#lrpd fic

You could place the familiar British accent with your eyes closed, and you smile at the man in scrubs leaning against the door of the break room, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’m not dying, Doctor Price. Everyone is being so dramatic, I’m only moving four floors up. I’ll still be around.” You sling the only intact strap of your backpack over your shoulder and sigh. “Who knows. Maybe I’ll hate it and end up coming back.” It’s unlikely. You’re getting a raise with this transfer, one you desperately need, and panic bubbles up in the back of your throat when you consider what would happen without the pay bump. You’re struck with the memory of Riley’s face last week, the disappointed pout tugging at her lips when you told her she couldn’t get a new backpack this year during back to school shopping, the way she frowned and turned sullen when you refused her the fancy pencil case that all of her friends are getting. It twists your stomach until you shove it aside.

“They’re lucky to have you.” Price’s eyes soften. The unit is tight knit. It’s not a nurse-resident-attending-administrative battle down here. The ED functions like a human body. All parts and pieces moving together as one to achieve a single goal: keeping these patients alive until you can get them upstairs. These are your people, coworkers turned friends turned family. You never imagined you’d be cleaning out your locker to leave the ED, but your life has changed a lot in the last few years, and you can’t afford to be selfish. “If you need anything, you let me know.”

“Thanks.” You swallow the lump in your throat. You’ve already said your goodbyes, had your cake, wrapped your arms around everyone for a hug, all that is left is this single act. Badge out of the ED for the last time. It’s terrifying, and you know he can see it on your face, because he places a hand on your shoulder with a firm squeeze.

“You’ll be alright. This is a good thing for you, for your family. I know it'll be hard, considering, but you’re going to be amazing. We all know it.” Your hands fist at your side as you cling to your control, beat back the tears trying to force their way forward. “And don’t let Simon give you any shit.” Simon?

Oh.

Doctor Riley.

He’s respected, revered, and notoriously private. Head of the department, he’s widely known as one of the best neonatal surgeons in the field, and the NICU here has one of the highest survival rates in the country.

Of course you already know all this from personal experience, but no one knows that. At least, no one in the unit.

Especially him.

You force a smile for Price’s benefit, and he sighs. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

Riley’s at that age where her mouth never stops moving.

During the car ride home, she regals you with a full recap of her day, down to what her best friends ate for lunch at camp (Lexi had peanut butter banana sandwiches, Aya had tamagoyaki, and Alice had leftover pizza that a counselor heated up for her. Lucky.) By the time dinner is over and her shower is done, she’s moved onto her big plans for weekend (riding, riding and more riding, followed by a rematch in Monopoly, and maybe some s’mores. She has your whole life planned out as well as her own.) She runs out of words by the time she’s in bed, but the last three are always the same.

Love you Daisy.

The nurse assigned to babysit you for the next month (at least) is Keona. She goes by Key, and tells you her name means god’s gift, though she insists it means satan’s spawn.

You’re thinking it’s more like god’s gift, based on the way she floats like an angel around the unit.

“You’ll be fine. Just follow me for a bit, do what I do, and then you’ll be good on your own. We’re a level four, so the ratio is usually one to one, two to one if you’ve got one that’s super stable.” You’ve never worked a floor that has a one nurse to one patient ratio, but you expected it here. She badges through a set of doors, and you follow dutifully behind her, marking room numbers and placards, trying to memorize the lay of the land. “This is the best worst job in the world, and it’s a little bit of everything… including psych,” she gives you a look, before mouthing “parents.” Your stomach twists.

“I’m sure.”

“You worked float pool for a bit, right?” Float pool is literally what it sounds like. There’s a group of nurses that cover scheduling gaps in all the departments. Some love it, some hate it. You were on the fence.

“Yeah I took some time off a bit ago for some family stuff and worked prn as a float.” If she has questions, she keeps them to herself, which is a relief.

“Cool. Like I said, I’ve heard good things so I don’t doubt you’ll be fine. If you can get to a point where you’re comfortable and happy here, you’ll never want to leave. Trust me.” The two of you round the corner to the nurse’s station, where a very tall, very broad man in scrubs is tapping away on a tablet. “Doctor Riley.” He glances up, and the world turns technicolor.

This is not a man, this is a mountain. An impenetrable force of granite and slate towering over you with crystalline blue eyes that narrow in on your face with a question roiling inside them. He has a strong jaw, a strong stance, and hands the size of your head, so big you cannot fathom how he performs surgery on such small organs. You never, ever seen OR scrubs look right on someone either. They’re usually big and baggy, gaping somewhere or another, but on him… they’re perfect.

Just looking at him makes you dizzy.

You shouldn’t be so affected. You didn’t think you would be so affected, but your pulse is pounding in your ears so loud you’re sure someone can hear it, and your blood pressure is sinking like a stone to the bottom of the ocean, trying to take you with it.

His brow furrows. He frowns.

“This is Daisy. She’s new. Transferred up from the ED.”

“Daisy.” The hair on the back of your neck rises at the sound of your name on his lips. He’s got a British accent like Price, except it’s strange, different, and in the depths of your memory you recall something being said about how they go way back. You extend your hand in a polite greeting. He scowls, and ignores the gesture altogether. “You can’t wear perfume in here.” What? It’s standard that body spray or perfume is not allowed around more vulnerable patient populations… and you’re not wearing any. You blink and drop your hand as your cheeks burn.

“I’m not wearing perfume?” His expression darkens with disapproval, and you feel like a bug on the floor, waiting to be squished.

“Then you’ll need more mild or unscented soap.” He glances over your shoulder, already moving on. “Excuse me.” Key cringes and shoots you a sympathetic look.

“Okay so… he’s a bit abrasive. He’s not super friendly but we give him a pass because he’s the actual best. In the world.” You shrug, and hope you sell the indifference.

“I think all surgeons are more akin to cactus than they are to teddy bears, aren’t they?” She laughs.

“He’s a bit of both. Wait until you see him holding a baby, you’ll forget all about the cactus part.” Your breath hitches.

“Right.”

That night, it storms.

Lightning strikes in the distance again and again, throwing up a chorus of thunder that rattles the house, playing out behind the echo of pouring rain.

A tiny voice warbles from your door.

“Daisy?” You should have gone and got her when it started up, but sometimes she sleeps through them. Sometimes.

“Come here ladybug.” You haul her into your side, tucking your body pillow behind her so she’s surrounded. She feels too small in the span of the king bed, like she could lost in the sea of blankets and pillows. She never caught up to her classmates, and even though she’s smart as a whip, a strong wind could knock her over, and she still needs a booster seat.

“I hate the storms.” Her whisper brushes against your collarbone, and you rub her back.

“I know, it’s okay. This one is moving pretty quick.” The psychologist says she doesn’t remember, that she was too young, but you know she’s wrong. Riley’s instinctual fear of thunderstorms is more than a child’s nervous disposition. It’s ingrained trauma rearing its head, trying to drag her back to the worst night of her life, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t fix it. You can’t turn back time.

"Are the horses in? Mabel doesn't like the storms." The lump in your throat tries to stick before you force it down.

"They're in. Don't worry." She yawns and snuggles closer.

"'kay." You hold her as tight as she will allow as the storm rolls away, your own grip slackening with sleep, dreams and nightmares merging into one and playing out behind your eyes.

Riley half dead in a hospital bed-

“Yes.” The new resident scans the length of your body, and smiles. Except it’s not friendly or kind, it’s pointed and almost predatory.

“We need to get an art stick and then I want to start the Furosemide Doctor Riley and I talked about earlier.” Okay…

“Okay. Once the order is in I’ll-”

“I’m giving it to you now.” Your eyebrow raises. The protocol up here is very clear. Verbal orders may fly in the ED, but not in the NICU, and for good reason. You can do an arterial stick fine, but you’re not starting a new med without an order.

“I know but you’ll still need to put it in before I start it.” His upper lips curls and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. Here we go.

“The last time I checked,” he looks at your badge, locates your name, and smirks, “Daisy, you’re a nurse, and I’m a doctor. It’s your job to do what I tell you to do.” This dude better be joking.

“I understand my job perfectly fine,” you mimic him, looking at his badge and slowly dragging your eyes back to his, “Doctor Beckert, which means you’ll still need to put an order in before I start the medication.” Please god let this not be his speciality. If it is, being stuck with him for years is going to suck.

Residents like this give the rest of them a bad reputation. They're more likely to be nice, excited, and eager, fresh and ready to learn. Med students and residents always excite you, they reignite the why that sometimes gets lost, but some of them carry a chip on their shoulder and it makes them mean. Entitled, like this one. He sighs, and something unnerving flashes in his eyes as he leans in. Something worrisome.

“Be a good girl Daisy, and get the medication, okay? By the time you get around to it, the order will be in. How does that sound?” You grit your teeth. You can’t afford a complaint from a provider, so you swallow your tongue and nod.

“Okay.”

“I’m scared.” The little girl grips the mask in her fingers so tight her knuckles are white.

The OR is in a dance around you. Lights, camera, action. They’re all taking their well known places, performing their well known duties.

You’re not even supposed to be in here. Doctor Riley is not even supposed to be in here, but the patient on the table, sweet little four year old Sophia, has a very specific heart defect leftover from her being born at twenty nine weeks, and Doctor Riley is the only one who has experience repairing them on this side of the country.

He’s standing at the table, talking to Doctor Beckert, and Doctor MacTavish is being you, checking dosages and pumps and everything else, stopping to give you a look. You don’t need to be an OR nurse to interpret it. It’s time to go to sleep.

“You know, I know a little girl who had a surgery just like this.” Okay it’s a lie. Not quite like this but you’re going with it.

“You do?” You pull the mask from her surprisingly strong grip and smile.

“Yeah. You know what she told me after it was over?”

“What?”

“That she had the best day ever because she got to eat all the ice cream she wanted, and the nurses let her watch her favorite movies that night.” Sophia’s eyes go wide with wonder.

“Wow. Will I get to do that?” Your vision turns fuzzy for a second and you see Riley on the table, small and fragile. You shake it loose. Focus.

“You will. But only if you go to sleep. Do you think you can do that?” Her apprehension is mostly gone now, soothed.

“I want chocolate ice cream.” She insists, little brows coming together in determination.

“Okay.” You squeeze her arm encouragingly, and then hand her the mask, keeping your palm over it to guide her. “Deep breaths for me, okay? And then I’ll see you afterwards.” She holds out her pinkie.

“Pinkie promise?” You loop it through yours and nod.

“Pinkie promise.” She goes down after that without issue, and when you stand and turn back to the room, Doctor Riley is watching you. In his scrub cap and mask, only his eyes are visible, and they bear down on you with enormous pressure, that gentle-tender thing in them from the other day framed by barely there blonde flecked eyelashes. It's confusing, it's frightening, it's chipping away at you and making your needs weak. You swallow.

“All good?” He never drops his gaze from yours, even with the flurry of activity spinning in a circle around him.

“All good.” You whisper, but somehow, it’s loud.

You’re circulating.

And sweating.

Thank god the OR scrubs are dark blue because you’d have stains right now. Plus the cap is tied so tight to your head, too tight probably, and it’s giving you a bit of a headache.

Of all the things in the unit you’ve learned or are still learning, the OR is the biggest, but you’re doing okay. You might be stressed on the inside, but you’ve got the room under control.

It helps that Doctor Riley is a meticulous pro. He never drops anything. He never questions anything. He’s methodical, and you’re learning to anticipate his needs pretty well, like the lap pads. You notice they’re getting low and grab a refill, replacing them silently and sliding back to your space without a word. No one even notices... which is the problem when Doctor Beckert looks up at you and asks for them. You incline your head to where the refreshed stack is, but he misses the cue.

“Are you deaf?” Your mouth drops open behind your mask.

“They’re right-”

“I asked you for more lap pads.” Oh my god this fucking guy. Doctor Riley’s head shoots up.

“Is there a problem?” He looks at his resident and follows his line of sight to where you’re standing, flustered and taken aback. For a split second, a nanosecond, his brow wrinkles before smoothing back to normal, his attention going right back to where he has a small child’s chest open, her beating heart under his instruments. “Doctor Beckert?”

“I asked Daisy for more lap pads.” You know he’s sneering at you, you can see it beneath his mask, and your tongue turns to sandpaper. It won’t matter that you’ve already provided them, it won’t matter than they’re sitting right there. All that will matter is that he’s an MD and you’re a nurse and you’re pissing him off, and there will be consequences.

“Daisy? Lap pads?” Doctor Riley asks, clearly not realizing either, which you don't fault him for.

“I-” You lose your words. Something about you is breaking. You’re not yourself. There are chinks in your armor you've never seen before. Doctor Riley is chipping away at your foundation, your control, and you hate it.

No one else says anything. They know the drill, they see the ticking time bomb that is this resident.

“Daisy.” He says sharply. He’s maintaining focus on his work, not bothering to look, which of course, is the correct action. Doctor Beckert snorts.

“I think your nurse is defective.” Doctor MacTavish inhales sharply, and his stool creaks beneath shifting weight.

“Daisy!” Doctor Riley barks this time, and you suppress your flinch. The OR is so silent you could hear a pin drop.

“They’re right there.” You whisper, staring at them. He finally looks, finally, and his chest expands with a deep breath.

“Have they been here the whole time?” You nod. You don’t say anything. You can’t. “Doctor Beckert,” he says slowly, returning to his work, “next time, let’s actually take a second to look at what we’re asking for before insulting one of my nurses. She’s clearly paying attention. I’d like you to too.” Doctor MacTavish chuckles, and the OR breathes a quiet sigh of relief.

You’d be relieved too, if the next thing that happened wasn’t Doctor Beckert scowling at you, his eyes holding a promise.

He makes good on that promise.

On top of putting his orders in one at a time, he’s been asking you to do things like find him a pen, or get him a coffee. He's made comments about your ass more than once. He locked you in a supply closet. He criticizes you at every turn, so much so your coworkers have started to notice, and Key is frequently frowning at you.

She probably thinks you’re a fuck up now too.

Being treated like a waitress, the comments about your ass and tits, even being locked in the supply closet... they're not the worst things. The worst thing is the stuff he says to you when no one else is around, when he corners you in a hallway, or ends up alone with you in the break room. He brushes up against you, he calls you a slut and whore, whispers things in your ear like maybe sucking dick is all that you’re good for. You've told him to fuck off, to stop, but it does nothing.

But you let it go. Let it roll off your back. You aren’t going to let this asshole get the best of you, trip you up.

You have it handled. You have it under control.

“Daisy.” Doctor Riley calls down the hall, and you tense, turning towards the sound of his voice. “My office.” You’re fucked. You’re fired. You’re getting sent back to the ED. You’re losing this pay raise. Key intercepts your death march.

“It’s going to be okay.” She looks sad, and she probably is. She put so much work into you, tried so hard.

“What?”

“Just tell the truth, alright?” About what? You give her some kind of numb response, and then you walk the plank.

“Is there an issue with Doctor Beckert?” Shit. He probably complained about you, reported you for something. You don’t know what to say, so you lie.

“No, there’s not. Or at least I don’t think there is?” Doctor Riley is half sitting on the front of his desk again, legs stretched out, his thighs straining in his scrub pants with his arms across his chest.

“Did he not lock you in a storage closet?” Your mask slips with surprise. You didn’t think anyone knew about that.

“I think it was an accident.” You need to sell it, assure him.

“How long has this been going on?” His voice is icy, frozen to the core, and you don’t know what to do. You don’t see a way out of this.

“How long has what been going on?” His jaw flexes. It’s one of his signals, a warning that tells you his patience is growing thin.

“The harassment, Daisy. How long has he been harassing you?” It’s going to be okay, Key’s voice floats in your head, just tell the truth alright? You had it backwards. He didn’t report you at all, she reported him. “Keona says she thinks she overheard him talking about your body, and Isa says she saw him touch you. Is that true?” Your blood ignites in shame, your mouth falling out of sync with your brain, and you can’t catch up. “Is that true, Daisy?”

“He’s… he’s said some things, but…”

“But?”

“I need this job.” You blurt, and his head snaps back like you’ve struck him.

“Excuse me?”

“I need this job. I took it for the pay raise, and I know I’ve been underperforming. I didn’t want to… make waves. I can handle him. He’s not my first asshole resident.” He’s quiet for a long time. Long enough you start to squirm, study the carpet until the rich, rough cadence of his voice fills the room.

“I don’t know how it is on other floors, but in my unit, I don’t accept anyone being harassed for any reason. It doesn’t matter if you’re a resident, a nurse, or a bloody scrub tech. That’s not how it works here.”

“Okay.” You whisper.

“But I guess that doesn’t matter to you, since you can handle him. You have it all under control, right?” It's like he's cast a line under your skin, hooked some vulnerable piece and is starting to reel it towards him, coax it to the surface. You nod and he stands. An alarm blares in the back of your mind and suddenly it’s hot in here, too hot, and he’s too close to you, taking all the air in the room. “And you don’t need help, do you Daisy? It doesn't matter that he's called you a slut, because you're fine.” You nod again, on autopilot. You're in control. You're fine.

“I don’t need help.” You, agree but it feels wrong, and your voice should be steel, but it wavers. Just enough to be there, surprising you.

“You can handle him. You can handle someone touching you," like a switch has been flipped, his gaze turn murderous, dark with anger and your heart pounds. "After you've said no. After you've told them to stop, because you don't need help." You’re on that ledge again, the small flicker of need in your heart growing a little bit bigger, a little bit bolder, begging you to let go. He's in your head, like a hunter familiar with his prey he senses it, striking and sinking his teeth into your soft flesh. “Did you think I would let someone do that to you? That I would let someone say those things to you? That I would let him touch you?" You can taste his mouthful of rage in the air. It’s shocking. Confusing. Makes you dizzy as he stands directly in front of you, sterile soap and freshly peeled orange surrounding you, going to your head. You have to hold onto the chair to keep from losing your balance, tipping from one side or the other.

You can't breathe. This weight will crush you.

“I'm going to fix this Daisy," He's all around you and there's no escape. Not here. "But I want you to admit to yourself that you need it, that you need help with this.” You hang your head in shame. It’s more than just admitting it. It’s a white flag, it’s defeat. You’re not strong, you can’t do it, you don’t have things under control. You’re failing. Riley, yourself, Tess and Liam. Everyone. Everything.

Slow, methodical fingers fold over yours, the heat in his skin forcing your grip on the back of the chair to loosen as his thumb rubs careful, encouraging circles into your skin. This isn't cold or clinical, this is not the surgeon you've known. This is the paradox, an illogical side of a coin that you somehow always knew existed.

“Tell me what you need Daisy.” The breath you’ve subconsciously been holding leaks from your lungs, and you tip your head back, searching for a lifeline, only to find him.

And in that moment, that one fluke of a moment, that one this is never happening again moment, you acquiesce. You fall.

“I need help.”

You open your email when you get to work the next day to find a unit wide message reminding everyone about harassment policies for the hospital and the NICU specifically.

Below that, is a personnel announcement.

Doctor Beckert has been fired-

“Daisy.” You whirl.

“Doctor Price, oh my god. Do you know where Tess is? I got a call, they said there had been an accident but-”

“Daisy.” He’s holding out his hand. It’s weird. Why is he doing that? Thunder booms over the hospital, so loud it must shake the walls, and some people in the waiting room gasp. “I need you to come with me.”

“Oh.” It’s such a simple word. Oh. Oh, you know what’s happening. Oh, you’re about to hear the worst news of your life. Oh, everything is about to change.

Oh, you’re not a sister anymore. Or an aunt, or a sister-in-law. You’re nothing.

It’s funny but you immediately think of your clothes. Horrible clothes to be wearing when you’re told a loved one is dead, leggings and a sweatshirt and god awful clogs, but you didn’t have much to fly home in. The weather here is vastly different from Ibiza’s. These aren’t even your shoes, Ava chucked them at you as you ran out the door eighteen hours ago.

Your sister is like a cat though. She nearly died giving birth to Riley, who did die, more than once. They’re like cats. Cats have a lot of lives, so maybe it’s just bad. Bad you can handle, bad you can do. Maybe it’s just bad.

“Let’s go upstairs.” He’s still holding his hand out and you take it, following behind him like a child.

He presses the button for floor five.

When the doors open, and you see Olivia standing at the nurses station next to a doctor you barely recognize, you stop.

It’s not just bad. Liv has always had such a useless poker face, and you can see it plain as day on her.

They’re dead.

“Are you good?”

“Yes.” You mutter through a clenched jaw, “I’m perfect. I am great.” You’re fine, you’re fine, this is fine-

Olivia raises her eyebrows. “Okay because you look like shit.”

“Thanks Liv.” You snatch a fry from her plate. They’re a little soggy and under-salted, but better than the pb&j you brought. Grape jelly. You have no idea why Riley likes it so much.

“Still not sleeping?” You shrug. It’s a paltry attempt to play it off, one you know they see through but you can’t talk about it.

Just like you can’t sleep.

It’s been weeks since the horsefly incident, and while Riley has pretty much forgotten all about it sans the hot pink cast on her arm, it’s endlessly lurking in the back of your mind. At night, it plays out again and again on a loop, a real life nightmare you can’t escape from. Molly’s rear. Riley’s scream. The sound of her fall, the thunk of her head against the ground, the blood from the scrapes on her cheek.

It overlaps with other memories, everything crashing together until you’re lying awake and staring at the ceiling for hours before your alarm goes off.

“What’re are we talkin’ about?” Olivia squeaks as Doctor Garrick sits down and slings his arm around her shoulders.

“N-nothing just ah- um… Daisy is-”

“Fine.” You hiss and try to kick her under the table. Doctor Garrick gives you an appraising look before smiling at Olivia.

“How are you, Livs?” She looks like she’s going to die, and Ava looks like that one gif of the grinch smiling.

“I’m… good yeah, good.” Your alarm buzzes, signaling the end of your hour, and you sigh.

“Alright. I’m out.”

“Maybe you should try to some melatonin.” Ava offers as you stand, and you shake your head.

“Anything you’re going to suggest, I’ve tried.” You snatch another fry from Olivia’s plate and then give them all a shrug. “Okay, see you. And uh, bye? Doctor Garrick.” It’s weird. You’ve barely interacted with him, but he’s over here with his arm around one of your closest friends… and she’s incredibly flustered.

So weird.

“I hate you.” You glare at the body beneath the sheet. “I fucking hate you.”

Tess of course, says nothing. She can’t because she’s gone. She left without you. She did the thing she’s been begging you to stop doing for the past three years. She left you here.

Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you? You’re mad at her. More than mad, you’re livid.

Another wave of pain, of anger, of despair crashes and tries to drag you under.

It didn’t feel like this when your parents died. It hurt, it was awful, it was hell but you had Tess. When your mom went, and your dad followed, the two of you had each other.

Now Tess went, and you have to stay here.

You scream. It starts with anger and then becomes despair, ripping from a place you didn’t know existed, turning into a wail as you drop like a stone, crumpling to the cold linoleum. You’re vaguely aware the door flies open but you can’t see anything through your tears, can’t think or focus through the keening that is trying to tear your ribcage apart, and the room spins so viciously you have to close your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you sob to her, to the stranger bearing witness, to toddler down the hall who’s waiting for you to walk in there and tell her her parents are dead, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” Whoever it is, they’re on their knees in front of you, pulling you into their arms to hold you against their chest. “Shhh.” It’s a man you distantly realize, a man who’s cradling the back of your head against him and rocking you, rubbing your back as your fingers curl into his shirt with a death grip.

The door opens again. It’s a woman’s voice, and she’s sad.

“She’s awake.” Panic rocks you to your core.

“No,” you cry, “no, no I- can’t yet, I can’t… I c-can’t. Please.” You’re not ready. You can’t do it. You can’t go in there and tell Riley what’s happened. Instinctively, you fight. You try to crawl out of your skin, the pressure in your diaphragm is threatening to explode and rip you apart. He doesn't let go.

“Okay.” His answer rumbles in his chest against your ear and it’s strangely comforting. “We’ll wait, it’s okay.” It’s a temporary distraction, a small drop of water on the roaring fire of your panic, your pain, and you start to hyperventilate. His hold tightens. “Breathe Daisy, you have to breathe.” You try, you do, but the world is tilting, your oxygen is thinning, and the pulsing in your skull hurts so bad you think you might throw up. You want to breathe, you do, but the burning in lungs is impossible to escape.

It’s not so bad actually. The pain is distracting. It’s kind of nice, in a way.

“Daisy!” The voice is louder, more insistent, and you open your eyes to find a piercing, brilliant blue pair staring straight back at you.

Pretty, you think-

and then the world goes black.

“Daisy.”

“S’rry, jus’ gimme one minute.”

“Daisy.”

“Mmph.” There’s a soft chuckle, and then something ghosts over your cheek. You try to open your eyes but they’re so heavy, it’s too hard, and Riley’s rubbing your shoulder.

“I know baby, but you need to get up.” You bat her away, push her hand but it stays firm, fingers stretching across your shoulder blade.

Big. Too big. Riley’s hand isn’t-

Your eyes shoot open... and lock onto Doctor Riley’s.

Free fall. That's how it feels. Like you're plummeting to your death and he has the parachute.

“It’s almost seven.” You can barely hear him over the frantic pace of your pulse, heartbeat roaring in your ears.

“Census was low so Key said I should, I mean, she said I could-”

“I know.” His eyes crinkle at the corners with a small, patient smile. The little wrinkles fold perfectly together and then smooth away just as easily, “it’s okay.” He’s amused, and your head is spinning. He’s too much, it’s all… too much. You’re still trying to burn off the memory of him holding you in the ED, the way he let you dig your nails into his skin and never let you go.

He broke you. For a minute, for a day, he destroyed you.

It was terrifying.

But you would be lying to yourself if you said there weren’t other things there too.

The parachute. The catch.

“I’m sorry,” you croak as you sit up.

“It’s okay, you didn’t do anything wrong. I told Key to send you for an RR break.” Restorative rest. You’ve never taken an RR break in your life, even when you were in the ED. Now you feel like you’ve been missing out.

“Oh. Thanks.” You rub your eyes. If it’s almost seven you need to get going to relieve Callie on time, which means you need to get around this immovable force of a man who’s crouched next to the bed with his hands folded into one another, studying you.

“How do you feel?” Do you look that bad?

“Tired.” You admit without filter, surprised at yourself. “I’m really… I’m really tired.” He sighs, and it's weighted, heavy, trapping you on the little twin bed, scratchy sheets pooling at your waist below your askew scrub top. It sets you on edge.

“You’re doing a lot Daisy, it’s okay to be tired,” it’s so gentle the way he says it, so understanding, but his next words are like a slap. “And it’s okay if you need help.” You stiffen. An alarm shrieks in the back of your mind.

“I don’t need help, and I don’t need to be coddled.” You snap, throwing his own words back in his face. It should strike true and elicit anger, or impatience. It should. Instead, he shakes his head, musses one of those giant paws through his hair.

“I don’t think you need to be coddled Daisy, but I do think you need to be held.” Your heart stops.

Fuck this, and fuck this man, and fuck whatever he’s done to you, or is trying to do to you, after everything, after putting you through the paces and yelling at you and turning you inside out.

He’s done this on purpose, you know it now, you saw it in his face when you fell apart, like you were a wild filly he’s finally saddled.

It's all by design.

He stole the parachute. He pushed you out of the plane.

And now you have no choice but to fall.

Hot, angry tears burn at the back of your eyes, and you swing your legs over the bed, wobbling to your feet. You need to get away from him, hysteria is rising in the back of your throat, and sweat is beading across your lower back. You’ve never thought about how strong he really is, how his size dominates your space, how thick his wrists and arms are. Every single thing about him is overwhelming, and there isn’t enough glue and tape in the world to patch up your walls. Not when it’s him knocking them down.

You're crying. Openly. Again.

This man has ruined you.

“Who takes care of you?” He asks quietly, but the question reverberates off the walls like a gunshot, and you flinch like it’s torn through your flesh. “You take care of Riley, of everything, but no one is taking care of you.”

“I can take care of myself.” You wipe your wet cheeks furiously.

“Look at me.” You try so hard to ignore him, to resist it, but you can’t. You’re drawn in. "Don't fight me Daisy, you won't win."

“Stop,” you bleat, trying to step back but he strikes, holds you in place. You twist but he doesn’t let go and you swallow the urge to scream, to let it all out, to throw it at him until he can’t take it anymore.

“I want to take care of you, and you’re gonna let me.” You choke on a laugh. It’s delirious, disbelieving.

“No.”

“Yes, you are. You know why? Because you don’t have a choice. Because in two months, Riley won’t have heath insurance an' there’s no way for you to fix that, but I can, Daisy. I can fix it.” His gaze is full of promises, of warnings, all so intense it makes your blood burn in your veins. This fucking man.

“How?” He drags your face to his, forces you to look at him as he wipes your cheek. You’re not in control here, you realize.

Maybe you never were.

And because fate loves to prove a point, his next words hit you like a truck.

There’s a fat horse fly on Molly’s flank, twitching as she trots along beside you on the well worn path. She turns in the saddle.

“What?”

“Swat that fly.” You point to where it sits, wings vibrating, no doubt waiting to bite. It’s not that you don’t trust Molly, you do. She’s always been a good mare, confident and comfortable and pretty unflappable, but you’re not sure how she’ll react to getting bitten, and you don’t want to find out while Riley’s on her back.

“What fly?”

“The fly, down there behind the saddle pad.” She leans back to wave her hand around and it buzzes off, and relief settles your stomach.

“Shoo fly!” You laugh.

“Good job you got it.” It’s beautiful today. Sunny, breezy, and full of Riley smiles. You’re plodding along the trail that winds along the pasture, up the hill and then dips into the woods for some shade, the one Tess carved out right after they bought the land. It’s easy to feel close to her out here, easy for Riley to get to know her mom this way, riding the same path Tess made and hoped to share with her one day. Watching Riley on Mabel’s daughter, hair shining in the sun, these are the weightless moments, the ones that will stick to your bones forever. The ones you never want to let go, the ones that are worth everything, all of it.

You’re just about to tell Riley how much she looks like her mom when that fly lands on Molly again, except this time it doesn’t just sit there.

It bites.

The chat window pops up at the same time as the alert.

John: Get down here.

Simon frowns, and thumbs over the blinking red dot in the corner of the tablet.

It’s a patient notification. One of his kids is checked in as a patient.

His stomach flips when he sees who it is.

Riley.

All he sees is you.

Not the child on the gurney with her helmet knocked askew and her arm bent at an odd angle, not Alex Keller talking to her in low tones or the nurses taking her boots off, but you, off to the side, shell shocked, rattling with fear.

You, his strong, brave girl, still trying to stand when everything is crumbling.

He allows himself a second to take you in, look you over. You’re not hurt that he can see, just covered in dust, standing stiffly at John’s side as he rubs your shoulder.

He wants to reach for you, hold you, tell you it’s going to be okay. He’s going to fix it.

But his focus needs to shift, for now.

Alex cocks his head as the doors slide closed. “What can I do for you Simon?”

“Personal interest.” He steps in beside the pediatrician as he works, and smiles down at the trembling little girl. “Hey Riley.”

“H-hi.” She hiccups.

“Heard you took a bit of a fall today.” He glances at the monitor. “We have anything on board for pain control?” Alex carefully unbuckles her helmet and lifts it off.

“Yeah. One of yours?” He nods, and then crouches so he’s eye level with her.

“We have the same name, that’s cool right?”

“We do?” She’s squeaky from crying, and he squeezes her good hand.

“We do. I’m Doctor Riley, and you’re Riley. Must mean we’re meant to be friends.” Her lower lip trembles.

“Uh huh.” Poor thing.

“Hey, you’re okay. You’re doing great, and we’re going to get you all fixed up.” Big tears gather at the corners of her eyes and spill over, and Keller smiles to reassure her.

“Okay we’re going to bring a machine in here to take a picture of the inside of your arm now, alright?” Her lower lip quivers. “X-rays okay mom? Anything we should know?” Simon turns to you, and while your throat bobs, there’s no reply. “Is there-”

“X-rays are fine, right Daisy?” He cuts Keller off, and you blink in surprise, finally seeing him, noticing him in the room. He gives you an encouraging nod, one you follow.

“X-rays are fine.” Riley holds perfectly still like a champ, and once a fracture is confirmed Alex moves on.

“Daisy right?” You nod again, and he gives you his best ‘try not to freak the parent out’ smile. “We’re going to get her arm stabilized and then I want to take Riley for a CT, just in case. Everything looks good but we like to be extra thorough when it comes to head injuries in children. She’ll be evaluated by orthopedics right after to see where we are with the arm.”

“Okay.” There’s no emotion in your voice. It’s hollow, and his stomach twists.

“Someone will bring you the consent forms while we take her upstairs, and then you can wait for her in-”

“I have to go with her.” Alex opens his mouth to give you the standard spiel, but you cut him off. “No. I have to go with her.”

“Unfortunately you can’t. We’ll take a good care of her, I promise. I know it’s scary, but she’s in great hands.”

“I- she needs me.” Simon shifts, blocks your line of sight and lowers his voice.

“Daisy.” Nothing. It’s like he never spoke. “Daisy. Look at me.” No reaction, so he takes a chance, tucks two fingers under your chin and tilts your face to his to find your eyes. “Go tell Riley everything’s okay and you’ll see her as soon as she’s done.”

“You don’t understand.” You whisper hoarsely, and your pained expression is so desperate, so scared.

“I do, you know I do.” Riley is in a gown now, bed rails in place, and Keller is giving him an odd, impatient look. Simon holds up a finger. “This patient is your family and you’re off the clock. If the roles were reversed, you’d be saying the same thing as Keller.” Your face crumples, almost shatters, before you reign it back in. You’re so, so close to cracking, and he hates that this is what’s going to do it, this is what will shatter your control. “Now take a deep breath, go give Riley a kiss, and tell her you’ll see soon. We don’t want her to be even more stressed, right?” You bite down on your bottom lip to smother something, some outburst of emotion that’s trying to claw free, and nod.

“Right.”

“Seems like you’ve coddled her enough already.” There’s a ripple that starts from your mouth upwards, a feeling trying to fight its way out, but you shut it down immediately and stare silently at the elevator doors.

When they open and you bolt, John growls.

“Aresehole. She needs-”

“I know what she needs,” he snaps, turning on his friend. He can still smell you in the elevator, warm leather and honeysuckle. It’s been lingering in the halls, haunting him. Taunting him. “I’m trying to give it to her, and I can’t treat her differently than anyone else just starting in the unit. You know I weed them out.” John’s skepticism is clear.

“You’re making a mess of it.” He knows he’s been harsh and heavy handed, but you’re not just going to roll over for him. It’s hard for John to reconcile considering he’s been handling you with a soft touch for the last few years, but he doesn’t know what Simon knows. He doesn’t understand how it’s not just the weight of the responsibility on your back, it’s grief. For your sister, for Riley, for yourself. It’s overwhelming loss that doesn’t just go away, gaping wounds you’ll never truly heal. The stress, the money, these things compound it, they make it harder to process, to accept the loss and move forward. It jams everything up and turns it to rot.

Simon would know.

So he won’t stop pushing you, and every time you give him nothing, he’ll continue to give more right back. He won’t cow you, but he will set you right. He will fix it, and you’ll let him.

“You’re making it harder on her than it needs to be.”

“I know what I’m doing.” He doesn’t need advice or guidance with this. With you. The line between too much and too little can only be determined by him, and he doesn’t care about anyone else’s opinion.

You will walk it.

Whether it be of your own choosing or by his hand, you will do it either way.

“She’s drowning, John. It’s worse than you know, and there’s no time to handle her with kid gloves.” The elevator comes to a stop, and John steps out with a parting glance.

“Just be careful, Simon.”

You haven’t moved in two minutes. Frozen in place with your back to him, shoulders tight under your ears, ribcage occasionally deflating with an exhale until you’re taking another breath and holding it hostage.

You didn’t even notice when John left the room, pulled the doors closed to ensure no one would come in.

He grits his teeth. It’s going to be difficult.

The room crackles with the promise of a fight, rolling thunder and lightning electrifying the very foundation you stand on, shaking it to its core.

But he knows you won’t let it crumble. Not so easily, anyway.

“It’s going to be okay.” You don’t answer, you don’t turn to face him. “She’s in good hands, she-”

“I know.” It’s not your normal edge, your insistence. It’s more raw, precarious, and he circles you, ignoring the way you refuse to look at him. For now.

“Her CT will come back clear, and her arm needs a screw or two at most. She’ll be in a cast for six weeks, maybe eight. It’s-”

“I know.” You’re a stone wall, staring straight ahead, but he sees the cracks and splinters them wider when he takes your hand, holding you firmly in place when you try to tug free.

“Peds has a great-”

“I know!” You rip out of his grasp, and for a second, a split second, you look at him in horror. Gut wrenching terror, like you’re desperately trying to climb onto a life raft and you keep slipping off, reaching out for something to pull yourself up with, something to save you, though it’s not there.

Like you’ve just figured out what he’s been planning all along.

You know what’s happening.

When the first tear falls, it comes with an anguished noise that rips from your throat so brutally he has to steady himself.

“It’s okay, Daisy.” The palm you’ve flung forward does nothing to stop him snaking an arm around your back as you frantically shake your head and trip backwards, trying and failing to escape. “Everything’s okay.” He goes for the kill, pulls you into his body, reels you in, unsurprised when you thrash on the line, cheeks wet and gasping for air.

“Let me go!” You push, but you’re no match for him, not even close. You fight anyway, just as he knew you would, just like you’ve been fighting him at every turn, just like you’ve been fighting every day since your sister died.

It’s what you know, it’s how you’ve survived. You’re scarred and bruised but battle tested, and you’re not going down without fight.

John was convinced you needed a soft hand, told him as much. “Can’t tame a wild horse without some sugar cubes Simon.” Whatever the bloody hell that meant.

Simon knew better.

You can’t tame a wild horse. You have to break them.

“Fuck- get off me!” You twist and try to push off, but he holds you through it, holds you as you hiss and scratch and beat on him, holds you as you cuss at him, scream at him. It’s your last line of defense, the final pieces of armor falling away. “Let go, let go.”

“No.” You try to throw yourself out of his arms so violently he has to dig his hooks in, press your face into his chest, cupping the back of your head. “Stop, Daisy. Stop.”

“I can’t, I-” You try, desperately, to hold onto your rage, your mask, the control on which your life is built around, but your softening muscles and panicked breaths tell him its all slipping through your fingers. Come on sweetheart, let me see you. “This- I-”

The last tether snaps, you collapse into him and your vitriol slips away.

In its place is pain.

So much pain. It comes pouring out of you like a flood, one that would wash you away if he wasn’t holding you, and your sobs are gut wrenching, so vicious he’s worried you’ll make yourself sick. “Shh, you’re okay. You’re okay.”

“I c-can’t, I tried-”

“I know, I know.” You’ve been so brave, he wants to say, kiss the salt from your cheeks, you’ve done so well. You won’t have to do it alone anymore.

“This is m-my fault, I- I did this.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I’m supposed- supposed to- to-” your words are sticky, soaked with tears and mucus and garbled, “keep her s-safe and I c-can’t, I didn’t-” He takes your face into his hands.

“You do keep her safe, Daisy. You do take care of her. This was an accident, accidents happen.” You struggle for air and he rubs your back. “Breathe, just breathe. Nice and deep, there- that’s it-” The fight is gone. Drained dry, you follow his instructions, carefully drawing air in through your nose and out through your mouth until the heaving of your diaphragm is somewhat slower.

“I’m supposed to take care of her.” He wipes your cheeks.

“You do-”

“I can’t. I’m supposed to and I can’t and I’m failing, I’m failing and- and the insurance, oh my god.” Your eyes widen, anxiety peaking all over again, muscles and lungs locking up. He smothers his confusion.

“Insurance?”

“I messed up, I messed up so bad. I changed plans to that new one because it would be better for Riley but I didn’t… I didn’t read the instructions clearly or I wasn’t paying attention and I thought she would just roll over with me but she didn’t and now she won’t have insurance and I don’t know what to do, I-”

“Okay, okay. Slow down.” What a gift. He’s never been more grateful for America’s dumpster fire health insurance system. “Let’s focus on what’s in front of us right now.” Us. It’s natural on his tongue, easy like it should have been there all along.

“I…” your shoulders slump, completely void of all resistance. “Okay.”

“She tell ye yet?” He shakes his head.

“I think she’s too nervous.”

“She thinks he doesn’t recognize her.” Price grumbles. “And he hasn’t told her otherwise.” Kyle rolls his eyes.

“You should just tell her. You know, rip the bandaid off an’ all that. It’s probably turning her into knots.” Kyle reaches for Johnny’s beer and tips it back, which earns him a scoff.

“Ach, get yer own.” He grins devilishly at his partner.

“What’s yours is mine.”

“I want her to do it on her own.” He’s not surprised you haven’t brought it up yet. Riley is special, but to you, she’s your world and your weight, and you need time. “It means more to her than Riley just being my patient.”

“She wasn’t just your patient though, she’s the hallmark of your success. She’s your legacy.” Laswell circles the rim of her drink and watches him thoughtfully. “You invented a procedure for her, her case is published. She means more to you, too.” He opens his mouth to respond but a dimple appears at the corner of his vision, and his eyes swing.

You’re smiling.

Johnny whistles low. “Christ ye’ve got it bad.”

“Fuck off.” His chest is tight. He’s never seen you truly smile outside of the polite frozen ones you’re usually giving at work. This one is real. It’s genuine and so beautiful, so bright. You’re a star born in the night sky, a brilliant spot exploding in an endless spiral of darkness, and he’s too greedy to look away. He drinks up every second of it, trying to memorize the curve of your lips and the shine in your eyes in case he never sees it again. He wants to bottle it up, put it away high on a shelf so it’s only for him.

“She’s lovely.” Laswell says kindly, softly, and he nods. His throat is dry.

“She is.”

“How is she?” Price peers through the room’s glass window and crosses his arms. Rocks on his heels.

“Fine. CT is clear, arm only needed one screw.” You’re both asleep, Riley peacefully in the bed, and you fitfully on the recliner at her side.

“And Daisy?”

“Exhausted.”

“You break ‘er?” He nods, but not in victory. It’s progress, that’s all, and it’s painful. It hurts him, as it hurts you, as it has been hurting him since the day he saw you, grey rocking from behind a fortress.

“Won’t last.” Simon rubs his hand over his face. “By sunrise, it will be like most of it never happened.” Most of it. He won’t be starting from scratch, but it will be a long time before he gets you that exposed again.

You toss, sending the thin blanket to the floor, twitching when your skin is exposed to the cool hospital air. John claps him on his back. “Good luck.” Simon grunts.

“Thanks. Gonna need it.”

Your lashes flutter as the blanket is tucked in around your shoulders, and you peer up at him, bleary and and barely conscious. “Riley?”

“Right over there.” He murmurs and points to where she sleeps, her freshly cast arm propped on a pillow. “She’s okay, still asleep.”

“Is it morning?” You slur, trying to open your eyes, but he stills you with a hand on your shoulder.

“No, it’s the middle of the night. You can rest.”

“Yeah,” you agree and tuck your hands under your chin, mumbling incoherent nonsense. “Okay.” Your brow furrows briefly before the little wrinkle smooths and you nod insistently. “I’ll be here when she wakes up.”

“You will, don’t worry.” He brushes his fingers across your cheek, soaking in the warmth of your skin. He’d stay, if he thought you could handle it but he knows tomorrow the status quo will be mostly back in place. It’s a long road, but at least he’s on it now. You twitch and shudder, but he settles you, stretches his hand wide between your shoulder blades and works in long strokes, eases you into a deeper sleep, satisfied only when your breathing evens out. He doesn’t need you to tell him your dreams do not give you peace, that the world is not quiet between your ears, he already knows. He’ll fix it. He’ll crack you open again and again, break your control, and fix it all.

You weren’t paying attention when Blue swung her head into yours, when she shook her neck out and brought her skull crashing into the side of your face, hard enough to make you stumble, sending you gasping out of the stall while she snorted an apology.

“Fuck.” Her halter had clipped your skin, and you don’t need to touch the side of your face to know you’re bleeding. One hand over your eye, you close her stall with gritted teeth and make for the house, silently praying it’s not as bad as you fear.

It’s pretty bad. It's already tender, and your skin is open across your cheekbone. You’ll be able to get away with two butterfly bandages instead of stitches, thank god, but it looks awful, though not nearly as awful as your eye and its broken blood vessel.

Shit.

The cut stings as you clean it, and your entire face aches even after you’ve swallowed down two Tylenol. You’re not sure which is worse, the injury, or the anxiety it’s giving Riley, who clings to you for the rest of the morning, right up until you drop her off, her hug nearly choking the life out of you.

“I’m okay, I promise.” Her eyes are wide and worried, and you tap her nose. “I love you.”

“I’ll see you after work?” You get home a few hours after her on work days. Her sitter, Callie, hangs out with her after school, or during the day if needed, and she does it for free in exchange for free boarding of her two horses. She’s a college student, very sweet, and takes good care of her. You’d be screwed if she wasn’t around.

“Of course ladybug. Now give me another hug and then you’ve gotta go okay?” She nods reluctantly, and wraps her arms around your neck until she’s satisfied, before taking off into a sea of kids.

“Holy shit!” Key’s mouth drops open, and you groan.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Isa startles as she comes around the corner.

“Oh my god what happened to your face?” This is exactly what you did not want. A scene.

“It’s not a big deal, I swear.”

“What’s going on?” Doctor Riley appears out of nowhere, and you force your breathing into a steady rhythm.

“Daisy got beat up.” Key sounds almost happy, pleased with herself, and you briefly think about murdering her. When you shoot a glare her way, she only raises an eyebrow. His usual gruff tone turns to ice.

“What?”

“No! I didn’t. She’s just making shit up, I-” Pressure closes around your jaw, your chin, and it takes a split second to realize it’s not a some phantom limb but him, his fingers holding your face, tilting it to the light.

“Who did this?” There’s a red flash of anger in his voice, and it settles oddly in your stomach, almost like its heat could keep you warm through a winter. You try to speak, try to spit it out, but the feeling of his skin against yours is overwhelming. “What happened?” When there’s more silence, he gentles his tone, shifts it into something safe and coaxing. “It’s okay Daisy, tell me what happened.”

“A horse.” You croak. You try to pull away but he refuses to let go, holding you firmly in place. “My horse. She smashed her head into mine, and the metal of her halter cut me.”

“A horse.” He deadpans like he doesn’t believe you. The girls, you realize, have mysteriously disappeared, leaving you alone with him, the man who still has not let go of your face.

“Yes, a horse. I have horses. And I’m fine, really. It’s just a bruise.”

“And a cut, and a broken blood vessel in your eye.” He snaps, and again, you try to move away. “Hold still.” He’s scrutinizing you, focused on the blossoming tender skin, the angry red splotch stretching across the white of your eye. This focus, the contact, its all making your heart race, turning its steadfast rhythm into a gallop, one you can’t control. You lick your lips.

“Doctor Riley-” You don’t need this, you don’t need him holding you, exposing your weakness.

“Any problems with your vision?” His fingers trace the curve of your cheek, carefully palpating the swelling and you hiss.

“OW. No. Like I said, I’m fine it’s-”

“Headache? Dizziness? Did you lose consciousness?” Jesus christ. You shake your head with what mobility you have while still trapped in his grip. “Did you clean this?” Does he think you’re an idiot?

“Of course I did.” He hums, blatantly ignoring your annoyance to inspect your injury until he’s satisfied.

“If I told you to take the day off, would you listen?” What? Your thoughts run dry, but somehow he doesn’t need an answer. “No, I know you wouldn’t.” His touch eases, and with his free hand, he strokes the backs of his fingers across your cheek. The room spins, and not because you took a horse’s skull to the face. This moment has gone from intense to intimate, all of it still intimidating. He’s trying to shatter you, trying to break you. He must be.

“I can work, I’m fine.” You need distance. You need his anger, his temper, his impatience, not this. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m okay.” His hand falls away.

“Are you?” You blink.

“What?”

“Are you okay?” His voice is still soft, soft enough to seep into your bones and spread like a disease, poison your marrow until you can’t stand. It will make you sick, weaken you, and it's not like the situation with Beckert, where you knew well enough you didn't have the power, when you accepted you had to acquiesce.

This is different, and you won’t let it in. You won’t let him in.

“Yeah I’m…” No. You’re not okay. You’re not fine. You’re failing. This weight is crushing you, and you can’t hold it up any longer. You’re not strong enough. The flame is back, the one that wants you to let go, to fall, the one that will burn your control to ash, and you're forced to extinguish it, shove it down. “I’m fine.” His expression shifts into indifference, eyes turning to stone, all of it happening so fast you get whiplash. He shrugs.

“Alright then.”

“I can’t.”

“Come on you said Riley is at a sleepover.”

“She is. But I still can’t.” Olivia stamps her foot like a petulant child. “Liv, listen. I can’t. I’m on a tight budget this month, I can’t spend any money, and I can’t just be going out to bars nowadays.” You have chores to do too, and going to bed while sun is still up sounded so nice, but Ava is grinning at you from across the table, and you know it means trouble.

“Who said anything about spending money?” You roll your eyes, and Olivia doubles down.

“You need to get out Daze, you go to work, you go home. That’s it. You need a break, just for a few hours. It’ll be us three, low key, and I’ll buy your beers.”

“There will be plenty people who want to buy you a beer, Daisy. Trust me.” Olivia is hopeful, and you sigh.

“Fine. But two rounds at most.”

Before Riley, you used to come to this bar often. It’s a hospital hang, they have live music on the weekends, and the beer is generally affordable (if you’re drinking Coors.)

Now, you can’t remember the last you were inside. Here, or any drinking establishment, or even a restaurant.

“How’s the new hire?” You sip your beer. It’s cold and tastes like weekends past. Far, far past.

“She’s good!”

“She sucks.” They both answer at the same time, and Ava scoffs. “What? She’s a new grad. It’s like having a toddler.”

“Everyone is new at some point.” Olivia chastises her, and you smile, enjoying the rarity of this entire night even if they’re bickering.

“Oh shit.” Ava’s eyes go wide.

“What?” Olivia scans the room, confused.

“Two if by sea.” No.

“You’re joking.” She shakes her head.

“Looks like they’re all here too. And the radiologist, what’s her name?” Your stomach swoops. You’ve been avoiding Doctor Riley since the incident with your face, dodging him in the hallway, and trading OR duties. The few times he’s managed to catch you, he’s seemed less than pleased.

“Laswell.” Ava smiles at whoever she sees past your shoulder, but judging by the seductive tilt of her lips, you’d lay money on it being John. That’s your cue.

“I should go.”

“What?! We just got here.” You can feel Doctor Riley in the room, his eyes on you, examining, studying, and you shiver.

“She doesn’t want to see Riley because she’s avoiding him.” You grit your teeth.

“Thanks Ava, I think we’re all well aware.” Olivia grabs your hand.

“Stay. Please. We’ll pretend they’re not here. Ava will keep her daddy issues in her pants. Come on, we never see you at work now. I miss you.” The guilt trip is obvious, but she does have a point.

“Fine. For a little while.”

Olivia practically screams. You wipe your face, trying to dry the tears that have wet your cheeks as Ava struggles to breathe. People are staring, and you couldn’t care less.

“You’re insane. Did you get in trouble?”

“No! I never heard about it. I think he probably didn’t report me because he knew he was in the wrong.” The three of you try to tamp down the laughter, and you take a deep breath to alleviate some of the burning in your stomach.

“I miss you guys. The NICU is so fucking serious. They’re all nice but it’s like if you breathe wrong your baby could tank. It’s terrifying.” You leave out the obvious, he’s terrifying, and let your eyes wander instead. You tell yourself you’re not looking for him, but that feeling is back, and the draw is too insistent to ignore.

You get what you’re looking for.

He’s watching, clearly waiting for you to find him, and your vision tunnels as you lock eyes. The room fades away. You’ve been mixed up over him, turned upside down and inside out. The memory of his hand on yours, how he cradled your face, that simple, stupid contact, is playing on a loop in your head, in your dreams.

Except it’s worse in your dreams. It’s out of control. It’s not just his hand on yours, his fingers on your face, it’s his everything on yours, it’s you bent over his desk with your pants pulled to your ankles and his cock buried inside of you. It’s him telling you he knows what you need, and it’s his fat cock shoved inside you so deep you can feel it in your stomach. And then it’s you waking up to a wet pussy, your fingers already circling your clit and on the verge of coming.

Worst of all, it’s him telling you to fall, and promising to catch you. It’s him holding your face in his hands and telling you everything is okay.

Nothing about any of it makes sense, and you chalk it up to the obvious tension and the fact that you haven’t had sex in years. That’s what it is. That’s all it is.

You force your eyes away. It’s too much to even think about, let alone try to compartmentalize, and you polish off your beer.

“Alright. Sadly, my carriage is going to turn into a pumpkin soon. I’ve gotta go.” They whine, but they know the reality. They understand.

You’re halfway across the parking lot when you hear him.

“Daisy.” The grit and the grind of his voice is your ghost now. It lurks in the darkness and between your ears. You can’t evade him, and you’re so fucking terrified of him being so inescapable and shredding your control, adding fuel to the fire that is already threatening to engulf you, encouraging those flames of need to burn brighter and brighter. You try for a deep breath, but it comes up short, and your courage fades as you face him.

“Hi, Doctor Riley.” He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie, plain black, no logo or lettering, all of it seemingly stretched just a bit to fit across his chest, his thighs. Your heart pounds.

“We’re not at work. It’s just Simon.” Simon. You’re sure your swallow is audible. “Headed out?”

“Yeah I’ve gotta get home.” He takes a step forward. His one is like three of your own, and he’s close now, too close, so close you have to tilt your head to look at him when he speaks.

“It’s good to see you laugh. Thought you might not know how to for a minute.” The world stops turning. You trip over his words in your head. “I haven’t been much help with that though, have I?” You’re frozen. There’s no rhyme or reason for this, no explanation. Why does being this close to him make you so dizzy?

“I have to go.” You fall back on your instincts. Flee. “I’ll see you at work on Tuesday?” It shouldn’t be a question, but for some reason you’re lingering in the unknown tonight.

“Daisy… ” he trails off, and your breath gets caught in your windpipe. The parking lot is silent, and you stare at him, waiting, wondering, and when his fist clenches at his side and he steps back, a twinge of disappointment pinches beneath your ribs. “Have a good rest of your night.”

“No.” You glance at the open chat window again, just to be sure. “It’s only been five minutes though?”

“This can’t wait, these little suckers can turn on a dime so fast.” She sighs, and then motions down the hall. “You’ll have to wake him up. He’s in call room two.” It’s eight am, but according to everyone on the floor, he’s been here since twenty hundred yesterday, and had a midnight case that had him in the OR until six.

Meaning he just went to bed.

Fuck.

“Maybe you should go… he doesn’t really like me much.” An understatement.

“Uh uh. This is your patient, you face the wrath.” Another nurse peeks around her monitor at the station.

“You’re cruel Key.” She shrugs.

“She’ll have to do it eventually.” She looks at the chart again, and chews on her lip. “He’ll want to look at her before he puts anything in, and once he realizes what’s going on he won’t be mad. Hurry up.” Your shoulders slump in defeat.

“Fine.”

You’ve been on the unit for two weeks.

In that time, you’ve verbally interacted with Doctor Riley a whole three times.

Once, in the OR.

“Have you ever circulated before?”

“Daisy is shadowing me.” Key assures him, omitting the part where you indeed, have never circulated. There aren’t many things you haven’t done at this point in your career, but circulating is one of them. It’s a mix of counting things a million times and directing all the traffic in the OR. You’re not inept. You don’t doubt your ability to learn new things, but you’d be lying if you said it’s not intimidating.

Especially when he looks at you over his mask, gaze cold and laser focused.

“Have you ever circulated before Daisy?” He repeats himself. Key sighs like she’s ready for the day to be over already, and you shake your head.

“No.” Anger flashes in his eyes, and he glares at her.

“Fucking hell. My OR is not the place to learn how to circulate, Keona.”

“Well, you do the most cases, Doctor Riley. She has to learn sometime.” There’s a razor in her voice, softened by a syrupy lilt, and he gives her another withering look before directing his attention back to you.

“Don’t touch anything.”

Once, in the hallway.

“Daisy!” He barks at your back and you instinctively freeze, shoulders shooting up beneath your ears before you manage to turn and face him.

“Y-yes?”

“You have Maverick? Crib B?” Your palms instinctively start sweating. Nothing is wrong. You were literally just in there and he was stable. Cute. Sleeping. He’s stable. Nothing is wrong. Right?

“Yeah- yes. He’s mine.” He scrutinizes you like he’s searching for something, ever present frown affixed to his lips.

“Why is his bili light still on?” Oh no. Did you leave it on?

“What?” He stares at you like you’re the dumbest person he’s ever met. And who knows, maybe you are.

“Do I need to repeat myself?”

“Sorry ah, no. It shouldn’t be on. I thought…”

“You thought?” You’re used to getting kicked around. Surgeons have god complexes, residents think they’re so far ahead of where they truly are, attendings love to pick you apart if they’re having a bad day. Not all of them, but enough that there is a reputation, and when you’re new, you get run over. When you’re seasoned, you learn to navigate it.

But Doctor Riley coming down on you is completely different, and shame curdles in your stomach at the idea of making a mistake.

“You’re telling me you don’t know if that light is on or off?”

“I-”

“I know you’re used to a floor where you can do the bare minimum to keep your patients alive until they get transferred, but the NICU requires a bit more attention to detail. Do you think you can do that?” Your throat goes dry, and you stare at him, words evaporating as he repeats himself, slowly. “Do… you… think… you… can…. do... that?” Jesus Christ.

“I thought I turned it off.” He steps closer. Close enough you can smell his dial soap and the barely there whiff of aftershave. Close enough he blots out the light on the ceiling. He tsks.

“Do you think you can do that Daisy?”

“Yes.” You whisper, closing your eyes. He hates you. He hates you and it’s so much worse than just some run of the mill asshole provider who’s got it out for you. So much more. “Yes I can do that. I- I’ll go check on him right now.” He nods, and then doesn’t even spare you a glance as he strides down the hall, swearing under his breath.

And then once in the parking garage.

“Wait!” You sprint to the elevator, breathless as you jump through the quickly closing door-

and right into the chest of Doctor Riley.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch, only grabs you by the upper arms to keep you from toppling over.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” He drops his hands as soon as you’re steady, but doesn’t step away.

“It’s alright.” He’s studying you. Again. Always. You noticed him doing it the other day on the floor, watching you over the head of his resident, a bug under a microscope that he’s going crush. “You have straw on your sweatshirt.”

“What?”

“Straw.” He says it slowly, like you’re hard of hearing. “On your clothes.” His gaze flicks to the collar of your sweater, where indeed, a souvenir from the barn is clinging to the fabric. Jesus.

“Ah, oops. Thanks.” The elevator lurches to a stop on the next floor of the garage, and when it opens, Doctor Price is standing on the other side. He immediately smiles, corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Daisy.” He doesn’t even say hi to Doctor Riley, just slips inside and leans against the wall. “How is it in baby-land?” Doctor Riley glares at him, one of his ‘I am thinking about ending your life’ glares that you’ve been on the receiving end too many times, and Price chuckles.

“Uh, it’s good Doctor Price.”

“Daze, please. I’ve asked you a million times to call me John.”

“Sorry, old habits die hard.” You manage a nervous laugh.

“You takin’ care of my girl Simon?” Awkward silence descends over the three of you, and your heart thumps around in your chest like a drum. Doctor Price- John, raises an eyebrow.

“Seems like you’ve coddled her enough already.” Doctor Riley grunts. Your face burns, and you stare straight ahead, begging the doors to open and release you. From your peripheral, you can see John’s facial expression change, but you stay facing forward, drowning in your embarrassment, your shame.

“Arsehole.” John growls. The doors pick a miraculous moment to slide wide and you dart through them, Doctor’s Riley response lost as you disappear around a corner.

“Doctor Riley?” You knock a little louder, mentally crossing your fingers he’ll answer and you won’t actually have to open the door. “Um… Doctor Riley? Are you in there?”

Nothing.

Shit.

Cool metal gives under the pressure of your fingers on the handle, and you call for him through the crack of the door. “Doctor Riley?”

Silence.

Double shit.

You cross the threshold, two steps inside. “Doctor Riley?”

There’s a sharp, startled inhale, and then the grit of his voice is drifting through the darkness. “What?”

“Uh, it’s… I tried messaging you but you didn’t answer. It’s the Anderson baby, she’s bradycardic and I don’t know, her muscle tone is off, I think -”

“What?” He’s alert, immediately. The mattress creaks and then he’s flicking the light on, appearing in front of you like a ghost-

without a shirt on.

You try to look away. You do. But his chest is right in front of you, his chest with golden brown hair, hair that travels down his sternum to his belly and continues to disappear into his pants. There's muscle beneath the weight on him, and it all sits well. Perfectly. And the tattoo, the 360 sleeve stretching from should to wrist is the icing on the cake of this paradox of a giant.

Brilliant man who loves little babies, who’s skill for saving their lives is known far and wide, who looks like he could fell a tree with one swing of an axe, who saved your Riley’s life-

and who without a doubt, hates you.

You can’t look away, so you do the next best thing. You slam your eyes shut. “Um I’ll just… I’ll wait outside.” You turn, eyes still closed, and smack your face into the metal door frame so hard your orbital bone sings. You bite your lip to swallow the cursed yell that tries to burst free.

“You alright?”

“Yep.” Your lie is high pitched, and you duck around the door to wait out of sight.

When it clicks shut behind him, he turns to face you. Studying again. Scrutinizing, this time with a hand clenched at his side. “Sure you’re alright?”

“Yes.” You’re not going to let him catch you being weak. Not for a single second. His lips down into a frown, and he shakes his head.

“Let’s go.”

Baby Anderson is tough. Probably tougher than you’ll ever be. She goes to surgery not ten minutes after Doctor Riley is at her crib, and then comes out like a champ, stable after a valve repair.

The relief makes your knees weak. It’s what carries you to the end of the day, all the way through your shift up until you’re walking across the parking garage, broken backpack hanging off your shoulder, oblivious to everything around you.

Then you hear him.

“Daisy.” You whirl. He’s standing there, a step behind you, arms crossed. “I’ve been calling your name.”

“Oh I… I was distracted.” You look away because it sounds so pathetic and you’re sure he’s sneering at you. “Sorry.” He’s quiet for a beat, and you study your shoes. They’re old and worn down. You really need new ones. Everyone on the unit has those new sneakers, the popular ones they all swear by, the ones that look like a dream. Lots of cushioning. You fantasize for a second about somehow making it work out to where you could afford a pair, but the fantasy fades away in the face of reality. You can’t even afford feed for the horses this week.

“Good catch today.” You blink. Who’s he talking to?

“What?” There’s a very long, very deep inhale, and then the rumble of his voice.

“I said, good catch today, with the Anderson baby. She would have tanked without you.”

“Oh, I didn’t do much.” You laugh it off. Because why is this man who despises you all of the sudden saying you did something right?

“You correlated the bradycardia with the muscle tone. That’s enough.”

“Right.” He’s not wrong, but you’re surprised all the same. “Um, thanks.” You finally glance up at him, and to no one’s surprise, he’s studying you again.

“Have a good night.” You momentarily forget yourself. Who? You have a good night? Your manners come back after a beat, and you manage  a strained, polite smile.

You glance at the photo. It’s your patient from yesterday in his crib, except there’s a teddy bear stuffed against one of the rails, next to his face. Fuck. 

“I don’t know. That wasn’t there when I left. I would have removed it.” His eyes drill into you, fire blazing in them, hot enough you’re sure it will burn you to a crisp. 

“Do we need to go over the SOP for toys in cribs?” 

“No.” You bite out, looking over his shoulder to focus on the wall. It’s not that parents do it intentionally, they just don’t know. They don’t think about the fact that soft toys, plush toys, can carry bacteria since they can’t be wiped down. You can’t fault someone for wanting their child to have something of comfort. “It must have happened after I left, like I said.” 

“Well it didn’t.” You want to push back. You want to tell him again, that it didn’t happen on your watch. That you’re not stupid or careless or not paying attention like he so clearly thinks, but you don’t. You know how it will go. 

“I’m sorry.” His jaw clenches, lip curling like you disgust him. 

“You’re sorry.” The air is being sucked from this room, the walls trying to go with it, closing in on all sides. “Keona seems to think you’re doing an excellent job, but I’m starting to think she’s just covering for you.” The accolade he gave you last week fades into oblivion, panic taking its place. You can’t lose this job. You can’t. 

“It’s a transition. I’m learning as fast as I can.” Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. He rises from his chair, coming around his desk to lean against it, thick legs stretched out towards where you’re standing, arms crossed over his chest. It could be considered a casual stance, but on him it’s anything but. He lords over you, terrifying and dominant, ready to pick you apart. 

“You need to figure out if this is the place for you before I do.” 

“It is. I can do it.” You rush out, desperate to reassure him. It’s a crack, a very small one, and you scramble to stuff it up, plaster over it to reinforce the wall it’s trying to crumble. “I can do it.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” 

You stare at the fancy lotion for too long. 

Before, you would have chucked it in your cart no problem. Twice even, one for home and one for your work locker. 

But now, your entire existence is built around a budget that’s calculated down to the dime. 

And that budget really does not have wiggle room for a twenty dollar bottle of lotion. 

Still- 

You toss it in your cart. A mistake. An irresponsible indulgence. Something you absolutely should not purchase, but the girl buried so far beneath who she is now, the one who was once reckless and wild and free, she wants that lotion. She wants it bad. She wants a relief, a reprieve, a little treat for the hell that this week has been. 

You really, really wish you hadn’t listened to her. 

“Wait… what?” 

“Sorry, the tag was incorrect.” You stare at the bag of cherries unbelieving. They were the last thing on the belt, bringing your total to a whopping one hundred and forty dollars. Forty dollars over the budget that was already twenty dollars over. 

“Okay.” Thank god for small miracles, there’s no one in line behind you to watch your shame unfold like a car crash in slow motion. 

“Do you still want them?” You do. Riley loves them. She asked for them specifically. She eats them raw from a bowl until her fingers are stained. She feeds them to the mares even though you tell her a million times not to. 

“I mean… you’re saying this bag of cherries is twenty dollars?” The clerk’s smile is sad. 

“They are twenty one dollars and fourteen cents.” The lights in the grocery store suddenly seem too bright, and the noise, the beeping and the intercom and the chattering is too loud. Too much. It’s all too much. Everything. This weight will crush you. Your vision tunnels until there’s nothing else, just you and this cashier and your stupidity. “Miss? Do you still want them?” 

“Yes, sorry. I want them.” She rings them up, total flashing on the reader in front of you. You sigh as you tap your card- 

and then freeze when it makes that dreaded sound. 

The “you’re a fucking idiot if you think you’re buying this bottle of lotion” sound. The clerk is looking at you with sympathy now. Camaraderie. 

“Maybe it was a bad read. Try again?” She tries keeps her voice down, bless her, but she’s also older than dirt so it doesn’t do much. You try your card again against your better judgement. Same noise. Same sinking feeling. You must have made an error somewhere, screwed up the math. 

“Do you have another card dear?” You swallow and shake your head. 

“No, I don’t. I’ll… can we take the lotion off?” This is your fault. Your self indulgence, the little devil sitting on your shoulder who told you to pick that stupid bottle of lotion up and put it in your cart. 

You’re not that girl anymore. You’re Riley’s, and you’re sure as shit not picking it over her cherries. Lesson learned.

“Take the lotion off?” She repeats, you’re assuming to make sure she got it right before she starts pressing buttons on the screen, and you nod. Force a smile. It’s fake but they’re the best shields. “Do you want to run back and grab a cheaper one?” Insult to injury. 

“No, I’m okay, thanks.” Your tunnel vision finally widens when the new total pops up, and your chest loosens with relief. 

For a second. 

Until you see Doctor Riley. Standing in the other line just over your cashier’s shoulder. 

Staring at you, head just barely cocked in consideration. 

Oh my fucking god. 

You lock eyes and freeze, a deer in headlights, a woman tied to the tracks. It lasts for a second and then you look away, silently praying for a tornado to come by and rip the roof off this place, carry you off. 

No such luck. 

Instead, you go through the mortifying motions of loading your cart up with the bags, casually tracking him from the corner of your eye. He finishes before you, thank god, and you stall at the end of the checkout lines until he’s fully out of sight, beelining to the truck lest you get caught in some awful, awkward small talk or worse, more eye contact. 

Great. 

“The British are coming.” 

It’s the long standing joke. Started spreading after they got here, though Doctor MacTavish apparently throws a fit over it, considering he’s not British at all. 

They all showed up together too, an already forged unit, strong alliance to one another that stretches across the hospital. There’s history there, a lot of it, but you worked with John for a while and he was pretty tight lipped. No one ever pushed him, but you and others can’t deny the curiosity. There’s nothing a hospital loves more than gossip. 

“Where?” You still eat with the ED. There’s always at least someone on break at the same time as you, and you indulge in the comfort of your friends. It’s not that you dislike anyone in the NICU, you don’t. They’re all lovely, it’s just the team in the ED knows you. They supported you when you stumbled, when you fell, when you went through hell and came out on the other side. They knew you before, and those precious pieces are long gone. The ED is your last tether to the girl who wants to buy lotion, who rode recklessly and screwed around. 

Olivia jerks her head towards the double doors on the other side of the cafeteria. 

You hope for Price. Instead, you get Garrick and your walking nightmare. “Fuck.” 

“God he’s so hot.” You bristle. It comes out of nowhere, strikes you like lightning until you look over and realize she’s staring at Doctor Garrick and not Doctor Riley. The reaction is nonsensical, and instead of trying to diagnose it, you move on. The two of you reach the end of the line, and Clara behind the counter gives you a big, genuine smile. 

“Hey honey. How’s that baby?” 

“Not a baby anymore, that’s for sure.” She asks this every time. It’s sweet. “How are your grandkids?” 

“Oh you know. Terrors.” You snort. 

“I know your pain.” You wait for Olivia, who clears her throat when she makes it back to your side. 

“Is it just me or… is Doctor Riley staring at you?”  Heat floods your cheeks. 

“It’s not just you. He does that.” You don’t look. The embarrassment from the last time you saw him, the grocery store fiasco this weekend, is still stagnant in your brain, taking up way too much space. She raises an eyebrow. 

“I’ve never seen someone so scary, and hot at the same time. It’s like the fear makes it better.” You swallow that feeling again, and nod. 

“I saw him without a shirt on like two weeks ago.” She squeaks. Just the memory of the bulk of him, the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, the well carried layer of fat on his belly covered in hair makes your stomach swoop. 

“You what?!” 

“Yeah I had to wake him up. Needed him at bedside. He’s... huge. Built like a bear, I bet he could take one. And he has a full sleeve.” She gives you a look, and you give her one back. Mischief and malice. “Don’t.” 

“I’m just saying… how long has it been for you? Since before Riley?” 

“Olivia, come on. You know I don’t have time. And even if I did, you’d never catch me sleeping with a provider. Especially him. He’s a dick, and he hates me.” It’s not like you have anything against it, you don’t. You don’t judge. It’s just not for you. There are happy endings sure, but they’re rare, and it’s not worth the headache. Olivia however, is an equal opportunity employer. She sniffs. 

“Don’t knock it until you try it.” 

“I won’t be trying it.” 

You could cry. 

You could. 

You haven’t done it so long and it would be well within your right today, though you won’t. Even if you wanted to, your automatic response is to hold your tears back no matter what, no matter how, and this is no different. 

You spot Mabel on the hill right away. She’s the only one who strays from the pasture when the gate gets loose, always taking off towards the highest point on the property, probably so she can look down on her kingdom. 

It doesn’t help that she hates Blue, your horse, and as soon as you get close, she bares her teeth. 

“We know, we know. You’re in charge. Come on lady.” You reach for her halter, but she side steps away from you, jerking backwards. “Mabel. Stop.” You squeeze Blue with your thighs, urging her forward, closer, and reach again, snagging your fingers into the side of the halter. She tries to pull away again, but you hold her firm. She won’t follow Blue back because following any other horse or even human is beneath her, but if she realizes you’re not going to be giving up, she’ll high tail it back to the barn. You’ve got a good grip, now you just need to wait until she gets the picture. You lift your face to the pink streaked sky. “You know, it would have been a lot easier on me if you hadn’t spoiled the shit out of her.” You chastise the clouds and give them a dirty look. “It’s like I’m still getting bullied by you through your god damn horse.” Mabel snorts, and you glare at her. “Don’t start with me. You’re worth tens of thousands of dollars. I could have sold you.” It’s an empty threat. You’d rather lay down and be trampled. 

She decides she’s had enough and pulls ahead, intention clear, and trots off towards the barn. 

For a minute, a brief, hazy minute, she’s not alone. 

Your sister is there, turned around in the saddle, laughing and telling you to hurry up. The sunset is painting her in a rainbow of pink and coral and orange, glowing on her face, saddle squeaking under her pregnant belly. Mabel’s gait is smooth, smoother than it’s ever been, like it has been for months, since she started to show. You’re convinced she knows, instinctively. One mother to another. 

“Come on crazy Daisy.” She moves Mabel into a canter, and you grit your teeth. 

“Tess,” you’re about to tell her for the seventeenth time that she’s supposed to be taking it easy, but she cuts you off. 

“I’m fine. Hurry up. I’m hungry and Liam is making mac and cheese.” She looks over her shoulder one last time, smile bright, so bright it could blind you, a nearly perfect mirror of your own, and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re the worst.” She laughs. 

“But you love me.” 

The minute passes. It slips through your fingers and you swallow, once, twice, three times. 

You could cry. 

You could. 

But you can’t. You have a little girl back at the house who doesn’t need her aunt fucking crying every time shit gets hard or sad or both. You have a responsibility, and that responsibility depends on you to be strong, to be in control, to take care of her and make sure she’s safe, healthy, happy. 

So you are.