#greasefic

Danny

January

January felt like punishment.

Not the loud kind. Not the kind where something happens and you get mad about it.

The quiet kind. The kind where nothing happens at all.

Rizzo asked me to stay away. Don’t make this harder.

So I tried to listen. I stayed away.

I didn’t argue. Didn’t make a speech. Didn’t try to be clever about it. She didn’t ask because she was confused — she asked because she knew exactly what she needed to survive this, and apparently it wasn’t me.

That part hurt worse than anything else.

I told myself I was being decent about it. Told myself this was me doing the right thing for once. Letting her go. Letting her choose.

But January dragged on, and it didn’t get easier. It got emptier.

I stopped going out as much.

Stopped hanging around the halls after school.

Stopped chasing girls just to prove I could.

The guys noticed.

“Zuko, you sick or something?”

“You dead?”

“Since when do you go straight home?”

I shrugged. Made jokes when I had to. But I wasn’t really there anymore.

I’d sit in my room with the radio low, staring at the ceiling, replaying the last time I saw her.

The kiss.

Eight grade.

The last look she gave me — like she was bracing herself for something she didn’t want to say.

Please don’t make this harder.

So I stayed away from everything.

Burger Palace felt wrong without her.

I went once — just to see if it would help. Same booths. Same smell of grease and sugar and burned coffee. The gang was there, laughing too loud, talking about nothing important.

I slid into a seat, ordered fries I didn’t eat, nodded, said some one liners, the gang laughed but I wasn’t in it anymore.

She wasn’t there.

I told myself that was good. That it meant she was doing okay. That she was somewhere warm and safe and not thinking about me.

But the empty seat across from me felt louder than any jukebox.

I left early.

I walked out of Burger Palace with the smell of grease still clinging to my jacket and the sound of everyone laughing behind me like I’d left something unfinished at the table.

I stood on the sidewalk for a minute, hands in my pockets, cold biting through my sleeves, and realized I didn’t actually want to go home.

I didn’t plan on going there.

But instinctually I turned the other way.

The nurses barely looked up when I came in.

“Hey, Danny,” one of them said softly, already knowing.

My dad was in the common room, same chair by the window, blanket over his legs, TV on low. Something old was playing — a western, maybe. He was staring at it like he always did, eyes open, unblinking, somewhere far away.

I pulled a chair up beside him and sat.

Didn’t say anything at first.

Just breathed.

“Hey, Dad,” I said finally. “It’s cold as hell out.”

Nothing.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.

“Remember how I told you Rizzo and I kissed last month?”

I let out a low snort, shaking my head.

“Yeah. That kinda blew up in my face.”

I glanced at him, like maybe this time something would change. It didn’t.

“I did what she asked,” I went on. “She told me to stay away. Said it was better that way.”

I swallowed.

“So I did.”

The words sat heavy in the air between us.

“That was the right thing,” I said, slower now. “I know it was.”

I waited a beat, then added, quieter—

“…Right?”

The TV murmured on. Someone laughed somewhere down the hall.

I dragged a hand down my face.

“I don’t really talk to anyone else about it,” I admitted. “You’re the only one I can say this stuff to.”

I huffed a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“I trust you not to tell anyone.”

My throat tightened.

“I went to Burger Palace tonight,” I said. “Sat there like an idiot, ordered fries I didn’t eat. Everyone was there.”

I stared at the floor.

“She wasn’t.”

I shifted closer to him, lowering my voice even though no one was listening.

“I keep telling myself that means I’m doing the right thing. That this is what being decent looks like.”

My chest ached.

“But it doesn’t feel decent. It just feels lonely.”

I sat there longer than I meant to. Long enough for the TV to change programs. Long enough for my breathing to steady.

When I finally stood, I smoothed the blanket over his legs, habit and care tangled together.

“I love you, Dad,” I said quietly. “Thanks for listening.”

I hesitated, then added—

“Wish you could tell me what to do.”

I didn’t wait for an answer.

On the way out, one of the nurses caught my eye. She didn’t say anything. Just gave me a look — the kind that says I see you, and I won’t say it out loud.

That somehow made it worse.

January made me restless in ways I didn’t have words for yet. I kept thinking I should do something — but I didn’t know what that was. I didn’t know what I was allowed to do.

So I did nothing.

I watched winter crawl over the city. Watched snow pile up and melt into gray slush and freeze again. Watched couples walk too close together for warmth. Watched the world as it kept moving.

At night, I’d catch myself wondering stupid things.

Was she warm enough?

Was she eating?

I shut those thoughts down fast.

She told me to stay away.

I respected that.

But respect didn’t stop my chest from aching every time I thought about how quiet the world felt without her in it.

January didn’t give me answers.

It just took things away.

And somewhere between the cold nights and the empty booths and the silence I kept choosing —

I started to change.

Not into something better yet.

Just into something quieter.

February

February didn’t bring relief.

It just confirmed that January wasn’t a phase.

I stopped pretending I was fine with it. Stopped forcing myself into places where she used to exist like nothing had changed. Burger Palace felt wrong without her — too loud, too bright, like a joke that didn’t land. So I stayed away.

I didn’t chase girls. Didn’t flirt. Didn’t feel like proving anything anymore.

It wasn’t dramatic. I just… withdrew.

School blurred. I showed up. I passed things. I didn’t care.

The only thing that really registered was absence.

Then I saw her.

I hadn’t planned to. That was the worst part.

It was a weekday — my mom asked me to grab eggs from the grocery store. And there she was halfway down the aisle, one hand on the cart, the other drifting instinctively toward her stomach like she needed to anchor herself.

She looked different.

Not just bigger.

Tired.

Careful.

Like every movement required thought.

For a second, I didn’t move. I didn’t want to startle her. Didn’t want to be the reason she froze.

She looked up anyway.

Our eyes locked and everything else in the store dropped away.

I smiled first. Small. Careful. Like she might bolt if I wasn’t.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

Her heart jumped — I saw it. The way she steadied herself on the cart, like her body reacted before she could stop it.

“You alright?” I asked immediately.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

I believed her about as much as she wanted me to.

My eyes flicked to her stomach. Not staring. Just… registering.

It was impossible not to.

“You’re… uh—” I stopped myself, suddenly aware of how many ways I could screw this up. “You look good. I mean— healthy.”

She smiled — small, fragile — and I hated how much that meant.

“Thanks.”

There were a hundred things I wanted to say.

I missed you.

I’m still here.

I never stopped being.

But she’d asked me to stay away.

So I did.

“How are you holding up?” I asked instead.

She hesitated. Just long enough to tell me the truth without saying it.

“I’m managing.”

I nodded. Slow. “Yeah. You always do.”

She pretended to look for things on the shelves on either side of us but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The space between us felt loaded — like one wrong sentence would crack everything open.

“I won’t keep you,” I said finally, stepping back before I could change my mind. Giving her room before she had to ask for it.

“Okay.”

I started to walk away. Stopped.

“I’m… glad you’re okay.”

She nodded, throat tight. “Me too.”

I didn’t look back when I left.

If I did, I wouldn’t have kept walking.

I sat in my moms car afterward longer than I meant to, hands on the steering wheel, chest tight like I’d just run a mile without moving.

She wasn’t okay.

She was surviving.

And that was worse.

I went home after that.

Didn’t say much when I walked in. Dropped her keys harder than I meant to. Sat at the table without taking my jacket off.

My mom noticed immediately.

She always did.

“What’s going on kiddo?” she asked, she could always tell when something was bothering me, or maybe I let her see it.

I didn’t answer. Just stared at the wood grain like it might tell me what to say.

She moved around the kitchen quietly for a moment, then stopped. “I’ve got a couple hours before my shift,” she said. “We could bring your dad lunch.”

I looked up too fast.

“I—” I swallowed. Tried again. “Yeah. Okay.”

The ride there was quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Snow lined the sidewalks in tired gray piles, like winter was lingering out of spite.

She let me drive. She knows I like driving. Makes me feel in control.

At the home, the nurses smiled when they saw us.

“Hi Danny.”

“Hi Maggie.”

They led us to the same spot by the window.

My dad was in his room today. Sitting by the window. The radio was on.

I stood in the doorway for a second too long.

My mom set the bag down in the room and squeezed my arm. “I’m gonna step over there,” she said gently. “You talk to your dad. I won’t listen.”

She moved to the hallway.

I sat.

For a moment, I said nothing.

Then—

“I saw her today.”

My voice came out rougher than I expected.

“She was at the store.” I cleared my throat. “She looks… different. Tired. Like everything hurts.”

I stared at the floor.

“She said she’s managing.”

A pause.

“She always says that.”

I let out a breath through my nose. Something close to a laugh, but not really.

“She asked me to stay away,” I said quietly. “So I am. I am.”

I shifted in my seat.

“Why does it feel so wrong?”

Silence.

I rubbed my hands together, restless.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” I admitted. “I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t want to make it worse.”

My voice dropped.

“I don’t want her to disappear.”

I stopped talking after that. Just sat there, chest tight, staring at my dad like he might blink if I waited long enough.

After a while, I felt my mom beside me.

She didn’t say anything. Just rested her hand on my shoulder — solid, steady.

When it was time to go, I stood and leaned down, pressing my forehead lightly against my dad’s temple.

“Love you pops,” I murmured.

In the car, my mom didn’t push.

She just said, “You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.”

I didn’t answer.

But for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel completely alone.

That night, I walked past the garage without stopping. Drove past Burger Palace. Drove until the streets thinned out and the houses blurred.

She’d asked me to stay away.

I was trying.

But February made something clear that January hadn’t yet:

Staying away didn’t mean I stopped caring.

It just meant I had to find another way to be close enough to make sure she didn’t disappear.

And by the end of the month, I knew exactly where to go.

March

I found out about the book at the garage.

Kenickie was closing, shoulders tight, jaw working like he was chewing on something he didn’t want to swallow. I leaned against the doorway, watching him fight with the lock.

“You look like hell,” I said.

“Feel worse.”

“Not sleeping?”

“She’s not sleeping,” he admitted.

That made something cold slide down my spine.

“No?”

“She lost something. She’s driving herself nuts looking for it.”

My heart started racing before I even knew why.

“What’d she lose?”

“A book.”

I frowned. “A book?”

“For the baby.”

That did it.

Something clicked — sharp and immediate — like my body understood before my brain caught up.

“And that’s got her like this?”

Anxiety coursed through me.

“She won’t let it go,” he said. “I bought her new ones. She read them.”

“But?”

“But it’s not the same,” he snapped. “I don’t know what she wants from me.”

I didn’t answer right away.

A baby book.

My book.

“She sleeping at all?” I asked.

“No.”

“That’s the problem,” I said quietly.

He scoffed. “Real helpful.”

I didn’t push. Just nodded like I was filing it away.

“She’s lucky you’re working this hard,” I said before leaving.

He didn’t answer.

But my chest felt too tight to breathe by the time I got outside.

She lost my book.

And she was driving herself nuts over it.

That night, I went to see my dad. I had to tell him.

Same place. Same TV too loud. Same nurses nodding like they’d already clocked the look on my face.

I pulled the chair close and sat eagerly.

“She lost something,” I said immediately. “A baby book.” I spoke quickly. “The one you and mom used to read to me.”

Nothing from him. Just the steady hum of the room.

“She hasn’t been sleeping,” I went on, barely breathing. “Kenickie says she’s tearing the house apart looking for it.”

My hands curled into fists without me noticing.

“Why would she care that much?” I asked him, voice dropping, finally taking a breath. “Why would losing my book wreck her like that?”

I laughed once, breathless and stunned.

“She still means something to me,” I said. “But—”

I swallowed.

“I think I still mean something to her.”

The hope scared the hell out of me.

“She asked me to stay away,” I reminded him. “So I am. I am staying away.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.

“But if that book matters that much… I can’t just let her break over it.”

I stood up slower than usual.

“I won’t tell her,” I said. “I won’t even let her know.”

I squeezed his hand.

“I just… need to fix one thing.”

It took hours.

I stayed outside the house, pacing, watching lights flick on and off through the curtains. Waiting for doors to open. Close. I waited until I saw everyone leave the house.

When I finally slipped inside it was quiet, I didn’t rush.

I checked everywhere she would’ve checked.

Shelves. Bags. Under the bed. Between folded clothes.

Nothing.

Then I went to the dresser.

I pulled out the drawers and searched through each one.

I tried closing the last one.

It stuck.

Just barely.

Not enough that someone would notice — but enough that I did.

I pulled it out slowly.

Reached behind it.

My fingers brushed something soft.

My heart slammed into my ribs.

I couldn’t grab it.

I swore under my breath, pushed harder — felt the back panel bend.

Then crack.

I froze.

Listened.

Nothing.

My heart raced.

I widened the break just enough to slide my hand in and pulled it free.

The book.

Bent. Creased. But intact.

I stared at it for a second, stunned it hadn’t been torn apart completely.

I fixed the drawer as best I could — pushed the panel back into place, wedged it tight — but I knew it wasn’t perfect. There were marks. Damage. Evidence.

I hoped the clothes in the drawer would hide it.

I looked around. Where do I put it? The bed?

No, too obvious.

I wanted it somewhere she’d find it.

Somewhere she’d think she found it on her own.

I straightened out the bend in the book and then slid it back inside the drawer.

Not exactly where it had been — but close enough that it would feel right to her. Familiar. Like she’d just missed it somehow.

I closed it.

Stood there a moment.

Then I left.

A few days later, Kenickie said it like it was nothing.

“She found it,” he said. “Slept all night.”

“Good,” I said.

And I meant it.

March taught me something I didn’t want to learn.

Hope didn’t always look like getting the girl.

Sometimes it looked like fixing the thing that mattered to her —

and letting her believe it happened on its own.

April

April was when I stopped pretending Kenickie was just tired.

He stayed late more nights than not. Not working late — just being there late. Sitting on toolboxes. Leaning against cars that were already fixed. Drinking beers that didn’t taste like anything anymore.

I stayed too.

At first, it was easy to justify. Closing up. One more thing to finish. One more cigarette before heading out. But eventually the shop got quiet enough that there was nowhere left to hide.

The engine in bay three ticked as it cooled. Someone had left the radio on low, static humming between stations.

Kenickie wiped his hands on a rag that was already filthy and tossed it onto the bench like it offended him.

“You gonna head home?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. Then didn’t move.

I waited.

He cracked another beer instead.

I leaned back against the car beside him. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t make it a thing.

“She doing any better?” I asked eventually.

He huffed a laugh. “Depends what you mean by better.”

That wasn’t an answer.

“She still hurting?” I tried.

He didn’t respond right away. Took a long pull from the bottle instead.

“She’s always hurting,” he said finally. “Back. Hips. Can’t sleep. Can’t get comfortable. Cries outta nowhere like it snuck up on her. I don’t know what to say to her,”

Not angry. Not defensive.

Just… flat.

I looked over.

“She’s hurting all the time,” he went on, words coming out too fast now. “And I just— I freeze. I stand there like an idiot and my brain goes blank.”

He laughed once, sharp and miserable. “I don’t wanna say the wrong thing. I don’t wanna make it worse.”

I didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t know what she needs from me,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

That was the truth of it. Bare and unguarded.

I stepped closer, leaning back against the car beside him.

“You don’t gotta fix it,” I said.

He scoffed weakly. “That’s all I know how to do.”

“I know,” I said. “So stop trying.”

He looked at me then — eyes tired, almost frantic.

“Then what do I say?” he asked.

There it was.

Not what should I do.

What do I say.

I took a breath.

“Tell her she’s almost there,” I said.

“Tell her she’s doing good.”

“Tell her you see how hard this is.”

He listened like I was giving him directions in the dark.

“And then,” I added, “stay.”

“When she cries,” I added, “Don’t panic. Just be there.”

He swallowed.

“Just sit with her,” I said. “Even if it feels useless.”

He shook his head slightly. “What if it doesn’t help?”

“It might not,” I said honestly. “But it helps her know she’s not alone in it.”

The radio crackled. The engine in bay three ticked as it cooled.

Kenickie stared at the floor.

“I hate that I don’t know how to do this,” he said. “I hate that I feel like I’m screwing it up.”

I nodded. “That means you care.”

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for weeks.

A few minutes later, he grabbed his jacket.

“I should go,” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

He hesitated at the door, hand on the knob.

“Hey,” he said, not looking at me. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

He shrugged. “For not making me feel like shit.”

I didn’t tell him the truth.

That I was scared.

Not for him — but for her.

He left.

I stayed a while longer, staring at the empty space he’d been standing in.

I wondered how long someone could tread water before they went under.

And how much damage that did to the person watching from the shore.

I didn’t want him to fail.

I just couldn’t let her be the one who paid for it if he did.

(Grease Broadway · Kenickie x Rizzo · Ongoing Series)

✦ CHAPTER 1 — “Friend”

✦ CHAPTER 2 — The Call

✦ CHAPTER 3 — Pink Ladies Don't Cry

✦ CHAPTER 4 — Breaking Point

✦ CHAPTER 5 — Mommy Dearest

✦ CHAPTER 6 — His Turn To Break

✦ CHAPTER 7 — Define “fine”

✦ CHAPTER 8 — The Night Everything Changed

✦ CHAPTER 9 — Safe, For Now

✦ CHAPTER 10 — A Trip Downstairs

✦ CHAPTER 11 — Again, Define "fine"

✦ CHAPTER 12 - Calm After The Storm

✦ CHAPTER 13 - Twelve Weeks

✦ CHAPTER 14 - The Things We Don’t Say

✦ CHAPTER 15 - Thankful? Not Really

✦ CHAPTER 16 - High School Dropout

✦ CHAPTER 17 - Here, Froggy, Froggy

✦ CHAPTER 18 - Flutters

✦ CHAPTER 19 - Motel, Sweet Motel

✦ CHAPTER 20 - The Fight That Launched A Thousand Fists

✦ CHAPTER 21 - Alibis, Rumors & Lies, Oh My

✦ CHAPTER 22 - Stranded at the Motel

✦ CHAPTER 23 - Tis The Season for Charity

✦ CHAPTER 24 - Nothing Like a Christmas Handout

✦ CHAPTER 25 - Thought I Was Over It, Guess Not

✦ CHAPTER 26 - A Scream & A Kick

✦ CHAPTER 27 - Goodbye to Rydell High

✦ CHAPTER 28 - Cats Out Of The Bag

✦ CHAPTER 29 - Rizzo, You Must Start Anew

✦ CHAPTER 30 - Girl For All Seasons

✦ CHAPTER 31 - Better Shape Up

✦ CHAPTER 32 - How Big I’m Gonna Be

✦ CHAPTER 33 - All Choked Up

✦ CHAPTER 34 - It Turned Colder

✦ CHAPTER 35 - Tell Me More

✦ CHAPTER 36 - Ripped At The Seams

✦ CHAPTER 37 - The Worst Thing I Could Do

✦ CHAPTER 38 - Hopelessly Devoted

✦ CHAPTER 39 - Take A Deep Breath And Cry

✦ CHAPTER 40 - I’ve Got Chills, They’re Multiplying

✦ CHAPTER 41 - A Fact I Bet You Never Knew

✦ CHAPTER 42 - A Dream That Won’t Come True

✦ CHAPTER 43 - Don’t You Know What You Must Do

✦ CHAPTER 44 - Standin' Round in a Dizzy Spell

✦ CHAPTER 45 - I Sit And Wonder

✦ CHAPTER 46 - Tears From My Eyes

✦ CHAPTER 47 - A Crying Shame

✦ CHAPTER 48 - I’m All Alone

✦ CHAPTER 49 - I’m Losing Control

✦ CHAPTER 50 - Hold On Til The End

✦ CHAPTER 51 - Please Come Back To Me

✦ CHAPTER 52 - I’m In A Cold Sweat

✦ CHAPTER 53 - The Way We Are Feeling

✦ CHAPTER 54 - Kiss It And Make It Better

✦ CHAPTER 55 - Only Real is Real

✦ CHAPTER 56 - My Hearts Pounding Already

✦ CHAPTER 57 - Magic Changes

✦ CHAPTER 58 - So Sad And Blue

✦ CHAPTER 59 - I’m Helpless Without You (coming soon)

✦ CHAPTER 60 - Did She Put Up A Fight (coming soon)

✦ CHAPTER 61 - There’s Nowhere To Hide (coming soon)

✦ CHAPTER 62 - Scared And Unsure (coming soon)

✦ CHAPTER 63 - Look At Me (coming soon)

✦ CHAPTER 64 - The Time, The Place, The Motion (coming soon)

✦ CHAPTER 65 - You’re The One That I Want (coming soon)

I woke up already tired.

Not the bone-deep kind — just that low, constant heaviness that had settled into everything lately. My body felt swollen, sluggish, like it took more effort than it should’ve just to exist.

Kenickie was already gone.

I knew that without looking. The bed beside me was cool, sheets pulled tight the way he always left them when he slipped out early. Unload shift. 4 AM til noon. I knew all his shift hours at this point. I stared at the ceiling for a second longer than necessary, listening to the house settle into morning — pipes, footsteps downstairs, the faint rattle of a cupboard.

Helen was up.

I shifted onto my side.

That’s when it hit.

Not sharp. Not sudden.

Just… heavy.

Low in my stomach. A dragging pressure that made my breath pause halfway in.

I froze.

My hand slid instinctively to my belly, fingers splaying, waiting to see if it would pass. I’d had aches before — stretching, tightening, all of it normal. I told myself that automatically. Like a reflex.

The pressure rolled deeper instead of easing.

I swallowed and focused on breathing, slow and quiet.

Don’t make it a thing.

It faded after a moment, leaving behind a dull ache that didn’t fully let go.

I lay there, staring at the wall, annoyed with myself for paying attention.

Then it came again.

Stronger.

My jaw tightened. I bent my knees slightly, curling inward, and before I could stop it —

“Breathe,” a voice said.

Not out loud.

Not imagined exactly, either.

Danny.

I sucked in a sharp breath.

“Slow,” he said calmly, like he used to when things got too loud or too fast. “You’re fine. Just breathe through it.”

I hated how instantly my body listened.

In.

Out.

The pressure eased.

I stared at the wall, heart thudding now — not fear, not yet — just that uneasy awareness that something had shifted.

Don’t start that, I told myself.

Don’t go there.

I pushed myself upright and swung my legs over the side of the bed, standing carefully, waiting for the room to tilt.

It didn’t.

Good.

I pulled on a sweater and headed downstairs, moving slower than usual without fully admitting why. The kitchen smelled like coffee and toast — familiar, grounding. Normal.

Helen was already moving around, back to me, setting a mug down.

I slid into a chair and reached for the cereal, my stomach growling sharply. The spoon clinked against the bowl as I poured the milk.

Too loud.

I shifted in the chair, trying to get comfortable.

Then shifted again.

The pressure came back — lower now, heavier — enough that I had to breathe through it again.

Carefully. Quietly.

Helen stopped.

Not abruptly. Just… paused.

She turned slowly.

“What are you doing up?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I said too quickly. “I just wanted breakfast.”

Her eyes were already on my face. On my posture. On the way my hand hovered too close to my stomach.

“I can bring it to you,”

Fucking bed rest. I was restless. Not even allowed to get breakfast.

A dull cramp tugged low in my stomach. My breath hitched.

Helen stopped.

Not froze — just paused, like something had clicked into place.

“You’re feeling it again,” she said. Not a question.

I hesitated. That was enough of an answer.

She turned fully toward me now, studying my face instead of pretending not to. “How long?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “A minute? Maybe less.”

“And your back?”

I exhaled slowly. “Yeah.”

Helen nodded once. Thought. Filed it away.

“Okay,” she said, calm but firmer now. “You’re done sitting up.”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

She gave me a look — not angry, not sharp — just the kind that made it clear she wasn’t negotiating.

“Betty,” she said evenly, “you had contractions yesterday. You’re on bed rest. I need you lying down.”

The word need landed heavier than I expected.

I pushed my chair back carefully and stood, every movement slow. The ache didn’t go away.

Helen was already beside me.

“I’m staying home today,” she said as we started toward the stairs. “Richard can grab groceries later.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” she cut in gently. “But I’m not leaving you alone right now.”

That made my throat tighten.

She walked behind me up the stairs — close, not touching — like she was spotting me in case I wobbled. When we reached the bedroom, she waited until I sat, then until I lay back.

She adjusted the pillow without asking. Smoothed the blanket. Set my water within reach.

“Any dizziness?” she asked.

“No.”

“Pressure?”

“Yes.”

She nodded again.

“I’m going to keep an eye on you,” she said, matter-of-fact. “That doesn’t mean something’s wrong. It means I’m paying attention.”

I stared at the ceiling. “I hate this.”

“I know,” she said softly. “That doesn’t mean we ignore it.”

She paused at the door, then added, quieter but unmistakably serious, “If anything changes — anything — you call out. Even if you think it’s nothing.”

“I will,” I said.

She didn’t look convinced — but she nodded anyway.

“I’ll be right downstairs,” she said. “And I’m leaving the door open.”

She did.

I lay on one side. Uncomfortable.

Rolled to the other. Still uncomfortable.

Propped myself against the headboard. Worse.

My body wouldn’t settle. Nothing felt right.

A sharper cramp pulsed low and deep—enough to make me suck in a breath.

“Breathe with me…” The voice came back.

Danny’s voice.

I hated how much it soothed me.

“Slow,” His voice instructed. I listened.

I took slow deep breaths.

Then it faded, slow as a tide rolling out.

When it was gone, I finally drifted off.

I woke to another one.

Stronger.

I groaned, pulling myself upright.

The clock read one pm.

For a second, I just sat there, listening — to the house, to my own breathing, to the ache still humming through my back. My chest felt tight in a way that wasn’t just physical.

Last night clung to me like a bruise.

The window.

The arguing.

The way we’d gone quiet instead of fixing anything.

I needed him anyway.

Maybe especially because of it.

I eased out of bed and into the hall, moving slowly. Halfway down the stairs, I had to stop — breath shallow, hand gripping the banister while the room steadied.

When I reached the bottom, he was on the couch.

Head tipped back. Eyes closed. Still dressed like he’d meant to rest and never quite managed it.

He opened his eyes when he heard me.

“Hey,” he said.

Not warm. Not cold. Just… there.

“Hey,” I answered, lowering myself beside him.

Another wave rolled low through my abdomen. I didn’t say anything. Just breathed through it, slow and careful, the way I’d been doing all day.

“How was work?” I asked when it passed.

“Sucked,” he muttered.

There was a pause — the kind that carried everything we hadn’t said since the window, since the night had gone quiet instead of better.

I leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Not because things were okay.

Because they weren’t.

Because I needed him to know I wasn’t still mad.

Because I needed to feel like we were on the same side before my body turned on me again.

He stiffened for half a second — surprised — then turned his head toward me.

Something in his face shifted. Not relief. Not ease. Just understanding.

Then he really looked at me.

Something shifted in his face — not relief, not guilt — just recognition. Like we were both aware we were standing on thin ice and choosing not to crack it yet.

“Sleep good?” he asked.

I raised a brow.

He smirked faintly. “I checked on you. I always do.”

That shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did.

I rested my head against his shoulder. His arm came around me, slower this time, like he was asking permission instead of assuming.

The house felt quiet in a different way — not tense, not calm. Just… holding.

Another cramp curled through me, sharper. I winced before I could stop myself.

His arm tightened instantly, hand moving in slow circles against my back — grounding, instinctive, like his body remembered how to do this even if his head didn’t.

Then he pulled back.

Not away — just enough to see my face.

“I love you,” he said.

Out loud.

For the first time.

The words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t confident.

They sounded like an apology he didn’t know how else to give.

My eyes burned anyway.

“I love you too.”

He kissed me—full, steady, careful.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Not the way stress had hollowed us out these past months.

It was soft.

Too soft.

Soft enough to hurt.

When he pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against mine, breath uneven, like he needed the contact to stay upright.

“I just… I needed you to know that,” he murmured. His voice cracked—not loudly, not dramatically. Just enough. “I can’t lose you, Rizz. Not after everything.”

My chest tightened.

Because he meant it.

Because he was right to be afraid.

And because there was something he didn’t know.

Something I kept replaying no matter how hard I tried not to.

That stupid kiss.

Danny’s hands on my waist.

The way my stomach had flipped—not from nerves, but from wanting.

I swallowed hard.

Guilt crawled up my throat, thick and sour, like smoke with nowhere to go.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered.

It sounded true when I said it.

Even if part of me felt like I already had—just for a moment. Just long enough to matter.

He nodded, but the fear didn’t leave his eyes. If anything, it deepened—like he felt something slipping through his fingers and thought holding tighter might save it.

Another cramp gripped me. Sharper.

I folded just slightly, breath catching despite myself.

He reacted instantly, his hand sliding up my spine, rubbing slow circles like he could soothe something he didn’t fully understand.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, almost snapping but catching myself.

He didn’t look convinced. His eyes stayed on my face, searching, like he was trying to memorize me in case something slipped away. Then he pulled me closer again, pressing a small kiss into the side of my head.

“We’ll be alright,” he whispered—more to himself than to me. “We’ll figure it all out.”

I leaned into him, hoping that if I stayed still enough, the guilt would quiet. Settle somewhere I didn’t have to touch.

We stayed like that—wrapped up in a moment so fragile it felt like it might crack if either of us moved.

Helen shifted in the kitchen.

I heard the clink of a mug being set down. Felt her attention before I saw it.

She appeared in the doorway, eyes already on me.

“You feeling alright?” she asked carefully.

I opened my mouth to answer—and another cramp surged before I could.

This one was different.

Lower.

Heavier.

Deep enough that it dragged a sound out of me before I could stop it.

I shifted forward instinctively, my hand pressing to my stomach.

Kenickie straightened immediately. “Rizz? What is it?”

“I’m okay,” I said too fast, pushing myself upright. “I just– I need the bathroom.”

Helen was already moving.

“Slow,” she said, calm but firm.

“I’m okay,” I insisted, bracing a hand on the couch as the pressure tightened. “I just need a minute.”

I took one step.

Just one.

And then—

Warmth.

Sudden.

Unmistakable.

Spreading before my brain could catch up.

I froze where I stood.

Helen inhaled sharply.

“Oh,” she said.

And everything changed.

I looked down.

Clear fluid soaked through my dress, spreading fast, darkening the fabric before dripping onto the floor.

My breath locked in my chest.

Oh God.

Oh God, what did I do wrong?

Panic went from zero to ten in a heartbeat. My ears rang. My hands went numb.

Kenickie shot to his feet, color draining from his face.

“Rizz—what—did I—what’s happening?”

Helen was already moving toward me, calm but urgent.

She took one look—just one—and her jaw tightened.

“Your water broke,” she said, calm but sharp, eyes snapping up to mine. “This is why I told you to say something. The second it felt different.”

“I—I didn’t know,” I stammered, tears spilling over. “I thought it was just—”

Another contraction hit.

Harder. Deeper. Nothing like before.

I cried out, folding forward as the pain tore through me.

Helen caught my arm immediately, steady as a wall.

“Okay,” she said, voice firm now—not soothing, not gentle. “Listen to me. We don’t panic. We move.”

She looked straight at me.

“You are done pushing through things on your own. Do you hear me?”

I nodded frantically, sobbing, breath coming apart in my chest.

“We’re going to the hospital,” she continued. “Right now. You’re not walking. You’re breathing.”

She turned her head sharply.

“Kenickie.”

He was frozen. Completely gone. Like someone had unplugged him.

“Kenickie,” she repeated, louder. “Keys. Car. Now.”

That snapped him back.

He bolted for the door fumbling with his keys. Dropping them a few times on his way out.

Helen turned back to me, already guiding me toward the couch.

“How bad is it? Don’t lie to me,” Helen asked—sharp, steady, nothing like her usual softness.

“It hurts,” I managed, wincing as the contraction peaked.

“I’m scared,” I gasped, the words tearing out of me. “It’s not 38 weeks.”

Helen didn’t flinch.

“I know,” she said, quieter now — not panicked, not dismissive. Certain. “We wanted you closer to thirty-eight. That was the goal.”

My chest hitched.

“But,” she continued, meeting my eyes, “babies don’t always follow the plan. And this one has been telling us for weeks that it’s done waiting.”

Another contraction rolled through me and I cried out, clutching her arm.

“This is why we don’t ignore our bodies,” she said gently but firmly. “And it’s why I’m here.”

She squeezed my arm once — solid, grounding, unmovable.

“Let’s get you to the car.”

She helped me stand, her arm locked around mine as I tried to breathe through the aftershocks. My legs felt wrong — shaky, untrustworthy — like the ground was farther away than it should’ve been.

“It’s too early,” I said, panic climbing fast. “I’m not ready—”

“You’re ready,” Helen said without hesitation. “Your body is ready.”

She guided me into the back seat, moving with practiced efficiency, tucking my dress beneath me so it wouldn’t cling — cold and wet — to my legs. Her hands were firm, certain. No room for doubt.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, already moving. “Hospital bag.”

The door shut.

The second she was gone, another contraction slammed through me.

Harder. Deeper. Like something inside me had decided it was done waiting.

I cried out before I could stop myself, hands scrambling for anything solid. I caught Kenickie’s sleeve and held on.

He slid into the seat beside me immediately, his hands hovering everywhere at once — my back, my shoulder, my hand — terrified to touch me wrong, terrified not to touch me at all.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice shaking despite himself. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The pain peaked fast. I squeezed his hand as hard as I could, nails digging into his skin. A broken sound tore out of me — raw and unfiltered.

His face crumpled.

“Did I hurt you?” he blurted. “Rizz—what did I do? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t,” I gasped, forcing the words out between breaths. Sweat gathered at my hairline. “It’s just—just the pain—”

It eased slowly, like a tide pulling back.

When I could breathe again, I looked at him.

Really looked.

He wasn’t the cocky, unbreakable greaser everyone thought he was.

He was a boy who loved me so much it scared the hell out of him.

Helen burst back out the door with the bag, slamming it shut behind her.

“Go, go!” she snapped.

Kenickie didn’t need to be told twice.

The car lurched into motion, tires squealing as the house disappeared behind us.

And there was no turning back now.

“Where do I go?” he asked, voice tight, hands trembling on the wheel.

Helen rattled off directions, but the next contraction drowned out every word.

This one ripped through me—brutal.

I folded forward, my breath tearing out of me.

“Oh God,” I gasped, for the first time letting the fear show. “Oh God—”

“We’re gonna get you there,” Helen said, steady as a hand on my spine. “You’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to.”

But everything after that blurred.

I pressed my forehead to the cool glass.

In.

Out.

That’s when the memory slipped in.

Danny’s voice, low and steady, like it always got when he was serious.

“Don’t fight it,” his voice echoed in my ears. “You don’t gotta be tough every second, Rizz. Just breathe.”

I swallowed hard.

I remembered the way he’d talked me through it — slow, like he was pacing me without even trying.

“In through your nose,” he’d said. “Out through your mouth. See? You’re still here.”

My fingers curled into the fabric of my dress.

I breathed the way I remembered him telling me to.

Slow. Controlled. Quiet.

The pressure crested, then eased — not gone, but tolerable.

I exhaled shakily.

God.

Why him?

I didn’t want to think of him. I hadn’t meant to. But my body didn’t ask permission — it just reached for the place it remembered feeling steady.

Lights streaked past the windows. Turns came too fast or not fast enough. My own breathing sounded foreign in my ears — ragged, desperate, loud.

Pain swallowed everything else whole.

The car lurched to the curb outside the hospital.

Helen was out before it fully stopped.

“Help her!” she shouted to Kenickie as she headed toward the entrance as she sprinted ahead.

Kenickie was at my door instantly, fumbling with the handle, panic written all over him.

“I got you,” he said, reaching for me. “I got you—”

He tried to lift me—

And another contraction crushed me mid-movement.

I cried out.

Not loud.

Just… broken.

He froze, horror flashing across his face like he’d done something unforgivable.

“Here—let me,” Helen said, already moving, already in control.

Two nurses rushed out with a wheelchair, their expressions alert but calm. Everything happened at once — hands guiding me, voices asking questions, my body shaking as they lowered me into the chair.

Kenickie hovered, helpless, following every movement like if he looked away something terrible would happen.

They wheeled me inside, fast and focused.

The doors slid shut behind us.

And suddenly there was no world beyond the pain, the lights, and the sound of my own breathing as they rushed me toward whatever came next.

“Kenickie!” I cried — pure pain, no thought behind it.

I reached for him.

He reached back—

—but a nurse stepped directly between us.

“I’m sorry, sir. You’ll have to wait in the fathers’ lounge,” she said, pointing down a hallway I couldn’t see through the blur of tears.

He shook his head violently. “No. I’m not leaving her.”

Another contraction slammed through me — sudden and merciless.

A broken sound tore out of me before I could stop it.

“Keep moving,” one of the nurses ordered as they pushed me toward the double doors.

“No—don’t leave me!” I screamed, panic slicing sharper than the pain.

“I’ll go with her,” Helen said immediately, stepping forward. Her voice was low, fierce. Unmovable.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry — policy. No visitors in the labor room.”

“She is seventeen and scared to death,” Helen snapped. “She is not going in alone.”

The nurses exchanged a look.

“Are you the mother?”

Helen didn’t hesitate. “This is my grandchild.”

A beat.

Then the nurse exhaled, sharp and resigned. “Go.”

Helen turned to Kenickie, gripping his arm just long enough to ground him. “It’s going to be okay, honey. Just wait here. I’ll stay with her.”

Then she was moving again, keeping pace with the wheelchair.

“I’m right here,” she said to me, firm and steady. “I’m not leaving.”

The doors swung open.

Lights. Voices. Hands everywhere.

They wheeled me into the room, the hallway noise dropping away behind us — and just like that, Kenickie was gone from sight.

I sobbed once, helpless and raw.

Helen squeezed my hand harder.

“I’ve got you,” she said. “You’re not alone.”

I believed her — because she was still there when the doors closed.

Gown.

Bed.

Lights too bright.

I was practically crying from pain.

Deep breaths weren’t doing anything.

Because this wasn’t “cramping.”

This was something enormous.

Something tearing me open from the inside.

Pain I didn’t know a human body could feel.

“Just breathe, honey, breathe,” Helen coaxed gently. But I couldn’t hold it together. My breathing spiraled. A scream ripped out of me, involuntary.

A nurse entered.

“Alright sweetheart, let’s have a look.”

I shook my head violently. “No, no, no…”

Another contraction clamped low and deep, ripping through me. I curled toward it as Helen stroked my hair, holding me so close that I felt warmth radiating from her body.

“There you go, breathe… I’m right here.” She whispered but I could hear strain in her voice.

The wave slammed into me so hard my fingers clawed the bedsheet. A choked cry escaped me. When it eased, the nurse snapped on gloves.

“Lay back and bend your knees for me.”

My legs trembled uncontrollably as I obeyed.

The fluorescent lights burned my eyes.

She checked—sharp pressure, invasive, unbearable.

Her brows shot up.

“No wonder she’s in pain. She’s almost at seven centimeters.”

Helen smoothed my hair. I tried to catch my breath.

Helen brushed damp hair from my face as I gulped at the air, trying to catch a breath that didn’t hurt.

“We need to give her something for the pain,” the nurse said, reaching for a tray.

Panic flared hot in my chest.

“W-what? What are you doing?” I gasped, looking at Helen in pure desperation.

She squeezed my hand tight.

“Just breathe, sweetheart. It’s going to help you.”

“It’s going to get a lot harder from here,” the nurse added as she swabbed my arm.

“This will take the edge off.”

I looked at Helen again.

She nodded once.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she promised.

As I faced her, the needle slid in.

Burning heat shot through my arm, spreading fast.

Another contraction hit, doubling me over.

I cried out, grabbing Helen with both hands, shaking so hard the bed rattled.

“She’ll be agitated, confused, maybe combative,” the nurse said to Helen. “Normal with the medication. Keep her calm.”

Helen nodded tightly.

The room tilted, then doubled.

Helen’s voice drifted in like it was underwater.

“That’s it, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

My head grew heavy.

My fingers went numb.

But the pain sharpened—somehow worse.

I leaned forward, disoriented, and the whole room spun.

Nausea rolled up my throat.

I reached for Helen but my arm barely moved.

Someone pressed gently on my shoulders, guiding me back.

“I’m right here,” Helen whispered directly into my ear.

“Breathe with me… in… out…”

The lights were too bright—I lifted a hand to shield my eyes, but I couldn’t tell if I actually moved it.

My whole body shook.

A moan slipped out of me, then another.

I couldn’t breathe right.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t anchor myself.

Another contraction peaked—violent, blinding.

I’d forgotten I was in labor.

It just felt like I was dying.

“Don’t leave,” I begged, the words slurring together.

I could barely see Helen wiping sweat from my forehead.

“I’m not leaving,” she whispered, steady but trembling.

“You’re doing so good. So brave.”

The room warped—two Helens, then three.

My stomach twisted.

Everything hurt.

Time unraveled.

Another contraction swallowed me whole.

“Make it stop!” I sobbed.

Tears streamed down my temples into my hair.

I clung to Helen’s shirt, my fingers slipping.

“I want to go home,” I cried. “Please—please—take me home—”

“I know, baby. I know,” she whispered, holding me against her.

“You’re close. You’re so close.”

Another brutal wave hit, and I screamed from somewhere deep, somewhere broken.

“Something’s wrong!” I cried, thrashing. “Somethings wrong–,”

Something felt wrong everywhere—my spine, my ribs, my legs, my breath. holding me against her, one arm firm across my shoulders, the other braced at my back.

The nurse rushed back in, snapping on gloves.

“She’s at eight—moving fast.”

“Eight?” I repeated, barely conscious.

“What’s eight? What—?”

But nobody answered me.

Helen’s head snapped up.

“How close are the contractions?” she asked immediately.

The nurse glanced at the clock and started timing. “Two minutes. Sometimes less.”

Helen didn’t raise her voice — which somehow made it sharper.

“That’s too close for this stage,” she said. “She was only at six not long ago.”

Another contraction hit before I could recover from the last. I cried out, body curling forward.

“She’s not getting a break,” Helen continued, eyes never leaving me. “She’s exhausted.”

The nurse frowned, checking again. “She progressed very quickly.”

“Too quickly,” Helen said. Not accusing. Stating fact. “And she’s young.”

The nurse hesitated — just a beat — then nodded. “I’ll get the doctor.”

“Now,” Helen said.

The nurse was already gone.

I clutched Helen’s arm, nails digging in. “I can’t— I can’t do this,” I gasped. “It hurts too much.”

Helen pressed her forehead to my hair for just a second, grounding us both.

“You are doing it,” she said firmly. “Whether you want to or not. And I need you to stay with me.”

Another contraction ripped through me, stealing my breath entirely.

I couldn’t catch up to it.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

And suddenly I wasn’t here.

I was 12 again, sitting in Danny’s room, on the floor — not moving, just sitting — knees pulled up, arms wrapped around myself. Danny crouched in front of me, elbows on his knees, eyes level with mine like nothing else existed.

“Hey,” he’d said. Calm. Steady. “Look at me.”

I dragged in a breath that shook all the way down.

“Don’t disappear,” he’d told me. “Stay right here. You hear me?”

I clung to that.

Look at me.

Stay here.

The pain crested hard — brutal — and I whimpered, my forehead pressing into Helen’s shoulder.

But I stayed.

Barely.

When it finally eased, my lungs burned like I’d been underwater too long.

I opened my eyes.

Danny was gone.

Helen was still there, her arm solid around me.

“You’re doing so good,” she said quietly.

I nodded, tears slipping out without warning.

Because it worked again.

The next contraction was already building — faster this time, closer, like my body had decided it didn’t need permission anymore. There was no space between the pain now, no time to regroup or brace. Just one wave crashing straight into the next.

I screamed again, my voice breaking, throat raw and burning like I’d been crying for hours.

I couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began.

My body bore down on instinct — pressure surging low and relentless — and panic flared sharp and sudden.

Helen felt it immediately.

Her grip tightened, anchoring me before I could spiral.

“Something’s happening,” I cried.

“Listen to me,” Helen said, voice low and commanding, cutting through the pain.

“Don’t push yet. No matter what your body tells you — don’t push until they say so. Can you do that?”

I shook my head, sobbing. “It feels like I have to—”

“I know,” she said. “But I need you to fight it for me. Just a little longer.”

The door flew open again.

The nurse reappeared, breathless. “Doctor’s on his way.”

Helen nodded once, relief flickering across her face before she locked it down again.

“Good,” she said. “Because this baby is not waiting.”

And neither was my body.

Another contraction punched through me.

Everything smeared together.

The walls.

The ceiling.

Helen’s voice.

“Something’s wrong,” I whimpered again, the words barely making it out. “My body’s doing something– I cant–,”

Helen didn’t hesitate. She pulled me closer, her mouth pressing to my temple.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I’m right here. Breathe, honey. Just breathe.”

But the wave didn’t pass cleanly this time.

It didn’t crest and fall the way the others had.

It stayed.

Heavy. Immovable.

Pressure built low and brutal, dragging my body forward without permission. I collapsed against her, sobbing, lungs burning like I’d run out of air entirely.

The medication thickened everything – pulled at the edges of the room. My vision doubled. Then blurred. Then snapped back wrong.

Helen’s face split into two.

Then one.

“Don’t go,” I whispered, panic flooding in as fast as the pain. “Please—don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, and this time her voice shook just a little. “I promise.”

Sweat was racing down my face.

Another contraction began before the last one had fully ended.

Slow.

Deep.

Unstoppable.

It rolled through me like something mechanical, my abdomen tightening hard, my pelvis pulling downward on its own.

I gasped – then cried out as my body bore down without asking me first.

The nurse came back in, already gloving up.

“Let’s see where you’re at.”

I tried to pull away instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. My body locked up as the pressure surged again—sharp, blinding, unbearable.

I screamed.

The nurse checked quickly, then looked up.

“She’s at ten.”

Helen stiffened.

“That fast?”

The nurse nodded. “She’s ready.”

Helen’s jaw tightened. “She was eight minutes ago.”

The nurse hesitated. “She progressed quickly.”

The door opened and the doctor finally came in.

Male. Calm. Unrushed. Already washing his hands like this was routine.

“Alright,” he said mildly, scanning the chart. “First baby, yes? They can feel intense. Especially young mothers.”

Helen’s head snapped up.

“She’s had back-to-back contractions for over an hour now,” she said sharply. “No rest between them.”

He barely looked at her.

“That can happen.”

Another contraction ripped through me harder than the last – and my body folded inward, bearing down again without warning.

“She’s exhausted,” Helen pressed. “She’s shaking.”

“She’s in labor,” he replied evenly. “It hurts.”

Helen stood straighter. “This doesn’t feel right.”

He finally glanced at her then—brief, assessing, dismissive.

“She’s fully dilated. This is what we want.”

I sobbed, clutching Helen’s sleeve as my body pushed again, involuntary and violent.

“I can’t— I can’t stop it—”

Helen ignored him completely and bent back down to me.

“Listen to me,” she said firmly, eyes locked on mine. “Do not push until they tell you. Even if your body screams at you. Do you hear me?”

I shook my head, tears spilling. “It won’t stop—”

“I know,” she said. “But stay with me.”

The doctor let out a sharp breath, impatience slipping through his calm.

“Alright,” he said, already motioning to the nurses. “Let’s get started. Move her to the gurney.”

“No,” Helen snapped—not at me, at them.

The room tilted violently before anyone could respond. The walls seemed to swing outward, the ceiling bending like it was breathing. My stomach lurched. My vision fractured.

“Ma’am,” a nurse began carefully, “policy is—”

Helen didn’t let her finish.

She cupped my face in both hands, grounding me, her forehead pressed to mine. Her thumb brushed under my eye, steady, sure.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she whispered. “You’re not alone. I’m right he—”

Hands grabbed her arms.

“No,” she said sharply, fighting them now. “She’s a minor—she needs—”

They pulled her back.

The space where she’d been felt suddenly enormous.

“Wait—” I reached for her blindly, –

But my body bore down again, violently this time.

My legs jerked.

My breath shredded into something animal.

“Hold her—she’s pushing!” someone shouted.

“Don’t do that!,” A nurse yelled.

“I’m not—I’m not—!” I cried.

Gloved hands pressed down on my thighs. On my shoulders.

Straps snapped into place over my legs, leather biting into my skin.

The sound—click, pull, cinch—echoed too loud in my head.

Panic detonated.

“Help,” I cried—

or maybe I only thought I did.

Because everything after that blurred into pressure and noise and hands that weren’t Helen’s, and the terrifying realization that my body had become something they were trying to use, not listen to.

My voice felt trapped behind my teeth.

Another contraction tore through my pelvis—heavy, unbearable pressure.

“We need to move her to the delivery room,” a nurse ordered.

“You need to stop pushing!” A nurse yelled.

I screamed as they moved me.

“Where—where are you taking me?” I slurred, words melting together.

No one answered.

Doors blurred past in streaks of white.

Then the cold hit.

They wheeled me into a harsh, bright room—metal trays, sharp smells, glaring lights that stabbed through my eyelids.

They lifted me again—another cry tore out of me—and set me onto a narrow steel table.

“No—no—no—” I sobbed as they fastened my legs into the stirrups.

Nurses lined both sides of the bed.

The pain intensified until I couldn’t tell if I was screaming or suffocating.

“Where is she?” I cried hoarsely, searching for Helen.

No answer.

“Honey, we need you to stop pushing until we say,” a nurse said sharply, too close to my ear.

“I can’t—I ca—” My lips trembled uncontrollably.

“You have to,” she said, flat and firm.

A scream ripped out of me—raw, animal—so loud the room froze for half a second I tried not to push. I tried to hold it but something happened. My body pushed again — involuntary, relentless — and something inside my chest popped.

A sharp, white-hot pain exploded along my ribs, stealing the air from my lungs completely.

I screamed.

Not words. Just sound.

Something broke inside me then — not just bone. Something deeper. Something that knew I wasn’t in control anymore.

“Something’s wrong,” I sobbed. “Something’s wrong—”

“These young ones always think something’s wrong,” a nurse muttered to another.

I sobbed, uncontrollable, panicked.

“Please—my side—my side—!”

I could barely see.

The white-hot pain pulsed every time I inhaled.

My back arched, legs trembling uncontrollably.

My body wouldn’t listen to me. It was shutting down.

My vision prickled with white sparks.

“I can’t–” I cried, desperate for help.

​​“If she can’t push harder, we’ll have to use forceps.”

“She’s saying her side—!” a nurse shouted.

The doctor pressed under my right breast.

I screamed again—sharper, higher, piercing—

“Her rib,” he muttered, annoyed. “Support her right side. Probably a ligament.”

Hands moved.

Pillows shoved under my ribs.

None of it helped.

The pain stabbed with every breath, every tremble, every heartbeat.

“Make it stop! Please!” I felt like I was begging for my life. “I can’t,” My voice shredded, barely there.

Sweat poured down my face like rain.

“You HAVE to,” the doctor said. “The baby’s crowning.”

“No—please—please—it hurts—make it stop—”

“Honey,” a new nurse said softly, stroking my hair in a rare moment of gentleness,

“Just a few more, you’re the only one who can make it stop. You can do it. ”

The next contraction seized me—violent, all-consuming.

​​I shut my eyes.

And I wasn’t here anymore.

I was on the floor of Danny’s room again.

The carpet rough under my palms. His radio humming low on the dresser, some song neither of us cared about.

We were little.

Eleven. Maybe twelve.

I was crying — not loud. Just leaking. My face hot and wet and stupid.

Danny sat in front of me, back against his bed, legs stretched out like he didn’t know what to do with them yet.

“Hey,” he said. Not scared. Not rushed. “Look at me.”

I lifted my eyes because he asked like it mattered.

“Breathe,” he told me. “Like this.”

He exaggerated it — slow in, slower out — until I copied him without thinking.

“That’s it,” he said. “You’re not in trouble. Nothing bad’s happening.”

Another contraction tore through me and my body bore down—

—but Danny didn’t disappear.

“I know,” he said, softer now. “I know it feels too big. But it’s not bigger than you.”

My throat burned.

“I can’t make it stop,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to,” he said immediately. Certain. Like he’d always known that answer. “Just let it pass. It always does.”

I clung to that.

The bed creaked in the hospital room.

Someone shouted.

But Danny stayed kneeling there, steady as a wall.

“Count with me,” he said. “Just the seconds. Not the feeling.”

One—

Two—

My body pushed again — hard — without asking.

“No—” I cried. “I don’t wanna—”

“It’s okay,” he said quickly. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

My fingers curled into the sheets instead of fighting.

Someone grabbed my leg.

Pain exploded.

Danny’s face flickered — like a reflection in glass.

“Rizz,” he said. “Hey—listen—”

The pressure spiked. A scream ripped out of me.

And his room vanished.

The carpet.

The radio.

The safety of being small enough that someone could just sit with you.

I was back under white lights.

Strapped down.

And alone again.

The room felt too big. Too loud. Too bright. I sobbed, chest heaving, trying to pull air into lungs that wouldn’t cooperate. Panic clawed up my throat.

I tried to call for him.

“Danny—”

The name came out wrong. Slurred. Thin. Like it had to fight its way through water to reach my mouth.

My head rolled to the side, eyes unfocused, searching for something that wasn’t there anymore.

His room. The posters. The way he used to sit on the edge of the bed and talk me through things like they weren’t going to kill me.

“Come b—” I tried again, the word breaking apart before it finished.

The contraction surged before I could reach anything else—violent, unstoppable, ripping through me from the inside out.

“Now! PUSH!”

And I did.

Because I had no other choice.

Because my body forced it.

The rib screamed with every ounce of pressure.

I screamed louder.

“There’s the head—keep going!”

“One more big push, next contraction!” The doctor shouted.

I braced myself, the pain surging so violently my vision blew out at the edges, black creeping in like my body was seconds from shutting down to survive it.

I pushed—broken, shaking, begging—

And then—

The baby slid free.

A cry split the air—high, sharp, alive.

My body collapsed instantly.

Limp. Trembling.

Sweat and tears streamed down my cheeks as pain pulsed savagely throughout my body.

The room spun.

Voices blurred.

Everything felt far away.

A warm, slippery weight was placed on my chest.

“Baby…” I whispered—

And then the world tilted,

dimmed,

and quietly went

Black.

Bed rest was worse than I thought it would be.

Not because I was bored — though I was — but because everyone watched me like I might crack open at any second.

Helen hovered without meaning to. She’d pass through the room and ask if I needed anything. Water. A blanket. Another pillow. She kept track of when I last ate without writing it down anywhere, like it lived in her bones. Sometimes I caught her touching my forehead when she thought I was asleep, just for a second, checking.

Kenickie was worse.

He tried not to be. I could tell. But every time I shifted, he looked up. Every time I sighed, he asked what was wrong. If I stood, he was already halfway out of his chair.

“Where are you going?”

“What do you need?”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

I knew that.

I knew all of it.

That was the problem.

By the third day, it felt like my entire existence had been reduced to instructions. Sit here. Lie down. Eat this. Drink that. Don’t do this. Definitely don’t do that.

Even Richard stopped and asked if I needed anything every time he passed the room. That somehow hurt the most.

I felt like a charity case.

A liability.

Something fragile everyone was afraid to drop.

I tried to be grateful.

I really did.

But gratitude didn’t stop the feeling that I was being handled instead of heard.

That I existed as a problem to manage instead of a person to sit with.

Kenickie got home just before dinner.

Boots by the door. Jacket tossed over the chair. The familiar weight of him filling the room again.

“Hey,” he said, bending to kiss my forehead. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said.

He washed his hands, moved around the kitchen for a bit. Came back.

“How you feelin’?” he asked.

“Fine.”

He hovered another second, then nodded like he accepted that answer — even though he clearly didn’t. A few minutes later, he checked again.

“You sure you’re alright?”

I closed my eyes. “Yes.”

I heard him sigh softly, like he didn’t know what else to do with that.

He came in from the kitchen with something in his hand.

“Hey,” he said, soft. “I grabbed you an orange.”

I glanced at it. Bright. Peeled halfway. Too cheerful.

“I’m not hungry,” I said. Calm. Honest.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.” But I could see he was still fixated on the orange.

A few minutes passed. The house was quiet except for the clock and the hum of the heat.

“You sure you don’t want a few bites?” he asked. “Mom said you barely ate earlier.”

“I’m okay,” I said. “Really.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. I could feel his eyes on me. Measuring. Watching.

Another beat.

“The doctor said you should be eating more,” he said, trying to sound casual and failing. “Just— it’s an orange. It won’t hurt.”

Something in my chest tightened.

“I said I don’t want it,” I replied, still controlled, still trying.

He took a step closer, held it out to me. “Just try—”

“I don’t fucking want it.”

The words came out louder than I meant. Sharper. Like they surprised both of us.

The room went dead quiet.

His hand dropped slightly, orange still cradled in his palm like he didn’t know what to do with it now.

My throat burned immediately. Tears sprang up before I could stop them.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, even though I was already crying. “I didn’t mean— I just—”

I pressed my lips together, humiliated by how fast I was unraveling.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t argue.

He just set the orange down on the table and stepped back, like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to stand anymore.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

And that was worse than anything he could’ve said.

We moved around each other after that like we were trying not to bruise something already tender.

He sat at the table. I stayed on the couch. The orange stayed where he left it, slowly drying at the edges.

He checked on me again before bed. Asked if I was comfortable. If I needed water. If I wanted the light off.

I answered in short pieces. Yes. No. I’m fine.

Neither of us believed me.

When he finally lay down beside me, his body was tense — careful not to jostle, not to crowd. His hand hovered once over my back like he might touch me, then dropped away.

Sleep came in fragments. Heat. Pressure. My back aching no matter how I shifted.

By the time I opened my eyes again, the room felt unbearable.

It was just after two when I got out of bed.

Not sudden. Not dramatic. Just the quiet certainty that sleep wasn’t coming back.

The room felt thick — too warm, like the air had nowhere left to go. I waited for the dizziness to pass, then crossed to the window and pushed it open.

Cold rushed in.

I leaned forward, bracing my hands on the sill, letting it hit my face. My cheeks. My forehead. I closed my eyes and breathed.

Behind me, the mattress shifted.

“What the hell are you doing?” Kenickie asked, groggy, disoriented.

“I need air,” I said.

“You’re supposed to be in bed,” he said immediately.

“I know. I just— I can’t breathe.”

He sat up. “Rizz, it’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m overheating.”

“It’s 2AM, I have an unload shift at 4, close the window, it’s freezing,”

“I can’t breathe, it’s too hot, just leave it for a minute,” I begged.

“You’re on bed rest,” he said, already more awake now. “You can’t just get up like that.”

“I’m standing for a second,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The cold helped. A little.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “The doctor was very clear.”

“I know what she said.”

“Then get back in bed.”

I stayed where I was.

He stood, ran a hand through his hair. “Please. Just— lay down.”

“I can’t get comfortable,” I said. “Everything hurts.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know it does.”

His voice cracked just slightly.

“But if something happens—” He stopped himself, exhaled. “We’re not doing this.”

Doing this.

“I’m just trying to breathe,” I said.

He moved closer, panic starting to leak through. “It’s not just about you anymore.”

That’s when I turned.

“You think I don’t know that?” I said, disbelief cutting through the tears already burning. “You think I don’t feel it every second of every day?”

He froze.

“I know I’m not supposed to stand,” I said. “I know I’m not supposed to move. I know I’m not supposed to do anything wrong.”

My voice cracked open.

“But I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe. I don’t recognize my body anymore.”

He stepped closer. “Rizz—”

“Pregnancy is kicking my ass,” I sobbed. “I’m trying so hard and I still feel like I’m failing at it.”

My hand flew to my stomach as the pressure hit.

Hard.

Low.

Different.

I bent forward instinctively, breath catching.

“Okay— okay—” he said immediately, fear wiping the frustration clean. “Hey. Breathe.”

He was there instantly, one hand firm on my back.

“That’s it. Slow,” he said. “You’re okay.”

I leaned against the sill, shaking.

He cracked the window open — just enough — letting cold air rush in.

“Just breathe,” he murmured.

It eased.

Not gone.

But quieter.

When I straightened, my legs felt weak.

He guided me back toward the bed, hands steady but urgent.

“Sit,” he said. “No — lay down.”

“I’m okay,” I whispered.

“I’m not gonna say it again,” he said — not angry, just terrified. “You need to lay down.”

I let him help me get in bed.

The window stayed open a crack.

Cold slipped in.

He hovered for a moment, staring at me like he was afraid to blink.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Neither of us slept.

But he didn’t leave.

I got to school early this morning.

Biology was first period — perfect place to pretend my life wasn’t falling apart.

I walked to the classroom —

I wasn’t dizzy.

Or nauseous.

I almost — almost — felt like myself.

Bad timing for that.

Because the second I stepped into the room and smelled formaldehyde, the room spun —

And suddenly everyone knew how not fine I really was.

Mr. Larson clapped once.

“Pair up. Dissection day.”

Marty gagged before anything even touched the table.

“Ugh, why couldn’t we be absent today?”

Clipboard lifted.

“Rizzo, Zuko — station one.

Maraschino, Stanachek — station two.”

I slid onto the lab stool, rubbing my temples.

Danny dropped beside me like we were about to commit war crimes.

“Don’t worry, Rizz,” he smirked. “I’ll protect you.”

“From a dead amphibian? Please.”

But then the formaldehyde hit again — sharp, chemical, crawling into the back of my throat.

Mr. Larson slapped down a tray: frog, scalpel, pins.

“Begin.”

Marty recoiled theatrically.

“AT LEAST YOU HAVE ZUKO,” she stage-whispered.

“You can make him cut all the gross stuff!”

Danny puffed his chest.

“You heard her. I’m your hero.”

“Don’t,” I muttered.

The trays were lifted — that slick stench rising again.

Heat pressed under my collar.

Danny frowned at me.

“You good?”

“Peachy.”

“Uh-huh.”

Before I could tell him to shut up, whispers drifted from the table behind us:

“He dropped out ’cause he got arrested.”

The second I realized they were talking about Kenickie my hand flew to my stomach without asking permission — protective, stupid, instinctive.

Danny caught the movement but didn’t comment.

“Nah, juvie.” The comments continued.

“No — military school. Same difference.”

Heat crawled up my neck.

Danny’s jaw ticked.

Mr. Larson raised the scalpel.

“First incision through the abdominal wall.”

I reached for mine— hand shaking.

Danny’s fingers closed over it before mine did.

“I got it,” he murmured — low, invisible to everyone but me.

“I can do it—”

“You look like you might hurl on the poor guy. Let me.”

“Shut up,” I hissed — but I didn’t grab it back.

Across from us, Marty squealed,

“Oh my god, it STINKS. Why do people become doctors? They’re insane.”

“Take a breath, Marty,” Jan muttered. “It’s just a frog.”

“It’s a DEAD frog!”

Dead. Chemicals. Stench.

My stomach lurched.

DON’T throw up. DON’T—

Danny brushed my wrist under the table — grounding, annoying, steady.

The formaldehyde hit so hard my vision flickered — the edges of the room smudging like someone dragged a thumb across a wet painting. Heat shot under my collar, sweat prickling my hairline.

Danny’s smirk faded.

“Rizz… you’re as white as the damn frog.”

He nudged the dissection tray a few inches away from me — subtle, like he didn’t want anyone to see he was doing it.

He anchored my stool with his foot, I hadn’t even realized I’d been swaying.

I hated how much I needed that.

My body revolted.

“I gotta—”

I gagged. Loud.

A ripple of snickers.

Great. So much for untouchable Rizzo.

Mr. Larson didn’t look up.

“If you must step out, Miss Rizzo, do so quietly.”

I bolted — hand over my mouth — hallway spinning.

The second the door shut, I doubled over — dry heaving so hard it rattled my ribs. When I realized it wasn’t stopping, I sprinted to the garbage can.

Behind me Marty shrieked,

“JAN, SHE WAS ACTUALLY SICK! I thought she was being dramatic!”

“Relax, Marty,” Jan huffed, appearing beside me, rubbing my back.

“She’s really sick.”

“Ugh — I did NOT sign up for bodily fluids today—”

“Go inside,” Jan snapped. “You’re not helping.”

Marty fled, muttering about mascara.

Jan crouched beside me.

“Come on, Rizz. Nurse’s office.”

“No.”

“Rizzo—”

“I said no.”

Sharper than intended — but it worked.

She blinked and backed off.

“You’re shaking.”

I sat beside the can and just took a few deep breaths. I couldn’t stop trembling.

“Wanna cut? We don’t have to go back in,” she offered.

I shook my head.

It would look weak. And I couldn’t have that.

I straightened, wiped my mouth, forced steel back into my spine.

“I’m fine.”

Jan didn’t believe it but let it go.

“Okay. But breathe before going back in.”

So I did.

A second. Maybe two.

Then I walked back in like nothing happened.

Danny didn’t look at me — just slid his water bottle toward me.

“Drink.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Bossy.”

“Alive,” he corrected.

I drank.

Because yeah, he was right — infuriatingly right.

His knee nudged mine again. Not flirting. Checking.

I hated that I didn’t pull away.

Mr. Larson droned on about internal organs and rumors started slithering again:

“Did you hear about Kenickie?”

“Juvenile hall—”

“Military school—”

“No, jail—”

My jaw tightened.

Danny muttered, “Don’t.”

But I was Betty Fucking Rizzo.

I spun in my seat.

“Hey,” I snapped — slicing the room.

“You wanna talk about Kenickie? Try saying it to my face instead of whispering like Girl Scouts scared of a badge test.”

The boys froze.

“We were just—”

“Just running your mouth, but you don’t actually know shit.” I spat.

Silence.

“For the record,”

I leaned back like royalty.

“He didn’t run away, he’s not in jail, he didn’t get sent to juvy, and he didn’t enlist.”

Mr. Larson cleared his throat.

“Miss Rizzo. Forward.”

I turned slowly, smiling like I almost respected him.

“Yes, sir. Just setting the record straight.”

Dead quiet.

Danny leaned closer, voice low.

“That was subtle.”

“What? I was nice.”

He huffed.

“God help the world when you’re mean.”

I shoved his bottle back at him.

“Relax. I didn’t stab anyone.”

“Yet.”

I smirked.

“Day’s not over.”

Rumors at Rydell travelled fast.

Chemicals travelled faster.

And today?

I was fighting both.

Rizzo

Burger Palace was louder than it needed to be for a weekday afternoon.

The jukebox hummed without anyone really listening. Trays clattered. Someone laughed too hard in the corner. Marty and Jan slid into the booth across from me, talking over each other like nothing had changed, like time hadn’t split my life clean in half. He was there. I tried my best to ignore him, pretend I didn’t want to talk to him.

I nodded when I had to. Smiled when they did.

Then my breathing changed.

It hit fast — tight and shallow, like my chest forgot what it was supposed to do. A pressure rolled low through my stomach, heavy enough that I had to brace one hand against the table.

Marty noticed first.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

The word barely landed.

I didn’t see Danny cross the room — I just felt him there.

He leaned casually against the edge of the booth, close enough that his knee brushed mine, like he’d always been standing there. Like it wasn’t obvious he’d moved fast.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” I answered, hoping it sounded normal.

It didn’t.

“You breathing okay?” he asked, low enough that only I could hear.

I nodded automatically.

He didn’t buy it.

“Hey,” he said again, softer. “Breathe with me.”

I swallowed and tried.

“In through your nose, out through your mouth,” he said calmly.

In through my nose.

Out through my mouth.

He glanced at his watch, then back at me — not panicked, just… tracking.

“How long’s it been doing that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It’s not— it’s not regular.”

“Okay,” he said. “That’s okay.”

Another wave rolled through me — heavier this time. I gripped the edge of the table without realizing it.

Danny shifted closer, shoulder angled just enough to block me from the rest of the booth.

“Alright,” he murmured. “We’re gonna head out.”

It wasn’t a question.

Marty blinked. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

Danny didn’t contradict me. Just added, calm and steady, “We’re just gonna get some air.”

Outside, the air was sharp but clean.

“Sit,” he said gently, nodding to the bench. I did.

He crouched in front of me, keeping his voice even. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Slow.”

I followed him.

It passed.

Not gone — but quieter.

When I stood again, he walked beside me, matching my pace without making it obvious. Halfway down the block, another one hit — lower this time. I stopped, hand flying to my back.

Danny stopped with me.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re good. Take your time.”

I leaned against the brick wall, eyes squeezed shut.

When I opened them, he was looking at me — really looking at me.

Not my stomach.

Not my breathing.

Me.

His gaze flicked up, just briefly — to my hair.

“It’s… longer,” he said, almost to himself.

“What?”

“Your hair,” he added.

I stared at him.

“I like it…It was long when we—”

He cut himself off with a quiet, awkward laugh.

“Anyway.”

Something twisted in my chest.

We kept walking.

By the time we reached Kenickie’s place, the pressure had dulled into an ache. Helen opened the door before we knocked — one look at my face and she was already moving.

“What happened?” she asked, calm but alert.

“It started at Burger Palace,” Danny said quickly. “I wouldn’t let her walk back alone.”

Helen nodded once, already approving. “Thank you.”

She guided me to the couch, hands firm and practiced.

“Danny, can you grab her a glass of water?” she said.

He was back fast, glass cold and sweating in his hand. He passed it to me carefully.

As I took it, he leaned in just enough.

“If it happens again,” he said softly, just for me, “don’t pretend you’re okay. Tell someone. Right away.”

I nodded.

He stepped back immediately.

“I’m gonna go,” he said, already halfway to the door.

Helen glanced over. “Thank you, Danny.”

He nodded once. “Anytime.”

The door clicked shut behind Danny.

The room settled into a quieter kind of stillness.

Helen stayed where she was for a moment, watching me the way she always did — like she was reading something that hadn’t been said yet. Then she pulled a chair closer and sat in front of me so we were eye level.

“Okay,” she said calmly. “Tell me what you felt.”

I swallowed. “Like… tightening. Low. A lot of pressure.”

“Did it come on suddenly or build up?”

“It built.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a minute. Maybe less.”

She nodded slowly. Thought for a beat.

“And how often?”

“I– I’m not sure,” I said.

“That’s okay,” she said.

Helen leaned back slightly, considering.

“Alright,” she said gently. “That sounds like Braxton Hicks contractions.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“They’re practice contractions,” she explained. “Your body getting ready. It can be uncomfortable — sometimes even painful — but it’s not labor.”

“Practice,” I repeated quietly.

“Yeah,” she said. “They can show up more when you’ve been walking, standing too long, or when you’re dehydrated. They usually stop when you rest.”

I exhaled, some of the tension draining from my shoulders.

“So it’s… normal?”

“Very,” she said. “Especially this far along.”

I nodded, staring at my hands.

Then the question came anyway.

“Does it hurt?” I asked, then quieter, “When it’s time. Does it hurt?”

Helen didn’t dodge it.

“Yes,” she said simply. “It hurts.”

My breath caught.

“But it’s different,” she continued. “Labor pain has rhythm. It builds, peaks, releases. There’s a pattern. And there’s purpose. Your body knows what it’s doing, even when it feels overwhelming.”

I shook my head slightly. “I don’t know what to expect.”

Her voice softened. “Most people don’t. Not really.”

The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.

“I’m scared,” I said.

I hated saying it out loud.

But I’d been thinking about it for months.

Scared wasn’t even the right word. I was terrified.

The words sat there, bare and unguarded.

Helen moved closer immediately, her arm coming around my shoulders, solid and warm.

“I know,” she said quietly. “It’s okay to be scared.”

She rested her cheek against my hair for a moment.

“But when it happens — when it’s real — you won’t be alone,” she said. “You tell me. You tell the doctor. You tell anyone nearby. You don’t push through it by yourself.”

I nodded against her shoulder, eyes burning.

She rubbed my arm in slow, steady circles.

“You’re doing better than you think,” she said softly.

I let myself believe her — just a little.

I woke up already shaking.

Not the sharp kind. The deep, hollow kind — like my body had started rattling from the inside and forgot how to stop.

My mouth tasted wrong. Bitter. Acidic. My throat burned like I’d been screaming, even though I couldn’t remember doing it. The room was dim, gray light pressing through the curtains, and for a second I didn’t know where I was.

Not the hospital. Not Kenickie’s room.

Different bed. Different ceiling.

Ricky’s.

The realization came slowly, like everything else did now.

My side screamed when I tried to shift. A sharp, blinding pain shot through my ribs and stole my breath clean out of my chest. I made a sound — not a scream, not even a cry — just air tearing its way out of me.

“Betty.”

Helen’s voice. Close. Immediate.

Her hand was already on my arm, steadying me before I even opened my eyes all the way.

“I’m here,” she said quickly. “You’re okay. Don’t move yet.”

I tried to swallow. Nausea rolled hard in my stomach.

“I’m gonna be sick,” I whispered.

Helen barely had time to grab the garbage pail before I gagged. My body folded forward on instinct and pain exploded along my ribs as I retched. There wasn’t much left in me, just bile and shaking and humiliation burning hot behind my eyes.

Helen held my hair back. Didn’t say anything. Just stayed.

When it passed, I collapsed back against the pillows, breath coming shallow and wrong. My chest fluttered like it couldn’t decide what it was supposed to do next.

That’s when Maggie came into my line of sight.

She’d been sitting in the chair near the bed. I hadn’t noticed her until she moved — smooth, unhurried, already watching me too closely.

Her eyes went straight to my side.

“Don’t move,” she said, calm but firm. “Just breathe.”

“I am,” I snapped weakly, even though it wasn’t true.

She ignored the tone. Stepped closer. Sat on the edge of the bed like she belonged there.

Her fingers pressed lightly along my ribs.

I gasped.

Hard.

Pain ripped through me so fast my vision went white.

“Jesus—” I choked. “Stop.”

Maggie pulled back immediately. Her face didn’t change, but something in her eyes sharpened.

“How long has it hurt like this?” she asked.

I laughed once. It came out broken. “Since I woke up in the hospital. Since before that. Since… I don’t know.” I couldn’t actually remember, everything was a blur.

She glanced at Helen.

Helen swallowed. “She’s been complaining about it, but everything else was so—”

“I know,” Maggie said quietly. Not accusing. Just filing it away.

She reached for my wrist next. Two fingers. Counted. Then her hand moved to my forehead.

I flinched.

“You’re warm,” she said. “You’ve had a fever all night, did you notice when it started?”

“I don’t know,” Helen admitted. “She was sweating, shaking. She threw up twice. She kept drifting in and out.”

Maggie’s jaw tightened.

“That’s not just shock,” she said. “And that rib—”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically, but it came out as barely a whisper.

Both of them looked at me.

“No,” Maggie said gently. “You’re not.”

Something in my chest cracked at the way she said it. Like it wasn’t judgment. Like it wasn’t panic. Like it was fact.

“I need the OB’s number,” Maggie said to Helen. “Now.”

Helen nodded immediately. “It’s on the fridge. I’ll grab it.”

They both started toward the door.

And something inside me snapped.

“No,” I said, too fast. My hands clawed at the blanket. “Don’t— don’t leave me alone.” Tears filled my eyes before I could process.

Helen stopped instantly and came back to the bed. Maggie hesitated, then nodded once and stepped into the hallway.

“I’m right here,” Helen said, sitting down beside me. She sat right next to me and let me lay against her. “She’s just making a call.”

My breath hitched anyway. She rubbed my back gently as I tried to steady my breath.

The room felt too big. Too quiet. The walls pressed in like they were waiting for something to go wrong.

“I shouldn’t have left you,” Helen said suddenly. Her voice shook. “I’m sorry—“

“It’s fine, the baby needed you too,” I whispered, even though it wasn’t.

My vision blurred. The ceiling tilted.

“I’m scared,” I admitted.

Helen squeezed my hand. “I know.”

I tried to hold onto her voice. Tried to stay in my body.

I couldn’t.

The shaking came back, slow and deep, rattling my teeth. My breaths went shallow again, skipping over the pain instead of filling my lungs.

“I can’t,” I whispered. “I can’t do this.”

“I know,” Helen said again, softer now. “You don’t have to.”

Maggie’s voice floated back in from the hallway — low, controlled, already in nurse mode. I couldn’t make out the words. Just the cadence. Just the seriousness.

The room started to dim around the edges.

“Maggie?” I murmured, not even sure if she was back yet.

She was.

Her hand replaced Helen’s at my wrist. Two fingers. Counting again.

“Stay with me,” she said. “Can you open your eyes?”

I wanted to.

But my eyes burned. My head felt heavy. The pain in my side dulled into something distant and crushing.

“I’m tired,” I whispered.

“I know,” Maggie said.

That was it.

My eyes slid shut without permission. Not sleep — not really. Just letting go. Falling sideways into something quieter where I didn’t have to hold myself together.

I didn’t feel myself disappear.

But I felt Maggie catch it.

Her fingers tightened at my wrist. Her other hand brushed my cheek.

And somewhere above me, steady and low, I heard her say to Helen—

“This isn’t rest.”

“This is regression.”

Then everything went dark.

I came back in pieces.

Not all at once. Not clean.

The first thing I felt was pressure at my shoulder. Firm. Anchoring. Not shaking me awake—just making sure I didn’t drift off again.

“Betty.”

Maggie’s voice this time. Close. Grounded.

I groaned softly, the sound scraping my throat raw. My eyes felt glued shut. My head throbbed like I’d been crying for hours—which I probably had.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Open your eyes for me.”

I tried.

The room slid sideways instead.

My ribs screamed the second I shifted, sharp enough to rip the breath out of me. I sucked air in too fast and it burned all the way down.

“There it is,” Maggie murmured. “Easy. Don’t rush it.”

Helen was there too. I could hear her before I saw her—moving quietly, like she didn’t want to spook me.

“She’s awake,” Helen said, relief cracking through the words.

“I know,” Maggie replied. “I’ve got her.”

I finally managed to open my eyes.

My mouth was dry. My body felt hollowed out.

“Where’s—” I started, then stopped. I didn’t even know what I’d been asking for.

“The baby’s with Kenickie,” Helen said quickly. “In the living room. He’s okay. He’s got him.”

That helped. A little.

Maggie pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. Then my neck. Then my wrist.

“You’re still warm,” she said. “And that shaking didn’t come from nowhere.” She glanced toward the door. “I spoke to your doctor. She can see you this morning. We need to get you up and dressed.”

“I’ll grab something,” Helen said, already halfway out of the room.

Maggie slipped an arm behind my back. “Okay,” she said calmly. “Let’s get you sitting up.”

I didn’t have the energy to help.

Helen returned with a loose dress draped over her arm.

“Here,” she said softly.

Between them, they eased the dress on me—slow, careful, pausing every time my breathing went shallow.

“Alright,” Maggie said once it was settled. “Let’s get you to the car.”

“Let me grab one of the boys,” Helen said, hurrying into the hall.

A moment later, Ricky appeared in the doorway.

“The amazing Ricky, at your service,” he said with a sarcastic bow.

Maggie nodded toward my other side. “Can you help here? Stay away from her ribs.”

I swallowed. “Kenickie—”

“Helen will handle him,” Maggie said gently but firmly. “This isn’t about anyone else right now.”

Helen met my eyes. “She’s right, Betty.”

Something about the way they both stood there—decided, quiet, not asking—made my chest tighten.

“I don’t feel good,” I admitted.

“I know,” Maggie said. “That’s why we’re going.”

Ricky and Maggie helped lift me from the bed.

The pain was immediate. Blinding. I gasped and grabbed Maggie’s sleeve without thinking.

“Okay,” she said instantly. “Stop. Stop.”

She held me steady until the worst of it passed.

That’s when Ricky shifted beside us.

“Hey,” he said carefully, not rushing. “Do you want me to just—” He gestured, vague. “Carry you? Just to the car.”

Maggie didn’t look at him right away. She was watching my face, my breathing.

“Betty?” she asked.

The thought of taking another step made my stomach turn.

I nodded once.

Ricky moved immediately — slow, deliberate — one arm sliding behind my shoulders, the other under my knees.

“Tell me if it hurts more,” he said.

It already did. I clenched my eyes shut. But it didn’t get worse.

Maggie’s jaw tightened.

“That rib should not hurt like this,” she said quietly. “Not this far out. Not with the fever you had overnight.”

Helen hovered behind us, hands uncertain.

“I should’ve noticed sooner,” she said.

“You did notice,” Maggie replied. “You just had too much on you.”

“I don’t wanna go back to the hospital,” I whispered.

“This isn’t the hospital,” Maggie said. “It’s the doctor. And I’ll be with you the whole time.”

That part landed.

I nodded once.

“Okay,” I said.

Ricky got me into the car. Maggie drove carefully—slow turns, easy stops, avoiding every bump like she could will the road smooth beneath us.

One minute I was standing, Maggie’s arm tight around my back, the room tilting like it couldn’t decide which way was up — and then I was on the exam table, paper crinkling beneath me, my feet not quite touching the floor. I laid back as soon as I could, not trusting myself to sit upright.

“Okay,” Dr. Kaplan said gently. “Take a breath for me, Betty.”

I tried.

The air hit my ribs and bounced back. I coughed, making it worse. I clutched my chest.

Maggie’s hand slid into mine, fingers firm, familiar. She squeezed once. Then again.

“Stay with me,” she murmured. Not loud. Not panicked. Like it was the most normal thing in the world to say.

Dr. Kaplan’s face came into focus in pieces. She looked the same — calm eyes, hair pinned back, expression careful and kind. But there was something different in the way she was looking at me now.

Concern. Real concern.

“You don’t look like you’re holding up very well,” she said, choosing her words with precision.

I laughed once, breathless. “That’s one way to put it.”

Maggie didn’t let go of my hand when Dr. Kaplan pressed the stethoscope to my chest. She shifted closer instead, her shoulder a solid thing against mine.

“Deep breath,” the doctor said.

I shook my head automatically. “I can’t.”

Dr. Kaplan paused. Looked at me more closely.

“Try,” she said softly.

I did.

Pain ripped through my side so fast I gasped and folded forward, fingers clawing at Maggie’s sleeve before I even realized I was moving.

“That’s enough,” Dr. Kaplan said immediately. “Stop.”

Maggie was already there, steadying me, palm flat between my shoulder blades. “Easy,” she said. “You’re okay.”

I wasn’t sure I was.

The room fuzzed at the edges — voices blurring, sounds stacking until none of them made sense. Someone said my name. Or maybe I imagined it. My stomach turned.

“Betty.” Maggie again. Closer this time. “Look at me.”

I tried.

Her face sharpened. Everything else stayed soft.

Dr. Kaplan straightened slowly, her mouth settling into a line I didn’t like.

“How long has the rib pain been this severe?” she asked.

“I—” I blinked. “Since the delivery I think, I can’t remember.”

Maggie answered when I didn’t. “It worsened after discharge. Fever. Vomiting. Shaking. She couldn’t regulate her breathing.”

Dr. Kaplan’s eyebrows lifted sharply. “She had a fever?”

“Yes.”

“And they discharged her?” The surprise slipped through before she could smooth it away.

Maggie nodded once. “Yesterday. I didn’t agree with the call. They waited til my shift ended.”

Dr. Kaplan exhaled slowly, controlled — but unmistakably displeased.

“That should not have happened,” she said plainly.

The words landed heavier than anything else she’d said.

I stared at the wall, trying to keep it still but I was starting to shake.

“I want imaging,” Dr. Kaplan continued. “Immediately. This rib pain is not consistent with normal postpartum recovery — especially not with fever and neurological symptoms.”

Maggie squeezed my hand again. “I’ll take her.”

“Good,” Dr. Kaplan said. “And I want her under constant supervision until our next appointment.”

That made my chest tighten.

“I don’t—” I started, then stopped when the room swayed again.

Maggie leaned in, her forehead nearly touching mine. “We’ll do this together,” she said quietly. “One step.”

Dr. Kaplan leaned down so we were eye level. “Betty, I know you’ve been through something frightening,” she said. “But your body is still telling us things. We need to listen to it now.”

I swallowed. My throat hurt.

“Okay,” I whispered.

Dr. Kaplan nodded. “After the imaging, I’ll review the results and we’ll take it from there.”

And with that, she left.

“Let’s get you up,” Maggie said.

She helped me stand, slow and careful, her arm locked around my waist like a brace.

As we moved toward the door, my head dipped, exhaustion pulling me under.

“Stay with me,” Maggie said again, firmer now.

“I’m trying,” I murmured.

“I know, sweetie. I know,” she said. “You’re doing so good.”

I felt Maggie and maybe Dr. Kaplan on both sides of me, I was being lowered into a wheelchair.

“Here, just rest for a minute,” I couldn’t tell whose voice it was. I kept my eyes shut.

The hallway felt longer than it should’ve been.

Every step echoed like it had too much space to travel before it landed. The smell changed as we moved — less antiseptic, more metal and dust and something faintly burnt, like overheated machinery.

“Almost there,” she said quietly.

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure what there meant anymore.

The imaging department was colder. Not just temperature — the air itself felt sharper. Harder. The kind of cold that went straight to bone.

A technician met us at the door. Middle-aged. Polite. Didn’t look at my face for too long.

“Betty Rizzo?” he asked.

Maggie answered for me. “Yes. She’s unsteady.”

“I see,” he said, already opening the door. “We’ll take care of her.”

The room was dimmer than the exam room had been. One large machine loomed near the wall, all metal arms and shadowed corners. The table in the center looked narrow. Unforgiving.

My stomach flipped.

“I don’t wanna lay flat,” I said before I could stop myself.

“That’s okay,” Maggie said immediately. “She needs to stay slightly elevated.”

The technician nodded. “We can manage that.”

They helped me onto the table. The paper was colder here, crackling loudly under my weight. Maggie stayed close, her hand never leaving my arm.

“Okay,” the technician said. “I need you to lift your arm just a bit.”

I tried.

Pain shot through my side so fast my vision white-spotted.

“Nope,” Maggie said firmly. “That’s not happening.”

The technician paused, reassessing. “All right. We’ll adjust.”

They repositioned me in small increments, stopping every time my breath caught wrong. I felt ridiculous — fragile, difficult — but Maggie didn’t flinch once. Not at my shaking. Not at the way my teeth started to chatter.

“You’re doing fine,” she murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “Just stay with me.”

The machine whirred to life.

The sound was mechanical, rhythmic — too loud in the quiet room. It vibrated faintly through the table, into my ribs.

“Hold your breath,” the technician said.

I tried.

I really did.

But my lungs refused to cooperate. The pain slammed back into me and my breath broke loose in a sharp, panicked gasp.

“That’s okay,” he said quickly. “That’s okay. We’ll take it as is.”

I stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint because it was easier than thinking about my body.

The machine shifted again.

Click.

Whirr.

Pause.

Each sound felt like a countdown.

I didn’t know how long it took. Time stretched and folded in on itself, thick and unreliable. At some point, Maggie brushed my hair back from my face.

“You’re still here,” she said gently. “You didn’t go anywhere.”

I wasn’t sure that was true. I felt a tear roll down my cheek.

Finally, the machine powered down.

“That should do it,” the technician said. “You can breathe normally.”

I let the air out in a shaky rush, like I’d been holding it for days.

They helped me sit up slowly. The room tipped, then steadied when Maggie’s arm tightened around my shoulders.

“We’ll get these reviewed right away,” the technician added. “The doctor will want to see them.”

“How long?” Maggie asked.

“Shouldn’t be too long.”

Not too long felt like forever.

They wheeled me into a smaller waiting area just outside the room. I slumped into the chair, exhaustion crashing down hard now that the adrenaline was gone.

My head fell back against the wall.

The pain was still there — constant, pulsing — but something else had crept in underneath it.

Fear.

Maggie noticed immediately.

“Hey,” she said, crouching slightly so she was in my line of sight. “Don’t go there yet.”

“What if it’s bad?” I whispered.

She didn’t lie. Didn’t sugarcoat.

“Then we deal with it,” she said simply. “But not alone.”

That part mattered.

I nodded, eyes burning, body too tired to fight sleep anymore.

Maggie straightened, her face set now — nurse mode fully engaged.

“I’m not leaving her,” she said to no one in particular.

No one argued.

And as I let my eyes close for just a second — just enough to rest.

I must’ve drifted.

Not all the way out — just enough that the edges blurred again. Maggie noticed before anyone else did. She always did.

“Hey,” she said softly, thumb pressing into the back of my hand. “Stay with me.”

I blinked my eyes open. The room was the same, but something in the air had shifted. Tighter. Expectant.

Dr. Kaplan stood a few feet away now, the imaging films clipped to a lightbox behind her. Bright white rectangles illuminated the wall, shadows etched into bone.

I didn’t look at them.

I looked at her face.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t soften herself before speaking either — just grounded, deliberate.

“Betty,” she said. “I’ve reviewed the images.”

My chest tightened.

Maggie’s hand closed more firmly around mine. I let her. I didn’t have the strength not to.

“There is a fracture,” Dr. Kaplan continued. “Your rib was broken during labor.”

The words landed dull at first — like they bounced off something numb.

“Broken?” I echoed faintly.

“Yes,” she said. “Likely from prolonged force during pushing. Given the length and difficulty of your delivery, that’s not unheard of — but it is serious.”

Maggie’s jaw tightened.

“That’s why I can’t breathe?” I asked quietly, barely able to get the words out.

Dr. Kaplan nodded. “The fracture has caused inflammation, likely bruising to surrounding tissue. Pain of this severity can absolutely cause fever, nausea, shaking — especially when compounded by trauma and exhaustion.”

Trauma.

The word slid in quietly, like it belonged there.

I stared at the floor. Stomach doing somersaults, I tried to swallow it down.

“That’s why it hurts when you breathe,” Dr. Kaplan went on. “Why movement feels unbearable. And why you’re struggling to regulate yourself.”

“Is it—” I swallowed. “Is it dangerous?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Maggie noticed. So did I.

“It can be,” Dr. Kaplan said honestly. “If it’s not managed carefully. Pain like this restricts breathing, which increases the risk of complications — pneumonia, further strain, prolonged healing.”

My fingers curled into Maggie’s sleeve.

“How long?” I asked.

“Six to eight weeks,” she said. “Minimum. Possibly longer, given everything else your body is recovering from.”

Eight weeks.

The room swayed.

“I can’t—” I started, then stopped when my throat closed.

“You don’t have to do anything right now,” Dr. Kaplan said gently. “But you do need rest. Supervision. Consistent care.”

Maggie leaned forward slightly. “She shouldn’t be left alone.”

“No,” Dr. Kaplan agreed immediately. “She shouldn’t.”

Something inside my chest cracked — relief and fear tangled together.

“She was discharged too early,” Dr. Kaplan added, a note of irritation slipping through despite her control. “Given your condition, that absolutely should not have happened.”

Maggie let out a slow breath through her nose. “I thought so.”

Dr. Kaplan paused, considering me carefully.

“But I don’t believe another hospital stay is our best option right now,” she continued, “It would likely worsen her trauma. You’ve been through enough already.”

Her gaze shifted briefly to Maggie — professional recognition passing between them — before returning to me.

“You have support at home,” she said firmly. “That matters.”

Then, more directive now:

“Keep her resting. No stairs. No lifting. No unnecessary movement. Pain control is not optional — it’s essential. Monitor her temperature closely. If it rises above one hundred and one, or stays elevated for more than twenty-four hours, if her breathing worsens, or if she becomes confused or difficult to wake, you bring her back immediately — or call 911.”

She turned to Maggie.

“You know what to watch for.”

She held my eyes, steady and unflinching.

“This is not a suggestion,” she said. “It’s a condition.”

Then, softer — not less serious, just human:

“Betty, I’m not telling you this to scare you. I’m telling you because your body is still healing from something severe — physically and otherwise. You need to heal.”

I nodded weakly. “Okay.”

“I want you back in a few days,” she continued. “Follow-up imaging. We’ll monitor the rib closely. And I want to talk to you — privately — about the delivery when you’re more stable.”

Privately.

That part lodged somewhere deep.

Maggie squeezed my hand again. “We’ll make sure she gets here.”

“I know you will,” Dr. Kaplan said, meeting Maggie’s eyes briefly. There was recognition there — professional to professional.

Then she softened again, turning back to me.

I swallowed. “Am I… am I going to be okay?”

“Yes,” Dr. Kaplan said without hesitation. “But not if you try to do this alone. You need help.”

She stepped back, giving space.

“We’ll talk more soon,” she added. “But for today — go somewhere you can rest. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe.”

The word safe settled into me like a decision I hadn’t made yet.

Maggie helped me stand slowly, her arm firm around my waist.

As we moved toward the door, I glanced once at the glowing images on the wall — white fractures cutting through dark bone.

Proof.

This wasn’t weakness.

It wasn’t me failing.

Something had happened to my body.

Outside, the air felt different. Sharper. Cleaner.

Maggie guided me to the car, opening the door carefully.

Before I climbed in, she looked at me — really looked at me — her face softer now, something almost maternal breaking through the nurse.

“We’re not doing another night like last night,” she said quietly.

I didn’t argue.

I didn’t have the strength to.

I just nodded.

And as the car pulled away, one thought pressed itself forward through the fog:

I couldn’t go back to pretending I could handle this alone.

Danny

I was there when she woke up.

Not fully. Not like before. Just enough to know the room again.

Her eyes opened slow, confused, lashes sticking together like sleep didn’t want to let her go yet. She frowned like the light offended her. Her mouth moved once, soundless, then she swallowed and tried again.

“Hey,” I said softly, from the chair beside her bed. “Easy.”

She blinked toward me.

For a second, I thought she didn’t recognize me. That scared the hell out of me more than anything else had so far.

Then her brow furrowed and her lips parted.

“…Danny?”

Just my name. Nothing else.

Relief hit so hard my knees went weak.

“I’m here,” I said, low. “You’re okay.”

She didn’t smile. Didn’t relax. Just stared at me like she was checking to make sure I was real. Her hand shifted under the blanket, fingers twitching like they wanted to grab something but didn’t know what yet.

Her breathing stayed shallow.

“You hurt?” I asked.

She nodded. Once. Tiny.

“My side,” she murmured, like it cost her something to say it.

“I know,” I said. “Don’t move.”

She tried anyway.

Her face tightened immediately. Her breath hitched. Her hand curled into the sheets like pain was something solid she could grab onto.

“Hey—” I leaned forward instinctively, then stopped myself. “Easy. You don’t gotta do anything.”

Her eyes fluttered again. The effort had taken too much out of her.

I stayed until her breathing evened back out. Until her grip on the sheet loosened. Until the room felt less fragile.

Then I left.

I didn’t want anyone knowing I’d been there all night. Didn’t want questions. Didn’t want looks. Didn’t want to be standing in the wrong place when people started counting who belonged where.

I went home. Showered. Let the hot water hit my shoulders until my skin went red. Changed my shirt. Scrubbed the hospital smell off my hands like guilt.

Luckily I didn’t need to be at the shop today, I went straight back to the hospital.

The waiting room looked how it was supposed to look.

Helen was there. Kenickie pacing. Ricky slouched in a chair, coffee in hand, pretending he wasn’t watching his brother unravel in real time.

I sat down like I’d just arrived.

“How’s she doing?” I asked as if I didn’t know.

“She’s healing,” Helen said, choosing her words carefully.

I nodded, Kenickie was bouncing his knee, heel tapping the linoleum like he was trying to shake something loose. He hadn’t stopped moving since I walked in. Hands rubbing together. Jaw clenched. Like stillness might break him if he let it.

No one said anything after that.

We just sat there, waiting for a door to open, or a sentence to end.

After a while, a nurse called her name.

They hesitated — then nodded. “You can come back now.”

When the four of us stood the nurse widened her eyes.

“I didn’t mean… we have a 3 visitor limit,” she said uncomfortably.

Ricky volunteered.

He looked at Kenickie. At Helen. Then at me.

“I’ll grab more coffee,” he said, already backing away. “Yell if you need me.”

Inside the room, she was propped up higher than before, pillows stacked awkwardly behind her back. She looked smaller like that. Paler. Awake, but not really here yet.

Her eyes went straight to Kenickie.

He crossed the room in three steps.

“Hey, baby,” he said, voice wrecked. “Hey, you see him?”

He sat next to her, held her hand but she wasn’t there.

The nurse rolled the bassinet closer.

The baby was impossibly small. Wrapped tight. A whole person reduced to breath and warmth.

She stared.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t cry.

Just stared.

“I—” she tried, then stopped. Swallowed. “I can’t—”

Kenickie panicked immediately.

“What? What’s wrong? You don’t wanna hold him? You don’t—”

“I do,” she said, too fast. “I just—”

She tried to sit up more on her own.

Bad idea.

Her face drained of color. Her breath caught sharp. Her hand flew to her side, fingers digging in like she was trying to hold herself together.

“Okay, okay,” the nurse said quickly. “Don’t force it.”

The baby was placed in her arms anyway — careful, guided. The nurse hovered close.

She held him.

For maybe ten seconds.

Then her breathing went wrong.

Too fast. Too shallow.

Her eyes went unfocused.

“No—” she whispered. “No, no—”

Kenickie froze.

“Rizz?” he said, louder now. “Rizz, what’s happening?”

She started shaking.

The nurse took the baby immediately.

“I can’t—” Her voice broke. “I can’t—”

The monitor picked up speed.

Kenickie backed away like he’d been burned.

“I—I need—” He scrubbed his face hard. “I can’t do this.”

Helen grabbed his arm. “Kenickie—”

“I can’t,” he said again, already halfway to the door. “I can’t watch this.”

And then he was gone.

The room went quieter without him. Not calmer. Just… emptier.

She was unconscious at this point. The nurse shoving the oxygen tube back up her nose. I knew she’d be pissed about that once she woke up.

Helen moved to the bed immediately, talking low, steady. Touching her shoulder. Her hand.

I stayed where I was.

In the corner.

Watching.

It killed me. I wanted to run to her. Tell her it was okay. But I didn’t. Not my place, not right now.

Her breathing slowed gradually. The shaking eased. She fell back into the pillows like the fight had finally run out of her.

Helen stayed with her.

I didn’t move.

Because sometimes the right thing wasn’t stepping forward.

Sometimes it was knowing exactly where to stand.

After a minute, Helen looked up at me. Her eyes were tired. Older somehow.

“Why don’t you go ,” she said gently. “She needs quiet.”

I nodded.

Stepped back.

Left the room without looking at the door behind me.

The waiting room felt different now.

Too bright. Too normal.

Ricky was gone — probably pacing somewhere, or grabbing coffee, or pretending this was all something he could fix with movement.

Kenickie still wasn’t back.

I sat down like I’d just arrived.

Folded my hands. Crossed my ankles. Tried to look like someone who hadn’t just watched the ground fall out from under her.

Time crept.

A clock ticked loud enough to be irritating.

I stared at it until my eyes hurt.

Eventually, footsteps approached.

My mom.

She stopped in front of me, scanning my face like she always did when something was wrong.

“How was she?” she asked quietly.

“She had a rough patch,” I said. “But she settled.”

My mom nodded once. “That happens. Especially when they try to do too much too fast.”

She glanced toward the hallway. Then back at me.

“You wanna come with me when my shift starts?” she asked. Casual. Like it wasn’t loaded.

I hesitated. “Only if that’s okay.”

She softened. “It’s okay.”

We didn’t go right away.

Another stretch of waiting passed. Long enough that the hum of the building started to feel like part of my body.

Then my mom stood.

“Alright,” she said gently. “Let’s check on her.”

Helen met us outside the room.

She looked relieved when she saw my mom. Relieved again when she saw me.

“She asleep?” my mom asked.

“For now,” Helen said. “Finally.”

My mom nodded. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

She glanced between us. “One of you can come in.”

Helen looked at me.

“You go,” she said softly. “I just stepped out.”

I swallowed.

Followed my mom inside.

Rizzo looked smaller again.

Exhausted. Pale. One hand curled loosely at her side like it had forgotten how to hold tension.

The oxygen line rested under her nose. Barely there.

My mom checked the monitors, adjusted a line, smoothed the blanket.

“She’s stable,” she said quietly. “Just drained.”

I stood near the foot of the bed.

Didn’t touch her.

Didn’t speak.

Then her brow furrowed.

Just a little.

Her breathing changed — not panicked this time. Searching.

Her eyes opened halfway.

Confused.

Then they found me.

Recognition flickered.

Relief followed.

Not dramatic. Just there.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t have the strength.

But her fingers shifted, reaching blindly.

I stepped closer without thinking.

Let her find me.

She wrapped her fingers weakly around mine.

My mom watched us for a moment. Then turned back to her chart, giving us privacy without leaving.

Rizzo’s eyes closed again.

Still holding on.

And this time — she stayed settled.

I went back to the waiting room.

Helen was sitting with her arms wrapped tight around herself like if she loosened them she’d fall apart. Ricky sat beside her, one arm around her shoulders, his hand rubbing slow, steady circles into her back.

Not trying to fix anything.

Just keeping her upright.

I took the seat across from them.

No one spoke.

The doors pushed open hard.

Kenickie stumbled in.

Drunk.

It was obvious instantly — the sway, the glassy eyes, the way his jaw didn’t quite work right. The smell followed him a second later.

Helen gasped.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, already standing. “Kenickie—”

“I’m fine,” he slurred, which was how you knew he wasn’t.

Ricky was on his feet in a second.

“Jesus,” he muttered, grabbing his arm before he tipped sideways. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I just needed air,” Kenickie snapped, voice cracking halfway through. “I couldn’t stay in there. I couldn’t just watch her—“ he couldn’t finish his sentence, he was too choked up.

Helen’s face crumpled. She reached for him, then stopped herself like she didn’t know whether to hug him or slap him.

“This is a hospital,” she said, horrified. “Your son was just born. Your girlfriend could have died.”

“I know!” he shouted too loud. Too sharp. Then softer, breaking. “Don’t you think I know that mom?” He cried.

I stood and took his other side before he could sink any further.

“Let’s go,” I said quietly. “You’re not okay.”

He laughed once — ugly and hollow. “Neither is she.”

That did it.

Helen turned away, covering her mouth.

“Get him home,” she said, voice shaking. “Please. Before someone sees him like this.”

Ricky nodded once. He didn’t argue. Just tightened his grip and started steering.

Kenickie sagged between us the whole way out, muttering half-words, half-apologies. At one point he whispered, barely audible—

“Don’t let her hate me.”

Ricky didn’t answer.

Neither did I.

Getting him up the stairs was a mess. He barely registered the bed before he collapsed into it, boots still on, jacket twisted under him, out cold the second his head hit the pillow.

Just… gone.

Ricky stood there for a second longer than necessary, staring at his brother like he was trying to memorize him.

He nodded towards the door, I followed.

We went back downstairs.

Ricky opened the fridge, grabbed two beers, and handed one to me without asking.

“Basement?” he said.

“Yeah.”

We didn’t turn the lights on right away.

We just sat on the old couch, bottles sweating in our hands, the house too quiet above us.

After a minute, Ricky leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“She’s strong,” he said, not looking at me. “My mom keeps saying that. Like it makes everything okay.”

I took a slow drink.

“She is,” I said. “She always has been.”

Ricky glanced at me then. Not accusing. Not suspicious.

“You’ve been there a lot,” he said. Not accusing. Just stating it.

I took a breath through my nose.

“I’ve known her a long time.”

“How long is a long time?” he asked.

“Since I was ten. She was eight.”

That did it. His posture shifted.

“Jesus, eight?” Ricky took it in. Then the gears in his head turned. “I thought you were all the same age.”

“Same grade,” I said. “When I was 9, my dad got injured overseas. I ended up missing a lot of school. My mom couldn’t afford our house so we had to move into an apartment. She lived upstairs. We became friends. Rydell made me repeat 4th grade since I missed so much the year before. She just has a late birthday.”

Ricky didn’t interrupt.

“We had to put my dad in a home, he can’t walk or talk. His mind's gone. His body just sits there. I didn’t want to go at first,” I continued. “Didn’t wanna see him like that. Didn’t wanna talk when he couldn’t talk back. I used to stand outside the door and make excuses.”

I swallowed.

“She came with me one day, walked in anyway. Sat down like it was normal. Started talking to him. About school. About dumb stuff. Like he could hear every word.”

My voice cracked before I could stop it.

“I watched her dad gamble away all the money he had to pay bills, she had no heat in her apartment for weeks at a time - sometimes in the dead of winter. She’d stay with us til it was tuned back on. Saddest part, her mother barely even noticed she was gone.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face, embarrassed by it, but I didn’t take it back.

“We didn’t grow up like this.” I said gesturing to the house, “our parents weren’t there, my mom worked around the clock, the bills for my dads home plus everything else, we barely scraped by. We were two kids that had to grow up too fast, two kids who had to learn to survive,”

“I knew her before the jackets,” I said, hand tightening on my collar. “Before she had anything to hide behind.”

Ricky looked down at the concrete.

“That’s not nothing,” he said quietly.

“No,” I agreed. “It’s not.”

I took a swig from the drink I didn’t want.

“So when I see her almost die,” I went on, steadier now, “and everyone’s losing their minds or freezing up or running from it—”

I shook my head.

“I’m not doing that. I won’t.”

Ricky exhaled slowly.

“My brother loves her,” he said.

“I know,” I said immediately. “And I’m not trying to take anything from him.”

“But?”

“But if he falls apart,” I said, plain and solid, “someone has to stay standing.”

Silence.

Then Ricky nodded once.

“This is a mess,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”

He pushed off the washer and started up the stairs, stopping halfway.

“You’re not wrong,” he said without turning around. “Just… don’t make it worse.”

When he left, I sat there alone, beer untouched, hands shaking just enough to remind me I was human.

And then I wiped my face, stood up, and put myself back together.

Because I didn’t get to fall apart again.

I had somewhere to be.

The walk back to the hospital felt longer than it should’ve. The air was sharp, biting through my jacket, but I welcomed it. It kept me present. Kept me moving.

The lights inside were dimmer now — late-night quiet settling in, machines humming softly, footsteps rare. My mom’s badge got me through without questions. No one asked why I was there. No one needed to.

I slipped into her room and closed the door carefully behind me.

She was asleep on her side, pillows keeping her secure, chest rising slow and uneven, the faintest crease between her brows like her body still hadn’t decided it was safe yet. One arm was tucked awkwardly beneath the blanket, the other resting near the edge of the bed like she’d been reaching for something before sleep claimed her.

I pulled the chair closer and sat.

Didn’t touch her at first. Just watched. Counted her breaths. Let the steady beep anchor me.

I laid my jacket on top of her blanket, like muscle memory.

After a minute, I reached out and rested my hand over hers — not gripping, not waking her. Just there.

Her fingers curled around mine without opening her eyes.

I stayed like that.

Quiet. Steady.

Holding the space the way she once held it for me.