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I’m calm.

I can be normal.

Right. Sure.

It had been on the calendar for weeks. Robby’s first overnight with Mason. Right there on “Baby Boy’s” shared Google Calendar.

That didn’t make Mason’s packed bag on your shoulder and the baby carrier in your other hand feel any lighter.

You were doing what you were supposed to. Openly choosing Robby to be in Mason’s life.

Just knock.

Fucking knock.

The door opens just as you’re raising your fist. Robby stood there in an old band shirt you use to steal and a pair of sweatpants.

“Hi.” He says softly. He smiles down at Mason and goes to unstrap Mason from his carrier. “Hey buddy.”

“He’s due for a bottle at eight. He’ll fight sleep around nine. The sound machine sticks.” You list off, matter of fact.

“Okay,” he says gently.

You keep going anyway.

“He likes the green sleep sack more than the blue one. If he wakes up after midnight, don’t pick him up right away. Sometimes he just…”

You stop.

Robby doesn’t interrupt.

He just waits.

“…I know.” He says quietly.

Of course he knew.

He’d been there practically every night for weeks.

“Mason, made you something. It’s in the bag.” You say quickly handing over Mason’s overnight bag.

“Mason?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s not making it weird.”

“It’s a mug. You know, for Father’s Day. He insisted.”

The silence stretches between you longer than you intended. Robby fights the smile threatening to spill across his face.

“Mason picked it out?” He hums clearly enjoying this.

“You think I’d get you something for Father’s Day?” You hit him with a deadpan. “Don’t doubt your son like that.”

“Right, of course. He has impeccable taste in coffee cups.”

“Damn right.” You clear your throat. “I’m gonna leave now.”

“Okay.”

“He’s good?”

He shifts Mason a little higher against his shoulder.

“Why wouldn’t he be?” He watches you carefully. “You’re his mom. You’re supposed to worry.”

He smiles.

“My job is making sure you don’t have to while he’s with me.”

He says it so simply it almost irritates you.

“I’m supposed to go now…” you say like you’re trying to urge yourself in the direction of the elevator.

“Yes you are.” He says it with that all-knowing smile on his face. “We’ll see you in the morning?”

Why did this feel worse than daycare drop off? daycare had a set time. This did too, but daycare was never overnight.

Fuckkkkkk.

Tomorrow suddenly seems every far away.

You take a deep breath and force yourself to turn on your heels. The elevator door opens. Before it can close behind you, Robby lifts Mason’s little hand in a wave.

“Say bye to mommy.”

Mason blinks sleepily.

His eyes meet yours for the briefest second as a smile tugs at his mouth.

“Love you. See you tomorrow.”

The elevator door slides shut before you can decide who he was talking to.

The apartment is quiet.

Not sleeping-baby quiet.

The kind of quiet where you can hear the fridge running and the sound of your steps on the floorboards.

Usually by now you’d hear the sound machine through the nursery wall. Or Mason’s coos. Or the dryer running because Mason spit up on your clothes five minutes before bedtime.

Nothing.

Was the fridge always that loud?

Could you always hear the neighbor’s tv through the wall?

Huh.

You’d wanted silence for months.

Turns out silence is loud.

You don’t bother turning on the television.

Somehow manufactured noise feels cheating.

Instead, you kick your shoes off and grab the first hoodie draped over the back of a dining chair.

It smells faintly like laundry detergent and rain. The sleeves swallow your hands.

You tug it over your head before dropping onto the couch.

9:07pm

Your eyes drift towards the hallway before you can stop them.

Right about now, Mason usually lets out one offended little cry because he’d rolled onto his side and started to wake himself.

Two pats on his belly.

Maybe a pacifier.

Back to sleep.

9:37pm

You catch yourself listening for the faint rustle of him rolling around in his crib.

At 10:02pm, you make it exactly fifty-five more seconds before reaching for your phone. Mason was fine. You knew he would be. That doesn’t stop you.

Mason pic now.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Robby: Bossy.

A second later, a photo pops up on your screen.

Mason is sprawled in his crib, one first tucked beneath his cheek, mouth hanging open.

The crib Robby built catches in the edge of the frame.

Robby: He’s snoring.

Robby: Pretty sure he got that from you.

You scoff before hammering out a response.

He definitely got your inability to mind your own business.

You stare at it.

Delete.

Too flirty.

He’s lucky he’s cute.

Delete.

Absolutely not.

Whatever.

Delete.

Since when did texting Robby require this much editing?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Reappear.

He was doing the same thing.

Robby: You okay?

It’s weird here.

Robby: Yeah.

Robby: it was weird here too the first night I went home without him.

You lock your phone, tossing it onto the sofa next to you.

The apartment falls silent again.

Right.

Now what?

You open the dishwasher.

Close it.

Walked to the fridge the forgot why.

Checked the baby monitor sitting on the counter before remembering it wasn’t plugged in.

You make your way into the nursery before you realize where your feet are taking you. Force of habit. It was your closing night routine.

The crib is empty.

The mobile turns lazily from the air conditioning.

You laugh once.

“Well, that was stupid.”

You climb into bed before eleven.

For the first time in months, you don’t set an alarm for a bottle.

You stare at your phone for a long time scrolling through photos.

Mason swaddled.

Mason and Dana.

Robby holding Mason. His little hand curled into Robby’s shirt. You don’t remember taking that one.

Finally placing it face down on the nightstand.

If something happened, Robby would call.

You believed that.

That was new.

You still don’t sleep for an hour.

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Mason was cleared sometime between 10 and 11 the next night. You weren’t really sure. The hours had blurred together between the conversation with Robby, the endless nurse visits, and the beeping from the monitors.

It didn’t matter what time it was truthfully.

Fuck it would be nice to leave this hospital and get Mason a change of clothes.

Wanting to leave the hospital? There’s a first for everything.

“I’ll get him,” Robby mutters, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A moment passes between the two of you before you hand over the carrier.

You were doing what you were supposed to.

Attempting to willingly rely on him.

Willing being the operative word.

“Do you mind finishing the discharge papers?” He asks softly, “I’ll get him buckled in and pull your car around.”

He holds his hand out for your car key.

Come on, pass them over.

You dig through your cluttered bag. Napkins, Mason’s sock, half a stick of gum.

“Fuck it,” you sling your bag off of your shoulder, “They’re in there somewhere. Touch the handle, it’ll unlock.”

Something soft passes across his face before he looks away. He places the strap on his shoulder. Mason in one hand and your bag in the other. He was the pinnacle of a dad leaving the hospital.

A small part of you wonders if that’s how he would have looked leaving the hospital after Mason’s birth.

Doesn’t matter.

The paperwork is quick. Much quicker than it probably should have been. Maybe someone here was doing you a solid. You were too tired to think too hard about it.

You slink your way to the front doors. Rain pounded onto the concrete outside.

Why is it always raining?

A sheet of rain cascades over your car when it pulls up. Robby climbs out of your comically too small car, drenched from head to toe.

He grabs his jacket from the back seat before racing over to you.

“That’s not necessary,” you try but he’s holding it over your head to protect you for the very short walk.

“Mason got to the car dry, not fair you don’t get to as well.” He shrugs, making the decision. Then he’s guiding you towards the passenger side.

You stop when he opens the door for you.

“Micheal.” He glances down from where he was accidentally crowding your space for his chivalrous act. “This is my car.”

For a second, he just stares. Then he laughs, the sound rough from lack of sleep.

“I know. Figured you could take a nap on the drive home.” he says, like his logic makes perfect sense. It does in a way.

“I’ve gone longer without sleep.” You try to stand your ground but then he’s softly guiding you into the backseat and it does sound nice to have a moment with Mason.

“No one is questioning your independence.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because that wasn’t what this was really about.

Independence sounded noble.

The truth was uglier.

Depend on someone long enough and eventually they got to leave.

“Get in the car,” he says, softer this time.

You glare at him.

“That wasn’t a request was it?”

“Not remotely.”

You’re sliding into the middle seat next to Mason’s carrier before you can think too much about it.

Rain drops streak across the car window as the car makes the familiar turns towards your apartment. Your hand drifts over to Mason’s car seat where your hand rests on his stomach. Robby’s hoodie settles comfortably over your shoulders.

It wouldn’t hurt to just close your eyes for a second right?

Before you know it your car is being put in park and the door is being open. A door opens. Then another.

The clicks from Mason car seat are careful.

Deliberate.

Like someone is not trying to wake either of you.

Weird.

The realization comes a second later as you’re stretching your arms and reaching for your seatbelt.

You’d fallen asleep.

The two of you all but drag yourselves up to your apartment. Robby carefully pulls Mason from the car seat, trying not to wake him.

“I’ll get him changed if you want to put him down,” Robby whispers as he grabs a diaper, wipes, and a clean sleeper in one smooth motion.

Like he’d done it a hundred times.

Huh.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “Just let me throw the laundry in the dryer then I’ll be right in.”

He nods once before heading for the nursery.

The apartment was quiet.

Well, mostly.

You could hear the faint creak of the rocking chair down the hall and Robby’s faint hums.

The sound follows you to the laundry closet. You stare at the washing machine for a moment longer than necessary.

Then another.

The wet clothes in your arms suddenly feel heavier than they should.

God, you’re tired.

You shove them all in the dryer and slam the door harder than warranted. The machine rattles in protest.

For a second, you just lean against it counting your breaths

One.

Two.

Three.

You’re fine.

The conversation from the hospital keeps replaying in your mind whether you want it to or not.

I left it blank for three days. Then I wrote your name.

I just need you to stop acting like I’m temporary.

Maybe this was your way of processing it. Your brain’s strange way of picking it apart until there was nothing left.

Stupid brain.

Truthfully, neither one of you had been lying.

Lying would have been easier.

Anger was easy.

Anger had rules.

Anger told you where to stand.

This?

This just left you hollow and confused.

Every time you decided you were in manageable territory, he had to do something stupidly domestic.

Drove your car.

Let you use his jacket.

Remembered where the diapers were.

You close your eyes, your hands braced on the washer, your knuckles white.

Realistically, the diaper thing shouldn’t bother it.

Except it does.

He hadn’t hesitated.

He’d reached into the bag and grabbed exactly what he needed like he’d been doing it forever.

Somewhere along the way, while you were fighting his very existence, he’d learned your routines.

Mason’s routines.

Your life.

Your skin felt like it was on fire. Fuck, he had learned exactly where he could fit in. He’d found a place in your life.

Bastard.

No.

Fuck.

Worse than that. He just… stayed.

Long enough to know where the diapers were.

Long enough to know when you needed help but wouldn’t ask.

Long enough to stop feeling temporary.

Fuck.

You weren’t supposed to be doing this.

You had said you’d stop doing this. Throwing your mental road block up.

Well, shit.

You scrub your hand over your face.

Enough.

The dryer thumps behind you, giving you something else to focus on. Something in your control.

Laundry.

A baby who needs to be tucked in.

Things you could immediately handle.

Taking one final breath, you push away from the washing machine.

A low murmur drifts from the nursery.

Your feet slow before you can stop them.

Billy Joel’s Goodnight, My Angel.

Or at least Robby’s very off-key version of it.

The nursery door sits cracked open, like he had tapped it with his foot but never fully closed it.

Just enough for the warm glow of the nightlight to spill into the hallway.

Inside, Robby stands over the changing table with Mason balanced awkwardly on one arm.

The dirty diaper is already gone.

The clean sleeper already halfway on.

Mason hadn’t woken up once.

And for some reason he’s still singing.

“Goodnight, my angel, now it’s time to dream…” his voice drifts through the crack in the door.

Too low to really be called singing. More like talking on beat. Mason responds with a soft coo.

“Yeah?” Robby whispers. His entire attention shifts to his four-month-old like Mason had just offered him the most important opinion in the world.

“That’s a good point.”

A tiny smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop it.

Robby tugs the sleeper over Mason’s stomach.

“Oh, she’s definitely having a meltdown in the laundry room.”

Mason rubs his eyes in his sleep.

“See? Glad you agree.”

You roll your eyes.

Mood killer.

The sleeper snaps shut with practiced hands.

Not perfect.

Not the lightning fast efficiency you had developed.

But, comfortable.

Robby lifts Mason to his shoulder. One hand settles automatically against the back of his head. The other rubs slow circles on his back.

Again, muscle memory.

Just something he does.

Nobody is grading him. Nobody is watching him.

He’s just…

Being Mason’s dad.

The rocking chair creaks softly as he lowers himself into it. Mason immediately curls against his chest.

Robby’s song starts again. Quieter this time. Softer.

Like he forgot there was anyone else in the world.

You should move.

You know you should.

Walk in.

Say something.

Do literally anything other than stand in the hallway spying on a man singing Billy Joel to your son.

But you don’t.

He looks like he belongs here.

“No no,” he murmurs. Mason fusses softly against his chest.

“She’s coming.”

The rocking chair creeks.

“Let her have her moment.”

His hand rubs a slow path up and down Mason’s back.

“We can wait.”

The words settle somewhere deep in you before he adds quietly:

“We’ve got time.” He sighs, “Always for her.”

You needed a minute.

Really, it felt like your heart was going to race out of your chest.

Maybe the laundry was done.

Maybe you could reorganize the bookshelf.

Anything to get you out of this hallway.

In.

Out.

Breathe.

The floorboard creaks underneath you.

“You ready?” His voice calls out softly.

You freeze.

Robby’s eyes lift towards the doorway.

Not surprised.

Like he’d known you were there for a while.

A sleepy smile tugs at his mouth.

“Told you she’d come.”

Something uncomfortable and warm twist beneath your ribs.

God.

You were exhausted.

Too tired to pretend this wasn’t happening.

What was the saying? Show up or ship out? Shit or get off the pot?

Fuck it.

You square your shoulders, then you’re pushing the door open gently.

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He appeared at the end of the hallway forty seconds later breathlessly.

You knew his footsteps. You’d told him that once, in the early days, and he’d looked at you like you’d said something that undid him completely. Right now those footsteps were fast and deliberate and trying very hard not to be a run.

“Hey.” He reached you and his hands went to your arms immediately, dipping his head to look at your face. “Talk to me.”

“It’s a headache,” you said. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bracing yourself against a wall.”

“I’m leaning.”

“Let me take your blood pressure.”

“Jack—” I frowned.

“Please.” The word was quiet and direct and left no room for argument.

You let him guide you to the nearest empty room. He drew the curtain and helped you onto the bed, and you watched him wrap the cuff around your arm with the focused efficiency he usually reserved for patients in serious trouble. His face gave nothing away. That was how you knew he was scared.

The reading came back.

He looked at it for just a moment too long.

“What is it?” you asked, even though you already knew. You were a doctor. You knew what too long meant.

“154 over 102.” He set the cuff down carefully. “We’re going to run some labs.”

The number settled over the room like a change in weather.

This number at this stage of pregnancy is dangerous. Protein in the urine, you’d bet, if the headache and the swelling were part of the picture. You’d diagnosed it in other people before. You’d explained it to frightened patients in careful, reassuring language. You’d said we caught it early, that’s the important thing more times than you could count. But after everything you’ve gone through, this feels like dealing with the grief of the miscarriage all over again. Only worse.

“Jack,” you said. He knows what’s going through your head. The same thoughts are spiraling in his too.

“Let’s wait for the labs,” he said. His voice was even and professional and you hated it.

“Don’t do that.” He looked up. “Don’t be my doctor right now. Just be my husband and talk to me.”

Something in his expression shifted. He pulled a chair to the side of your bed and sat down, and reached for your hand the way he always did—not gently, but firmly, like he meant it.

“I’m scared,” he said simply.

“Me too.”

“We caught it early. The numbers are high but they’re not—” he stopped, recalibrated. “You’re going to be okay. She’s going to be okay. I need you to let me take care of you right now.”

You looked at him… at the careful set of his jaw, the steadiness he was working so hard to hold and simply nodded. The baby would be okay.

The labs came back an hour later and confirmed it. Preeclampsia. Dr. Al-Hashimi delivered the news herself, sitting across from both of you with the quiet authority of someone who understood that the hardest patients to treat were the ones who already understood exactly what you were telling them.

Modified bed rest. Twice-weekly monitoring. Blood pressure medication starting today. Delivery no later than thirty-seven weeks, possibly earlier depending on how the next few weeks went.

You asked the right questions. You used the right vocabulary. You nodded at the right moments. And then Dr. Al-Hashimi left the room and Jack closed the curtain and you put your face in your hands crying silently.

“Hey.” He was beside you instantly.

“I know it’s manageable,” you said, voice muffled. “I know we caught it early. I know the outcomes are good when it’s monitored properly. I know all of that.”

“But?”

You lifted your head. “I’m so tired of being scared, Jack.” Your voice cracked on the last word, the first real crack since the morning, and once it started you couldn’t quite close it back up. “I just wanted one stretch — just one — where I could be pregnant and happy like other women without waiting for something to go wrong.”

Jack didn’t say anything for a moment. He just moved closer and pulled you carefully against him, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting over your stomach.

“I know,” he said into your hair. “I know, baby. I’m sorry.”

You stayed like that while the sounds of the hospital floor continued just beyond the curtain. The usual ER carried on as if the world inside this room wasn’t holding its breath.

“She’s okay,” he said quietly. “Heart rate is perfect. You caught the signs early because you’re brilliant and stubborn and you know your own body even though you didn’t want to admit it at first. We are ahead of this.”

You exhaled slowly against his shoulder.

“You have to actually rest,” he continued. “Which I recognize is going to be the hardest part of this for you, sweetheart.”

You made a sound that was almost a laugh. “I have residents who need—”

“Covered.”

“And my shift isn’t over and my patients—”

“Covered.”

“Jack—”

“Covered.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, and there was something in his eyes that was both exhausted and immovable. “You and her. That’s the only case either of us is managing right now. Understood?”

You held his gaze for a long moment. You loved this man so goddamn much.

“Understood,” you said quietly.

He pressed his lips to your forehead and kept them there, and you felt the slight unsteadiness in it. The version of him that existed underneath the calm, the one that had been absolutely terrified since Dana paged him forty minutes ago.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against your skin. “Both of you. I’ve got you.”

And you wholeheartedly knew he did.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The hardest part wasn’t the medications or the monitoring appointments or even the enforced stillness of modified bed rest. The hardest part was the nights.

During the day there were things to do like online shopping, watching TV, reading books you’d been meaning to finish for two years, video calls with Trinity and the rest of our group that somehow always ran an hour long. Jack worked his shifts switching between days and nights and came home and sat with you and pretended he hadn’t been checking his phone every twenty minutes in case you called.

But at night, when the apartment was quiet and Jack was working or asleep beside you with one hand resting on your stomach even in sleep, the thoughts came. The ones you couldn’t logic your way out of. You’d lie there cataloguing every sensation… every twinge, every shift, every small movement from her and feel the fear from when you lost your first pregnancy.

You sit quietly in the corner of the room or lean on the bed frame, trying to remind yourself that you knew better than most people that some things couldn’t be controlled no matter how closely you watched for them.

On the fourth night, Jack woke up and found you staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just moved closer, tucked you against his side, and put his hand back where it had been.

“Still here,” he said. He meant all of it. Her. Him. The two of you, doing this together. You covered his hand with yours.

“Still here,” you replied back.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, you finally fell asleep.

—

I have another angsty chapter coming soon. I apologize in advance. Thanks for reading!! <3

The heart monitor beeped a soft steady rhythm as Mason’s chest rose and fell in his sleep. Babies bounce back fast, you knew that, but it was crazy to see it in your own child. Mason was tough. An hour ago, maybe, he had been cooing at you while playing with Robby’s finger. He was fine, you knew that, still you hadn’t left his side since the allergy attack.

Robby sat in the chair on the other side of the small hospital crib. His mouth worked like he was turning something over in his head.

He probably was.

It didn’t really matter.

You didn’t have enough energy left to care.

Your back aches from the way you had been slumped over the side of the crib, watching how Mason’s nose twitched in his sleep.

Still, you have to remind yourself that the doctors said he was fine. The monitors say he is fine. Robby keeps telling you he is fine.

It’s all fine.

So fine, your eyes start to drift shut from your awkward position. You’ll have a crick in your back in the morning.

Worth it.

“That scared the shit out of me,” Robby's voice comes out soft and a little broken. Too honest for the small room in the pediatric ward.

“Me too.” You mutter as your eyes shut and breathing starts to slow.

“No, you know what scared me?” That peaks your interest enough for you to open your eyes.

“Mason not being able to breathe?”

“That, yes,” he runs a hand over his exhausted faced. “But you froze. I’ve seen you in countless emergency situations. You’ve never done that.”

You open your mouth to explain yourself, but no words come out. It’s true, you froze. You froze when you needed to be a doctor.

“No,” he says suddenly, dragging you from your spiraling. “Don’t get lost in your head. I’m not talking like I’m your boss. I’m talking like… whatever the fuck we are.”

Whatever the fuck we are.

Truer words had never been spoken.

“He was having an allergic reaction.” You softly, taking the time to stretch your joints out. Maybe it was to seem in control, you didn’t feel in control. It sure as hell looked like exhaustion.

“They asked about his weight,” he continues, searching the air for the words like they might magically appear there. “You couldn’t answer. And you looked at me like you thought I could.”

You shake your head, trying to back yourself up into that corner in your head where you could be safe. You were tired. Really tired.

“Anyone would have panicked.” You say dryly. Slumping in the spare chair, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt. People panicked in those situations, still it didn’t feel good.

“You’re right, but I’ve never seen you panic.”

You watch Mason again. The hospital onesie seemed awfully uncomfortable. You knew they were soft, but it didn’t smell like home. The nurses had told you hours ago to stop fussing. The best thing you could do was rest apparently.

“I’m his mother. I was supposed to know.” It doesn’t fix the buzzing in your head or the pressure in your chest. But, you were too worn out to come up with something better to fit in your box.

“No.”

You glance over. He was watching Mason too. His eyebrows pinched together in that way you remember them doing when he was trying to solve the problems of the world.

“You weren’t supposed to know.” He stands up slowly, leaning over the crib to adjust a wire that didn’t need adjusting. “You were supposed to be his mom. You did that.”

Al laugh escaped before you can stop it.

Not because it was funny.

Because it sounded so simple when he said it.

Just be his mom.

You were never just his mom. The past year of your life couldn’t be summed up into a simple job description. It was a series of impossible choices made by a woman running on three hours of sleep and blind panic.

“That’s easy to say now.”

His eyes float over to meet yours. You could see him trying to make sense of you.

“What does that mean?”

You stare at Mason’s tiny hand curled in the hospital sheets.

God, you don’t have the energy for this.

For a moment, you think about telling him nevermind. But you’re too tired to do damage control.

“I didn’t have anyone else,” you say before your brain could stop it.

Robby opens his mouth.

“Those first months,” you continue, staring at the floor between your shoes. “I didn’t have anyone else.”

You’d regret it later. Sure. Blame it on the heaviness in your limbs.

“I filled out every form myself,” you continue. “Every sleepless night, every doctor's appointment, every decision was my call.”

“I know,” he says, sucking in a breath to continue. Your finger shoots up between you before he can speak.

“Don’t,” you say quietly. “You know what happened. You don’t know what it was like.”

He takes your words in as he settles back into his chair. Truthfully, he didn’t know how to handle this version of you. You weren’t screaming and you weren’t running. You just… spoke. Honestly.

“You’re right. I don’t know what it was like.” He bows his head, “But I’m here now.”

“Every time I turn around, you’re there.” Your eyes snap to him, taking in every breath and movement in his face. You needed him to hear this. You don’t know why you do, but you do. It didn’t have to make sense. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

The air in the room felt heavy, not in a panicking way. In a way that you hadn’t felt in many months. You were sleep deprived, starving, and emotionally worn out.

“You know what I remember about his birth?” You start softly. Robby looks at you, really looks.

“Paperwork.”

It was simple. A simple thing to remember in the grand scheme of a life altering event.

“Everyone talks about the big things.” You shake your head, gnawing at your lip. “I remember paperwork. The insurance forms, emergency contacts, the pediatrician forms…” your voice trails off as the memories you had pushed away for so long flood back in.

“The nurse handed me the birth certificate paperwork and asked me who the father was…”

Your voice catches.

Funny.

You could remember what you ate for breakfast that morning. Couldn’t remember the names of half the nurses who floated through your room that night. Couldn’t remember Mason’s first cry. But you remembered that.

That little blank line.

The cheap hospital pen.

The pitying look in the nurse’s eye when you paused.

“I didn’t know what to write.”

Your eyes, misty and red-rimmed finally lift to his.

“You know what I ended up doing?” Your breath shakes from the weight of the memory.

Robby doesn’t answer.

“I sat there for twenty minutes staring at that line.” Your laugh comes out hollow and broken.

“Twenty minutes. Because I kept thinking if I wrote your name down, I was choosing for you.” A tear traced down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away.

“And if I left it blank I was choosing for Mason.”

You swallow hard. “Nobody talks about sitting in a hospital making choices that don’t belong to you.”

You try to steady your shaking hands, “Do you know how badly I wanted someone else to tell me what to do?”

He doesn’t move. Just sits in his hospital chair like a statue. To ashamed to meet your eye.

Your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Just once.”

The words hang there for a second.

Then the exhaustion finally wins.

“Screw you for putting me through that.” It’s pried somewhere deep in your soul. The reason you had been avoiding the whole time.

The silence seems to choke the air out of the room. For many minutes, there doesn’t seem to be any ambient noise. Just the sound of bated breath and facts.

Robby’s gaze falls to his hands. He rubs his palms together once. Then again.

He can’t fix that for you.

He knows that.

He can’t undo any of it.

It’s a year he can’t take back.

The muscle in his jaw ticks. There isn’t some joke he can make. There isn’t some carefully chosen thing he can say to make everything hurt less.

There’s just him.

“Jesus…” he sucks in a breath. “I don't know what to say to that.”

“Yeah, no one does.”

His eyes drift over to Mason. His son. The son who he loved dearly. Then to the woman across from him who he would move mountains for if she asked. He couldn’t move this one.

He tries to picture you there alone in that hospital room.

The image makes something painful twist in his chest.

“What did you put?” The question comes out quiet.

You wipe your eyes with the edge of your sleeve. “I left it blank for three days. Then I wrote your name.”

His eyes shut. Just for a second.

“You wrote my name.” It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.

Even at your angriest. Even when you felt the most abandoned. Even when you were completely alone.

You still chose him.

It’s an earth shattering revelation. For the past month, he’d been acting like he needed to earn his place here. But you’d given him a place from the start. Even angry. Even alone. You’d written his name.

“Why?”

“Because I was angry, not stupid.” You say softly.

He lets out a laugh. That was so you to say.

“Do you know what kills me?” He starts softly.

“What?”

“You keep talking like I wasn’t there… and I wasn’t. But, somehow, you’ve convinced yourself I would’ve chosen not to be.”

“Hell,” he sucks in a breath. “I would’ve thought that too.”

He looks down at his hands. His dry cracked hands from washing them too much.

“But God, I wish you’d stop looking at me like I looked at him and walked away.”

He rubs a hand over his face.

“You know what the worst part is? If things had been different… if I hadn’t left…” his voice cracks. “I don’t know if I would have been the man you were describing. Fuck, I don’t know if I’d be the man I’m trying to be now.”

It’s ugly.

Honest.

And not the answer you expected.

You’d spent so much time being angry at the version of him that left that you never stopped to consider he might be angry at that version too.

“I don’t know.” You admit quietly, with a shake of your head. “But you’re everywhere, Michael.”

You try to select your words carefully.

“You show up. You know his bedtime. You know the bottles he likes.” Your voice is exhausted and a little forced. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

His eyes meet yours, pleading and raw. For once he wasn’t apologizing. He was just here.

“You don’t have to trust me tomorrow. Or next week.”

He looks to Mason like the four month old could give him some guidance.

“I just need you to stop acting like I’m temporary.”

You nod once, a small pivotal gesture.

“Yeah, probably should.”

The monitor continued their steady rhythm.

Nothing was truly fixed.

The hurt was still there, sitting between you.

Tomorrow would still be hard.

But, for the first time in a long time, the room didn’t feel as suffocating. The possibility of keeping him in your life felt real.

The thought lodged somewhere between your ribs.

Somehow, that was more frightening than the anger ever had been.

AN: I would like to point out how few italicized thoughts there are in this one…

Tags: @motelgloss @generation-zero @noisynightmarepoetry @youknowiloveyou-so @xoxabs88xox @princessofthalia @proudlyvastlake @jam3s-x @ozwriterchick @the-annoying-fan @realwhoreforfictionalmen @thesewordsareallihavetogive @whatupbuttercup2019 @lifetimeofadventue @1dhoe93 @v33mustdie @rkentzler9 @agentknowitall @thehockeynerd30 @staystrongsoa @ilocuras24 @liveeverydaylikepretzelday @lillly-ofthevalley @sushirollprincess @kittenlittle24 @xpeachyesx @killora1708 @ap1390 @optimistictacosaladcloud @danah-20 @msliz @adrestlyd @countryandsweetbabygirl @justjoanhere @lovehadlovelost @777bambi777 @fudge13 @amberpanda99 @shashasimba1996 @kishie8 @vicky066 @snovvv @imabapical @prettyflowerlily @stardream14 @pinguphd @southernshorty @noob-saibotx @louisbelongstome28 @violetdelrey007 @kay8907 @valentinevampp @mscreativity @unsaidjaelinrose @possiblyafangirl @hauntedduckdefendor @kissalready @nellabear @aleemendoza2425-blog @toxicwasteee @iiuliae

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Ugh. Maybe if you ignored him, you wouldn’t have to do this scheduled breakfast. Wasn’t last night torture enough?

This was premeditated, you were sure of it.

A way to get in your head.

Your therapist would say otherwise.

Yeah well, fuck him and his four eyes.

You pulled your robe tighter as you shuffled to the door. Robby stood there in a pair of scrubs with his signature zip up hoodie. The odd thing was the pressed white coat over top the hoodie, with his name precisely sewed into it with blue thread.

Yep, this is a terrorist attack.

It was ridiculous really. Who puts their white coat over a hoodie. And since when did Robby know where his white coat was? Why did it kind of look good?

“Please, don’t make me feel any weirder than I already do,” he grumbled, looking everywhere but you. “Admin has been on my ass about ‘looking professional’.”

Robby shifted his weight but didn’t step inside. You both stand there, waiting for the other to make the first move.

“You can come in-“

“Is Mason awake-“

You both say at the same time. A blush creeps up Robby’s neck as you suddenly find the door across the hall very interesting.

“Sorry,” he mutters, sagging his shoulders in the way he did when he wanted to seem less imposing.

“Oh shut up.” You grumble as you take multiple steps back, leaving the door open for him to enter.

The two of you were acting like two cats who had just been introduced. Hackles raised and ready to bolt at any sudden movement. Maybe it was just you though.

Robby takes a tentative step inside, careful, like he’s waiting for permission to be revoked halfway through. He keeps one hand hooked tightly through the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t set it down, just holds it.

Your eye twitches.

“For fucks sake,” you huff, turning towards the kitchen before you can think too hard about why that bothered you so much. “Be normal.”

You immediately move for the coffee pot, needing to do something that didn’t feel like avoiding landmines.

“Coffee?” You call.

“Yeah, sure.” He says as he takes a seat at the breakfast bar, “Do you have that-“

“Why wouldn’t I have the vanilla creamer?” You cut him off. Your tone definitely harsher than intended, but FUCK!

He was being weird. This is his fault.

You’re met with inhumane silence.

“Sorry,” you mumble when you see the way he shrinks. Your therapist told you that you were projecting your insecurities onto Robby. It might have had some validity.

You carefully carry the mug over to the counter and place it in front of him. You both watch as the coffee sloshes in the chipped cup.

“Two sugars and more milk than coffee, right?” You say, avoiding his eyes. You could feel his eyes watching you. Warm and steady in a way that made your skin itch.

God, it pissed you off.

Why? Whatever.

“Yeah,” he nods too quickly, swallowing to try to mediate his suddenly dry throat. His large hands engulf the coffee cup. “Don’t tell anyone though, it’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Okay.” You say immediately, turning back towards the coffee pot. That was a landmine and you had almost fell face first onto it.

Dangerous.

Your eyes dart over to the door of Mason’s nursery. Wake up, please. Instead, you busy yourself with the repetitive nature of making breakfast.

Crack the egg.

Whisk.

Pour into the pan.

Behind you, the barstool creaks softly.

“Would you like some help?”

“No.” You say automatically.

Silence stretches again.

You hear movement from the other side of the kitchen. A cabinet door opens halfway before immediately clicking shut again.

Robby freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime.

Your shoulders tense instinctively before you glance over. He’s standing there awkwardly beside the cabinets, one hand still hovering above the handle.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I was going to grab plates then realized-“ he cuts himself off with a tight shrug.

Realized what?

That this wasn’t his kitchen?

That last night changed something?

That he didn’t know what he was allowed to touch anymore?

The knot in your chest twists painfully.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, turning back to the stove before your expression can betray you. “You know where the plates are.”

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then quietly, “yeah.”

The cabinet door opens again, slower this time.

For a moment, it’s like you’ve fallen into an old rhythm. Robby starts the toast and spreads peanut butter onto the slices, while you scoop the eggs onto the plates. He doesn’t ask anymore.

That should probably bother you more than it does.

Everything is going as well as to be expected until he reaches around you to pop a bottle into the warmer.

Your entire body locks.

The smell of his cologne and soap his first, clean and familiar enough to make something stab sharply beneath your ribs. Heat radiates from his chest for barely a second before he seems to realize what he’s done.

Robby jerks away so fast his elbow knocks against the counter.

“Sorry,” he says immediately.

Again.

God, you were going to lose your fucking mind if he apologized again.

A cry sounds from the nursery. Not a painful one, just one to let you know Mason was awake. You both move to go get him. You both lock eyes for the first time today.

It’s a stand off.

“Fine,” you relent. “Go, I’ll get his breakfast ready.”

Robby disappears behind the nursery door like a man on fire. Meanwhile, you grab Mason’s high chair and the baby food from the cabinet.

You both try to get Mason settled. Hands batting the other out of the way. Robby gives you a weird look when you finally thrust the baby food and spoon at him.

“His pediatrician said it was fine to start him on soft foods,” you say, rolling your eyes as you hop up onto the counter.

Robby turns the tiny spoon over in his hand like it might explode, “Already?”

“He’s four months, not a Victorian orphan.”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “I didn’t know… I missed a lot apparently.”

And there it is again.

That guilt.

You regret softening enough to notice it.

“Well,” you say bristly, “you’re here now, so congratulations. Today’s lesson is applesauce.”

He hums at that and scoops a small amount of applesauce up.

You finish your breakfast before switching with Robby so he can eat his rapidly cooling eggs. Mason immediately starts fussing at the betrayal.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. “God forbid anyone else eats.”

Without thinking too much of it, you swipe a tiny bit of peanut butter from your toast onto Mason’s lip.

Robby glances up immediately.

“He likes peanut butter?”

“He likes literally everything,” you snort as Mason happily smacks his lips together. “Tiny garbage disposal. He’d eat drywall if I let him.”

Mason lets out an excited squeal that earns him another microscopic swipe.

Point one mommy.

Robby seemed to finally relax enough to eat once Mason seemed content enough to smear applesauce across most of his face instead of actually eating it.

“Good job,” you told your son with a laugh. “You managed to get none of that in your mouth.”

Mason squealed.

“See, he disagrees,” Robby said around a bite of toast.

“He’s good at that. He’d make a great lawyer.” You say dryly.

You reached over with the napkin and whipped a streak of applesauce from Mason’s cheek. He immediately made grabby hands for the toast in Robby’s hand. He turns on those puppy dog eyes you’re sure are genetic.

“Absolutely not,” you say, scooping him from the high chair and peppering his chubby face with kisses.

Mason protested loudly.

“Oh, now you’re starving?” You ask.

He answers with another indignant squeak.

“Drama queen,” Robby laughs.

The sound surprises both of you.

His smile vanishes almost immediately.

Right. He’s the weird one.

“Gets it from his father.”

Robby opened his mouth to argue before Mason lunges for the lapels of his white coat.

Traitor.

You glance at the clock on the wall. Ten after six. Shit.

“Do you mind putting him in the carrier? I’ve got work in twenty.”

You were already backing towards the bedroom before he could answer.

Distance. Good.

“I can always drop him off, you know,” Robby calls.

You freeze halfway through pulling on your scrub top. He was just being helpful. He was always trying to be helpful.

The house was suddenly so quiet you could hear the neighbors moving around next door.

“It’s on my way.”

“Mine too.”

“Michael.”

Robby looks like he wants to argue before thinking better of it.

“Right.”

You rush into the living room and grab the carrier, propping it in your hip.

“Let me-“ you shove his hands away before he can get near the carrier. You both stare at the other, another stand off.

“I’m just trying to-“ he tries to explain with a huff.

“I know.”

“Then why are you looking at me like I suggested arson?”

“Because every time I turn around, you’re trying to do something for me.”

Robby blinks.

“I was offering to help load our son into your car.”

“Exactly.”

Robby’s eyebrows pinch together as he tries to forks words. Then closes it. Then tries again.

“I genuinely don’t know what that means.”

You carry Mason down the multiple flights of stairs and down to the car, Robby on your heels the whole time.

“I switched his daycare.” You say as you snap the carrier into place.

“Oh?”

“St. Mary’s.” You shut the back door. You toss your bag into the passenger seat.

Robby rests his hand on your car door like he had done that rainy night when he had demanded answers.

“At your work?”

“They had an opening.”

His jaw works for a second.

“PTMC’s daycare had openings too.”

You cross your arms, squinting at him.

So?

“St. Mary’s is cheaper.”

“Okay.”

“It’s closer to home.”

“Okay.”

“And I can get there in two minutes if they call me.”

His shoulders sink slightly as he takes a step back from your car.

“That makes sense.”

It did. You’d only be a moment away. It was practical. Everything in your life was practical. That didn’t mean Robby had to like it.

“We’ll see you at pick up,” you grab your door handle. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Okay.”

Mason quickly settled into the new daycare at St. Mary’s. The daycare workers were nice enough. Truthfully, a weight was lifted off of your shoulders knowing he was only minutes away. The downside apparently was having a hidden baby made you hospital gossip.

Between being the transfer resident no one knew much about and Robby’s lunch performance a few days ago, half the hospital seemed convinced your personal life was public property.

Great.

Apparently, there was a betting pool about who Mason’s father was.

Katie, who had somehow appointed herself your unofficial publishist after the infant seizure case a while back, did her best to intercept the rumors before they reached you.

Unfortunately, Katie was only one woman.

“I’ve got those labs you wanted Doc,” she says, bouncing to your side.

“Thanks Katie,” you mutter, already skimming the results as you headed to Exam 4.

You weren’t trying to be standoffish. Robby had a way of turning your baseline level of irritation into a full-time personality trait.

“Well?” Katie asked.

“Well what?”

“You going to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You try speeding up.

“Hm,” Katie matched your pace.

You shot her the nastiest look you could muster.

Katie beamed.

“Heard we had a new friend down at the daycare,” she tries, standing way too close. Did she know what a personal bubble was?

“Yeah? Where’d you hear that?” You snap on a pair of gloves.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe from literally everyone?”

Wonderful.

“I went down there during lunch to see my niece," Katie continued, snapping on a pair of gloves she absolutely did not need. “Cute kid by the way.”

“Thank you.” You lean over the patient, a small kid, to palpate her abdomen.

“Very cute.”

You narrow your eyes.

Katie grinned wider as she grabs the iPad to seem like she was assisting.

“The daycare ladies seem to love him.”

“Mmhm.” You glare at her from over the patient.

Possible bowel obstruction. Wouldn’t that be fun?

“And I remember, from the other day, a very handsome doctor dropping off lunch for you the other day.”

“I’d like to run a few more test-“

“Same puppy eyes.”

You nearly walked into the supply cart.

Katie’s eyes light up.

“WAIT!”

“Katie, I’m with a patient-“

“Is it lunch guy baby daddy?”

“I didn't say anything.” You chuck your gloves in the trash and coat your hands in sanitizer.

“LUNCH GUY IS BABY DADDY!”

“Katie.”

She was practically vibrating from excitement. “The betting pool is going to lose its mind!”

“There’s no betting pool.” You shoulder the door open. Usually, you wouldn't pray for a trauma but it would give her something better to do.

“There absolutely is!”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “I hate this hospital.”

“Aw, come on,” Katie bumped your shoulder. “He’s cute! Well… not as cute as that graying doctor that sat with you at the PEDS seminar.”

“Jack? Ew!” You slam the chart onto the nursing station.

“No, listen! Help a girl out-“ a blush coats her cheeks as she tears up to make her case.

“That’s gross.” You shake your head immediately backing away.

“Doctor-“

“No!” You call as you turn the corner, leaving her to hopefully get back to work.

It’s usually freezing in the hospital. The whole idea being that diseases can’t exist if you freeze them out. It’s got some merit to it, but really it’s just to make you shake harder than your nerves already are.

Robby is supposed to meet you to pick up Mason from daycare.

Here.

In your hospital.

In front of the people who already knew too much about your life.

He’s been in your territory once, and look at the trouble it’s already caused.

Breathe.

Obviously, you would rather jump out of a plane with no parachute than do this.

Your therapist claimed this would be good for you. Then, after hearing your response, had to backtrack and correct it in a way where it was good for Mason.

It is good for Mason.

You knew that.

Two parents were better than one.

That didn’t mean you had to like it.

Still, you had moved Mason’s daycare to St. Mary’s in an attempt to grasp for some control in your quickly spinning life. Maybe because it was closer. Maybe because it was cheaper. Maybe also to shut up the annoying overly pleasant chirps his old daycare used to send constantly.

Were the updates really bad? Or was it just another spotlight on your private life?

Doesn’t matter.

Unfortunately, hospitals operated like oversized high schools with better parking and significantly more student loan debt.

Everyone knew everything.

Or at least they thought they did.

You glance at the clock as your back presses into the wall across from the daycare.

Five more minutes.

Then Robby would walk through the hospital front doors.

Five more minutes until Katie and all the staff spotted him and cashed in their prize money.

Five more minutes until half the staff accidentally found a reason to walk past daycare.

Five more minutes until your life became a spectator sport.

Awesome.

Your phone buzzes.

Robby: Here.

Your stomach drops.

Ridiculous.

You were co-parenting, not diffusing a bomb.

Still, you glance at the door automatically.

Nothing.

The hospital lobby remained exactly as chaotic as it had been thirty seconds ago.

Visitors wandered past, a volunteer pushing a wheelchair, someone dropped a stack of papers near reception.

Then a familiar voice drifted down the hallway.

“… I’m telling you, no one needs that many forms.”

You closed your eyes.

Fuck.

Robby appeared around the corner carrying a coffee carrier in one hand and a half eaten bagel in the other.

A volunteer was laughing at something he said.

A nurse smiled and held the elevator for him.

Traitorous behavior from everyone involved.

The white coat was gone now, leaving him in his black scrubs and stupid hoodie. His hair was mussed like he’s been running his hands through it all day.

He looked tired.

He also looked entirely too comfortable for a man walking into an active gossip situation.

Then he spotted you.

The soft smile appeared immediately, effortless and automatic.

Like he hadn’t just spent the last twenty-four hours making things painfully awkward.

Like he hadn’t almost kissed you in your son’s nursery.

Like he hadn’t spend breakfast apologizing every five minutes.

Just happy.

Your chest did something painfully unhelpful.

“No.”

Robby slowed as he reached you. He pops a coffee out of the holder for you.

“What?”

“You can’t smile at me like that.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” You huff as you take the coffee like a lifeline.

“Then why are you saying it?”

Because, unfortunately, neither of you knew how to be normal anymore. You’d bring it up in your next therapy session.

“Can we just get Mason?” You don’t wait for an answer as you tuck tail and hurry for the daycare.

Coward.

The daycare was a world of color. Bright clouds adorned the walls, kids played with multicolored blocks, tiny plastic kitchens sat around the abandoned corner. Mason sat in an offensively bright pink chair gnawing on a toy giraffe.

His entire face lit up the second he spotted you.

Both hands shot into the air as he screeches in greeting.

Well, it wasn’t actual words yet, but close enough.

“Hi buddy!” You crouch down just as Mason starts kicking his legs excitedly.

Then his attention shifts.

Brown eyes lock onto the man behind you. The squealing somehow doubles in volume.

The daycare worker behind him laughed.

“Oh good! I’m assuming this is dad.”

You both froze.

Mason, however, was practically vibrating in his chair.

“Yep,” Robby says after half a beat, offering the daycare worker a tight smile. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder as he extended a hand. “Michael Robinavitch.”

The daycare worker shook it.

“It’s a good thing you’re both here. There are some forms I need you both to fill out.” She quickly hurries off before either of you could respond.

Silence.

You focused very hard on unbuckling Mason from his chair.

Robby focused very hard on Mason.

Neither of you acknowledged the fact that no one had questioned it.

No one asked who he was. No one had looked confused. Just, dad. Like it was obvious.

It probably was.

“Hey, little man,” Robby said, crouching beside you. “How was school?”

Mason immediately launched into an enthusiastic stream of nonsense.

“Really?” Robby asked seriously.

More babbling.

“No way.”

Another squeal.

You rolled your eyes, “he’s lying to you.”

“Is he?”

“Yes.”

Robby nodded thoughtfully.

“That tracks. He does seem dishonest.”

Mason shrieked with delight.

Drama queen.

“You lyin’, Mason?” Robby laughs as he scoops Mason up.

Mason immediately grabbed a fistfull of hoodie strings and shoved them directly towards his mouth.

“See?” Robby said. “Evidence tampering.”

Somehow, Robby managed to balance Mason in one arm while carrying the coffee container in the other.

Effortlessly.

Like he’d been doing it forever.

It had taken you weeks to learn how to juggle a baby and everything else with him. Robby had been a father for barely a month.

Fucking stupid.

“I’ve got the forms here,” the daycare attendant chirped, setting a stack of papers down on a comically small table.

You were already moving.

“I’ll handle it.”

The attendant blinked, “so you’ll both be signing-“

“Yep,” Robby answered easily from behind you.

Your fingers tightened on the pen.

Of course he would.

That was normal.

Fathers signed daycare forms.

Mason chose that moment to smack Robby on the chest.

“Ba!”

“Thank you,” Robby told him gravely. “I thought so too.”

You have half a mind to tell both of them to wait outside.

You dropped into the tiny plastic chair and instantly regretted it. Your knees hit your chin.

Across from you, Robby tried to fill out forms one handed.

“Middle name?” He asked.

“You know his middle name.”

“I know his middle name.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because I’m making conversation.”

“Don’t.”

Mason immediately spotted the half-eaten bagel still sticking out of the paper sleeve in Robby’s hand.

His entire body lunged.

“Oh no,” Robby laughed. “Absolutely not.”

Mason grabbed it anyway. A tiny chunk tore free on Mason’s fist.

You barely looked up from your chunk of paperwork.

“He won?”

“He always wins.”

Mason immediately shoved the bread towards his mouth.

Robby hesitated for all of half a second. Breakfast flashed through his mind.

The peanut butter.

You laughing.

Mason smacking his lips together demanding more.

“He likes literally everything.”

“Tiny garbage disposal,” you mutter.

Robby huffed a laugh. “Fine. One bite.”

Robby swiped a microscopic bit of peanut butter from the bagel onto his finger, letting Mason gum on it.

You signed another form without looking up.

Neither of you thought twice about it.

The forms seem to take ages. Every time you thought you were finished, another page appeared.

Emergency contacts.

Authorized pick ups.

Medical releases.

Finally, the three of you escaped daycare and started down the hallway towards the exit. Or at least attempted to.

“Doctor!”

You pretended not to hear it.

“Doctor!”

Katie’s cheery voice carried across the linoleum floor.

God hated you.

“Faster,” you mutter, quickening your pace.

“I have longer legs than you.” Robby huffed.

Mason was unusually quiet from where his cheek was pressed into Robby’s shoulder. He rubbed his face against the fabric of Robby’s hoodie.

Once.

Then again.

You frowned. “What is he doing?”

Robby glanced down, “Probably tired.”

You don’t have time to overthink it as Katie’s bouncy ponytail stops in front of you. “Doctor!” She beams. “Oh my goodness, and you must be Dr. Robinavitch.”

“Robby is fine,” he mutters, trying to keep you both moving.

“You should swing by the nurses’ station-“

You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “Katie.”

“What? Everyone thought lunch guy was a myth.” She exclaims like that made this whole situation better.

“I hate this hospital.” You groan as you tug your bag higher onto your shoulder.

Robby snorts, “As much as the Pitt?”

Katie points at the three of you then Mason, her mouth falling in an overdramatic gasp. “Okay, wow. He really does look like Dr. Robinavitch.”

“Katie.” You scold.

“Right,” she seems to straighten, “Professionalism.”

She immediately fails at “professionalism” as she wiggles her finger at Mason. “Hi, buddy.”

Mason doesn’t smile back. Weird.

“Aw,” she coos, “Someone is tired.”

You look over at Mason. He was still rubbing his cheek. Not lazily.

Persistently.

His little hand drags across his face before he buries it in Robby’s shoulder. He lets out a wheezing cough.

A knot forms in your stomach.

No.

No, that wasn’t there before.

“Mason?”

Robby shift him high, “Hey, little man.”

Mason turns his head towards his father. That’s when you see it.

A cluster of tiny red bumps around his mouth.

Maybe drool rash.

Maybe from rubbing his face.

Maybe-

“Robby.”

Something in your voice makes him look to you immediately. That’s when his eyes lock on Mason. You reach for Mason’s chin and gently turn his face towards the light.

The bumps extend across one cheek now. They seem darker now.

Angry.

Raised.

The air in the room seems to get heavy.

No.

No no no no.

Not him.

Mason lets out another wheezy cough.

“What did he eat?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended.

Robby’s eyebrows pinch together.

“Nothing abnormal-“

You see it happen. The exact second his face changes. He sees them too.

Not drool rash.

Hives.

“Oh, fuck.”

You both move. Feet pounding against the floor as you rush to the emergency department. Katie startles as Robby shoves past her.

The emergency department was three halls away.

Too far.

Farther than it had ever been before.

“MOVE!”

Heads turn as the doors to the trauma bay are kicked open. Mason’s set down on the gurney as the medical team swarms him.

Mason coughs again.

Not that sound.

You’ve heard that sound before.

And for the first time since he walked back into your life, Robby looked scared.

The air leaves your lungs on a harsh woosh. It’s like you're witnessing everything from outside your own body. All of the horrific traumas you’ve seen, and this is the one that takes you out?

Fucking move!

You faintly hear someone call for respiratory. Someone pulling supplies. Someone holding Robby back.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Every instinct in your body screams at you to move.

“Weight?”

You know his weight.

Of course you know his weight.

Why can’t you remember it?

“Possible allergen?”

You can’t answer. The room is too bright. Too cold. Your son shouldn’t be in a cold room. Why can’t you move?

Strong arms wrap around you, suddenly your feet aren’t on the ground anymore. The doors shut behind you.

No.

They can’t do that.

They can’t close the doors.

You’re a god damned doctor.

Mason is in there.

Mason is in there.

“Hey,” you don’t hear it. Two warm hands grip the sides of your face forcing your eyes away from the doors. “Hey, he’s going to be okay.”

Your eyes meet those brown eyes. Those sad sad brown eyes.

Mason’s eyes

No.

Michael’s.

“He’s going to be okay,” it sounded like you were underwater.

You faintly hear a voice that sounded like your own say, “Doctor’s can’t lie.”

“I’m not,” his voice cracks, “Baby, I’m not.”

A cry you would know everywhere sounds from trauma room three.

Mason.

Thank fuck.

The sound only lasts for a second before a doctor steps out, pulling off her gloves. You recognize her, one of the attendings.

Good.

“We’re going to keep him for observation.” She says, “the reaction responded well.”

Responded well.

Stable.

Observation.

Words you used everyday.

Words you had said to parents a thousand times.

Words that meant absolutely nothing.

The attending says something else, but you don’t hear it.

Beside you, Robby’s grip tightened on your hand. Neither of you let go.

You’d spent years learning how to save children.

Countless shifts, boards, sacrifices, and missed holidays. Every awful thing.

Mason was twenty feet away.

Twenty feet.

Mason had two parents standing twenty feet away.

That’s all.

Twenty fucking feet.

You’d moved his daycare across town because being closer was supposed to matter.

You’d picked the hospital daycare because you could get there in two minutes.

Two minutes.

Turns out twenty feet wasn’t close enough either.

All this time you had been trying to protect him. And none of it mattered.

Because the worst thing to ever happen to him happened while you were holding the other end of a pen signing daycare paperwork.

You spend years learning how to save children.

Standing outside trauma room three, it didn’t mean jack shit.

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He was a baby. And he was a boy.

Why did it need to be spelled out like that though?

Were you looking for issues and red flags? Absolutely. You might have also be looking for problems that weren’t there.

Fuck it. If it worked for you then it worked.

Robby showed up like he said he would, every time, often with coffee or takeout, his questions about bottles and sleep schedules clinical in their precision and annoying in how much thought he was putting into this.

Did you want him to be a deadbeat father? No. Well… it wouldn’t have messed up your routine if he was. Okay, maybe you should take Jack up on his offer of his therapist number.

That’s exactly how you ended up in the front seat of your car on a zoom call during your lunch break. The Therapist was a stockier man, with too thick glasses and this little handlebar mustache. Jack had mentioned his therapist was eccentric, but you wouldn’t have pegged Jack for trusting this guy with his mental health.

You had spent the better half of the session shrugging off his questions and giving halfhearted answers. At least you actually accepted the zoom call.

The therapist’s pen kept tapping and tapping against his desk.

“May I ask why you came to therapy? Doctor, you don’t seem to truly want help. Is this your attempt to go through the motions?”

You don’t answer that.

“You have been doing this alone for months,” he tries again, setting his pen down and crossing his hands. He leans forward, taking up most of the screen. That technique might have worked if you were in person, but a computer screen wasn’t going to intimidate you. “What exactly are you afraid will happen if Mason loves his father?”

Ouch.

“When is the last time you slept without listening for Mason to cry?”

Never.

With a bullseye question, meant to receive a reaction, the therapist asks, “Do you resent Mason’s father for leaving… or coming back?”

Your attention snaps to the little man on the screen. “What kind of question is that?” You snap.

The therapist hummed softly, like you had confirmed something for him instead of dodging the question entirely.

“And when something frightening happens,” he continues carefully, “when Mason is sick, or when you are overwhelmed, or when you are scared… who do you allow to take care of you?”

Your jaw tightened.

“I’m a doctor. I take care of it.”

“Yes,” he says gently, “I gathered that.”

Silence stretched between you.

His eyes flickered down briefly, probably to his notes, before settling back on the screen.

“You speak about Mason like he is the only thing tethering you to the world,” he said. “But you speak about yourself like you are temporary.”

Something cold crawled up your spine.

“That’s dramatic.”

“Is it inaccurate?”

You suck your teeth as the cars passing by suddenly became very interesting.

The therapist leans back slightly, adjusting his glasses. “You are angry that Doctor Robinavitch stayed.”

Your laugh came out sharp. “No, I’m angry that he left.”

“I believe both can be true.”

He doesn’t give you room to rebuttal. You can see why Jack likes him.

“You built a life where abandonment could no longer surprise you,” he continued. “A routine where no one could disappoint you because no one was close enough to matter.” He pauses in the way that therapists do when they want you to hear them. “Now, the father of your child is showing up consistently, and instead of relief, you feel threatened.”

You swallow hard.

“Why?”

“Aren’t shrinks not supposed to tell you how you feel?”

“Why do you feel threatened by him?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

Your fingers fiddle with your ID badge.

He watched you carefully for a moment before asking quietly, “What happens to you… if Mason no longer needs only you?”

No. Absolutely not.

You reached forward so quickly the camera jolted.

“I think we’re done here.”

“Doctor- “

You slam the screen of your laptop before he can finish. There goes your entire lunch break, wasted.

The drive home from work is a blur. You faintly recall relaying the day’s events to Mason while he sat in his car seat.

What happens if Mason no longer needs you?

Asshole.

By the time you make it back to the apartment, dusk had settled over the city in soft blue shadows. Mason was fussy from missing a nap, which honestly you felt the same considering how your day had been ruined.

“Yeah, I know bud,” you muttered, balancing him against your shoulder while digging in your bag for your keys. “Your life is hard, huh?”

Mason responded by grabbing a fist full of your hair.

“Fantastic. Thank you.”

The second you stepped inside; the closing routine took over.

Bottle.

Burp cloth.

Diaper.

White noise.

It should have calmed you down. Usually, it did.

Tonight, every quiet moment left room for doubts and fears to creep in.

A routine where no one could disappoint you because no one was close enough to matter.

You aggressively wiped down the kitchen counter.

What exactly are you afraid of if Mason loves his father?

You nearly chucked the disinfectant bottle across the room.

The knock came as Mason just started drifting off in his crib. Wails fill the apartment again. Great.

For one irrational second, your brain supplied: he left something here. Like he belonged here long enough to leave something behind.

Another knock, softer this time. You glance at Google Calendar on your phone, yep he did plan this.

“You home?” Robby’s muffled voice calls through the door. “I can hear Mason.”

There he was. Your problem.

Because the second you heard his voice, something in your chest relaxed despite everything.

You drag yourself from the couch and pull the front door open. “Sorry, your son has decided to test out his ambulance impression.”

Robby chuckles at that, “Figures. He’s pretty good at it.” He stepped inside without waiting to be invited, setting his backpack, and kicking off his shoes in a neat pile next to yours.

You can feel your blood pressure spike.

This was exactly what the therapist had been talking about.

“Sorry I’m late, there was a massive wreck…” he trails off as he finally stops and takes you in. His all too knowing eyes scan over your body. “You should take a shower, I’ll get Mason.”

You want to tell him no on principle alone. Unfortunately, a shower sounded really good. With a sigh you nod and slink off towards the bathroom.

You pull the hordes of bath toys and bath seat out of the tub before cranking the shower handle as hot as it’ll go. Steam creeps into every crevice and hole in your mind. It was nice. This was nice being able to stand under the hot shower for longer than a few minutes before Mason needed you. You loved your boy, but god was it nice to take a moment. That didn’t make you less of a mother. That’s what you would tell parents when they would come into the hospital worried they had ruined their child. Why couldn’t you tell yourself that?

You’re toweling off and batting the steam from the room before the air can become heavy and choke you. The crying had stopped… had it stopped a long time ago? Fuck. Why wasn’t he crying?

As you speed to the nursery, you hear the soft voice of Robby.

“Before you go to sleep,” he sings softly bouncing a dozing Mason gently in his arms. “Say a little prayer.”

He strolls the room showing Mason things. Like the picture of the birds above his diaper changing station.

“Every day, in every way,” he takes his son to the window and tilts him just slightly so he can look out the window. You both know Mason was fighting sleep but would succumb any second now.

“It’s getting better and better,” Robby settles into the rocking chair, taking special care to not jostle Mason. He hums softly as he strokes Mason cheek. A tiny hand hangs onto his dad’s shirt, like he couldn’t part with him even in sleep. The smile lights up Robby’s entire face.

“Darling Mason…goodnight Son,” Robby settles in against the rocking chair like he’s prepared to be used as a makeshift crib for the rest of the night. “See you in the morning, bright and early.”

Maybe if things had gone right you would have made your way over to them. Teased Robby about his goofy lyric changes. Maybe you would be a family in that made up universe. But you didn’t have that. You wouldn’t have that. You couldn’t have that. Right?

It’s ridiculous to consider.

Robby’s eyes catch yours from where you stand in the doorway. He smiles softly, his cheeks flushed.

“He didn’t want to be put down,” he explains a little sheepishly. He rises slowly from the rocker, bringing a sound asleep Mason to you. “Say goodnight to mama.”

You wipe your eyes and bite back a sniffle. What had gotten into you?

He watches you as you take Mason from his arms like it was something the two of you had practiced. Automatic. One hand supporting the back of his head while the other settled beneath his diapered bottom. Mason made a sleepy little noise against your shoulder, immediately curling into you without waking fully. His tiny hand stays clamped in Robby’s shirt and his father didn’t have the heart to pry the little hand off of him.

Robby’s chest ached. As he stepped into your space to keep the three of you connected.

You swayed gently on instinct, cheek brushing against the soft fuzz of Mason’s hair while you adjusted the blanket around him. Your hair was still damp from the shower. One of your old college shirts hung loose on your frame, the faded hem brushing your thighs.

Domestic.

Warm.

Dangerous.

Mason's tiny fist stayed tangled in the front of Robby’s shirt for a second longer before slipping free with a sleepy twitch. The loss of the tiny weight in his arms fell immediately.

And then you smiled.

Not at him.

At Mason.

Small and exhausted and so unbearably soft it knocked the air clean out of his lungs. Something in Robby shifted violently. Because for one perfect second, this felt like he finally found his home.

Not the city.

Not the apartment.

You and Mason.

The dim nursery light.

The sound machine humming softly in the corner.

This.

This felt like the life he was supposed to have. His eyes lifted from Mason to you just as you glanced up. And maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact you had finally stopped looking at him like an intruder for half a second. Maybe it was because your face was still soft from smiling.

Whatever it was, it made his brain felt like goo.

Robby leaned down before he fully realized he was moving.

You stilled. Not pulling away but not leaning in either.

Just watching him with tired eyes. Too close.

He could see the faint dampness still clinging to your lashes from the shower steam. The tiny crease between your brows that always appeared when you were overwhelmed. The way your lips parted slightly like you were about to say something.

His gaze dropped there automatically.

Memory was a cruel thing. He knew this distance. Knew this moment. Knew what used to come next.

His head dipped slightly, his forehead almost touching yours, before his brain caught up with the rest of him.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Robby stopped so abruptly it looked painful. Like slamming on the breaks before a collision. Horror flashed across his face, as he was sure it was flashing across yours.

“Sorry,” he said immediately, voice rough. He took a step back; he nearly bumped into the rocker. “Fuck. I'm so sorry.”

The softness vanished from the room instantly.

Your entire body tightened around Mason protectively, like the door he had worked so hard to open was slamming shut in his face.

Somehow, that hurt worse than if you had yelled.

You sidestep around him, trying to put some distance between you. “I’m just… I’m gonna put him down.”

“Yeah, yeah okay,” said quietly as he rubs the back of his neck.

The nursery light cast everything in soft gold as you laid Mason down in the crib. For a terrible moment, you thought Mason would wake fully and start crying again.

Instead, your son only sighed softly and turned his face toward the mattress.

Robby stood there for a second longer, one hand resting lightly against the crib rail.

Then he stepped away.

The walk back to the living room felt unbearable now. Too small. Too quiet. The apartment suddenly felt crowded.

Robby grabbed his backpack from beside the door.

“I should probably go,” he said.

Probably.

Like he hadn’t already decided the second he saw your face.

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “Yeah.”

His jaw flexed. He nodded once.

“I really am sorry.”

And you believed him.

“That’s kind of the problem,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

Robby went still.

You hated that your chest felt heavy after saying it. Hated that part of you wanted to take it back. Hated even more that another part wanted him to understand exactly what you meant.

“I wasn’t trying to-”

“I know.”

That seemed to shut him up more effectively than anger would have.

Silence stretched between you again.

Then, quietly you say, “I’ll text you tomorrow about Mason’s checkup.”

Back to schedules, calendars, and safe things.

“Okay.” He lingered for half a second too long before finally heading for the door. The apartment felt different after he left. Not better. Just emptier.

You stood there listening to the fading sound of his footsteps in the hallway until they disappeared completely.

Your phone buzzed against the counter.

Google Calendar Reminder:

Robby- Thursday breakfast.

Your stomach twisted.

The apartment had become measured in time.

Feedings, wake windows, nap schedules, reminders.

Survival broken down into manageable pieces.

Time was the only constant thing because it moved forward whether people stayed or not.

Somewhere between shared calendars and evening visits and coffee cups left in your sink, time had continued moving forward.

And against your better judgment, Robby had moved with it.

Your phone buzzed again.

Unknown number:

I have an opening on Thursday if you are interested in continuing our session.

You stared at the message from the therapist for a long time.

Then type back:

Unfortunately.

AN: everyone say thank you to @killora1708 for the song suggestion.

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Then, on a rainy Thursday afternoon, a plain white envelope appeared in your mail box at St. Mary’s. Your name written in a precise legal script. Inside was a single sheet of paper-a formal, notarized document waiving all paternal rights and responsibilities, signed by Michael Robinavitch, M.D.

At the bottom, in a messier hand, he’d written: I’m so sorry. This is what you wanted, right?

“What the hell did you do?” You whisper, your hands shaking so violently the paper rattled. You didn’t think. You just moved.

Mason was already in his car seat from the daycare pick up. You buckled him into the back of your car with trembling fingers and drove to PTMC through the rain soaked streets, the waiver crumped in the passenger seat.

You burst through the ER doors, Mason’s carrier clutched to your chest like a shield. The familiar chaos of the trauma center-beeping monitors, shouted orders, the smell of antiseptic and sweat-swirled around you.

“Where is he?!” You demanded at the nurses’ station, your voice cracking.

Dana Evans looked up from a chart, her expression shifting from professional focus to immediate concern. “Honey, what’s-“

Your eyes scanned the room and found him. Robby was across the bay, his back to you, leaning over a gurney where an elderly man was coughing violently. He was in his element, calm, focused, adjusting an oxygen mask. He looked exhausted but steady, the dark circles under his eyes a permanent fixture again.

You started towards him, the carrier bumping against your hip. “Robby!”

He turned. The moment he saw you-and the baby carrier in your arms- all the color drained from his face.

You thrust the carrier towards Dana, who took it automatically, her eyes wide. “Michael Robinavitch,” you said, your voice low and firm, “outside. Now. So I can yell at you without our son hearing.”

You didn’t wait for a reply. You turned and strode through the double doors of the ambulance bay, the cool, rain fresh air hitting your heated face. The moment you were under the overhang, you whirled around, the crumpled waiver in your hand like a sword.

Robby followed you out, the doors sliding shut behind him, cutting off the ER noise. He looked pale, his jaw tight.

"YOU SIGNED THIS?!" you shouted, shaking the paper at him. The rain pattered on the asphalt around you. "I didn't want this! I never wanted this!"

He flinched, but held his ground. "You said you were scared I'd take him," he said, his voice flat, defeated. "You wouldn't let me hold him. You looked at me like I was a threat. What was I supposed to think you wanted? A coffee date? You wanted me gone. Legally. You win."

He said it like it was a smile clinical decision, but his hands were clenched into white-knuckled fist at his sides.

"God," you said, your voice breaking as you crumpled the waiver into a ball and shoved it hard against his chest. "I could throttle you!" You hammered his chest with your fist, the blows weak with frustration. "I was scared, you idiot, not that I didn't want you!" you yelled, tears of frustration welling and spilling over.

Robby didn't try to stop you. He stood there. taking the feeble punches, the crumpled paper pressed between your hand and his scrubs. Your words seemed to short-circuit his defeated resignation. His hands came up, not to push you away, but to gently catch your wrist.

"Scared," he repeated, his voice rough. He searched your face, his own eyes wide with a desperate, dawning hope. "Scared of what? Tell me. Please."

The fight drained out of you as quickly as it had come. You sagged against him, your forehead coming to rest against his shoulder. The smell of hospital soap and stale coffee was achingly familiar.

"That you'd stay because you had to," you whispered into the fabric of his scrub top, the admission tearing out of you. "That you'd resent us. That you'd look at him one day and see a trap. I was so scared you'd take him away because I kept him from you. And it would hurt him more than never knowing you at all."

He was silent for a long moment, his hands still wrapped around your wrist. Then, slowly, he released one to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair.

"Baby," he breathed. "Look at me."

"You have to fix that paper," you said, nodding at the crumpled waiver still pressed between you. Your voice was steadier now, edged wit a quiet, firm resolve.

Robby looked down at it as if he'd forgotten it was there. He took it from your hand, his fingers brushing yours. He didn't open it, just held the ruined ball of legal paper in his palm.

"It's already void," he said quietly, his gaze lifting back to yours. "The notary... I went to her yesterday. Told her I made a catastrophic mistake. She shredded her copy. This is the only one left." he gave a small, humorless shake of his head. "I was going to burn it. I just... I didn't know..."

He looked utterly spent, the weight of the last week- the last year- pressing down on him. The rain had picked up, a soft hiss against the pavement.

"I don't want to be gone," he whispered. "I want to be here. However you'll let me. Even if it's just... coffee."

"You're a jackass, Michael Robinavitch," you shove yourself away from him and rubbing at your wet eyes. "You're a jackass who let me get mailed a waiver. You're a jackass who didn't show up the next morning." The words came out in a rush, the anger leaving you as you said them, leaving you hollow and trembling.

He didn't argue. He just nodded, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the truth. "Yeah," he said. "I am. It was the stupidest, most cowardly thing I've ever done."

He looked down at the ruined waiver in his hand, then back at you, his expression raw. "I'm sorry I didn't come back. I sat in my car outside your building for three hours that next morning. I couldn't make myself knock. I was so terrified of seeing that look on your face again."

The rain was a curtain around the bay, isolating the two of you in a world of wet asphalt and harsh fluorescent light. The fight was gone, leaving only the wreckage and the faint, terrifying possibility of something new.

You dropped the ruined waiver into a shallow puddle at your feet. it landed with a soft plop, the ink already beginning to bleed into a blue-gray smear. You watched it for a second, then stomped on it, grinding the paper into the wet asphalt with the heel of your show until it was an unrecognizable pulp.

You wiped your running nose with the back of you hand, your shoulder slumping. "Stomp on it," you ordered. "It helps."

Robby watched you. Then, without a word, he placed his own shoe over the mangled paper, pressing down. He didn't look at you; he looked at the ground, as if destroying this last, stupid symbol was a solemn duty.

When he lifted his foot, nothing remained but a wet, grey stain.

He finally met your eyes. "It's gone," he said, his voice quiet. "It never existed."

The silence between you was different now- not charged with anger, but heavy with exhaustion and the sheer, daunting scale of what came next.

Tags: @motelgloss @generation-zero @noisynightmarepoetry @youknowiloveyou-so @xoxabs88xox @princessofthalia @proudlyvastlake @jam3s-x @ozwriterchick @the-annoying-fan @realwhoreforfictionalmen @thesewordsareallihavetogive @whatupbuttercup2019 @lifetimeofadventue @1dhoe93 @v33mustdie @rkentzler9 @agentknowitall @thehockeynerd30 @staystrongsoa @ilocuras24 @liveeverydaylikepretzelday @lillly-ofthevalley @sushirollprincess @kittenlittle24 @xpeachyesx @killora1708 @ap1390 @optimistictacosaladcloud @danah-20 @msliz @adrestlyd @countryandsweetbabygirl @justjoanhere @lovehadlovelost @777bambi777 @fudge13 @amberpanda99 @shashasimba1996 @kishie8 @vicky066 @snovvv @imabapical @prettyflowerlily @stardream14 @pinguphd @southernshorty @noob-saibotx @louisbelongstome28 @violetdelrey007 @kay8907 @valentinevampp @mscreativity @unsaidjaelinrose @possiblyafangirl @hauntedduckdefendor @kissalready @nellabear @aleemendoza2425-blog @toxicwasteee

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“She’s here and stable. You can come in now, Dr. Abbot…” Dr. King tells him, stepping out of the room.

A second later, Jack is by your side.

You’re laying in the hospital bed with IV fluids running through your arm and a bandage on your forehead. You got dizzy and collapsed suddenly while helping people in triage, and Mel found you after patients started shouting for help. She’d happened to be outside saying goodbye to her sister when it happened.

“Jack…” you mumble weakly.

“Darling, what happened?” His voice softens immediately at the sight of you.

They had to call him because he’s your emergency contact. He had the day off, and now he’s back at work when he’s supposed to be resting.

“I…” You hadn’t cried until now. Seeing him so worried about you is a lot for your heart to take. You didn’t mean to break down. “I don’t know—they’re running some tests…”

You’re a doctor. You should know better. You should know what’s going on with you, but your mind is running wild and you can’t think straight.

He glances at Mel, and only then do you spot Robby standing in the corner with his arms crossed, watching the entire thing unfold. Definitely not a funny sight—seeing your senior resident, who also happens to be married to his best friend, lying in a hospital bed when she’s supposed to be working.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asks Mel.

“Dizziness, fatigue. Could be exhaustion. She has a superficial laceration from the fall, nothing serious, but we’re running some labs just to be safe. Results should be coming soon.”

He nods, his hands cupping your face as he presses soft kisses to your cheeks.

“Dana called me. I was nearby running errands and my heart just sank. I was so scared…”

“I know. I know. But I’m okay. I’m fine.” You take a shaky breath.

Jack nods softly before kissing you again, this time on the lips.

A knock on the door startles all of you, and Perlah walks in. She hands a tablet to Mel, who immediately shows it to Robby. His eyes widen slightly as he zooms in on the screen.

“What is it?”

“What’s wrong?”

You and Jack ask at the same time.

“They ran it twice?” Robby asks quietly.

Perlah nods.

He exhales and hands the tablet over to Jack.

“hCG levels are in the thousands,” Robby says carefully.

You gasp.

Jack’s mouth goes dry, and your eyes snap toward him.

“What…” you mumble faintly.

“You’re pregnant?” Jack asks, his voice almost breathless.

Your lips tremble.

“I didn’t know…” you whisper. “I swear I didn’t—”

Tears stream down your face as your heart pounds violently in your chest.

“Shhh… sweetheart, it’s okay…” Jack whispers against your temple, wrapping his arms around you instantly.

Mel clears her throat gently, and you look at her expectantly.

“Now that we know what’s going on, I’m going to make a referral to OB. Congratulations, guys. We’re going to monitor you for a couple more hours and then you can go home, okay?”

You hum shakily.

Robby shrugs lightly. “Congratulations, guys. You’re going to be amazing parents. We’ll leave you two alone for now so you can talk.”

“Thanks, brother,” Jack says quietly.

Robby nods once before they all file out of the room, leaving the door shut behind them.

The second you’re alone, you start sobbing.

“Jack… I can’t be pregnant. This wasn’t in my plans…” you cry. “I mean, yeah, I want to be a mom one day, but I’m just finishing my residency, and I wanted us to enjoy being married for a couple more years like we talked about before having children, but now… now…” Your breathing shakes. “I’m so scared, Jack. I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Yes, you can.”

His voice is calm and steady, grounding you immediately.

“You don’t have anything to be scared of. We already are a family, but if this is happening, and our kid is making their grand entrance into the world by scaring their parents half to death, then I already know they’re going to be an amazing addition to our little life.”

“Our little life…” you repeat softly.

“Yes, my love.” He presses his forehead against yours. “You’re not alone in this. I’m going to be with you every step of the way like the husband you love and married, and I’m going to be a dad to that little baby. The one they deserve. We’re going to be a great family.”

His hand slides gently down to rest over your stomach.

“And you?” he murmurs. “You’re going to be an amazing mother. You already love kids. Every time they come into the ER, you’re the best thing they remember afterward. I’m sure of it.”

“You really mean that?”

“Of course I do.” He laughs softly, though his eyes are glassy. “God, I’m scared too. I don’t know how to be a dad. Hell, I didn’t even think being a father was ever going to be in the cards for me until I met you.”

“You’re going to be an amazing dad, Jack…”

His eyes light up at that, and suddenly you start crying all over again.

Now everything makes sense.

The dizziness. The nausea. Why you’ve been more tired than usual even though your routine hadn’t changed.

You’re carrying a baby that’s part you and part Jack.

The love of your life has given you a part of himself, and now it’s growing inside you.

“I’m so happy, baby.” He caresses your cheek with his thumb, wiping away another tear.

“I’m still scared,” you admit with a watery laugh, “but I’m happy too.”

You kiss him softly and breathe in the familiar scent of his cologne.

“Wanna tell everyone so they can start a betting pool?” Jack jokes quietly. “I’m putting fifty bucks on a girl.”

You laugh through your tears.

“You do look like a girl dad to me.”

You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck and hug him tightly.

“The next one will be a boy,” he says confidently.

You pull back immediately.

“We just found out I’m pregnant with our first and you’re already planning our next kid?”

“Yes,” Jack replies without hesitation. “I want four.”

“Jack!”

—

“Brought food.”

“Mason’s three months. He can’t have solids.”

“Fuck, I’m a doctor, I really should have thought about that.” He says rubbing at the back of his neck.

“You should have,” you say, going to scoop Mason out of his swing. “But you’re an ER doctor not a pediatrician.”

Robby steps into your apartment, taking it in in the daytime. It looked different. He’d been here last night, nothing had changed. Maybe it was just different being here when he wasn’t on his knees begging for answers. He knew the secret being kept in these walls now. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a little special being let in.

He still was going to grovel though.

“The donuts aren’t just for Mason.”

You ignore him. Choosing instead to wipe drool from Mason’s chubby cheeks.

Robby sucked in a breath when you carried Mason over to him. He set the donut bag down on the table with the care of someone trying not to startle a wounded animal. He took a step closer, then another, until he was standing right in front of you. His gaze fixed entirely on Mason.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered, his voice shaking. He didn’t reach out, didn’t make a move to take him from you, he just looked. 

Mason stared back unblinking. Then, with the solemn gravity only a baby can muster, he reached one chubby hand out towards Robby’s face.

Robby froze. He looked to you, a silent question in his eyes.

“He wants to say hi,” you murmur.

Robby’s throat worked as he swallowed. He leaned in, just a fraction, bringing his face within reach of Mason’s grabby hand. His son’s tiny fingers brushed his cheek, then patted it clumsily.

Yeah, that’ll do it.

A sound escapes Robby- a choked off half laugh, half sob. His eyes closed for a second, as he leaned into his son’s touch. When his brown eyes opened, they were glistening.

“Hey, kid,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I’m your dad.”

Mason, who was apparently satisfied with his investigation, let out a small giggle. Only your son would laugh at a serious moment. Robby carded a hand through his graying hair and let out a deep breath he had been holding.

Robby straightened up, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay. He looked at you, a world of gratitude and terror in his expression. He was a dad now, overnight he became someone’s father.

Fuck, that’s serious business.

You gesture awkwardly towards the couch. The apartment felt too quiet, the significance of the moment pressing in from all sides.

This might be a good moment for everyone involved to take a breath.

In.

Out.

You took a seat on the couch, settling a wiggly Mason on your lap. The cushions were worn, but comfortable. Had you been thinking, you might have tried to get the obvious baby vomit stain out of the cushion. 

Swallowing your pride, you call out, “Do you want to hold him?”

This was for Mason. All of this is for Mason.

Robby’s fiddling stopped. For a long moment, you swore you could hear a pen drop. He looked from you to Mason. He tried to cover his intense longing, but he was never very good at schooling his facial expressions.

“You sure?”

“Not really…”

“Yes,” he croaked, before you could change your mind. He wiped his hands off on his pants. “God, yes.”

He came over slowly. He took the seat next to you on the couch, leaving a foot of space between you. He held out his arms, his hands clearly clammy. 

“How do I…?” he started, then stopped, looking at you helplessly.

“You’re a doctor, Michael.” you said softly with a roll of your eyes. “I’ve seen you catch babies in the ER.”

“It’s different when it’s your own.”

You help settle Mason against Robby’s chest. His arms tighten instinctively, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Mason’s head with his large rough hands. He looked down, and his entire face morphed. Leaving someone so raw and vulnerable it made your own breath catch.

He left you. You scold yourself. Maybe in a different life you would let yourself take a breath and enjoy this moment. That didn’t stop the voice at the back of your head from wanting to take Mason and run out the front door.

Mason, for his part, seemed perfectly content. He blinked up at his father, then let out a soft, gurgling sigh, his little body relaxing into the curve of his father’s arm. Had Mason always looked so little? Or was it just that Robby was holding him?

Robby didn’t speak. His eyes traced every feature. A single tear escaped., tracing a clean path down his cheek before he roughly wiped it away with his shoulder. He bent his head, his nose brushing against the soft fuzz of Mason’s hair and breathed in deeply.

When he finally looked up at you, his eyes were red-rimmed but clear. Probably clearer than you had ever seen them. “He smells like you,” he muttered, his voice absolutely wrecked. “And… and baby shampoo.”

He held your gaze, and in that silent look was an apology, a thank you, and a promise, all tangled together.

“I’m uh… I’m going to make coffee.”

This was weird. No, this was really fucking weird.

You found yourself standing in the middle of your kitchen pretending to make lunch. Or a bottle. Or fuck, anything. Mason was laying on his play mat, teething on a toy. Robby sat on the couch staring at Mason like he’d discovered something holy.

Robby’s breath hitched when Mason dropped his toy causing his little lip to wobble.

“Hey, little dude, there’s no need for that.” Robby cooed softly scooping the toy up. He held it out until his son’s tiny fingers attempted to curl around it. Mason quickly abandons the toy in favor of gripping his father’s much larger fingers. Robby’s hand trembles slightly, not out of fear. No, he was committing his son to memory. The soft tufts of brown hair, the long lashes, the tiny perfect fingers curled around his in an attempt to keep him close. “I’m not going anywhere, Mason… daddy’s not going anywhere.”

He was too good with him. They were both too good with each other. Why did it make your chest ache? 

Not in the simmering with rage way.

In a quieter way.

A way that makes you feel like you missed out on something.

No. No! This was weird as hell. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. They weren’t supposed to gravitate towards each other. Robby wasn’t supposed to actually show up after last night. No, he was supposed to tuck tail and run. Like he always did.

He’d see a son. 

Mason was supposed to be yours. All yours. You didn’t want to share. 

But the faint babbles and muttered words you hear over the sound of the coffee pot make the edges of your eyes sting. It was like they were having a conversation only they could understand. 

Were you being selfish? 

Mason deserved his father. You knew that.

So why did this feel like losing something instead of gaining it?

Mason’s excited squeal pulled you from your thoughts.

You looked over just in time to see him kick both legs hard against the mat while Robby made an exaggerated gasp.

“Oh, you think that’s funny?” he asked solemnly. “You’re bullying me already? That feels unfair. I’ve only known I was a father for like… twelve hours.”

Mason rewarded him and punished you with another delighted babble.

Traitor.

Robby looked absurd sitting cross-legged on your living room floors, letting a three-month-old “back talk” him.

Maybe that part was messing with your head.

He looked comfortable here.

Not like a visitor.

Not like a man panicking through an obligation.

Like a dad.

Like he had slipped into the empty space in your apartment that had been waiting for him the entire time.

Your stomach was in knots.

No. Absolutely not.

You turned back to the counter before your thought could spiral any further.

“Do you want sugar in your coffee?” you called as you hands gripped the counter until your knuckles were white.

“Do you still buy that awful vanilla creamer?”

You paused.

“...yeah?”

“Then yeah.”

Shit, something sharp lodged itself beneath your ribs.

Because he had remembered.

This was all too much. Get the coffees and survive. This had to be a game to him. All of this was just a silly little game.

You knew somewhere deep down that it wasn’t.

This wasn’t supposed to become an all day affair.

The setting sun slanted through the window, catching the dust motes in the air. The coffee cups sat on the coffee table, yours was still full and Robby’s long finished. He had somehow managed to hold Mason in one arm while balancing a coffee in the other. The TV was playing some rerun of a medical show from the 90s. You weren’t watching it. Really, you should have been cherishing these moments for Mason. Maybe getting a photo or two. If you weren’t so stuck in your own head with your hackles raised you might have.

Robby’s entire being seemed focused on the small weight in his arms. He shifted slightly, adjusting his hold, his thumb stroking a gentle rhythm against Mason’s back.

Mason’s eyes grew heavy, his long lashes fluttering. A soft, milky bubble formed at his lips and popped. Robby watched it, a faint, wondering smile touching his own mouth.

“He’s falling asleep,” he whispered, as if announcing a medical miracle. Mason had never fallen asleep for you that fast. The thought irked you.

Robby looked up at you, the awe in his expression so profound it was almost painful to witness. 

“Do you want me to take him?” it came out calmer than you felt. You wanted your baby back even though realistically, you knew moving Mason would wake him. Robby was none the wiser to the storm brewing in your head.

Robby’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around the sleeping baby. He shook his head, a quick, decisive movement. “No,” he whispered, his gaze still fixed on Mason’s peaceful face. “Please. Let me… just a little longer.”

He leaned back against the couch cushions, settling in once again as if he planned to stay there for hours. 

He had been around all day. What more could he want?

Granted, you had been avoiding the two of them as much as you could. 

One hand came up to gently smooth down a stray wisp of hair on Mason’s forehead. “I missed this,” he said. “I didn’t even know I was missing it, but I did. Every second of it.”

He finally looked at you, his expression open and unguarded. “Thank you for letting me see him. For… for letting me have this.”

Fuck, well now you just felt like shit. How were you supposed to justify your “mine!” behavior to yourself when he said things like that?

You took a breath, then reached over and gently adjusted the soft, blue baby blanket tucked around Mason, smoothing a fold near his shoulder. Your fingers brushed against Robby’s arm as you did so. Not intentionally, but a fleeting point of contact you would ignore but he was probably reading into.

He didn’t move away. He watched your hands, then looked back at Mason’s sleeping face. ‘I don’t know what I am doing,” he admitted in a hushed voice. “I’ve intubated newborns. I’ve done chest compression on infants smaller than this. But I have no idea how to just… be a dad.”

Sure, doesn’t look like that.

He looked at you, his expression lost. “What if I get it wrong?”

The question hung in the dimly lit room. It wasn’t the fear of a man trying to escape responsibility, but of one who desperately wanted to get it right.

His brows furrowed, reading your silence as confirmation he was doing everything wrong instead of as the hurricane threatening to tear everything down. “What if I get it catastrophically wrong?” he pressed.

The questions weren’t rhetorical. He was asking you, the person who had been doing this alone for three months, for a prognosis.

Before you could answer, Mason stirred in his sleep, letting out a tiny, discontented whimper. Robby froze, his entire body rigid with alarm. He looked down at his son, then back at you, eyes wide with panic. “What do I do?”

A small part of you was overjoyed that he wasn’t some super dad.

You clear your throat, thinking twice before offering help.

For Mason.

“You rock him, like this,” you reach over to demonstrate a gentle, swaying motion with your own arms. “Just like the babies in the Pitt.”

Robby watched your hands, then mimicked the movement, his larger frame making the motion a little stiff at first. Mason’s whimper softened into a sigh, and he settled back into deep sleep, his cheek smooshed against Robby’s shirt.

“See? You’re already worrying about him. That’s the job.”

A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding escaped in a quiet rush. “The job,” he repeated slowly, as if testing the weight of the word.

He leaned his head back against the couch, still rocking Mason in a slow, steady rhythm. “I don’t think this is like any job I’ve had before. This… this isn’t fixing. This is building something from scratch. And I don’t have the blueprint.”

His brown eyes searched yours. “I want the blueprint.”

You shrug, slowly standing up to clean up from the day. “There isn’t one.”

A faint, answering smile touched his lips. It softened the lines of exhaustion around his eyes. “I don’t know how to do this right. But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

It was a question of permission to step into this world with you. The world you weren’t sure you wanted him in.

“Okay.”

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“I wanna talk to him-”

“No, me first-”

“Mom-”

You laugh softly. “Wait, wait- one at a time.”

Too late.

You barely manage to switch to speaker before all three of them are crowding in.

“Dad! I finished my homework-”

“I beat him at the game-”

“Can we come see you-”

Brendon lets out a quiet breath on the other end, but there’s a smile in it. “Hey, hey,” he says. “I can’t understand any of you.”

They don’t stop.

You just shake your head, amused.

“Alright,” he says, a little firmer but still warm. “One at a time.” They try. They fail.

You can practically hear him smiling. Then his voice shifts slightly. Softer.

“Where’s my girl?”

That gets your youngest’s attention immediately.

You move the phone toward her. “Baby, it’s Daddy.”

“Hi, Daddy,” she says, small and bright.

And just like that, he melts.

“Hi, princess,” he murmurs. “What are you doing, huh?”

She babbles happily, words half-formed but enthusiastic, and he listens like it’s the most important conversation he’s had all day.

“Yeah?” he hums. “That sounds serious.”

After a moment, she’s done, handing the phone back like she’s satisfied.

You bring it back up. “We can bring your lunch if you want.”

“You don’t have to,” he says immediately. “I’ll just grab something here.”

“It’s fine,” you reply. “We want to see you anyway..”

There’s a small pause. “...Okay,” he says. “I’m in the emergency department for a consult.”

“We’ll find you.”

“Text me when you’re close. Love you”

❤︎⁠

The emergency department is loud when you walk in.

You keep the boys close, your youngest balanced on your hip, the lunch bag in your hand as you look around.

“Excuse me,” you say politely. “I’m looking for Dr. Brendon Park?”

Before the nurse can answer, one of the boys chimes in proudly-

“He chops bones.”

You freeze for half a second. Another one nods like that completely explains everything. “Yeah, like broken ones.”

There’s a brief pause. The nurse blinks.

You close your eyes for a second, already a little embarrassed. “He’s...in orthopedics.”

Recognition clicks, and the nurse points you further in. “He’s on a consult. Over there.”

“Thank you.”

You gently nudge the boys forward. “We’re not saying that again, okay?”

“But that’s what he does,” one of them whispers

You sigh quietly. “...Not like that.”

You barely take a few steps before he sees you. And everything about him softens instantly. No hesitation. He walks straight over.

“Hey,” he says, already reaching for the kids. You hand him the bag. “You forgot this.” He takes it, but it barely holds his attention.

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.

Then he’s already crouching slightly, pulling one of the boys into a quick side hug while the other two crowd in.

“Alright, let me see you guys,” he murmurs, looking them over like he always does.

“You got taller in the few hours i didn’t see you?”

“We did,” one of them insists, proudly.

“I can tell.” And then he looks at her. Your youngest is already reaching for him. He doesn’t even think about it. He lifts her easily, settling her against his side like she belongs there, one arm secure around her, the other still pulling one of the boys closer.

“Hi, princess,” he says softly. She leans into him immediately, completely comfortable. From a few feet away, it’s a sight.

Three boys, tall for their age, crowding around him. And one very chunky baby, tucked perfectly against his side like she was made to fit there.

“Careful,” you say lightly. “That’s a lot at once.”

“I’m fine,” he replies, like it’s nothing. And somehow, it is.

Someone nearby watches, a little amused. Because this is the same doctor who walked in calm and focused for a consult.

Now he’s balancing four kids like it’s second nature, listening to three conversations at once, and still managing to keep the smallest one settled against him.

“Did you eat?” he asks you quietly, glancing up.

You nod. “We’re okay.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He studies you for a second, then nods. Satisfied. “You didn’t have to bring this,” he says, lifting the lunch bag slightly.

“I know,” you reply. “But I wanted to.”

He looks at you a second longer. Then softer, quieter. “Thank you.”

The boys are still talking. Your daughter is still tucked against him. And for a moment, right there in the middle of the emergency department, Brendon doesn’t rush back.

Because this? This matters more.

❤︎⁠

You got into the car before your thoughts could turn into something louder. 

In. Out.

One.

Two.

Three.

The door clicked shut with a soft, final click.

For a second, you didn’t move. Just sat there with the note still in your hand, the steering wheel cold under your palms.

Dana’s voice surfaced first- calm, certain, impossible to ignore.

The man I know…

Then Jack’s, rougher around the edges.

He thinks he did something bad enough that you changed your entire life.

Your grip tightened.

That wasn’t the truth.

He had done something, but the result wasn’t bad. Not like he thought.

Something had changed in your life.

And the worst part wasn’t what you’d done to protect it.

It was how quickly your brain started building a world where it never existed at all.

There was separation between your worklife and your homelife. They always taught in Med school that you had to separate your outside life from what you had going on at home. Compartmentalize, detach, survive.

Maybe you had gotten too good at it.

You had left PTMC when you found out you were pregnant. Started over at St. Mary’s. New hospital. New badge. New life built carefully around silence and control. 

No one knew. Not really. Not the part that mattered.  

Your little boy had five people in the world that knew he existed. One of them was his pediatrician. One was your OB/GYN. Dana and Jack were just necessities. Pieces you’d stolen from your old life just to keep him safe.

This was supposed to feel controlled. Responsible. Safe.

It didn’t.

It felt like you were erasing the most important part of yourself. You had built your entire world around your son… and still had to hide inside it.

How was that fair?

You finally started the car.

The engine filled the silence before you could spiral any further.

Breathe.

It’s time to clock in.

You had to be a mother now. Not the doctor. Or the woman with a past. 

Just Mason’s mother. 

The wall in your mind was coming back up- familiar, practiced, necessary. 

You didn’t know how long it would hold this time.

Your apartment was quiet, save for the soft whir of the baby monitor. Mason was asleep in his crib, one tiny fist curled near his cheek. You stood in the doorway of the nursery, watching him breathe. Dana’s words echoed in your mind.

He’d see a son.

There was a knock on the front door, sharp and insistent in the quiet. You froze. No one ever visited this late. Through the peephole, the hallway light illuminated a familiar, weary face.

Robby stood on your welcome mat, his hands shoved in his pockets like he was trying to hide the fact that they were shaking. He wasn’t in his scrubs anymore. 

What. The. Fuck.

You checked in on Mason before you made a move to open the door. You peer into the dim nursery. He was still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Reassured he wouldn’t wake up, you walked back to the front door. You unlocked the deadbolt and opened it just a crack, the chain lock still engaged.

“Robby,” you said, your voice low. “It’s late… and you’re on my doorstep.”

He stood on the other side, the hallway’s harsh fluorescent light casting harsh shadows under his eyes. He looked…unstable. 

He didn’t push the door. Just stood there, looking at you through the narrow gap like it might close if he moved too fast.

‘I know I shouldn’t be here,” he said softly.

His jaw tightened, like even saying that felt like crossing a line.

“Jack gave me your address.”

Shit.

He dragged a hand over the back of his neck. He wasn’t quite looking at you. He was looking through you like he was trying to put a square peg in a round hole in his mind.

“He’s been… off. The past few days.”

A small, humorless exhale.

“You didn’t see him when his wife died. It’s like that. It was eerie. Like he knows something and won’t say it out loud.”

His eyes flickered up to yours, searching, then away again.

“I asked him what was going on and he just-” he stopped, shaking his head, frustrated. “Nothing. Wouldn’t give me anything.”

You took a breath. Control this.

But he kept going before you could get a word in.

“Then I went in to cover Chen’s shift and Jack just… snapped.”

His voice dropped.

“Said if I didn’t come now, I might not get another chance to fix whatever I broke.”

Another breath- shakier this time. You were sure if it was yours or his.

“And then he handed me your address on a crumpled piece of paper like he had been carrying it around for a while. He-” He cut himself off, jaw working like he was chewing his words.

Silence stretched for a second.

“He still wouldn’t tell me what’s wrong,” Robby said, quieter now. “But I saw you at lunch.”

His eyes finally locked onto yours- and this time he didn’t look away.

“You said it was the opposite of someone else. I’ve been stuck on that all day. The opposite of someone else isn’t no one. It’s… more than one person.”

His gaze was intent, searching your face in the sliver of light from your apartment. “Please,” he said, “Either let me in… or tell me to go to hell. But don’t make me stand out here and guess anymore.”

“Fine. Okay,” You said, your voice barely a whisper. You carefully shut the door, your heart hammering against your ribs. You could hide this from him. 

What was the harm in a quick visit if it got him off the scent? 

He was exhausted. Confused.

Not-

Not close enough to see it.

You moved through the living room in a frantic, silent dance. 

The brightly colored mat- rolled and shoved under the sofa. 

The stack of clean burp cloths went into a kitchen drawer. 

The dirty bottle in the sink- covered with a dish towel. 

You paused at the entrance to the short hallway, breath catching as you glanced in the nursery. 

Mason was still asleep. The monitor glowing softly beside him. 

You pulled the door completely shut. 

And immediately felt it.

Guilt. Sharp and instinctive.

Fuck, what if something happened and you couldn’t hear him?

You push the door back open. Just a crack.

Breathless, you returned to the front door, unhooked the chain, and opened it fully.

You hoped you didn’t look like a mad woman who had just speed cleaned her house.

Robby hadn’t moved. His eyes flickered to your face- then past you, into the apartment.

Taking it in.

Too carefully.

He stepped inside. You closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sealing you in your personal hell. He was in Mason’s space. And he didn’t even know it.

“Can I get you something?” you asked, your voice too cheery. “Water? Coffee?”

He didn’t answer. 

His gaze moved through the room. Slow. Quiet. Not casual.

Taking things in.

The too-clean surfaces. The faint, unfamiliar smell in the air. Something… off.

Then his eyes caught on the sofa.

A small shape tucked between the cushions.

He stilled.

A pacifier.

Like Mason had planted it there himself. Like he wanted to be found.

He was farsighted, not nearsighted. Then his eyes traveled to the almost-closed nursery door. A soft, questioning hum came from his throat.

You followed his gaze to the pacifier then to the door then back to him.

No. No no nonononono-

“It’s not what you think,” you said, forcing a short, casual laugh that sounded brittle even to your own ears. “I’ll make some coffee, yeah? You can tell me about your trip.” You quickly grabbed his hand- his skin was cool like the blood had drained from it- and pulled him toward the kitchen, away from the damning pacifier on the couch.

He let you pull him, his body moving, but his eyes stayed fixed on the nursery door. In the kitchen, you released his hand and turned to the coffee maker, your back to him. You fumbled with the filter, your fingers clammy and clumsy.

Get. Your. Shit. Together.

“The trip was… fine,” he said, like he wasn’t really present in the room with you.

“Long. Quiet.” 

“I read a lot of books I’d been meaning to read.” 

“Saw some mountains.”

“It was… fine.”

You could feel his gaze pierce through your back. The silence felt like a lifetime, thick and heavy, broken only by the gurgle of the coffee maker starting to brew.

He whispered your name. Not ‘baby.’ Your real name. Said so softly you almost didn’t hear it over the machine.

You didn’t turn around. You gripped the edge of the counter, your knuckles white.

“...whose baby is that?”

“A real one,” you said, your voice thin. Your hands shook, making the carafe clatter against the base. “Can we ignore the baby for right now? Please?”

You hear how insane that sounds, but you say it anyway.

Robby didn’t answer. He just stood there, in the doorway of your kitchen, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. The coffee maker began its noisy, gurgling cycle, filling the small space with the smell of dark roast. It was a normal sound, a normal smell, in a moment that felt anything but.

“Ignore the baby,” he repeated, his tone hollow. “There’s a baby in your apartment. And you’re asking me to ignore that.”

He took a step forward, not towards you, but to the side, as if to get a clearer view down the hall. His face was pale, his expression one of dawning, terrible comprehension. All the pieces- your disappearance, your new job, your evasions, the ‘opposite of someone else’- were clicking into a picture he clearly hadn’t let himself consider.

“How old?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.

“Please, Mikey,” you said, your voice cracking on the old, soft nickname you’d never used before. Your hands were trembling as you stepped directly in front of him, trying to block his view. You place your palm flat against his chest, a feeble attempt to push him back. “Please… let’s have coffee. Please.”

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. There were bricks being thrown at your carefully crafted walls.  You had to patch the holes before the whole structure came tumbling down.

You can’t.

He didn’t budge. He was solid, immovable. He looked down at your hands on his chest, then back up at your face. His eyes, usually so expressive and warm, were wide with a kind of horrified clarity.

“‘Mikey,’” he repeated, the name sounding foreign and broken in his mouth. “You haven’t called me that. Ever. You thought nicknames were stupid.” He gently, firmly, took your wrists and moved your hands away from him. He didn’t let go. “How old is that baby?”

The coffee maker beeped, signaling it was done. The silence that followed was absolute, save for the soft, precious coo that sounded from Mason in his room.

He was waiting. They both were waiting. Neither was going to be moved, distracted, or ignored anymore.

You shook your head, tears welling up and blurring the stark lines of his face. “You left,” you whisper, the words a choked accusation and a plea all at once. You bit your lip hard, trying to hold back the inevitable sob, but your body betrayed you with a violent, silent shudder. You couldn’t meet his eyes. You stared at the floor, at his scuffed boots, anywhere but at the dawning realization you knew was there.

Robby’s hands, still holding your wrist, went slack. He released you. For a long moment he was perfectly still. The only sound was your ragged breathing.

He did the math. His eyes lost focus as he calculated backwards.

“Three months,” he said. He didn’t need to lay eyes on Mason to know that. His voice was eerily calm, detached, as if he were diagnosing a complex case from a distance. “That baby is three months old.”

“Oh, God,” he breathed. He took a stumbling step backwards, bumping into the kitchen counter. He brought a hand up to cover his mouth. “Is it… is it mine?”

‘I…” You couldn’t get the words out fast enough between the sobs. A sharp, startled cry from the nursery cut through the tension- Mason, woken by the commotion.

In a blur, you turned and rushed down the short hall, pushing the nursery door fully open. The secret was out. The soft nightlight cast a gentle glow over the crib. Mason was on his back, his face scrunched, working up to a full wail. You scooped him up instantly, his warm, solid weight a familiar anchor against your racing heart. You cradled him close, your back to the doorway, rocking gently. “Shhh, it’s okay, baby. Mama’s here.”

The crying subsided into soft, hiccuping whimpers. You could feel Robby’s presence in the doorway behind you, a silent looming shadow. A part of you hoped this was a horrific nightmare you were going to wake up from any moment. You pressed a kiss to Mason’s dark hair, breathing in his sweet, clean scent.

“I’m not a bad mother.” you spoke into the dim room. You repeated it to yourself. Maybe it was to convince yourself your decisions weren’t wrong.

“You’re not a bad mother.” Robby confirmed, “You’re a careful mother.”

When you finally dared to glance over your shoulder, he was in the doorway. Staring at Mason, his expression utterly shattered. He took one hesitant step into the room, then another, moving as if he was in a dream. He stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the details of his son’s face in the dim light.

His breath hitched. “He has your chin,” he whispered, his voice raw with awe and devastation.

You held Mason tighter, his little body a warm shield against the world collapsing around you. “He…” you managed through hiccuping sobs, “He has your… everything. Spitting image.”

Robby made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. He took another step closer, his hand lifting as if to touch, then fell back to his side. His eyes never left Mason’s face, tracing every feature with a desperate, hungry intensity.

“What’s his name?” he pleaded.

“Mason.”

“Mason,” he breathed, testing the name.

You nodded, fresh tears spilling over. ‘Mason Robinavitch,” you whispered, giving your son the full name you’d only ever written on official forms.

At the sound of his name, Mason turned his head, his big dark eyes- Robby’s eyes- blinking sleepily in the low light. He stared curiously at the strange man looming in his room.

Robby’s composure shattered. A single, silent tear tracked down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. He just stood there, utterly cracked open, looking at his son for the very first time.

“I left,” he said, his voice thick with a grief so profound it seemed to hollow him out from the inside. “And you had our baby. Alone.”

It wasn’t an accusation or question. It was a broken statement of fact.

“I had our baby. Alone.” you nodded, rocking Mason for some semblance of comfort for both of you. “I think I had to be pregnant a month before you left. I… I don’t think I noticed I was pregnant until three months in. S-stress, I think.”

A doctor’s explanation felt absurd in the face of the living, breathing child in your arms. Robby listened, his gaze still locked on Mason, absorbing the timeline. The math was brutal. He’d been walking around, packing for his sabbatical, while you were carrying his child and didn’t even know it.

How selfish was he?

“Three months,” he echoed. He finally dragged his eyes up to meet yours. The heartbreak, not just at the loss of time with his son, but the heartbreak for you was so complete it stole your breath. “You went through your whole pregnancy. The birth. The first three months. And I was… reading books in the mountains.”

He said it without a trace of self-pity, just a stark, horrifying statement. He took one more step, closing the final distance between you. He didn’t reach for Mason. He reached for you, his rough palm coming up to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. His own tears were falling freely now, silent and unchecked.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered, the words ragged with a grief that seemed to be etched on his very bones. “Baby, I am so, so sorry.”

“You didn’t know. I… I didn’t want you to know. I’m so angry.” You shook your head, looking down at Mason, who had finally fallen back asleep, his long lashes fanning over his cheeks.

Robby’s hand was still on your face, his touch achingly gentle. ‘I know you are,” he said, his voice a raw scrape. “You have every right to be. I left. I didn’t… I didn’t fight for us. I just went.”

He let his hand fall, but he didn’t step back. He stood so close you could feel the heat of him, could see the pulse hammering in his throat. Mason slept peacefully, unaware of the storm he had just caused.

“Can I…” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. He looked up at you, his eyes pleading. “Can I hold him? Just for a minute?”

“He’s sleeping… he startles easily,” you said, the truth a flimsy shield for the real, primal fear coiling in your gut; that if you handed Mason over, you’d never see your son again. It was ridiculous, you knew that. You know Robby. But some little primitive part of your brain was resource guarding. “Maybe… another time? I’m sorry. I know it’s a lot to ask. I… I don’t mean to be cruel.”

Robby’s face crumbled. He took a slow, shaky breath, his eyes closing for a second as he wrestled with the rejection. When he opened them, the raw hurt was there, but so was a dawning understanding.

He looked from your terrified face to Mason’s peaceful one, then back to you. He took a deliberate step back, putting more space between himself and his son, a physical gesture of surrender.

He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Tomorrow. Okay. I’ll… I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He looked utterly lost, standing in the middle of your son’s nursery, like a man who had found treasure only to be told he couldn’t have it.

You just nod once. It’s easier than trying to form words around the conflicting emotions in your chest.

Robby lingers for half a second longer- like he wants to say something else, like leaving now might cost him something he just got back- but he doesn’t.

For once… he listens.

He turns and walks out of the nursery, slower than he came in. You hear the soft creak of the old floorboards, the quiet click of the front door.

And then-

Nothing.

Real silence this time.

Not the kind you built. 

Not the kind you forced into place. 

The kind after a hurricane passed.

Mason shifts slightly in your arms, a soft, sleepy sound leaving him as he settles deeper against your chest. 

Your son is still with you.

You press your cheek to the top of his head, your eyes closing as your grip tightens just a fraction.

Breathe. 

One.

Your lungs don’t cooperate.

Two.

Your chest aches like it’s trying to relearn how to expand.

Three.

Air.

Shaky. Uneven. But yours.

You survived.

Barely.

But you did.

And for the first time since you found out you were pregnant.

There’s no divide between your two worlds.

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You were in sweatpants, a blubbering Mason propped on your hip, a bottle half-warmed in the microwave. Through the peephole, you saw Dana. She stood on your doorstep, her expression that same look she got when you knew she was going to make you hear what she had to say, a familiar PTMC badge on her gray scrubs.

You opened the door. Dana stood there, her expression softening immediately as her eyes landed on the baby in your arms.

“Look, it’s your favorite Grammy, Mason,” you said, your voice lighter than you felt. Your son cooed, reaching his chubby hands towards Dana.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dana murmured, her sternness melting away. She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, her hands already coming up to take Mason from you. He settled against her shoulder, finally quiet and content.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, closing the door and leaning against it. God it felt good to just rest for a second.

Dana bounced Mason gently, her eyes scanning your small apartment- the baby swing in the corner, the stack of clean bottles on the counter, the faint smell of formula. Then she looked at your rumpled, exhausted form. You had seen better days. “Jack told me he saw you at some work event,” she said simply, not looking at you. “Not the details. Just that you had… responsibilities.” She finally met your gaze, her own sharp and knowing. “Jack knows now, huh? He’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. And I’ve got a bone to pick with you, but that can wait.”

She walked over to your sofa and sat down, Mason now babbling happily in her lap. Maybe he just needed a friendly face. “He looks just like you,” she observed, her voice thick. “But he’s got Robinavitch’s sad eyes. Poor kid.”

“He’s Robby’s identical twin,” you said, moving to the kitchen to fill the kettle. “You told me so after I pushed him out. My genes didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Dana let out a soft huff of laughter, her fingers gently stroking Mason’s dark hair. “I remember. I also remember telling you he was perfect. And he is.” She was quiet for a moment, the only sounds Mason’s happy gurgles and the click of the stove. “Honey… why?”

The question shouldn’t have surprised you. You’d been waiting for it- for a year. From Dana. From your family.

From yourself.

You leaned against the counter, watching the blue flame. Your thoughts tripping over each other, trying to land on something that sounded reasonable. Something that didn’t make you sound like the villain in your own head.

Nothing did.

“You know why.”

Your voice was steady, but only just.

“He left. I was pregnant and alone and terrified.”

You swallowed.

“Telling him felt like… a trap. Either he’d stay out of obligation and resent me, or he’d leave anyway and I’d have to watch him go twice.” You shook your head. “It was easier to just… make a clean break. Build something new.”

“Easier for who?” Dana’s voice was gentle but firm. “Not for him. Not for you, carrying this all by yourself. And not for this little guy, who deserves a chance to know his father.”

The kettle began to whistle. You poured the steaming water over two tea bags, the familiar ritual giving your hands something to do. “He doesn’t need a father,” you said, but it came out thinner than you meant it to.

You stared into the cup, watching the color bleed into the water.

The weight on your chest settled heavy again, but you pushed through it, forcing the words into something steadier.

 “He needs stability. Someone who stays. I’m not-” You swallowed hard, ““I’m not risking him getting attached to someone who might leave.”

The word hung there longer than you meant it to.

Dana didn’t let it pass.

“He has a father who is a good man,” Dana corrected, standing up with Mason still in her arms. She walked over to you, taking  the offered tea in one hand while holding Mason in the other. “A man who is currently destroying himself because he thinks the woman he loves left him for no reason.”

You shook your head immediately, too fast. “Everyone keeps saying that.”

“You know I’m right.” Dana said simply.

The certainty in her voice wasn’t something you could ignore.

“This isn’t about him leaving,” she continued, softer now. Not accusing. Not angry. Just… sure. “If it was, you would have yelled at him. Then you would have given him the chance to prove you wrong.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue- but nothing came out.

Dana shifted Mason higher on her hip, her gaze steady on yours.

“You’re not protecting him,” she said gently. “You’re protecting yourself from what happens if he stays… and then you have to trust that he won’t go again.”

The words landed  harder than anything she’d said so far.

Your grip tightened on the edge of the counter. “That’s not-”

But it was.

You swallowed, your voice coming out quieter this time. ‘I don’t get to be wrong about this, Dana.”

Your eyes flickered to Mason, small and warm and completely yours.

“Not when it’s him who pays for it.”

Dana took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving yours. 

“Honey,” she said softly. “I’ve known that man for fifteen years. I watched him through his first week at PTMC, through the pandemic… and I watched him with you.”

She set the mug down.

“He was different with you. Lighter. Like he wasn’t carrying so much weight all the time.”

A pause.

“Then he left.”

Her voice softened.

“And I don’t think he was running from you. I think he was running from whatever he thought he couldn’t be with you still in his life.”

Another beat — sharper now.

“And what he’s doing now? The exhaustion. The overworking. The way he can’t sit still for five minutes without looking like he’s losing something?”

Her gaze locked on yours.

“That’s grief. He just doesn’t know what he’s grieving.”

“He does not love me, Dana.” It came out sharper than you meant to. Defensive. Immediate. Like you could cut the whole thing off before it got too close.

Dana didn’t flinch.

Dana shifted Mason to her shoulder, patting his back until his breathing evened out again. 

“Love doesn’t always look the way you expect. Sometimes its quiet. Sometimes it’s a man showing up in the rain because the idea of losing you is worse than the humiliation.” 

She exhales softly through her nose.

“You don’t have to believe it yet,” she added. “But don’t lie to yourself about what it was.”

The words sat too heavy in the air.

Mason gave a small, frustrated sound from her shoulder- breaking whatever hold you still had on yourself.

You sighed and took a seat on the counter.  “Mason is three months old. I’ve survived this long. I don’t want pity from Robby. And I’ll be damned if I let him think I was trying to baby trap him.”

Dana watched as Mason began to make insistent, grabby hands for you.

You adjusted him, instinctively as he latched on to nurse.

“Pity?” she repeated. ‘Honey, look at this child. He’s half of each of you. That’s not a trap. That’s a miracle Robby doesn’t even know exists.” 

She hauled herself onto the counter next to you, her voice dropping. “ And you didn’t just ‘survive.’ You built a whole life. You’re a good doctor and a damn good mother. Telling him isn’t about needing his help. It’s about giving him the truth. Letting him make his own choices with all the facts.”

She reached out, her fingers gently tracing Mason’s cheek as he fed contently.

“The man I know,” she said, “he’d see a son. And he’d see the woman who was strong enough to bring him into the world alone.”

She stood up, collecting her purse. “The longer you wait, the harder it gets. For everyone.”

She let herself out, leaving you in the quiet apartment with only the soft sounds of Mason nursing. The weight of her words settled around you, heavier than any silence.

The decision still coiled, unresolved, in your chest days later. 

Dana had said he would have stayed.

Jack had said the same thing.

You’d turned Dana’s words over and over in your head until they lost their edge. Or you told yourself they had.

You were in the middle of a hectic afternoon shift at St. Mary’s ER. They needed someone to cover a shift and a little extra money never hurt. 

Hey, maybe it’d satisfy that ache in your chest… or maybe you just would be too busy to think about it.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket with a text. When you pulled it out Mason’s smiling face lit up your lockscreen, the text affectionately labeled Sperm donor did not have the same happy effect.

It’s Michael. I’m in your lobby. Not to fight. I brought lunch. Can we talk? Please.

You stared at the screen, the noise of the department fading to a dull roar around you. He was here. In your hospital. He’d found you again, but this time… with lunch?

You sent one text back.

I’m working.

Then you slid your phone back in your scrub pocket and tried to focus on the chart in front of you, the words blurring into meaningless lines.

Dana had said he would show up.

That he already was- just in ways you didn’t want to see.

A low, excited whisper rippled through the nurse’s station behind you. You didn’t need to look to know the source. You could feel it- the weight of his sad doe eyed gaze settling between your shoulder blades.

Slowly, you turned.

There he was. Stood at the edge of your ER’s central desk, holding a brown paper bag in one hand. He looked… better. Not as waterlogged. But the deep shadows under his eyes had persisted. He wore dark scrubs and that stained grey hoodie. He tapped the metal splint on his finger against the counter. He was chatting politely to the receptionist, but his eyes kept shifting over to you.

When your eyes met, he didn't smile. He just gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if acknowledging a fact. You’re here. I’m here.

One of the younger nurses, Katie, giggled and nudged her friend. “Who’s that?” She not so quietly whispered.

You turn back to your chart, your face heating. 

Not because of him- because this was exactly what you were trying to avoid.

People looking. Noticing. Asking questions.

That’s grief, Dana had said.

You didn’t have time for that. Not here.

The professional barrier of your workplace, which usually felt like armor, now felt transparent. Not only had he shown up in the rain, but now he was showing up during your work. He was in your territory, calm and patient, and the entire department was noticing.

“He’s single, ladies,” you said to the giggling nurses, trying to tug your metaphorical armor back on. You needed him out of here. Away from the stares. And you knew he wasn’t going to leave.

You pulled your phone out and typed quickly.

Wait in the family consult room. Last door on the left.

You saw him swipe to open the text with his good hand, then glance down the hallway. He gave you one more look- a question, an acknowledgement- before turning and walking in the direction you’d specified. The whispering at the nurse’s station intensified.

You finished your chart, handed it off, and took a steadying breath. 

You can do this. Just get through the next few minutes.

The family consult room was a small, windowless space meant for delivering bad news or difficult conversations. It felt fitting.

When you pushed the door open, he was standing by a small table, the paper bag placed neatly on it. He’d taken his hoodie off, leaving him in his dark scrubs. A year ago you might have noticed the way his arms looked or the way he filled out the scrubs. 

Now… you noticed that you noticed.

Your mind refused to do anything with it.

The room was quiet, just filled with the sounds of you placing your hands in your pockets to ground yourself and Robby rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hi,” he said, his voice softer than you remember him being capable of.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you replied, but the edge was gone from your words. You just kept thinking of Mason and what Dana and Jack had said. Maybe you weren’t protecting Mason. Maybe you really were yourself.

The thought slipped in anyway- quiet, insistent.

Mason deserves-

You cut it off before it could finish.

Fuck.

This was too much. 

He looked at you for a long moment, then pulled out a chair for you.

“You always used to forget to eat when you were stressed,” he said, almost absently.

“You can hate me later,” he added, leaving the chair pulled out like an option you might take, and sat across from it.

“Just… sit down. Eat. That's all I came for.”

“What’s in the bag?” Like the answer actually mattered.

“Turkey club from the deli you like,” he said, “And a chocolate chip cookie. I remembered.” 

He stayed sitting there, hands loosely clasped on the table, looking tired in a way that didn’t match his voice. 

“I’m not here to fight,” he started, then stopped himself- shaking his head slightly like he was choosing different words.

“I just. I just needed to see you. To talk. Not in a parking lot. Not like that.”

He flexed his fingers once, the metal splint clicking on the table- subtle, almost absent. Then stopped.

You noticed it anyway.

Slowly, you walked over to the small table and sat down. 

“Okay,” you said, your voice flat. “Talk.”

Robby watched you for a moment. He didn’t reach for the bag. Just looked at you like he was trying to find something that used to make sense.

“I tried to call you,” he began. “After I got back.”

He paused.

“You got a new number. I went to your old apartment. Your landlord said you’d moved out months before. No forwarding address.” 

His jaw tightened slightly, like he didn’t know how easily he could say it.

“I asked Dana.” His eyes flickered. “She told me you were at St. Mary’s. That was it.”

He exhaled once, slow.

“She looked… sad for me.”

A faint, humorless shake of his head.

“I didn’t understand that part.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table but not committing to it.

“I thought I was doing the right thing. Giving you space from it all.”

A beat.

“But when I came back and you were just… gone. I didn’t know how I was supposed to handle that.”

He finally slid the bag towards you, like he needed to give his hands something to do. 

“Then Jack came to see me last week.” He added.

That made his voice rougher. Less controlled.

“He told me he’d seen you. That you had… responsibilities. That I should-” a breath, “-stop being an idiot and try again. But gently.”

His eyes stayed on you now. Open, worn down.

“So I’m trying. I brought lunch. I’m not yelling.”

His voice dropped.

“I just need to understand what I did.”

Slowly, you took the sandwich from the bag. The wax paper crinkled softly as you unwrapped it. You split the turkey club in two, the action methodical, giving your hands something to do. You slid half across the table to him. 

Not generosity. Just… efficiency.

“We’ve been through this, you left,” you said. It was the simplest answer, the bedrock truth everything else was built on. “And I dealt with it.”

Your fingers tightened briefly on the wax paper before you let go.

“I wish it hadn’t happened,” You added, quieter- but not softer. “But it did.”

Robby looked at the sandwich, then back at you. He didn’t pick it up. 

“I know,” he said, “I wish I hadn’t, either.”

“I thought time away meant distance. From work, from everything. Not from you.”

He finally reached for his half, but he just held it, his fingers tightening on the bread.

“I kept trying to find the moment it broke,” he said quietly. “And I can’t.”

His throat worked.

“I keep thinking… maybe I just missed the part where you stopped waiting.”

He hesitated.

“Did I come back too late?”

The question was so ironic, it was almost funny. Almost. Like your body didn’t know whether to laugh or flinch. A bitter sound slipped out anyway- small, sharp, immediately regretted.

You took a bite of your sandwich to cover it. The flavors familiar and somehow painful. You chewed, swallowed. 

Mason flashed in your mind- sleeping, warm, real.

“It’s not someone else,” you said finally, meeting his confused, searching gaze. “It’s…the opposite of that.”

You let out a short, disbelieving breath- half laugh, half something tighter.

“That’s really what you’re worried about?”

Your grip tightened slightly around the sandwich.

“Robby…” you paused, “you left.”

Not accusation. Just a fact.

You gesture towards his untouched portion, “Eat, please. Before this turns into… whatever this is.”

He picked up his half of the turkey club and took a bite, chewing slowly. For a fleeting moment, you could pretend this was just two people sharing lunch in a quiet room.

“Okay,” He said after he swallowed. “That’s on me. Let’s just talk. Like we used to.”

His eye flickered briefly between you and the table then.

“Before everything got… complicated.”

“Don’t.”

“Okay.”

He was trying. You don’t like to admit it, but you can see it in the careful way he held himself, in the absence of the defensive sarcasm that usually coated his words. The simple act of sharing the food he’d remembered you liked created a fragile, neutral ground. The secret sat between you on the table, invisible but palpable. You took another bite. The words were there, lodged in your throat. 

When you left, I was pregnant. We have a son.

The door to the consult room swung open. Katie, the young nurse from the station, stood there, her eyes wide.

“Doctor, sorry to interrupt,” she said, her voice breathless. “EMS called. Infant, febrile seizure, incoming in two minutes. They need you.”

The switch flipped instantly. You were on your feet, the sandwich abandoned where it was. 

“On my way,” you said, already moving.

You followed Katie at a quick clip down the hall. Whatever had been building in that room- unfinished confession, the weight of Robby waiting- it got pushed down, sealed off behind the practiced part of your brain that didn’t hesitate.

The ambulance bay doors hissed open.

The infant, a tiny bundle wrapped in a striped blanket, was being transferred from the gurney to the warmer by the paramedics. His little body was rigid, then jerking with the fine tremors of a post-ictal state, his face flushed and skin hot to the touch.

“Temp,” you barked, snapping on gloves.

“104.2 rectal,” a paramedic called out.

“Get me cooling blankets, Tylenol suppository, and start a line for fluids,” your voice was steady. Automatic. 

Your hands moved on autopilot- airways, circulation, access. The world narrowed to this small, feverish body, the beep of the monitors, the rustle of the nurses around you. 

Not the room you had left. Not him.

The infant’s tremors gradually subsided as the medication took effect. Slowly, the chaos drained out of the room, replaced by the steady beep of monitors and the soft rise of a small chest.

You stepped back, exhaling once more, controlled.

You peeled off your gloves, the latex snapping. Only then did your mind try to return.

The door to the consult room was still closed. 

Fuck. He had waited.

Robby. Waiting.

The guild came sharp- but not clean. Not simple.

You turned back to the infant, now sleeping peacefully with his parents huddled around him.

Katie was tidying up the bay when you glanced over.

“Can you do me a favor?” You asked quietly. “The physician in the family room- Dr. Robinavitch. Could you let him know I’m tied up. He doesn’t have to wait.”

Katie’s eyes widened slightly, but she nodded. “Of course.”

You finished your notes, ordered a sepsis work up, and handed off care to the next shift. Only then, with your immediate duties complete, did you allow yourself to move again.

The hospital doors felt louder on the way out.

Your car was where you left it.

There was a piece of a brown paper bag tucked under the windshield wiper. 

You pulled it free.

On it, a note.

Thank you. I would have stayed all night, by the way. -M

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