand back, giving you your space again. He reached over, pulled a piece of tissue from the wall dispenser, and handed it to you.

"There you go," he murmured, his voice softening.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, feeling a deep wave of embarrassment wash over you. "I'm so sorry. You have other patients, I shouldn't have—"

"No, stop, It's okay," Frank interrupted gently. "Do not apologize for that. You just had a massive shock. You came in here in pain, and I dropped a diagnosis on you that threatens the thing you love most. You are allowed to react."

He pulled up a wheeled stool, sitting down so he was at eye level with you.

"Now, listen to me," Frank said, pointing a finger toward your foot to emphasize his point. "A grade two sprain is a setback. It is a painful, frustrating, incredibly annoying setback. But it is not a career ender. Ligaments heal. You are young, you are in peak physical condition, and we caught it immediately. You are going to do the physical therapy, you are going to rest, and you are going to get back on stage."

He paused, making sure you were truly hearing him.

"You're just saying that to make me feel better," you whispered.

"No, no, I'm not. It’s the truth. You haven't ruined anything. You just have to take a temporary pause. Can you do that for me?"

Looking at Frank, the future didn't feel entirely hopeless.

You swallowed hard, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I can pause."

Frank offered a warm smile. "Good. Let's get you that ice pack."

He stood up, but he looked at you for another long moment.

"I mean what I said," Frank added. He leaned against the edge of the bedside table, crossing his arms. "You follow my instructions. You rest, you do the physical therapy, and you don't try to sneak onto a dance floor before those ligaments are ready. You take care of that foot."

You looked up at him, a faint smile finally breaking through your tears. "And if I do?"

"If you do," Frank said with a genuine warmth in his eyes, "then you make sure to save me a few tickets. Because when you're back on that stage for your presentation, I'm going to take my kids to see it. I want to show them what hard work and a proper recovery look like."

The weight in your chest lifted completely, replaced by a sudden, deeply comforting rush of hope. It wasn't just a clinical promise anymore; it was something to look forward to. A goal at the end of the tunnel.

"Deal," you whispered sniffing, wiping away the last trace of a tear.

"Good," Frank smiled, giving you one last reassuring nod. "I'll be right back with the ice."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

Jack walked into the room, two mugs of tea in hand. He set one near you and sank onto the couch, his eyes immediately drawing to Maya.

He watched her for a long moment, a crease forming between his brows. He had a... feeling, when he saw how her daughter was playing with the blocks.

"Hey, sweetheart," Jack murmured gently, leaning forward. "Do you want some of Daddy's tea?"

Maya didn't look up. Her fingers just adjusted a green block so its edges perfectly aligned with the red one before it.

"New game with the blocks?" he asked you.

You looked up at Jack, offering a tired smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "She’s been doing that for an hour. That green one seems to make her nervous. I tried to join her earlier, but if I move one, she gets... inconsolable."

"Maya?" Jack gently called her name again. "Do you need help with the green block, babygirl?"

Nothing.

It was as if a wall separated her from the rest of the room.

"Maybe she’s just focused," you said, though the words felt like you were trying to convince yourself. "Kids get hyper focused sometimes, right? She’s just independent."

"Yeah," Jack said softly, but the medical part of him was quietly cataloging everything. "Maybe."

You swallowed hard when a moment of yesterdays afternoon flashed your mind. "She screamed yesterday. When we greeted our neighbor at the front door, his dog started barking at a bird. She covered her ears screaming and ran inside. I thought she was just startled. But I found her on the kitchen floor covering her ears, even though I couldn't hear the dog from here anymore."

A heavy silence settled between you. As a doctor, Jack was used to having answers, to diagnosing and fixing. But when it came to his own daughter, that instinct felt distant, and he only witnessed paternal anxiety.

Suddenly, the microwave in the kitchen began to beep, signaling that whatever was being heated was ready. It wasn't loud, but the deep chime echoed in the silence of the night.

Maya froze. Her posture went rigid, and her hands flew to her ears, pressing down hard. A whine pitched from her throat, her eyes fixed on the floor, completely overwhelmed by a sound she heard every single day.

"Oh, baby, it's okay, it's just the microwave," you whispered, moving instantly to her side. You went to scoop her into a hug, but the moment your arms wrapped around her, she stiffened even more, crying out and pushing against your chest, desperately trying to wriggle free.

Your heart sank.

It hurted that your comfort was seemingly making it worse.

"Hold on," Jack said and moved to the kitchen to turn the sound off.

When the sound faded, Maya let her hands drop from her ears, her breathing catching in little hiccups. She reached back out for her blocks, her fingers trembling slightly as she re-aligned a red one, one that Jack had accidentally kicked when he went into the kitchen.

Then, she reached out for you, instantly croudling to your lap while hiccupping.

"I've got you, sweet girl." You stood up with your little girl in your arms and sank on the couch. Jack came back and sit beside you. He wrapped an arm around you and pulled you and Maya against his side.

"I don't know how to help her when she gets like that," you confessed in a whisper. "I feel like I'm doing everything wrong. Why does she push us away?"

Jack kissed the top of your head, his grip tightening protectively around the two of you. He kept his eyes on Maya, his mind spinning with questions he didn't know how to answer yet. He knew medicine, he knew emergencies, but this was unchartered territory.

"You're not doing anything wrong," Jack promised. "We're going to figure this out. I don't know exactly what's going on in her little head right now. But we're going to find out. I'll call her pediatrician first thing in the morning, and we'll get some guidance."

He looked at you. "Whatever it is, we're a team. You, me, and Maya."

You nodded, taking comfort in his certainty, looking down at Maya, who was now entirely calm sleeping against your chest.

--------

The pediatrician’s office was quiet. You and Jack sat side by side, while Maya sat on the linoleum floor between your feet. She had found a plastic toy car in the waiting room and, instead of rolling it across the floor, she had turned it upside down and was using her thumb to spin the front left wheel over and over, completely mesmerized by the rotation.

Dr. Evans sighed gently, closing the thick folder in her hands. She looked up, her expression a mix of profound empathy and clinical clarity.

"Based on the developmental milestones we’ve reviewed, the sensory sensitivities you've described, and the observational assessments we just ran," Dr. Evans said calmly. "Maya is showing clear signs of Autism Spectrum Disorder."

The word hung in the air. Autism.

It was a word you'd both been thinking about for the past few weeks; somehow, deep down, you suspected the signs. Although the uncertainty had kept them up at night. Hearing it from a professional was like the world was suddenly collapsing around you.

You instinctively reached out, your fingers wrapping tightly around Jack’s hand. His grip was already there, waiting, holding onto you.

Jack sat entirely still. The clinical definitions in his head felt entirely useless against the wave of fear rising in his chest.

"Autism," Jack repeated. His brain was trying to force the word to make sense in the context of his three year old daughter. "So... the way she plays, the sensitivity to sounds... that's all part of it?"

"Yes, Jack," Dr. Evans replied gently with a nod. "Her brain simply processes sensory information and communication differently than a neurotypical child. She has her ways of comfort in a world that probably feels incredibly overwhelming and loud to her."

You looked down at Maya. She was still spinning the tiny plastic wheel, her face completely peaceful. Tears pricked the corners of your eyes, blurring her small form. "Did... did I do something during the pregnancy? Or did we miss something early on? I should have noticed sooner..."

Dr. Evans smiled warmly, trying to comfort you. "No, darling. This is genetic, neurological. It is nobody’s fault. And you didn't miss it, she’s only three. Catching this now means we are right on time for early intervention, which makes a world of difference."

You swallowed the lump in your throat, nodding weakly, letting Jack wipe a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. Looking at the doctor, you asked, "What does this mean for her? Is she going to be okay? Will she have trouble... talk to us, or tell us what she need? How she's feeling? What about school? Socializing?"

"Every autistic child is entirely unique," Dr. Evans explained, leaning forward. "We can't predict her exact trajectory, but Maya is incredibly bright. She just communicates on a different frequency. Our goal now isn't to fix her or change who she is, but to give her the tools to navigate our world, and to give you the tools to understand her."

She handed Jack a packet of information: brochures for speech therapy, occupational therapy for sensory processing, and local support networks.

Jack took the papers. This was going to be a lifelong journey of learning, adapting, and patience. It felt terrifying, but as he looked down at the paperwork, a strange sense of grounding replaced the initial shock.

They finally had a name for it. They had a map.

"Maybe we could start with the occupational therapy," Jack suggested. "We’ll figure out how to make our home a space where she feels safe, not overwhelmed."

"Exactly," Dr. Evans said. "You're already doing a wonderful job. The fact that you noticed and sought answers is everything."

The appointment wrapped up, and Jack stood, lifting Maya into his arms. Normally, she might have squirmed away, but she allowed it this time, burying her face into the crook of his neck while still clutching the plastic toy car. Jack held her tightly, one arm supporting her weight, the other wrapping firmly around your waist as you walked out to the car.

After the appointment, you all went to have dinner together at your favorite place, trying to clear your minds of the new life that awaited you. But then, the drive back home was suffocating.

Maya sat in her car seat in the back, staring blankly out the window as the streetlights flickered across her face.

You didn't look at Jack. You couldn't.

You just stared straight ahead, your knuckles white as you gripped your purse in your lap. Every time Jack reached across the center console to touch your knee or find your hand, you subtly shifted away, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself.

You felt like if someone touched you right now, you would brake into a million pieces, and you were desperately trying to hold it together until you were behind closed doors.

Jack kept glancing at you, the muscle in his jaw twitching.

He knew that silence. Seeing it on your face, the absolute numbness, and the hollow look in your eyes, made his chest ache.

When you finally got home, it was late, so the routine was mechanical. You carried Maya, guided her through her bath, and helped her into her pajamas.

Putting her to bed took twice as long as usual. Tonight, the texture of her favorite blanket seemed to upset her. She whined, a high pitched sound that sliced right through your nerves, pulling at her collar and refusing to lie down.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded your veins. Is it too tight? Is the fabric too rough? Am I making it worse? Your hands shook as you tried to soothe her, your voice trembling as you whispered, "Shh, baby, it's okay, Mommy's here," but the more you tried to adjust her, the more she stiffened.

Eventually, exhaustion won. Maya’s breathing leveled out while she was on your arms, finally sleep, her tiny fingers loosely curled around your shirt.

You put her on her scrib and stood over for a long time, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The diagnosis echoed in your mind like a death knell to the future you had envisioned. Every milestone you had taken for granted felt like it had been violently ripped away, replaced by a terrifying labyrinth of therapies, specialized plans, and a world that wouldn't understand her.

Will she have a good first day of school? Will she make good friends? Will she be able to whisper secrets to you? Will she say I love you, Mommy and actually know the meaning of that?

And the worst part: you were terrified of yourself.

You closed her bedroom door and went to your room. Jack was standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall, waiting for you.

"Is she down?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

"Yeah," You walked past him into your bedroom.

The moment the door closed behind you, you totally broke.

A choked sob tore from your throat. You pressed your hands over your mouth to muffle the sound, your knees buckling beneath you. Before you could hit the floor, Jack was there. His strong arms caught you, pulling you violently against his chest as you collapsed into him.

"Hey, hey, I'm here," Jack murmured, his voice cracking as he hugged you. He plopped down on the bed with you, rocking you against him. "What's wrong, love? I need you to talk to me."

You gripped the fabric of his shirt, burying your face into his neck, your body shaking violently with tears. "E-Everything feels wrong, Jack." you sobbed, the raw terror finally bleeding out of you. "I don't know what to do, were do we start? Are we making the right decisions for her? I'm so scared, I just want to keep her safe from anything that hurts her."

"It's okay," he whispered calmly, though his eyes were glossy and a tear slid down his cheek into your hair. "We'll do what feels right. We have places to go, a doctor who will answer all our questions. And we'll take our time, step by step, we'll find what's best for her, okay?"

"No, you don't understand!" You pushed back slightly, your hands trembling against his chest, forcing him to look at the sheer panic in your tear-streaked face. "You're a doctor. You know what to do. You fix people, daily. I'm just... I'm her mother, Jack, and I feel I've been doing everything wrong. Every time I try to hold her, she screams. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I trigger a meltdown and I can't stop it? What if I ruin her?"

The raw vulnerability in your voice made Jack reach up, his hands framing your face, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Look at me," Jack commanded softly. "You think I'm not terrified? You think because I'm a doctor I have the answers to this? I don't. When Dr. Evans said those words, I felt like I couldn't breathe for a second. I'm scared too. But we are not going to ruin her. You love her. I love her. That's the only prerequisite that matters. If we make a mistake, we learn from it. If a therapy doesn't work, we try another one. But do not ever think you are alone in this fear. I am right here with you."

You let out a broken breath as you looked into his eyes.

He was terrified too.

"What if she never understand we love her? What If she never says she loves us? I want her to be okay, to feel we are here for her." you whispered, the darkest, most agonizing thought in your mind finally escaping into the open.

Jack swallowed hard, tightening his grip on your waist, pulling you back into the safety of his chest.

"We will learn to read her." Jack whispered into your hair. "Because she does love us, sweetheart. She went straight into your arms after crying the other day. We'll learn from those little gestures. We are never, ever going to give up on her. Or on each other."

Jack kept his arms wrapped tightly around you. He didn't try to dismiss your fears. He knew the road ahead was going to be steep, and he knew there would be days where the frustration felt insurmountable. But as he looked toward the door, thinking of the little girl sleeping soundly just down the hall, a protective warmth settled over his chest.

Gently, he nudged your chin up with his fingers.

"Doll," he murmured, catching your attention.

You blinked through your blurred vision, leaning into his hand.

"She is our amazing girl," Jack said, his thumb wiping away the last trace of a tear from your cheek. "She is exactly who she was meant to be. Our girl. And if she can't say the words, then we will learn to read her. We are going to learn her language, sweetheart. I promise you."

You nodded, pressing your face back into the crook of his neck, finally letting your body go heavy against his.

There were still a thousand unanswered questions, and tomorrow would bring a whole new reality to navigate. But your amazing girl was safe, sleeping calmly on her bed. And, while listening to the calm beat of Jack’s heart beneath your cheek, you finally allowed yourself to breathe.

------------- Bonus scene

Jack slipped into his six years old daughter's room quietly. He watched her form tangled in her sheets. She was already half awake, staring intently at the dust motes dancing in the morning light, her fingers trying to catch the sun rays.

"Good morning, sleepy girl," Jack murmured, keeping his voice low. He waited, giving her a moment to register his presence.

Maya blinked, her gaze shifting to Jack’s face.

"Daddy," she said, her voice raspy with sleep.

"Ready for breakfast?" Jack smiled, offering his hand. Maya took it, letting him lift her out of bed.

Jack knew that morning rutines were their best friend now. He always placed her favorite plate and fork on the table in the exact positions she preferred. Today, he brought over a stepstool so she could stand next to him at the counter.

"We’re making pancakes today," Jack announced, measuring out the flour. "Do you want to pour the milk?"

"Yes, please." Maya nodded solemnly. She took the measuring cup of milk with both hands, her tongue poking out slightly in intense concentration.

Jack kept a steadying hand near, but he let her do it herself. She poured it into the bowl, watching the white liquid splash into the flour with rapt fascination.

"Good job, baby," Jack praised softly.

But when he was goint to take the cup, Maya tapped it against the side of the bowl three times, making sure there wasn't a single drop on it. Tap, tap, tap. Then she paused and did it again. Tap, tap, tap.

"There, done, daddy."

Jack just smiled, recognizing it as her rhythm. "Nice beat, kiddo," he said, taking the cup; then the spoon to finish the batter.

Minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the sweet aroma of pancakes. Jack cut her pancake into squares and sat down next to her at the table.

Maya ate with her usual pace, entirely focused on each bite. As she chewed, she suddenly stopped, her shoulders relaxing. She looked up at Jack.

"I like breakfast with dad," she said clearly. The cadence of her voice was a little flat, a little rehearsed, like it was an inside thought, but the words were entirely her own.

Jack froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. A wave of overwhelming emotion hit him so hard it brought a sudden sting to his eyes. He reached over, gently squeezing her small hand. "I like breakfast with you too, Maya. More than anything."

From the doorway, a soft sound caught Jack's attention.

You were standing there, leaning against the frame, wrapped in a oversized cardigan. Your hair was a bit messy from sleep and the expression on your face was pure awe. You had caught every single word.

Jack met your gaze with a smile across his face. You heard her? his eyes seemed to say.

You nodded and walked up behind him, resting your hands on his shoulders, leaning down to press a kiss to his cheek before looking at your daughter.

"Room for one more at the table, sweet girl?" you asked softly.

Maya looked up at the sound of your voice. She didn't say yes or good morning. Instead, she picked up a piece of pancake with her fork and held it out toward you in a straight line, offering it to you.

You smiled, leaning down to take the bite before sitting next to her.

Maya looked at you, her big eyes blinking as she processed your presence. For a moment, she just stared, her hands resting on the table.

Then, completely unprompted, she slid off her own chair.

Maya approached you, turned around, and leaned her back against you, waiting for you to lift her onto your lap. When you did, she snuggled against your chest, her back pressing against you as she got comfortable.

You waited a second before you gently wrapped your arms around her waist, holding her close but leaving her enough room so she wouldn't feel trapped.

She didn't stiffen. She didn't push you away. She just sat with you, anchoring herself in your warmth.

Across the table, Jack watched the two of you in silence.

Maya reached down, carefully picking up her fork. With concentration, she stabbed a piece of pancake, with no syrup, exactly how she liked it, and lifted it up, holding it out toward your mouth.

"Eat, Mama," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the fork.

You leaned down and gently took the bite from her fork, chewing it as you rested your chin on the top of her soft hair, inhaling her sweet, sleepy scent.

"Thank you, baby," you whispered. "It’s delicious."

Maya nodded once, satisfied with your reaction, and immediately went back to looking at the rest of her plate, entirely content in the safety of your lap.

You looked up, meeting Jack’s gaze across the table. He reached you, his hand finding yours and squeezing it tightly.

Lately, there were no words needed between the two of you. The fear of the unknown hadn't entirely vanished after years, but sitting there in the quiet morning, with your daughter tucked safely against you, you knew Jack was right.

You were learning her language, step by step, and the journey was beautiful.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

Your shift was almost over.

You messaged Dana, who was about to start the day shift, asking her to grab you a caramel latte on her way in.

You: good morniiiiing queen of nurses, u coming today? Grab me a caramel latte on your way, please? Need some sugar :(

Dana: sure honey

Dana: be there in 10 minutes

So, doing the math, you had already proactively administered a dose of insulin. The insulin was actively circulating in your body, perfectly calculated to counteract the sugar spike from the coffee you were about to drink. You knew that a coffee like that would raise your blood sugar significantly, so you injected the exact dose to keep your glucose within range.

The only problem? Dana was late.

30 minutes late.

You were sitting at the main desk, trying to quickly update the latest data before you could leave. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, but your mind was elsewhere.

Without the caramel latte to balance the insulin, your blood sugar was actively plummeting. Fast.

Dr. Jack Abbot, your attending, your boss and, for the last year, your boyfriend, was waiting for you.

He was already signed out, leaning against the counter with his jacket over his arm, ready to walk out to the parking lot together.

But as he watched you, his medical instincts kicked in. You had typed the same single sentence three times, deleted it, and were now just staring blankly at the monitor.

"Hey," Jack said. "You've been on that same line for ten minutes. Let's go, doll. Shift’s over."

You didn't answer. The world was rapidly losing its edges. The lights of the ER seemed to stretch into blurry halos, and the chatter of the nurses sounded like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel. You were dissociating hard, fading into an unresponsive silence.

Jack’s posture shifted instantly with intensity, one of a man who knew your medical history by heart.

He moved around the desk, dropping into the empty chair right next to you. He reached out, grabbing your hand.

"Hey, Dr, look at me," Jack commanded gently. He used his other hand to turn your chin toward him. Your eyes were glassy, your pupils wide and slow to react. "What's going on? How is your blood sugar?"

"I- I think.. Dana..." you mumbled, your tongue feeling heavy, as you looked at your watch. "Oh, she's late."

"What does Dana have to do with this?" Jack's eyes narrowed as he scanned your pale face.

"I took insulin," you whispered, the realization finally breaking through your own fog, bringing panic. "For a caramel latte. From Dana. But she isn't here. My glucose was dropping a little."

"Jesus Christ, you prebolused for a coffee that isn't even in the building? I told you to do not take insulin until food is in front of you during shifts."

He didn't waste another second.

He checked your app.

40 mg/dl

Jack stood up, grabbed your arms, and guided you up from the desk chair. You stumbled, your knees buckling, but his strong arm caught you around the waist, hauling you into the break room.

"Sit. Do not move," he ordered, his authority absolute.

Jack went over to the break room fridge, pulling out a carton of juice. He grabbed three sugar packets from the coffee station, tearing them open and dumping them straight into the juice to supercharge the fast acting carbs.

He sat in front of you, placing one hand behind your neck to support your head while holding the straw to your lips.

"Drink. All of it," he murmured.

You took a sip, the overwhelming sweetness hitting your tongue.

Your brain, starved of glucose, screamed for it; so you drank half the carton before Jack gently pulled it back so you wouldn't choke.

"Slow down, doll. You're gonna choke."

He watched you, keeping his hand wrapped tightly around yours, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.

"Good girl. Let it hit your system."

For a few minutes, the break room was quiet except for your heavy breathing.

Gradually, the fog began to lift. The edges of the room sharpened. The distant underwater feeling receded, and the warmth returned to your cheeks.

"There you are," Jack breathed, a visible wave of relief washing over him. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, leaning into his touch as the last of the haze cleared. "I thought I had the timing right."

Jack sighed, his hand moving from your forehead to cup your cheek.

"You are a terrible patient," Jack said, his voice was entirely serious. "You're a brilliant R4, but you know as well as I do that if you want to be a doctor here, you have to take care of yourself first. You can't save anyone out there if you're collapsing at the charting desk."

You swallowed hard, nodding against his palm, feeling thoroughly cared for. "I know. You're right."

"Damned right I am," he murmured, his gaze softening as he handed you the rest of the juice. "We're checking your glucose again in twenty minutes. Then, I'm taking you home."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉