I don’t remember my parents’ faces the way I’m supposed to. I remember fragments. My mom’s laugh- too loud, always apologetic after. My dad’s hands, rough and warm when he lifted me onto his shoulders. I remember headlights cutting through rain, the smell of wet asphalt, and the sound of my own heartbeat pounding so hard I thought it might tear me open. Then screaming. 

Then silence. 

The Cullens tell me they found me hiding in the trees behind what was left of our car. Eight years old. Covered in blood that wasn’t mine. Shocked so deeply, I didn’t even cry when Rosalie wrapped me in her arms. Nomad vampires had killed my parents. And somehow… spared me. Carlisle says it was luck. Edward says fate. Alice won’t say anything at all, just smiles at me like she always knew I’d be here. Rosalie became my mother that night. 

At sixteen, I’ve learned to live between worlds. I’m human in a house of marble statues. My heart beats too fast, too loud. I bruise easily. I get sick. I bleed. They’ve never let me forget how precious that makes me. Rosalie packs my lunches with obsessive care. Emmett walks me to school like a bodyguard who forgot subtlety exists. Carlisle monitors my health like I’m a glass ornament that might shatter if he blinks wrong. And I love them for it. I really do. But some days, being human feels like a ticking clock. 

The pain wakes me before dawn. At first, I think I’m dreaming. It’s a deep, sharp ache low in my abdomen- hot and insistent, like something twisting inside me. I curl instinctively, breath hitching as the pain spikes suddenly, violently enough that a gasp tears out of me. 

“Okay,” I whisper to the dark. “Okay, breathe.” 

I try to sit up. 

Bad idea. 

The room spins, nausea rising fast and ugly. I press a hand to my stomach, fingers trembling, and bite down on a cry when the pain flares again- worse this time, focused and unforgiving. 

Something’s wrong. 

Really wrong.

“Mom?” I call, voice thing. “Mom?” 

The words barely leave my mouth before she’s there. The door opens silently, light spilling in as Rosalie appears beside my bed like she’s been summoned. Her face is calm for exactly half a second, until she sees me curled in on myself, pale and shaking. 

“Y/N,” She says sharply, already at my side. “What hurts?” 

“My stomach,” I whisper. “It-It really hurts.” 

Her hand is gentle when it presses to my forehead, brushing my hair back. I can feel her trying not to panic. Trying to be composed. She fails. 

“This isn’t right…” She says, voice tight. “You were fine last night.” 

Another wave of pain crashes through me, and I groan despite myself, clutching at the sheets. Rosalie straightens suddenly, fear flashing bright and unmasked across her perfect face. 

“Carlisle!” She calls, loud enough to shake the house. “Carlisle, now!” 

Footsteps thunder- impossibly fast- and suddenly the room is full. Carlisle is at my side, eyes already focused, hands warm and steady as they press carefully along my abdomen. 

“Does it hurt here?” He asks. 

“Yes!” I gasp. 

“And here?”

“Yes! Worse!” 

He stops. Rosalie is watching his face like it holds the fate of the world. Carlisle exhales slowly. 

“Rosalie,” He says calmly. “She has appendicitis.” 

The word hits me like ice. 

“I-I have what?” I ask weakly. 

Rosalie’s hands clench into fists. “Is that dangerous?” 

“It can be,” Carlisle says. “If it ruptures.” 

I suddenly feel very small. 

“And we need to go,” He adds firmly. “Now.” 

Everything moves too fast after that. Rosalie helps me dress with shaking hands, murmuring reassurances she doesn’t believe yet. Emmett appears in the doorway, face splitting into concern the second he sees me pale and bent in half. 

“What happened?” He demands. 

“She’s sick.” Rosalie snaps. “Get the car.” 

Emmett is gone in a blur. 

I’m half carried, half walked down the stairs, every step sending sharp jolts of pain through me. Carlisle keeps one hand on my shoulder, grounding, steady. 

“You’re going to be fine.” He tells me gently. “Appendectomies are routine.” 

“For humans…” I mutter. 

His smile is soft. “You’re surrounded by vampires who love you. That helps.” 

The ride to the hospital is a blur of red taillights and clenched teeth. Rosalie holds my hand the whole way, grip tight enough to hurt, but I don’t pull away. I don’t think she realizes she’s shaking. 

“I’m sorry.” I whisper suddenly. “I didn’t mean to-” 

“Don’t.” She cuts in immediately. “Don’t you dare apologize.” 

Emmet glances back at us from the driver’s seat, jaw tight. 

“You’re our kid,” He says. “This is literally our job.” 

That almost makes me cry. 

The hospital smells like antiseptic and fear. Carlisle becomes Dr. Cullen in an instant. Calm, professional, and commanding respect without trying. I’m rushed through triage, poked, prodded, and scanned. The pain keeps building. 

By the time they confirm it- acute appendicitis, surgery, needed immediately- I’m exhausted, tears slipping down my temples as the world pulses in and out of focus. Rosalie stands at the foot of my bed, face paler than usual. Emmett is right beside her, arms crossed.  

“They’re taking her now.” Carlisle says quietly. 

Rosalie nods once. Then she breaks. She rushes forward, gripping my face gently but desperately, forehead pressed to mine. 

“I should have known…” She whispered fiercely. “I should have seen it coming.” 

I swallow hard. “You’re not Aunt Alice.” 

Her eyes shine. “I can’t lose you.” 

“You won’t.” I promise, even though fear coils tight in my chest. 

Emmett leans down and kisses my forehead, careful and reverent. “Be tough, kiddo.” 

“I learned from you.” I manage. 

They wheel me away before anyone can say more. The last thing I see before the anesthesia pulls me under is Rosalie’s face- beautiful, terrified, and so full of love it hurts.

I wake up hours later, groggy, sore, and alive. Rosalie is there instantly, sitting beside my bed. 

“It’s over,” She says softly. “You’re okay.” 

I breathe out shakily. 

“I hate being human sometimes.” I admit. 

She smiles sadly and squeezes my hand. “And I love you for it. Every fragile, fleeting second.” 

I close my eyes, comforted. Because I survived. Because I’m loved. Because even in a house of immortals, I belong. 

But Max could have died. Nearly did. Because he's a stupid idiot who after nearly thirty years of life still doesn't know how to listen to his body.

“George,” his eyes snap to Max who's looking at him with an infuriating half smile. He should not be smiling. In fact he should be banned from smiling until he learns to take care of himself and refrains from giving George a heart attack. “You are thinking too loud again.”

He scoffs, “At least I think. You don't think at all.”

“Come here,” Max reaches up a hand and George tries to ignore the tremor even more noticeable with the IV snaking up his arm.

“No.” He doesn't want to reward him for this. In the same way he wouldn't reward a dog for making himself ill for getting into chocolate.

“George,” he says again, softer this time, shaking hand still out stretched. Waiting. “I am okay.”

That wasn't what this was about. It wasn't. It was on principle. It wasn't because he was afraid. It wasn't that he was afraid that if he touched him he would hurt him somehow. (Because not long ago everything had hurt him. Every movement. Every touch. Everything had hurt and he had seemed so broken and pitiful and-) It wasn't because he was afraid. Not of the moment he touches skin to find it cold and clammy and lifeless. Not that this was some sleep deprived illusion that would snap away and send him back into reality the moment he let it. Not that.

“I am okay.” And again, Max is speaking gentle. He shouldn't be doing that. It only reinforced that something was wrong. “Stop looking at me as though I am going to disappear.”

“I hate you, you know.” George says, but he steps forward and places his own hand in Max's. Only because he's about to leave the country. Only because if - God forbid - something did happen while he was gone, he'd never forgive himself.

“I know.” Max smiles, lacing his fingers through George's and letting the weight drop.

George holds it steady, slowly bringing it down to the side of the bed.

Max is already slightly raised against the bed, but when he places his other hand down as though he's going to lift up again, George squeezes his hand tighter. “Don't. You'll tear your stitches.”

“I'm fine, George.” He rolls his eyes but aborts, not landing nearly as gently as George would have preferred.

He keeps saying that. Saying it like it's true. Like it wasn’t- “It’s the first Grand Prix of your career you won't be racing in.”

“Thank you for reminding me.” Max grumbles and George regrets bringing it up. He knew it was a sore spot for him. How could it not be? He wants to say well you'd be there if you got yourself checked out when you should have. But then he simply would have missed the last race, so it all shakes out the same in the end. Though George might be able to better sleep at night if things hadn't gone this way.

“You think too much for someone who also talks too much.”

“Are you actively attempting to run me off?” There was a time when he might have snapped the response, instead he finds his thumb running up and down the side of Max's hand.

“You need to go.” Max says too seriously. “It is just precautionary now. You cannot miss a race for me. I will be okay.”

But what if something else happens? What if there are more complications? What if they were wrong and the window for sepsis hasn't passed? What if-

Movement of his hand draws him out of the spiral as it's brought up and lips brush the back of his wrist.

“Be careful.” He finds himself saying. Their entwined hands drop onto Max's ribs and he tries not to stiffen at the contact, not wanting to cause him any more undue pain.

“I am not going to break, George. Though I am not so sure about you.”

“Very funny.” But it's not too far off. He had broken in a way. However that wasn't for Max to know the full extent of.

Finally, George sighs, leaning forward to plant a kiss on his forehead, lingering a moment in an attempt to see if there are any residuals of a fever. He's warm, but not to the extent of before. “I should go.”

“Yes, you should.” But Max doesn't release his hand. Maybe he's not as unaffected by all of this as he tries to let on.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. You stayed longer than you needed.”

He wants to refute it. Say no, you're worth this. You're worth more than this. You deserve someone by your side always. Through everything. But he doesn't say it. Because Max wouldn't like that even if he maybe should hear it.

But no. He doesn't say it. Maybe later. When he comes back. He may not say it, but he can prove it. And Max can prove that he's fine. That he's staying in his own way.

Mia had been quiet when she came home from school, slightly withdrawn as she went through the motions of saying goodbye to her siblings before they left for their hunting trip. No one questioned the behavior. Mia understood why she couldn’t go, but she was always a bit disappointed when the others left her behind anyway.

She first mentioned the stomach ache after they left, declining dinner and informing Esme that her stomach had been off all day. Mia figured it had just been nerves about the science test that was worth 40% of her grade this quarter, and when the test had passed but the unease in her stomach didn’t dissipate, Mia assumed she had caught a bug. It seemed likely—it was flu season after all. 

But the flu didn’t feel like this. It could be awful, sure, but the persistent pain Mia had felt…she knew it was something more. And it was something she couldn’t hide or explain away. She was in enough pain that she didn’t even care to hide it from her mother. Mia was in enough pain that she didn’t fight when Esme announced that they needed to go to the hospital. 

Mia only braced herself against the pain as her mother situated her in the front seat of the car, too engrossed in her discomfort, too desperate for relief to even be bothered about where they were going. 

It was Carlisle’s new resident, a bright-eyed young woman who grew up and attended college and medical school on the other side of the country, moving to Forks 6 months ago for her training, who greeted them and examined Mia while Carlisle was busy treating a farmer who had the misfortune of having his arm stuck in a piece of farm equipment. 

It was the resident who endured Mia’s screams as she gently pressed her fingers to Mia’s stomach. It was the resident who had studied the sonogram images of Mia’s abdomen. It was the resident who explained to Esme and Mia the diagnosis and the prognosis and the next steps. It was the resident who prescribed some pain killers while they waited.

Mia was resting by the time Carlisle was able to get away, curled into the fetal position with her head in Esme’s lap, both of them huddled in the hospital bed.

Carlisle kissed his wife and stroked a cool thumb across his daughter’s flushed cheek before pulling the chart from the end of the bed. He had already been briefed, but he liked to see the blood work for himself. Liked to see her vitals. Liked to be sure for himself even though he trusted his resident’s assessment. 

As soon as the appendicitis was diagnosed, they started the medications—antibiotics to fight the infection and pain killers to help keep her comfortable. 

Carlisle knew his daughter would be fine. They had caught it before the appendix ruptured. She would have a quick surgery and head home. She would recover and have little to show for the whole ordeal aside from a memory and a small scar that would fade to nothing over time. 

“She’ll be okay,” Carlisle said, unsure if the assurance was more for himself or for his wife. “Flanders is a terrific surgeon.” 

Esme nodded at her husband before looking back to their daughter, smoothing back the sweaty hair on Mia’s forehead. Esme had been so grateful when Mia fell asleep, so grateful for the speed with which the IV-administered pain medication had swarmed her daughter’s system, swiftly easing Mia’s torment. But there was a fear that still refused to budge, a worry that had settled itself in Esme’s heart and every fiber of her being. 

Carlisle pulled her to his side and kissed his wife’s forehead, careful that the movement didn’t disturb their sleeping child. Carlisle knew the words wouldn’t be enough to soothe Esme. 

The words…The knowledge that she would be fine…That an appendectomy was standard…easy…None of that had soothed him either. 

The only thing that would offer any relief was seeing their child on the other side of this.

—

The surgery was laparoscopic. Minimally invasive. No complications. She was discharged home on the same day from the recovery room with discharge notes and a prescription for pain medication. 

Mia was asleep on the couch, settled between Esme and Carlisle when the front door burst open, Edward emerging with a wild look in his eye. It was a full minute before Alice caught up.

“She’s—”

“I saw—” Alice began, the words caught in her throat as the vision she’d seen flashed in her memory again. Edward swallowed as it washed over his mind as well. 

“She’s fine,” Carlisle said, his gaze drifting towards the front door as Rose, Jasper, and Emmett came into the room. “Our Mia had appendicitis, but your mother spotted it in time and she’s healing.” 

Carlisle’s words and the sight of their sister sleeping peacefully brought some relief—Carlisle could see the slight change in each of his children as they integrated the information, taking in his assurances. 

Even so, he extricated himself from the sofa and crossed the room to pull her discharge papers from his bag. He wordlessly passed them to his son for review before glancing back at Mia. 

Jasper stood a ways back, but the others had taken up the space Carlisle had vacated, crowding around Mia as she continued to sleep. 

She would be fine. More than fine. While she recovered, she would be cared for and doted on almost too well. She would receive far better care than any hospital could offer.

Carlisle had taken a few days off from the hospital to be with her, but he knew it wasn’t truly warranted. Mia had more than enough volunteers ready to help nursing her back to health. 

“She should be up and moving soon,” Edward murmured as he looked over the papers. “Even if she doesn’t want to be.” 

Carlisle nodded.

“She did a little walking at the hospital before they released her.” 

“How did she do?” 

Carlisle answered through a glance and a small smirk that told Edward his sister had been full of complaints through every step she took.

“Your sister is a terrible patient.”

“And they’ll do nothing but enable her,” Edward said, nodding toward the others. 

“A little doting won’t hurt her,” Carlisle mused, knowing that he planned to dote a little himself. He glanced at Edward. “You were able to go hunting?” 

“Barely,” Edward answered, his gaze moving to Jasper who was still at the edge of the room and keeping a distance. “The others should head back out.”

“And you?” Carlisle asked. 

“I’ll be fine,” Edward answered. “I’ll stay.” 

Carlisle snorted softly. “Go hunt, son.” Carlisle took back the discharge papers. 

“I should—”

“Your sister is safe,” Carlisle interrupted. “And she'll be asleep for a few hours still. And your mother and I are here with her. Take your siblings back out to hunt.” 

Edward looked torn, his dark eyes settled on his sleeping sister. Carlisle’s gaze remained on his son as he watched his sister. 

You can have a turn doting on her after you’ve fed.

Edward glanced at Carlisle. He hadn’t said it aloud, but Edward heard it all the same.

The nourishment will help you better navigate the recovery. 

Carlisle hadn’t said it or even thought it, but Edward knew that what Carlisle truly meant was that feeding would give him a little more patience. Feeding would help Edward navigate his sister’s complaining about getting off the couch and completing her exercises and following the discharge instructions with the least amount of bickering. Feeding would lower the odds of Carlisle and Esme having to play referee. 

What Edward didn’t realize was that Carlisle also meant that before Edward could care for his sister, he needed to care for himself. 

What Edward didn’t realize was that Mia wasn’t the only Cullen Carlisle was doting on. 

Carlisle placed a hand on Edward’s shoulder, squeezing once before he crossed the room and began the process of ushering his other children from the room, communicating the plan to resume their hunting trip to the others while giving Edward the opportunity to approach Mia and Esme on his own. 

Esme gave a gentle smile as Edward approached, sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of them. Edward took the hand Esme offered.

“She’ll be fine,” Esme said. “They all said the recovery should be simple.” 

Edward raised an eyebrow. Esme chuckled, a bit of light entering her eyes for the first time since this ordeal started. 

“Well, it should be simple when it comes to the medical piece, at least,” she amended. 

Edward snorted, barely a sound emitted as he did it, but Mia’s eyes fluttered open anyway, locking on him immediately. 

“Edward?” 

Some tension Edward hadn’t realized he was holding shifted at hearing her voice. Esme released his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got my appendix out,” Mia mumbled, the hint of a smile on her lips though it disappeared as she shifted position, her face suddenly scrunched up as she winced at a lash of pain. 

“Careful,” Edward said, his hands instinctively shooting forward to steady her. 

“I’m fine,” she hissed, though she was far from it, a small bead of sweat forming at her hairline and a bit of foggy exhaustion creeping in after just a few minutes awake, after just a few seconds of misguided movement. 

Edward gave his mother a knowing look and Esme schooled her features, but Mia had somehow caught it, even distracted as she was with her pain. 

“It’s not funny. I just had surgery and—”

“You’re awake,” Carlisle said gently and as if it was the best news in the world. He offered a smile to Mia as he approached, his sudden presence easily putting an end to a rant he knew would only rile her up. 

“Edward, the others are waiting for you,” he said, squeezing Edward’s shoulder. 

Edward nodded. “I’ll be back soon,” he offered to Mia and Esme before standing and moving slowly towards the front door. 

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Carlisle asked as he took Edward’s place on the coffee table.

Edward slowed his steps as he waited to hear Mia’s answer, hoping she’d give their father a more honest and complete answer than she had given him. There was none of the sarcasm Edward had received—none of the bite in her voice either—as his sister answered Carlisle’s question with a question, her voice small and timid. 

“Can I have some ice cream?” 

Edward stopped by the front door. His instinct was to return to the livingroom and answer. To interject and relay the instructions he’d just read in the discharge summary—she was restricted to clear liquids only for 24 hours post- surgery—but Carlisle answered before he could get the words out. 

“How about a popsicle?” he offered instead, just as well-versed in his daughter's discharge papers as the son who still lingered by the front door. 

Edward didn’t hear his sister’s answer, but he heard Carlisle stand and cross the room, a doting sentiment sent his way as Carlisle walked toward the kitchen. 

Go ahead, son. She’ll be fine.