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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

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

it was a warm summer night and you were sitting at your kitchen island beside jack, your dad’s longtime best friend. your dad had a few friends over that evening for a barbecue and drinks, but everyone else had gone home aside from jack, who was spending the night in the guest room as he often did.

it was late and even your dad had already gone to bed, but you were still nursing a canned cocktail, one of several you had already had that night.

sure, drinking with your dad’s friends wasn’t your ideal way to spend a friday night, but you were back home from college and didn’t have a ton of people to hang out with in the town where you grew up.

besides, you liked having an excuse to spend some time alone with jack, you had a schoolgirl crush on him since you could remember. he was very good looking, funny in a corny 50 year old man way, intelligent and perceptive; much more than you could say about the guys that you had met at school.

not that you had done all that much with said guys, you were still a virgin, something you were rather embarrassed about. at that thought you groaned out loud and crossed your arms against the island, letting your head fall against them dramatically.

jack chuckled, finishing his beer with one more sip before setting it down and asking, “what’s wrong sweetheart?” at that you just groaned again. why did he need to say things in that way that made your stomach flip?

you lifted your head to look at him, “i was jus’ thinking about how i’m still a virgin,” it came out whinier than you intended, “‘s just embarrassing. at my big age, why am i still a virgin?” you wouldn’t have said this sort of thing if you were sober, but you were tipsy and your inhibitions were lowered.

you looked at him as he processed what you just said and began to instantly regret it, “why did i even just tell you that?” you groaned, lifting up one of your hands so you could rest your forehead against it and stare at the counter, avoiding further eye contact.

jack just laughed and you turned your head to glare at him, “‘s not funny,” you said with a pout.

“i’m sorry,” he smiled, rubbing his hand against the stubble on his chin, “it’s not funny, you’re right, but it’s not embarrassing either. you shouldn’t do anything until you feel comfortable. i’m sure the issue isn’t that you can’t find anyone, right? i mean, you’re a beautiful girl.”

your cheeks heated up at that and you turned away again, looking around at anything other than him while you spoke, “yeah, i mean all the guys i’ve met just suck. they’re selfish dickheads and i don’t want to ‘give’ my virginity to one of those types.”

jack cleared his throat and spun his empty beer bottle around in his hands, “well i’d venture to say that you’re right to wait in that case, young guys like that are stupid. they don’t deserve you anyways.”

when you turned your head back to look at him he was already staring at you intently, making heat pool between your legs. god, was he doing this on purpose? why was your dad’s friend turning you on so much more than any of the guys your age ever did?

“mm,” you hummed, trying to feign nonchalance, “you’re right, maybe i just need someone older; someone who knows what they’re doing.” you let your words sit in the air for a moment, hoping that he’d be on the same page as you and not immediately shoot you down.

jack looked into your eyes and you could see the gears turning in his head, “you mean…?” he trailed off, and you nodded, biting your lip.

he sucked in air between his teeth and leaned back in his chair, “listen kid, as much as i’d like to… i mean you’re beautiful and i… but i’m too old for you. plus your dad? if he found out… you don’t want this, trust me.”

that just settled it for you, he wanted you too, that’s all that mattered. you twisted in your seat so that you were facing him, your knees bumping into his thigh, and leaned in to kiss him.

he was still against your lips for a moment and you were beginning to regret your bold decision when he shifted towards you and grabbed your face in his hands, kissing you back.

you could taste the beer on his breath, feel the scratch of his stubble against your face, and the tenderness of his big fingers caressing your cheek made you melt into his touch. the way he kissed you was so unlike anything you had experienced before, it was hungry but not in a young and hasty way, it was passionate.

jack groaned, moving his hands to gently push you back by your shoulders, as if he couldn’t trust himself to pull away. you were annoyed that he broke the kiss but when you saw how he looked, his lips flushed and eyes hazy with lust, you couldn’t even think straight.

“you’re serious about this then? i need you to tell me if you aren’t, because if we keep going like this i don’t think i’ll be able to stop myself.” he said it like he was going to turn into some uncontrollable beast, but that just spurred you on even further.

“yes jack, i need you. i want you to be the one to take my virginity. please?” you put your hands against his thighs and looked at him with pleading eyes.

“christ—” jack stood and extended a hand to you.

as soon as you were up he wrapped his hands around your torso and hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, carrying you to the guest room down the hall.

“jack!” you giggled, having him pick you up like it was nothing just added to your arousal; those muscles you had been sneaking peaks at over the years clearly weren’t just for show.

when you entered the room jack closed the door behind you, taking you down from his shoulder and gently placing you onto the bed. you rolled onto your side and watched as he sat down on the edge of the mattress to remove his prosthesis.

“take off your clothes sweetheart,” he instructed, and you listened, stripping until you were left only in your bra and panties.

jack followed suit, taking off his clothes and tossing them to the floor. his back was to you as he sat there removing his layers but he looked so good clad only in his boxer briefs, the thick muscles of his back and arms flexing as they moved.

he turned onto the bed to lay on his side beside you, one arm against the mattress for support. jack looked at you with adoration as he brought his free hand up to your cheek, caressing it. “you’re beautiful,” he bit his lip, “you really want your first time to be with an old man, huh?”

you smiled, nodding your head, god he looked so sexy. “it’ll be our little secret,” you teased.

“tch. dirty girl,” he pulled you in towards him, kissing you with fervour. he placed his hand atop your thigh, directing it onto his hip so he could grind himself against you.

only the thin layers of your undergarments separated you, and you could feel that he was rock hard. the stimulation of his length rubbing against your clit was delicious, and you couldn’t help but to press yourself against him further, trying to seek more of it.

jack let his hand wander over your body while he continued to kiss you, down the expanse of your thigh, squeezing your ass, then caressing your waist. he slowly brought his palm up your back, popping open the clasp of your bra with one hand. he pushed the straps down your shoulders and you took it the rest of the way off, throwing it somewhere across the room.

he cupped your breasts, squeezing them in his large hand for a moment before breaking the kiss and ducking his head down to take a nipple in his mouth. the feeling of him licking and sucking at your nipple just made you rut against him harder, you could feel your wetness soaking into your underwear.

he released your nipple and rose back up, giving you a sly smile before returning his lips to yours. he let his hand trail downwards between your bodies, rubbing your clit over your panties for just a moment before dipping inside.

his fingers glided through you like it was nothing, you were soaked. “all this for me kid?” he asked into your mouth, you could feel him smirking against you.

“mhm,” you hummed, rubbing yourself against his fingers.

jack removed his hand to push your panties off and down your thighs, and you once again completed the task for him by pulling them off fully and throwing them wherever your bra went.

he returned your leg to where it was and continued his ministrations, circling your clit and making you buck your hips, “want you inside,” you whined.

“i’ll give you my fingers sweetheart,” he reassured you, slowly pressing one thick finger to your entrance and pushing inside. you were already so well lubricated that it really didn’t stretch much at all. he barely had thrust it in and out once before you were demanding another.

with two fingers it was a bit of an initial sting but it quickly faded into pleasure, his fingers felt so much better than yours ever did. you whined into the kiss as he fucked his fingers into you, and you couldn’t help wanting even more.

“i- i’m ready,” you said, breathing heavily, “want your cock jack.” you cupped him through his boxer briefs, and just from that you could tell he was big.

“mm,” jack grunted, taking his fingers out of you, “don’t have a condom.”

“it’s okay i’m on the pill,” you replied, “and i trust that you’re clean,” you said with a smile.

“you really shouldn’t, the doctor in me should be reprimanding you for even saying that,” he sighed, “but i do really just want to fuck you.”

jack pushed off his underwear, taking his length in his hand and giving it a few pumps before lining it up with your entrance, “maybe you should be doing the classic missionary for your first time, but with my leg it’ll be easier for me to get deeper in you on my side like this. wanna make this good for you.”

you hummed in affirmation, “just want you inside jack,” you whined.

“so needy,” he whispered before kissing you and simultaneously pushing himself in.

you whimpered at the initial sting as he stretched you out, slowly pushing deeper, “‘m sorry” he mumbled into your lips, “jus’ relax for me sweetheart.”

once he was fully sheathed inside of you he gave you a moment to adjust before beginning to thrust in and out. with the movement the painful stretching sensation quickly turned into pleasure, something that was only heightened when he began rubbing your clit in tandem with his thrusts.

you hooked your leg further over his hip, trying to somehow pull him even deeper inside of you. “feels so good jack,” you cried, letting your head fall back.

“yeah?” he breathed out, “doing so good baby, taking my cock so well.”

you moaned, his words combined with the deep thrusts and his fingers circling your clit, it was all too good. your whole body tensed and your thighs shook as you came on his cock, the only coherent word out of your mouth were your cries of his name.

“just like that sweetheart, good girl,” he praised, removing his fingers from your clit after you rode out your high.

he kissed you, his thrusts becoming shallower and more desperate, “shit,” he whispered into your mouth, “‘m gonna come.”

you latched onto him again, pulling him into you as if you were trying to make your bodies become one, “come inside me jack, please,” you begged.

jack gripped your waist tightly as he pushed himself deep inside you once more, groaning into your lips before stilling, his cock twitching inside of you as he came.

he stayed there for a moment, still kissing you slowly, before reluctantly pulling out.

he rolled over onto his back, patting his chest as an invitation for you to lay your head on it. you snuggled up to him, revelling in the warmth of his skin.

“you’re something else kid, making me feel young again,” he said with a smile, rubbing your back gently, “was that a satisfactory first time?”

you smiled against his chest, “satisfactory… yeah that’s one word for it.”

Brendon was coming out of the OR when he heard it.

A couple of residents- well, an intern and an annoying ms3, talking.

He just came out of surgery. Hadn’t even gotten a chance to piss yet, and it came from down the hall in front of him.

“I just don’t know how you do that” one said. He laughed. “I couldn’t even imaging fucking that blackout drunk.”

“Fuck, me neither.” Came the other. “Like, a butter face you can just put a fucking bag over it, hit it from the back. Face on her is fine I guess but the body-“ “it’s like a fucking beluga whale.”

The burst into laughter. “Maybe a fucking glory hole. Fat chicks always have good lips. They say they try harder, right?” “Ugh, but if I knew it was that fucking heifer on the other side? Bleh.”

Fuck were these kids disgusting.

Young guys were always piggish, sure, he’d been in enough locker rooms and frat houses to know. But this? This was grotesque. This is a fucking hospital. These were supposed to be medical professionals. And whoever they were talking about? That poor girl was someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister maybe. Fuck. She was someone okay? Just because you find someone unattractive doesn’t mean it’s any god damn reason to act like that.

“She’s bitching about dating apps? Please. All a bitch like that is good for it a fast fuck when the bars closing and you’re desperate. If she thinks she’s gonna find Prince Charming with a gut like that-“

“Hey!” He called.

They froze.

“Doc-“

“That’s enough. Shut the fuck up.”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “You realize we’re in a public place right? There’s patients around here- families. Your superiors. Watch your fucking mouth. I never want to hear shit like that again.” He snapped.

They stuttered out apologies, but he didn’t care, pushing past them to the utility stairs. He just needed to get upstairs to his office and relax for a couple minutes. Have a little time to himself before he had that zoom consultation with some U Penn lacrosse player who-

Oh.

Then he saw you.

He pushed past the stairwell doors and there you were, tears rushing down your cheeks, the knuckles of two beautiful manicured nails in your teeth teeth to muffle your tears. Your rosy pink iPad- not hospital issue, clearly your own- for charting and noting clutched in your arms with your clipboard and some pamphlets on rehabs with it.

You must have been on your way to see a patient- one of his patients. And you always took such good care of his patients. You’d once beamed, and elbowed him, calling you the dream team to a patient. “Dr Park is gonna fix you up, and I’m gonna make sure your recovery goes smoothly” you explained. And he chuckled. Sure, why not. The dream team. And he agreed. “Y/N is fantastic, she’s gonna come up with a great plan for you. No one I trust more with my patients recovery plans” he admitted, which you beamed to, again.

The first time you called him that was ages ago, to him atleast. He was used to it now. You were his lighthouse most days. A shining comfort in the chaos.

His heart twisted as he wondered what had happened to his sunshiney lovely social worker.

His stomach sunk, realizing exactly what had happened.

Rage creeping up his spine, he knew, those stupid fucking boys were talking about you.

“Hey, hey sweetheart. What the matter? You okay? Let’s get this hand out of your teeth before you hurt yourself.”

He knows he had a cliche level of soft spot towards you, but he always has. There was just something about the ball of bubblegum that rolled onto his floor one day that he couldn’t be cruel to. There was always something endearing about you, something that brought out a version of him he liked very much. A version of him that could be chivalrous and masculine in a way that wasn’t mean and tough. He could hold doors open and save you food speak to you softly, and use his manners. You just had an effect on him that he always liked.

Clearly you somehow didn’t have that effect on anyone.

“Sorry- I just need a second-“ you sniffled.

“Hey, no offense, you need more than a second and that’s okay.” He eased.

“Can you sit down for a second with me?” He offered. You nodded wetly with an unattractive sniffle.

You sat on the concrete stairs next to him, and let him take your things out of your hands to rest behind you both, and your saliva covered hand in his.

Clearly he wasn’t put off by that, uncaring as he looked you over for injury or damage. “I don’t care about a little spit. I just spent the last four hours up to my elbows in blood” he reminded you. So your apologies stoped. “Don’t care about germs. Care about you being okay. We’re bitting down pretty hard there.” He insisted,

“I’d ask what happened again, but I’m pretty sure I already heard it in the hall, huh?” He admitted.

The tears poured out again.

“You did? Oh my god, this is so humiliating.” You cried.

“Hey-“ he insisted firmly. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. You didn’t do a damn thing. Those two? They’re in for an HR investigation now. They were fucking disgusting. They were mean, and sick, and gross. That’s not on you.” He insisted.

You swallowed.

“I mean. They were assholes. but. What hurts is that they’re right. You explained sadly.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.” Brendon dismissed.

“They were wrong. They were disgusting and wrong. Those are the kinds of kids that pick a girl based on what they think will get them the most street cred with their buddies. And that’s no way to pick your woman. These are the kind of limp dick dipshits who call chicks like, fuckin’, Sabrina carpenter fat, okay? It’s not you, they just let 2000s porn fry their fucking brains.” Brendon insisted in a huff. Form and angry.

You giggled.

“You’re a Sabrina carpenter fan?”

You knocked your shoulder into his, momentarily distracted from your loathing.

He rolled his eyes. And… maybe blushed. “That’s what you’re talking away from this? Christ. I’m not, okay. Ive got tween nieces. I went to the short and sweet tour under extreme duress.”

“Sureeee” you teased.

“You’re laughing but you’ve got no clue how scary those kids are.”

“Must take after their uncle then” you teased.

“Anything to make my girls smile.” He admitted, smiling gently.

You could see in the soft look in his eyes that he meant it.

“Saw her here?” You asked. “In Pittsburgh. Or did you guys go to Philly or something.”

Brendon was surprised by the question.

“Oh. Yeah. At PPG.” “I ask cus I was there too” you explained. “Night one.” He smiled. He was glad at the natural change of topic. He hated to se you so sad. Hated to see you cry. Hated to see losers so low hurt you. Anything that would make you smile would go as far as he was concerned. “Us too. You dress up? They dressed up. Almost gave me a fuckin’ heart attack with those outfits. I thought I was gonna have to knock some perv out by the end of the night.”

He clicked open his phone, showing you his lcokscreen. Him and two girls, middle school aged probably, in glittery pastel outfits with little hearts and ruffles. One was in a dark denim jacket 8 sizes too big. It must be Brendon’s. She must have gotten cold. Oh. Of corse they’d be his wallpaper. He’s in the middle, infront of one of those photo op cardboard set ups. He’s got a grin on his face like he won the lottery, one arm around each girl.

“Oh my god. They’re to cute.”

He beamed. “Right? They’re the best.” He swore.

You clicked open your phone, riffling through your Instagram.

“I got dressed up too.”

You open your phone, pastel glittery case in hand, showing Brendon a photo from the same night last fall. You’re with a couple other girls, some looking vaguely familiar from around PTMC but he couldn’t care less about Eileen Shamsi’s kid or a sassy perfusionist from cardiology.

Brendon’s pupils blew up triple their size.

Your outfit was very, very different.

Knee high go go boots in bedazzled pink, a tiny little pink skirt and a pink bustier corset, hair in big, bouncy blowout curls, heavy makeup like a fucking starlet.

You were mind blowing. Stunning.

He but his cheek trying desperately to keep his responses in check.

“You looked lovely.” He settled on. “You’ve got the boots and everything.”

You smiled to yourself. “It was fun. I wasn’t gonna dress up but Tina really pushed it and I’m glad I listened to her.”

“Me too” he slipped. Oops. “You really look amazing here. You look great every day but this is something else.” He blabbered before he finally stopped himself. Thank god.

“I thought I’d be like. The only fat girl dressed up-“

“I don’t like that word.” Brendon shook his head.

You shrunk. “There’s nothing wrong with your body. You don’t gotta call it anything. It’s normal. It’s healthy. Its good to you.”

You swallowed, choosing to ignore Brendon’s statement.

“But i wasn’t. Quite a few of us there, and no one said anything mean so that was cool.”

You spoke about basic human decency like it was a luxury. Brendon hates that.

“I’m glad you dressed up. No point leaving yourself out. You’re the standout of your little group, no offense. You looked amazing, really.” He insisted.

He ignored how much he wanted that hair and makeup on his pillows, nothing but those boots on you. Perv.

That stream of thought died down naturally, shifting back to the previous topic.

“I- it’s not like they said anything I didn’t know, you know? I always knew I was too fat to date but-“

“I’m sorry. What did you just say?”

You shrunk at Brendon’s harsh tone.

“Um. Too fat too date?”

He made a dismissive, angry noise.

“Who the hell convinced you of something like that?”

Who didn’t?

“I-um. Alot of people?”

Many people. Your old friends who said ‘they couldn’t imagine you in a relationship’. Older ladies in your family who suggested you might finally find a husband if you tried working out more. So many men who made comments like those two doctors. Girls in highschool who made pig noises at you in the cafeteria, or gaged when you walked past.

“Fuck that” he dismissed.

“There’s no such thing” he swore, sure and sharp.

You didn’t believe him, admittedly.

“Brendon. Come on.”

“No. There isn’t. Really. No such thing. No one is too skinny. No one is too short. No one is too tall. Too dark too light. It didn’t exist. None of it. Eveyone has their own cup of tea-“

“I’m not most people’s cup to tea. I’m a little bit too much tea.” You tried to explain.

He shook his head.

“No such thing as too much of a good thing. Too much woman. Come on.”

He shook his head chuckling. “You. Who would complain about too much you? You’re the best god damn thing on this floor, and those clowns want to shrink you? They want less of you? Fuck that.”

Heat bloomed in your face at Brendon’s flattery.

His words had gotten away from them.

“You’re stunning. You’re just fucking stunning, okay? Not for anything, not a but. You just are. Your- this is probably fucking offensive, fuck it. Your weight suits you. Your body is fucking lovely, okay, you’d look weird any smaller to me. There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s nothing to change. You’re not not good enough. You’re good enough. Fuck them. You don’t want the attention of losers like that.” He rambled.

Tears welled in the eyes from the sheer kindness of it all but it still-

He didn’t get it.

You said as much.

“Wha don’t I get?”

You barked a laugh. “You’re a hot doctor. You’re in good shape and have nice hair, and a pretty smile. You love your nieces. You’re like. The Wikipedia photo of an eligible bachelor. I’m just a fat-“

A pointed glare

“Social worker”

Brendon chewed on his cheek trying to decide how to say this.

“You’re a fucking smoke show. You’re a catch..”

Well. There goes nothing.

“I’m 40 and single, i’m no fucking catch. I work dogshit hours, I’m bad with words, I’m blunt to a fault. I’m a giant fucking dick. Only thing I really bring to the fucking table is my-“

He coughed. “Sorry.”

What the fuck is he fucking serious?

“Y/N. You sell yourself short. Despite what a couple dumbasses say you’re a stunning woman, with a respectable job. Anyone would be lucky to have you. Genuinely. I can’t wrap my head around how the fuck you’re single in the first place.”

“It’s not like you would date me. Just as like an example. I’m no one’s type-“

Brendon chuckled.

“You fucking kidding me? Of corse I would.”

You froze.

“Huh?”

Then swallowed.

“That’s not funny, Brendon.” You whisperer. It was cruel.

“Y/N” he swore solemnly. “I’m not kidding. I mean that. Come on. How- you know how I feel about you.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” You jumped.

“You serious? You think I’m this nice to everyone?”

“Well… no, but-“

His face was more amused now.

“Y/N. I’m an asshole. I figured you knew and were avoiding it-“

“No, Brendon. I didn’t fucking know.”

It was kind of a mindfuck.

“So you thought I was rejecting you?”

He rubbed his neck, cringing.

“Yeah. I did.”

You went deer in headlights esque.

“If I knew i-“

“If you knew you’d what?”

“I’d um. Id-“

He chuckled.

“You don’t even know? Cute.”

Did he just call you-

“You’re so fucking cute.”

He shook his head.

Oh.

“You busy after work?”

“Why?”

“Jesus Christ. You’ve got a thick skull huh. I’m taking you out. After work. That okay?”

Oh.

Oh.

“Hey!”. It’s Samira’s voice, a sharp warning from somewhere behind you, but it comes a second too late.

The patient swings. Not hard enough to seriously injure on its own. But combined with the shove that comes with it, it’s enough. The impact glances off your shoulder, but the force of the push sends you stumbling backwards, your foot catching awkwardly on the edge of the trolley behind you.

There’s a split second where you try to correct it. Your balance almost rights itself. Then, your heel slips.

You go down hard.

Your hip hits first, the shock of it jolting up your side before your shoulder follows, and then your head clips the edge of the cabinet behind you with a dull, sickening crack that makes your vision flare white.

The world tilts. Sound distorts.

You suck in a breath too fast and it catches halfway, your ribs protesting sharply as pain blooms deep along your side, spreading outwards in a way that feels heavy and wrong.

“Shit!”

“Hold her back!”

“Move!”

Hands are on you immediately. Too many. Too fast.

“Don’t move,” Dana says firmly, already crouched at your side, one hand braced against your shoulder to keep you grounded.

“I’m fine,” you manage automatically, even as your voice comes out thinner than you want it to. “I just slipped—”

“You didn’t slip,” Samira cuts in, sharper than usual, already scanning you quickly. “She shoved you.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, trying to push yourself up.

Your body protests instantly. A sharp, deep pain lances through your ribs and your breath hitches before you can stop it.

Dana presses you back down without hesitation.

“No, you’re not getting up yet.”

“I’m okay,” you insist, though your hand has already moved instinctively to your side, fingers pressing there like you can contain the ache if you just hold it still.

“Yeah,” Langdon mutters, crouching on your other side, one brow raised. “You look fantastic.”

You glare weakly. “I am—”

“You’re wincing,” Mel says gently from behind them. “Just stay down a second.”

Across the bay, Robby steps in, taking in the scene quickly, his expression tightening slightly as he looks between you and the now-restrained patient.

“What happened?”

“They got knocked,” Dana says, not taking her eyes off you. “Hit their head on the way down.”

“I’m fine,” you say again, the words automatic now, like muscle memory.

Robby’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer than you’d like. Assessing. Weighing.

Then, “Get them checked,” he says. “No arguments.”

You open your mouth to argue anyway. Close it again.

The check is quick. Too quick.

Vitals steady. Pupils reactive. A few questions you answer without thinking, even as your head still feels slightly off and your ribs ache every time you breathe too deeply.

“Probably just bruised,” Langdon says, though there’s hesitation there. “Keep an eye on it.”

“I will,” you say.

You go back to work. Of course you do. It’s slower now. More careful. Every movement measured so you don’t aggravate the pain blooming along your side, every breath kept shallow enough to avoid the sharpest edge of it.

You don’t let anyone make a fuss. You don’t give them the chance.

By the time shift change creeps in, you’re running on stubbornness more than anything else.

Your body feels heavy. Your head dull. Your ribs worse. But you’re still standing. That counts for something.

You see Jack the second he walks in.

It’s instinct, the way something in you softens at the sight of him, even through the ache, even through the exhaustion.

He sees you just as quickly, and immediately, his expression changes. “What happened?”

No hello. No lead-in. Just that.

You blink. Too slow. “…nothing.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

You can see him clocking it, the stiffness in your posture, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re trying not to move too much, the faint mark forming near your hairline.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.

“Do what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Lie to me.”

You huff a small breath, trying for normal. “I’m not lying. I just got knocked a bit. It’s fine.”

“Knocked how?”

“Patient,” you say quickly. “It happens.”

His jaw tightens. “You hit your head.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You didn’t ask a question.”

Jack steps closer, his hand coming up instinctively, hovering for a second before brushing lightly near your temple, careful.

You flinch. Just slightly. Jack notices anyway.

“Hey,” he says, softer now. “Talk to me.”

“I am,” you insist, forcing a small smile. “It’s nothing, Jack. Just a bruise.”

“You don’t look like it’s nothing.”

“I’m just tired.”

“That’s not what this is.”

You don’t let him push further. You can’t, because if you stop holding it together now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to start again.

“I promise I’m okay,” you say, gentler now, stepping into his space, your hand brushing his arm. “I’m just going to go home, sleep it off.”

Jack searches your face. Longer than you’re comfortable with. “…yeah?”

You nod. “I promise.”

You kiss him before he can argue again. Soft. Quick. A distraction more than anything.

“I’ll text you,” you add.

He doesn’t look convinced. But he lets you go.

You don’t realise how much you’ve been holding in until you get home.

The door shuts behind you. Your bag slips from your shoulder. Everything collapses.

The pain hits first. Sharp. Deep. Your ribs screaming the second you stop forcing yourself to breathe carefully around it. Your head throbbing dully where it connected earlier. Your whole body suddenly too aware of itself.

Then the tears. They come fast. Uncontrolled. Your hands come up to your face as your shoulders shake, the sound breaking out of you before you can stop it.

“It hurts,” you whisper, voice cracking.

Soft paws hit the floor behind you. Buddy is there instantly.

No hesitation. No distance. Just straight to you, pressing in close, whining low as his nose nudges at your hands, your face, your shoulder, anywhere he can reach.

“Hey, Buddy…” Your voice wobbles as you drop one hand to him, fingers tangling in his fur. “I’m okay,” you murmur, even as you cry. “I’m okay—”

He doesn’t believe you. He licks at your cheek, catching tears, pressing closer until you sink down with him, your body folding as he crowds in, solid and warm and there.

Buddy doesn’t leave your side once. Not when you get up slowly. Not when you change. Not when you ease yourself into bed with a quiet, pained breath.

He jumps up beside you without hesitation. Circles once. Then presses himself along your back, heavy and grounding, his head resting near your shoulder like he’s keeping watch.

You fall asleep like that. Hurting. Exhausted. But not alone.

Jack knows something is wrong before he even gets the door fully open.

It isn’t logical at first. There’s no noise, no obvious sign of anything being off, but the second the latch clicks and the door gives, the silence hits him wrong, too heavy, too still, like something’s settled where it shouldn’t.

Then, there’s movement. Fast. Low.

A sharp bark that cuts straight through the quiet.

Buddy is there instantly, planted between Jack and the hallway like a barrier, body rigid, ears forward, a low, warning growl vibrating through his chest in a way Jack has never heard directed at him before.

“Hey, Buddy…” Jack stills, hands lifting slightly in reflex, not defensive, just careful. “Buddy.”

The dog doesn’t move.

If anything, he braces harder, stance widening, blocking the path to the bedroom completely like he’s guarding something.

Another bark. Sharper this time. Urgent.

Jack’s chest tightens. “Alright,” he murmurs, voice dropping instinctively, steady, controlled. “Talk to me, what’s going on?”

Buddy huffs, pacing a tight step forward, then back, torn between holding his ground and needing Jack to follow.

It clicks immediately. Not aggression. Protection.

Jack’s stomach drops. “…where are they?”

Buddy barks again. Turns. Looks back. Then looks at him.

Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay, I’m coming.”

Buddy doesn’t fully relax, but he shifts just enough to allow it, moving ahead of him down the hall, glancing back every few steps like he’s making sure Jack is still there. Still following. Still paying attention.

The bedroom door is half open. The light is off.

Jack pushes it gently. “Sweetheart?”

No answer.

His chest tightens further as he steps inside.

You’re there. Curled on your side, exactly where he expects you to be, and somehow still wrong. Too still. Too tense even in sleep, your body drawn in slightly like you’re protecting something.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now, stepping closer.

Buddy is already at the side of the bed, whining low, tail flicking anxiously, nose nudging lightly at your arm.

You don’t wake straight away.

Jack reaches you in two steps, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering for just a second before resting lightly on your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You stir at that. Just slightly. A small sound leaving you, somewhere between a breath and a soft groan as you shift without meaning to.

The movement pulls a reaction out of you immediately. A sharp inhale. A wince. Your hand tightening instinctively at your side.

Jack stills. “There it is,” he murmurs quietly.

Your eyes open slowly, heavy with sleep, disoriented for a second before they land on him.

“…Jack?” Your voice is rough. Small.

“Hey,” Jack exhales softly, relief flickering across his face for just a second before it’s replaced with something more focused. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Buddy immediately pushes closer the second you’re awake, nose nudging your cheek, then your shoulder, then settling half across you like he’s making sure you stay put.

“What…” you start, blinking. “What time is it?”

“Too early for you to pretend you’re fine,” he replies gently.

You try to smile. It doesn’t quite work.

“I am fine.”

Jack doesn’t even entertain that.

“Mhm,” he hums, eyes already scanning you properly now, taking in the way you’re holding yourself, the tightness in your posture, the faint shadow of bruising starting to show along your side where your shirt has shifted. “What actually happened?”

“Nothing,” you say automatically. Too quickly.

His gaze flicks up to yours. Flat. Unimpressed.

“Try again.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. It’s enough.

“A patient knocked me,” you admit finally, quieter now. “It’s not a big deal.”

Jack’s jaw tightens immediately. “Knocked you how? You can’t just leave it at that, baby.”

“I fell,” you say. “It’s just a bruise.”

Buddy lets out a soft, unhappy whine. Jack glances at him briefly, then back at you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “He doesn’t seem to think so either.”

You huff a weak breath. “He’s dramatic.”

“Yeah,” Jack repeats. “Funny. So are you.”

You try to push yourself up. Bad idea. The movement pulls a sharp, involuntary sound out of you before you can stop it, your hand flying back to your ribs as pain flares hot and immediate.

Jack’s hand is there instantly, steadying you before you can even properly lose balance.

“Hey, easy, easy.”

“I’m fine,” you insist again, breath uneven now.

“No, you’re not,” Jack says, still calm but firmer now, his other hand coming up to gently guide you back down against the pillows. “Lie back.”

You don’t argue this time. You don’t have the energy.

Buddy shifts with you immediately, repositioning so he’s still pressed against your side, careful, oddly careful for his size, like he knows exactly where not to put weight.

Jack notices. Files it away.

“Where?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering just above your ribs. “Show me.”

You hesitate. Then, slowly, you move your hand just enough to indicate the worst of it. His touch is light when it comes, fingers pressing gently along the area, assessing. You flinch. Harder this time.

“Shit, okay,” Jack murmurs, more to himself than you. “Yeah, that’s not nothing.”

“It’s just bruised,” you say weakly.

“Maybe,” he replies. “Maybe not.”

You look at him. A flicker of worry finally breaking through everything else.

“It’s not broken. I got checked out. Ask Robby.” He doesn’t answer straight away. Which is answer enough. “Jack, please.”

“Hey,” he says softly, immediately, his hand coming up to your face instead, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears are starting to gather again. “Don’t get upset about it. Not your fault.”

“I didn’t want to make a fuss,” you admit, voice cracking slightly. “It wasn’t that bad at work, I just—”

“You came home and cried,” he says quietly.

You freeze. “How did you—”

He glances at Buddy. Buddy, who is currently pressed against you like a guard dog with a personal vendetta.

“Right,” you mutter weakly.

Jack’s expression softens. A lot. “You should’ve told me,” he says, not accusing, just honest.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you whisper.

He huffs a quiet breath. Too late for that. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” he says gently.

Your throat tightens. “I know.”

There’s a pause. Soft. Then, “Alright,” he says, shifting slightly. “We’re going to fix you up, okay?”

You blink. “We?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me and him. You know we can’t leave him out of anything.”

Buddy lifts his head slightly at that, like he’s been formally acknowledged.

Despite everything, you almost laugh.

Jack doesn’t rush you. That’s the first thing you notice. Even with the tension sitting tight in his shoulders, even with the way his eyes keep flicking back to your ribs like he’s already running through worst-case scenarios in his head, he keeps everything slow. Measured. Like if he moves too fast, you’ll bolt or break or both.

“Alright,” he murmurs, shifting off the bed briefly. “Stay there.”

You don’t have the energy to do anything else. Buddy does. The second Jack steps away, Buddy’s head lifts, ears pricking forward, a low, suspicious rumble building in his chest again like he’s not entirely convinced this is still safe.

“Hey,” Jack says without looking at him, already grabbing what he needs. “Pack it in.”

Buddy huffs. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t relax. You reach down weakly, fingers brushing through his fur.

“It’s okay, Buddy,” you murmur softly. “He’s helping.”

Buddy’s attention flicks to you immediately. That’s all that matters.

Jack comes back with a small kit, nothing dramatic, just basics, but it’s the way he carries it that tells you everything. Familiar. Practised. Focused.

He sits beside you again, closer this time. Close enough that your knees brush when he shifts.

“Can I?” he asks quietly, his hand hovering near the hem of your shirt.

You nod.

He moves carefully. Slowly lifting the fabric just enough to expose your side. The bruise is worse than either of you expected. Dark already. Spreading. Angry under the skin, the kind of deep, blooming discolouration that makes your stomach twist just looking at it.

“Fuck,” Jack exhales quietly. Not surprised. Not pleased either.

“It looks worse than it feels,” you say automatically.

It’s a lie. A weak one.

Jack glances at you. Doesn’t call it out. Doesn’t need to.

“Does it hurt to breathe?” he asks instead.

“A bit.”

“How much is a bit?”

You hesitate. “More than a bit.”

He nods slightly, like he expected that. “Any sharp pain when you move?”

“Yes.”

“Dizziness? Nausea?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“A little.”

He takes that in, nodding with a frown. Then his hand comes back to your side, touch light, deliberate, pressing just enough to assess without making it worse. You tense immediately. A sharp inhale slipping out before you can stop it.

“Sorry, honey,” he murmurs, instantly easing off.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, even as your eyes sting again.

“No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”

That lands. Heavier than anything else has. Your lip wobbles slightly before you can stop it. You look away.

“I really thought it was fine,” you admit, voice small now. “At work it didn’t feel this bad.”

“Adrenaline,” he says simply.

You huff a weak breath. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Hey.”

You look back at Jack. His hand comes up to your face again, thumb brushing lightly under your eye where tears have started slipping free again without you realising.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs. “It looks bad, but you’re okay.”

“I feel stupid,” you whisper.

His expression tightens. Not at you. At the word.

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“I should’ve just stopped. Let them check it properly. Told you—”

“You got through your shift,” he cuts in gently. “That’s what you were focused on.”

“That doesn’t make it smart.”

“No,” he agrees quietly. “But it makes it understandable. I know what you’re like.”

You swallow. Your chest tightens.

“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” you say, barely above a whisper now.

“You don’t get to decide that it’s not a big deal,” he replies, not harsh, just steady. “Not when it’s you.”

You don’t argue. You can’t.

Buddy shifts slightly, pushing his head more firmly into your lap like he’s trying to insert himself into the conversation. You let your hand fall to him automatically, fingers threading through his fur.

Jack watches it for a second. Then, “Alright,” he says, softer now. “We’re going to assume bad bruising, maybe a cracked rib. No heroics for a few days.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Okay. I can live with that.”

“I’ll grab some ice,” he adds.

Buddy immediately lifts his head again. Watching. Tracking. Jack pauses. Looks at him.

“I’m coming back,” he says dryly.

Buddy blinks. Considers it. Then settles again, barely. You laugh softly despite yourself. It hurts. You do it anyway.

By the time Jack comes back, you’re more settled. Not better, but calmer.

He helps you adjust carefully, guiding you so you’re propped slightly, a pillow tucked behind your back to keep pressure off your ribs. Every movement is slow. Considered. His hands never far from you.

“Gonna be cold, sorry,” he warns quietly, pressing the ice pack gently against your side.

You flinch. Then relax. “That’s actually nice,” you admit after a second.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Usually is.”

The quiet settles again. Different now. Softer.

You’re watching Jack without meaning to.

The focus in his expression. The care in every movement. The way he keeps checking in without making it obvious.

“You’re not mad?” you ask after a while.

He looks up. Brows drawing together slightly. “Mad?”

“That I didn’t tell you.”

There’s a pause. Then, “No,” he says.

You blink. “Really?”

“I mean, I’m not thrilled,” he adds honestly. “But I’m not mad at you, sweetheart.”

That eases something in your chest. You didn’t even realise it was there.

“I just didn’t want to worry you,” you repeat softly.

“You don’t get to make that call,” he says again, gentler this time. “You tell me, I worry. That’s the deal.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “That’s not a very fair deal.”

“No,” he agrees. “Works for me, though.”

You laugh quietly. It pulls at your ribs. You wince.

His hand is there instantly. “Easy.”

“I’m okay,” you murmur. “Stop being funny.”

“I know. I’ll try,” he says.

Buddy shifts again, this time climbing more deliberately across the bed until he wedges himself firmly between you and Jack, his body pressed along your side, his head settling heavily across your lap like he’s decided his position is now permanent.

Jack stares at him. “Really?”

Buddy doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge him. You smile softly, your hand resting automatically on Buddy’s head.

“He’s just making sure I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” Jack mutters. “I can see that.”

There’s a pause. Then, carefully, deliberately, Jack shifts closer anyway. Working around the dog rather than moving him. His arm slides gently behind your back, pulling you just slightly closer so you’re supported without putting pressure on your ribs.

Buddy allows it. Barely.

You melt into it. Exhaustion catching up all over again now that everything else has settled. Your head tips lightly against Jack’s shoulder. Your hand still resting on Buddy.

“I’m really tired,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” Jack murmurs softly. “I know.”

Your eyes slip closed. Between them, you’re completely boxed in, warmth at your back, solid weight at your front, hands anchoring you in place like nothing is going to let you fall apart again.

“Stay,” you whisper, barely conscious now.

Jack’s arm tightens slightly around you. “I’ve got you.”

Buddy huffs softly. Settling deeper. And for the first time since it happened, you actually relax. Sleep comes easy after that.

All three of you tangled together in the quiet.

— COME AND JOIN MY TAGLISTS !

ALL PITT: @shawnhatosysrightbicep @goldfishenthusiast67 @snake-in-a-flower-crown @aureliacalista @sheridamn

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Jack switching over to day shift when you found out you were pregnant with your daughter was a game changer. You no longer had to force yourself to wake up earlier than you needed to just to get an extra 20 minutes with him, and Jack no longer needed to speed through handoffs in order to rush home. Now, mornings were spent getting ready together while you and your baby girl waved Jack goodbye, knowing you'd have the nighttime to be with him.

When your baby was born, you, along with Jack, made the decision that it would be best if you stayed at home. Not only did he make enough money to support your little family on his own, but with Jack's sometimes unpredictable hours, it only made sense to stay home instead of relying on babysitters or family members at the last minute. Besides, you had always dreamed of being a mom, so getting to stay home and cuddle and love on your little girl 24/7 was really the best case scenario.

Now, your baby girl was nine months old and she was nothing but pure love and cuteness all around. Jack could spend hours peppering little kisses all over her chubby little face while her tiny hands yanked at his curls. Your heart was even more full every time you looked at her due to how much she resembled Jack. Not only did she have her own red-ish curls like her dad did when he was young, but her eyes were the spitting image of Jack; not to mention her cute button nose that she would scrunch whenever you tickled her belly.

However, this particular day, your daughter seemed a little more down than usual. When you and Jack went to the nursery this morning, baby girl was a lot clingier than usual and fussy as she ate her breakfast. Of course Jack worried as he always did and suggested he should stay home and be with you. After some back and forth that everything would be fine and that he should get going, Jack relented and made sure to give your daughter some extra kisses before heading out.

That was around five hours and three meltdowns ago. Soon after Jack left, you had checked her temperature and it was certainly higher than usual. You tried to comfort her as best you could, not wanting to go through the hassle of a hospital run and have her be around even more sick people, but after hearing your baby cry for so long, it was the only logical solution.

Checking her temperature once again, you cursed lightly under your breath as it climbed even higher than before. Your baby girl continued to cry as you got her loaded up in the car on the way to PTMC. You tried to call Jack but it kept going to voicemail and you even went as far as calling Robby but his was the same too. You figured they must be swamped right now but you tried not to think too hard about it and focus on your little girl as she whimpered and fussed on the backseat.

Parking as quickly as you could, you made the split decision to enter through the ambulance bay like Jack told you to. You knew staff hated it when patients did that but the rules were always bent when it came to family.

Walking in, all you saw was chaos. Nurses and doctors were running around and you couldn't find anyone you knew, which meant they were all probably with a patient. As you balanced your baby girl on your hip, you tried giving Jack another call before a voice caught your attention.

"Excuse me ma'am, you can't just barge in here through the ambulance bay. They're for ambulances only, hence the name"

Turning around, you were met with a tall, lanky doctor with curly brown hair. The condescension was heavy in his retort and he had a look on his face like he was waiting for you to challenge him. Granted you hadn't met all of Jack's coworkers before, you couldn't fault him for not knowing you, but the way he spoke to you certainly wasn't alright; you were going to have a conversation with Robby later on about his doctor's bedside manners.

"I didn't barge in here" you started, "I'm just looking for--"

The man cut you off, "oh but you did, didn't you. You came in through those doors when patients are supposed to go through triage before getting called in."

You took a deep breath before responding, not wanting to completely explode in the middle of the ED, "Look, my daughter is sick and I am just trying to get a hold of her--"

He cut you off once again by ushering you back towards triage. "Look ma'am, we take patients in by how sick they are and from the looks of it, your baby isn't all that bad, so wait here and stop trying to cut the line."

You were speechless by how curt and dismissive he was of you. You tried to argue again as he continued to walk you into the waiting room but he kept shutting you down and waving you off. How dare he disrespect you like this? Regardless of you being Jack's wife or not, he had no right to speak to any patient like this. Before you could make one last argument, the man turned around and the door to the ED shut behind him.

You huffed as you watched the door close on your face. If this was about literally anyone else or even yourself, you would have taken his advice and checked in with the desk but you knew Jack would blow a fuse if he knew his baby girl sat waiting in chairs and no one told him.

Continuing to comfort your daughter as she cried in your arms, you looked behind the desk and didn't see anyone you knew. The times you'd come in to visit Jack, Lupe would usually be at the desk and would wave you in through the doors. Now, the only person that sat there was a young woman you hadn't met.

Deciding to just go for it, you waited in line in order to speak to the lady. In the 10 or so minutes that you waited, you tried multiple times to call Jack again. His phone continued to go to voicemail and you were starting to feel frustrated as your daughter got worse and worse and everyone around you coughed or sneezed or moaned about the wait time. Once you finally made it to the front, you wasted no time before asking for Jack.

"Oh I'm sorry ma'am but I think Dr. Abbot is busy. Besides, we don't usually allow patients to pick who their doctor will be, we just assign you to whoever is free first" she replied nicely. "Would you like to tell me what brought you here though?"

Tired of being given the same answer, you were just about to give up and just wait before you caught sight of Dana behind the glass walking out of a patient room with Mateo.

"Dana" you shouted, while waving your hand in order to get her attention.

The lady at the desk was about to comment on you distracting the charge nurse before Dana quickly made her way over.

"Sweetheart, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Oh thank god Dana. She's been feeling sick all morning and I tried to get in there but I got sent out here by one of the doctors. I haven't been able to reach Jack, do you know where he is?"

Dana nodded along to everything you said before turning back to the lady at the desk, "Let her through, she's Dr. Abbot's wife."

Sighing as you were finally getting somewhere, you welcomed the hug that Dana gave you as you walked through the door.

"Hey sweet girl" Dana cooed at your daughter, "Not feeling too good huh?"

Your daughter continued to whimper as tears streamed down her face. You gave her kisses to try and calm her down, explaining to Dana how high her temperature was the last time you checked as she led you over to a patient room.

"It's been a hell of a day here, not surprised Jack hasn't been able to call you back. But you just wait here and I'll go find him for you."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding as you finally settled your little girl onto the bed. You hummed a little song to her as you brushed her hair out of her face, now content knowing that your husband was on the way.

Your little peaceful moment was ruined however when the curtain was yanked back harshly and the man from earlier stepped in.

"Look lady, I tried being nice last time but I know for a fact that you did not go through triage because there is no baby listed on the board as a patient."

Before you could reply, he beat you to it again, "I don't know why you think you're entitled to special treatment but you can't just take a room from somebody who actually needs it."

You were about to unleash hell on this guy before a low and stern voice spoke from behind him.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing."

Both you and the man turned towards the door where Jack stood eerily still, dark eyes locked on the doctor in front of you.

"Dr. Abbot, I am so sorry about this lady. She came in earlier through the ambulance bay and I told her she couldn't do that so I made her go to the waiting room. I just now found her in this patient room where she definitely wasn't assigned and--"

"This lady," Jack stated, eyes never leaving the man, "is my wife. And that baby is my daughter. I've heard the voicemails she's left me and if you would have given her the chance to speak, you would've known that."

The atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically. You could see the moment the young man realized he screwed up and the look in your husband's eye was terrifying. The only thing that snapped Jack out of his simmering rage was the quiet cry your daughter let out in the bed. Immediately, Jack shouldered past the man and was at your baby's side instantly.

"Hey sweet girl, what's the matter hm? Not feeling good?" Jack whispered to your baby, putting a comforting hand on her belly and rubbing gently.

The other doctor, whose name you still didn't know, stood silently by the door with a terrified look on his face. He looked as though he was about to say something before Robby walked in.

"Hey, I heard my little niece was here, what's going on" Robby asked, but stopped as soon as he saw Ogilvie standing frozen by the curtain.

Robby lifted an eyebrow towards him, "Ogilvie, is there a reason you're just standing there?"

Before he could respond, Jack beat him to it, "Yeah he's going to explain to me why he kicked my wife out of the ED and told her that our daughter wasn't a priority"

Robby's mouth dropped open at that and a confused look passed over his face as he made eye contact with you.

"Okay" Robby answered slowly, "Why don't I just take a look at baby girl here and see what's going on."

Jack and Robby switched places as Jack marched over to the young man. You called out his name to try and calm him down but he wasn't listening. Jack got toe to toe with Ogilvie and despite your husband being a few inches shorter, it did nothing to help lessen his intimidating presence.

"While I may not be able to fault you for not knowing she's my wife, I can fault you for how you spoke to her. Regardless of a patient's relationship to any of us, that does not give you the right to berate a woman who is terrified for their child. You are not allowed to just dismiss a patient's feelings and do not ever let me hear you tell another parent again that their child is not sick enough to be a priority, do you understand me."

Even from where you were standing, you could see the tears starting to well up in the young man's eyes. Even though you had also wanted to tear into him earlier, you didn't actually want to see this guy cry.

"Jack" you called softly, "that's enough. Come here please."

You held your hand out for Jack to take as he waited another second before turning away from Ogilvie. Once his hand found yours, all his attention was back on you and your baby girl. From your periphery, you saw how Robby gestured for Ogilvie to step out. Turning your focus back on your daughter, she seemed to calm down now that her dad was here.

"Her temp is still up, so we'll get some medication going for her and run a few labs just to make sure nothing else is going on behind the scenes" Robby said, smiling down at your daughter before turning to Jack, "you good brother?"

"Yeah I am" Jack nodded, "you mind carrying on without me, I wanna stay here."

"Of course" Robby smiled, "Wouldn't let you back to work even if you wanted to." Robby pulled you in for a quick hug before stepping out of the room again. Now that it was just your little family, the weight of the day was starting to weigh on your shoulders. You and Jack laid on either side of your daughter, facing one another as she finally started to settle down.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you at work my love, I just didn't know what else to do" you sighed.

"Honey, do not ever apologize for taking care of our daughter, you did the right thing. If anything, I'm sorry for how Ogilvie treated you, that kid's been a pain ever since he got here" Jack huffed.

You let out a small smile as you looked at Jack, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder, "He's definitely got a lot to learn still, but he's got a good teacher" you teased.

Jack let out a small laugh at that before looking down to peer at his little girl, "I'm glad you brought her here. I hate being away from you two."

He looked back up at you as you cupped one side of his face, "Looks like she just needed her daddy to feel better" you replied softly.

The two of you continued to lay like that, going back and forth between looking at your daughter and each other. No words were spoken, all you knew was that everything would be okay now that Jack was here and that Jack would do anything to make sure it stayed that way.

On a rainy Thursday evening, as you were leaving your long shift, you saw him again.

Robby leaned against a column next to the physician's exit at St. Mary's, out of place in his rain-soaked PTMC scrubs, watching the rain sheet down. His eyes caught yours.

“Your security’s nicer than ours,” he said, his voice quiet, “They let me wait.”

“They let the homeless wait too.” You pop open your umbrella, the black canopy snapping against the hinges, and stepped out into the downpour, heading for your car.

You heard his wet footsteps behind you, quickening to match your pace. “Wait, please.”

“This is my place of work,” you said, fumbling with your keys. Your voice tight, “You can’t just show up.”

“I tried your new number. You didn’t answer,” He was beside you now, his hair plastered to his forehead, “Dana wouldn’t give me your new address. "This is the only place I knew you’d be.”

Your hands, finally deciding to cooperate, unlocked your car. “I have to go.”

“Where?” The question was blunt, desperate. So out of character for what you were used to. “Where do you have to go that’s more important than this? Than us?”

You finally faced him, the umbrella creating a small, private space in the storm. Rain dripped from his nose, his chin. He looked wrecked. “There is no ‘us,’ Robby. There hasn’t been for over a year. I have a life. I have responsibilities you have no idea about.”

“Then tell me!” The words were almost lost in the rain. He sounded broken. “Whatever it is, just tell me. Let me in please.”

How dare he? How dare he keep pushing and pushing. How dare he think he has a right to an answer. After everything. How dare he try to force it.

"You left me, Michael," you said firmly, the rain drumming against the umbrella like your own backing track, "You left. You made your stance very clear. I need to go. People need me.”

The use of his full name, lacking in the sweetness he once heard, hit him like a physical blow. He took half a step back. “My stance?” He echoed, confusion warring with frustration, “It was a sabbatical. We talked about it. You said you understood.”

“I understood you were choosing to run away from everything here,” you shot back. You opened the car door tossing your bag into the back seat harder than you intended, “From your mess, from the memories, from me. And you did. For a year. You don’t get to come back and pick up where you left off. You don’t get to put a metaphorical bookmark in this. The world kept turning without you.”

You moved to slam your door, he moved faster. His hand shot out, catching the edge of the door just before it closed. His fingers curling around the metal frame. The impact jarred the vehicle.

If he looked in your back seat he’d see Mason’s car seat.

“I have a patient waiting for a consult.” You lie, the habit automatic. “And you’re going to catch pneumonia.”

His grip didn’t falter. “What patient?” His voice was flat, disbelieving. “It’s 6pm on a Thursday. You’re not even on call.” He leans down, his tall frame taking up the space. His eyes search yours. “Who needs you? Who’s so important you can’t give me five minutes?” The question hung in the air. This was dangerous territory. The truth, a three-month old boy with your eyes, was on the tip of your tongue.

You shook your head, biting your lip hard enough to sting. “Let go.” Your voice low and trembling.

He didn’t flinch, just held your car door, his knuckles white, rain streaming down his arm. “No.”

“Robby- “

“No.” His gaze was unwavering, his face pale under the parking lot lights. This was the face of a man drug to his wits’ end. “Not until you tell me what’s going on. You’re lying to me. You’re hiding something. And it’s killing me, baby. Just… tell me.”

Baby.

His grip on the door was the only thing keeping it open. The rain soaking his sleeve dripped onto your seat. The space between you was just inches, filled with the smell of wet asphalt and something all him- soap and antiseptic.

“Please,” he whispered, the words almost lost in the downpour.

If you were a better woman, maybe you would have told him. Maybe, you would have told him to look in the back seat. Maybe, you wouldn’t insist on doing this alone. 

You couldn’t.

No.

This was the one thing that you had control over in your life. You had to give up your residency, you had to move, you had to take a shitty job at St. Mary’s with shitty pay. You controlled very little of how your life spiraled. You wanted to keep this one thing just for yourself.

Mason. 

Mason wasn’t just yours, not technically.

But for a year, he had been. Yours. Only yours. You couldn’t share him. You didn’t want to. You knew it was messy, but it was your mess.

“Go home,” you said with all the willpower you could muster. You looked at him then at the wheel in front of you. You wanted to leave. He was in the way. And with firm, sharp yank, you pulled the door shut.

The metal frame caught his fingers for a brutal second before he snatched his hand back. The door slammed with a solid, final thunk. You hit the lock button. Sealing you in silence.

Through the rain-streaked glass, you saw him stumble back a step, cradling his hand to his chest. His face was a mix of shock and pain. You turned the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life. You put the car in reverse, checked your mirror, and pulled out of the space. 

In the rearview, you saw him standing alone in the downpour, a dark, sodden figure growing smaller and smaller until you turned the corner and he was gone. Your hands were steady on the wheel, all those years in the trauma bay taught you to hide your emotions well, but your heart hammered against your ribs. You drive straight to the daycare. The route, your lifeline.

Mason was drowsy and warm in his carrier. You had missed bedtime. The late fee from the daycare was going to hurt your bank account when it posted. Fuck, why was this so hard. You buckled him in, kissed his forehead, and drove home through the wet streets. Your apartment was quiet. 

Normalcy, please. Echoed in your head. Mason was already asleep in his carrier. His bath could wait and they probably fed him at daycare. Dammit, you needed your routine. Your late shift wasn’t going to take it from you.

You fed him, bathed him, and rocked him until his eyes drifted shut. Then you sat down on your old, stained couch you had picked up on the curb. You flicked on a rerun of Law and Order.

Your phone, face down on the coffee table, buzzed one. Then, again. You didn’t look.

Just get through the next hour. Fuck! You just needed to get through the next few minutes.

Days passed in a blur of shifts and stolen sleep. The texts from Robby stopped after the third day. 

Silence.

That was what you wanted. 

Your son. And yours alone. 

Right? 

Fuck.

You shove your thoughts away. Compartmentalize. ER rule number one. Shit. Your life wasn’t the ER- and it wasn’t just yours. You had to factor in Mason now too. 

It’s a problem for another day. Hour? Minute?

It couldn’t matter. Not when you were sitting in your car in front of St. Mary’s prepping to go into some Pediatric seminar on your day off. The admin had said something about “Continuing Education Credits.” It’s a load of bullshit. You were learning everyday- at work, at home.

Whatever, just another hoop to jump through.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and march through the doors. The seminar was shoved into some back auditorium that kind of smells like it served a flood and never quite recovered. Gross. The chair creaks under you as you sit-

“This is the place you tried to poach me to?” A dry voice, followed by a squeaking chair, said from behind you. Two muscular arms crossed over the back of the seats next to you. 

“It has its charm.”

“You call mold charming?”

You turned. Jack Abbot sat there, looking out of place in the red velvet, and moldy seat. His expression was as unreadable as ever. 

“You don’t look like someone interested in,” you held the seminar pamphlet up, “‘Advancements in Peds: Helping the Little Guy Out!’”

“I’m curious.” He shrugged.

“You need the hours? S.W.A.T doesn’t count?”

“Something like that. Joint training credit.” He settled in his chair, his prosthetic leg making a soft click. He glanced around the room, taking in the aged architecture. “Heard you were doing well over here. St. Mary’s gain.”

“It’s a job,” you said absentmindedly shuffling through your bag. Chapstick, melted. Mason’s dirty sock. Pack of gum. 

The silence stretched, filled with the sounds of other medical personnel filing in.

On the screen at the front, the lecturer had flicked to a slide titled: Developmental Milestone in Early Childhood.

You looked down too fast.

“You going to ask? Something's bugging you.”

Do you really want him to know? 

It was all still fresh- the ambush with Robby last week shook you. And now this. Pediatrics. Growth chart. Milestones. The kind of things you used to teach yourself late at night when the house was quiet and you needed reassurance you were doing everything right.

You already knew too much about it.

Maybe not enough.

Mason had never been a patient in those studies. He never needed two parents in a house to exist. Just you. And the occasional Grammy Dana, when she could. That had to be enough. 

“It’s nothing,” you said finally, closing your bag. “Just here for the credits.”

Jack studied you, his gaze assessing. “Robby doesn’t know I’m here,” he shrugged. “But he’s not good, if you’re wondering.”

“I’m not.” Maybe… possibly a small part of you was. 

“Yeah, sure,” he says with that all knowing tone. “He’s not good.”

That hit harder than you wanted to admit.

“Define ‘not good.’”

Jack exhaled through his nose, like he was deciding how much truth to fit in a single conversation. “He’s back at PTMC, but he’s… not there.”

He paused.

“Spends half the time staring at his phone. And the other half, he’s overworking himself like he can outrun his own head.”

You don’t look at him.

Jack’s voice softened slightly. “Dana says he’s been asking questions he knows the answers to. About you.”

That hit lower.

You kept your expression neutral, but your stomach tightened. “That’s not my problem.” 

Jack nodded once. Like he expected you to say that. “I know.”

But he didn’t move on immediately.

“Isn’t it, though?” 

“You were together,” he continued. “In your own… whatever that was. Then you both just disappeared. He thinks he did something. Something bad enough that you changed your number, left the hospital, and won’t even look at him.” 

His gaze held steady. “And I’m not a shrink, but I think this is more than just him leaving for a sabbatical.”

He paused, letting you hear him. 

“So, I’m asking you, as someone who cares for both of you- what happened? Because the man I know wouldn’t have let you go without a war unless he thought he deserved to lose.”

Was it a requirement for the men at PTMC to be nosey?

Your throat was tight and suddenly very dry. “It’s complicated. And you’re his best friend. It’s against bro code for you to keep anything from him.”

Jack let out a soft, humorless breath. “Bro code,” he repeated, the words flat. You heard his chair creak then the thudding of the metal hitting the back. Jack Abbot took the chair next to you. “It’s against girl code for me to tell him. I can be one of the girls.” 

You had forgotten that Jack could be funny when he wanted to be. A sharp laugh escapes you. This man has no shame, and you hadn’t laughed in a long time. He got your guard down.

“If you think this is about loyalty,” he tries this time softer, “I’m here because I watched him come back from sabbatical thinking he’d fix whatever he broke. I watched him realize he couldn’t even find you to try. I can understand that.” He paused, his gaze steady over your profile, “He’s a good man. Flawed, stubborn, carries too much. But good. And whatever this is… it’s eating him alive. If you can’t tell him, fine. But don’t ask me to watch him drown and call it loyalty.”

The weight of his words settled in the room. Down the hall, a child’s laughter echoed. You thought of Mason, of Robby’s confused, rain-soaked face. Of the secret that was no longer just yours- it was a thing with weight, with consequences that ripped out and touched people like Jack. Like Dana. Like Robby. It was Mason’s secret too. You had made your little smiling boy, who was supposed to be loved by so many people, be a secret. 

God your chest ached and your eyes stung.

“I can’t,” you whispered, the admission torn from you. “I can’t be the one to break him.”

Jack was silent for a long moment. “He’s already broken,” he said quietly. “You’re the only one who can tell him why.”

You didn’t mean Robby.

“I won’t tell, Robby,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I have too much to protect. I can’t tell you because you’ll tell him.”

You shook your head as you reached into your bag for something to wipe your eyes with. Not thinking you grabbed Mason’s sock. It’s fine, he’s puked on me a million times. 

Jack watched you, his eyes catching the little baby sock- then to your face.

And something in his expression shifted.

Oh. Oh.

Your eyes catch his then the sock in your hand. 

No. This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen.

Before you could spiral any further he raises his hand to silence you. “You think I’d break a patient’s confidence?.” He asked his tone low. He squeezes your shoulder in, what you’d guess, was his way to soothe you. “You’re not my patient. This isn’t a medical secret. This is a person. A person who matters to both of you.”

He stood up slowly, shifting his weight to balance. “I won’t tell him.” He reassures, “But you’re asking me to carry this, too. To watch him spiral and know why. That’s a hell of a thing to put on a friend.”

He moved for the door ignoring that the presentation had started. He turned before he could exit the aisle. “For what it’s worth… he would have stayed. If he’d known. He wouldn’t have gone anywhere.” His eyes linger for a second longer on the little sock, then he walks out.

The silence he left behind was heavy. The uncontrollable closing in. You focused on Mason, on building a life that felt sturdy enough to withstand the past.

In. Out.

One. Two. Three.

Don’t think past that.

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