Trylena

you glare at him from where you’re sprawled dramatically across the couch in shorts and one of his old loose fitting t-shirts. “if you say electrolytes one more time, i’m leaving you.”

“you can’t. it’s too hot outside.”

annoyingly, he’s right.

he’s spent the entire day implementing increasingly ridiculous survival strategies. curtains closed to block sunlight. damp washcloths in the freezer. homemade iced tea. strategically placing a fan in front of a bowl of ice like some kind of exhausted scientist.

and worst of all? all of it actually works.

“you’ve thought about this way too much,” you mumble as he presses a cold bottle of water against the back of your neck.

he shrugs. “heat stroke cases go up every summer.”

“romantic.”

“i contain multitudes.”

by nighttime, the temperature barely drops.

you’re both lying in bed on top of the sheets, trying not to move because movement somehow makes it worse. jack’s hair is damp from another cold shower, his t-shirt abandoned somewhere on the floor hours ago.

you hear him sigh beside you before he rolls closer automatically, half-asleep and seeking you out of habit.

the second his arm touches your waist, you immediately squirm away. “absolutely not.”

his eyes crack open. “rude.”

“you are a human furnace.”

“i’m just trying to cuddle my girlfriend.”

“you’re trying to kill me.”

he groans and flops onto his back dramatically. “this heat wave is destroying our relationship.”

“survival first.”

“wow.” jack scoffs.

you point weakly at him from across the mattress. “stay on your side before i start hissing at you.”

he snorts tiredly. “noted.”

the next afternoon, you come home expecting another miserable day of sweating through existence.

instead—

cold air hits your face the second you open the door. you stop dead in the entryway.

“…jack?” you call out.

from somewhere down the hall, he calls, “living room.”

you follow the sound and find him kneeling beside a brand-new portable ac unit, screwdriver still in hand, hair messy, looking annoyingly pleased with himself.

you stare at the machine. then at him.

“did you install air conditioning?”

“i did.”

“today?”

“i had a post-shift moment of clarity.”

you blink at him in disbelief before immediately walking straight into the stream of cold air with an emotional sigh.

jack laughs softly from behind you. “there it is.”

“i could kiss you right now.”

“could?”

you turn toward him, already crossing the room. “doctor jack abbot,” you say solemnly, grabbing his face with both hands, “you’re the love of my life.”

he grins as you kiss him, cool air humming softly around the apartment for the first time all week.

You walk around the stone path to the back garden and the steady sound of splitting gets louder. Chrysanthemums bloom along the low garden wall and a pile of wood sits next to the round, stone fire pit. To the right of the pit a huge tree stump sits with a log balancing on top of it- splitting apart as the axe comes down. 

“Hey lumberjack,” you smile, setting your bags on the ground and walking towards him.  

“Hello professor,” Andrew smiles back at you, dropping the axe into the large tree stump. He wipes his face with the bottom of his white t-shirt, his tight stomach peeking up out of his jeans as he moves towards you. Your eyes gaze down to the faded scars on his abdomen. He grabs your waist with one hand and your face with the other placing a tender, lingering kiss on your mouth. You sigh into his lips, resting your hands on his biceps which strain against the white fabric. 

“Mmm,” you scrunch your nose, “you’re all sweaty.”  

“Since when do you not like me when I’m sweating?” He playfully furrows his brow.

“Since I’m not sweating underneath you,” You kiss him again and he pulls you closer. Behind you a small babble floats through the air. You turn around to see your daughter in her little outdoor high chair. She smacks her chubby little hands against her tray table reaching for you.

“Gwen! I thought you’d be sleeping, you naughty thing!” You walk over to her and kiss the soft little curls on the top of her head. 

“How’s my Gwenny?” You coo, lifting the smiling girl out of her high chair, “are you supervising Daddy? Chop, chop, chop! You are so helpful!” You smush Gwen's cheek against yours, pursing your lips. Andrew rests his warm hand on the small of your back, wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush to him.

“We missed you all day,” He mumbles into his wife's hair. You sigh and tilt your head back until it rests on Andrew's shoulder. Gwen's tiny hand wraps around the gold sun pendant resting on your chest and she tries to put it in her mouth.

“Oh no, no,” Andrew says as he slips his finger into her little fist instead which she immediately puts in her mouth.

“I think she’s got another little tooth coming in.” He says running a finger along her chubby cheek.

“Yeah?” you say with a high-pitch lilt, “You biting daddy all day?”

“Yeah, she’s just like her mommy.” Andrew teases, squeezing your hips.

“Ok,” You push him off in fake annoyance, “Does daddy want to sleep on the couch tonight? Hmm?”

“Oh, I don’t think mommy would like that as much as she’s pretending to,” He says, lifting Gwen out of your arm, placing a kiss on the baby’s cheek. You smile and roll your eyes, bending over to pick up your bags. Andrew smacks your ass as you walk towards the house in front of him and you squeal, turning over your shoulder to give a flirty smile.

After giving Gwen dinner, most of which she ends up wearing, your little family sits in the upstairs bathroom. Gwen splashes around in the bathtub a small rubber ducky in her tiny baby fits as you make a soapy mohawk in her hair. Andrew’s t-shirt hangs over the shower rod soaked from a particularly powerful splash from Gwen.

“You look so gorgeous,” you say in a high-pitched voice, twirling Gwen’s soapy curls in your fingers, “your little curly hair is so pretty, huh? Just like Daddy's,”

Andrew sits against the wall facing you watching with adoration. His heart swells looking at his girls, Gwen has his hair but she definitely got her mothers smile, bright, and jovial, and constant on her little rosebud lips. A flash of silver on your hand catches his eye and he notices that you are wearing his signet ring on your pointer finger.

“Nice ring,” He smiles.

“Oh!” You turn your hand looking down at your finger, “you left it on the counter this morning, I just slipped it on so it wouldn’t get lost.” You twist it off before slipping it back onto his right pinky, almost mirroring the silver wedding band on his left ring finger. He smiles flexing his hand. You tilt Gwen's head back, rinsing the shampoo out of her hair, making a wooshing sound as you stream the water over her little head. Andrew grabs the little, green towel with a froggy hood and wraps it around Gwen, lifting her out of the bath. He kisses her cheek, resting his nose on it, breathing in deeply.

“You want to shower? I can do bedtime,” Andrew says, still resting his face against Gwen's.

“Ugh, I love you,” you lean forward placing a kiss on his lips then turning and kissing Gwen's face all over, her little giggles filling the room. Andrew steps out of the bathroom catching you pulling off your dress in the mirror before pulling the door shut.

Andrew puts Gwen in her blue footie pajamas that have little ladybugs all over it before sitting her in his lap on the cherry wood rocking chair in the corner of her room. He reads Goodnight Moon in his low, steady voice, saying goodnight to two little kittens and the pair of mittens. Gwen’s eyes start to droop and Andrew stands placing three soft kisses on her head before gently lowering her into her crib. He stares down at her for a moment running his eyes over her dark eyelash, pink cheeks, and rosebud lips. He can’t believe he helped make something so perfect.

“She’s out,” Andrew says, sauntering back into your bedroom, he freezes in the doorframe seeing you. You sit on your knees on the edge of the bed in a sugar pink slip dress, completely sheer. He can see your matching pink panties peeking out the bottom. You stare at him with your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Hi,” you say, batting your eyelashes at him.

“Hi,” Andrew breathes, closing the door and striding across the room, picking you up in one swift motion. He holds you up by your ass and you let out a quiet squeal as he kneels on the bed placing you down underneath him. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” He says gazing down at you, you smile wrapping your arms around his neck pulling him into a long, slow kiss. He runs his hand all over the sheer chiffon covering your body, slipping his hand under the pink fabric, cupping your breast and pinching your nipple. A small squeak comes from your throat in response, arching your back pushing your chest into his hand. He pushes one of his thighs between your legs letting his weight come down on your core. You hum into his mouth at the feeling of pressure as he moves his leg against you. You pull on his hair so he’s looking down at your face, your pink lips parted as you breathed against his mouth.

“Andrew,” you whisper, “I want another baby,”

Andrew’s breath catches in his throat and he sits back on his knees, his eyes glazing over, staring into the distance. You sit up beneath him resting your hands on his stomach, your fingers grazing lightly over one of his scars.

“We don’t have to decide right now,” you say, taking his chin in your hand tilting it down so he’s looking at you, “I just… I love you so much, I love our little family, I love Gwen, I love how much she looks like you, I love how much she loves you.” You push your hands into the curls at the back of his neck slowly twisting a strand between your fingers, “You’re such an incredible dad and an amazing partner-” He cuts you off planting a searing kiss on your lips, holding your soft face in his rough hands.

“I would have a hundred more kids with you.” Andrew says, resting his forehead against yours, “I just… I’m so fucking lucky that I have you, that we have Gwen…” A tear rolls down his cheek and you brush it away with your thumb.

“It doesn’t feel real sometimes,” he sniffs, “I’m not sure what I did to deserve all of this, and I can’t believe... I get to have more.” 

“Andrew,” you sigh, “if we had a hundred babies my uterus would self-destruct.”

He laughs and kisses you again.

“Why don’t we just aim for two for now…?” He says, pressing you back down on the soft mattress, one of his legs still between yours. He nips along your neck as you moan lightly, tilting your head back so he can better access your throat. He traces his finger along the thin strap of the sheer pink dress.

“You look so pretty,” He hums, dragging the fabric slowly over your stomach, then your breasts, letting it catch on your nipples before pulling it off, “but I think I like you the best like this,” he runs his hand over your breast squeezing lightly before dragging his fingers over your little, pink thong. He traces little hearts on your hip with his warm fingers.

“Andrew,” you whine, “don’t tease,” pushing your hips up, trying to get him to touch you between your legs where you ache for him. 

“I’m just savoring the moment,” he says with reverence in his eyes. Slowly he moves his hand into your panties and drags his middle finger over your slit. You let out a shaky breath and grab his neck pulling him down so his cheek is right next to yours.

“Please,” you whisper in his ear, “I need you,”

He pushes his finger in slowly, listening to your breath catch. 

“Mmm,” you hum, tightening your grip on his neck.

“You gotta be good if you want me to fuck you,” He murmurs in your ear, curling his finger up inside your slick walls.

“Ok,” you breathe, trying to grind down on his hand, but he slowly pulls his finger out. You huff in annoyance, gripping down on his wrist.

“You gotta say it,” he whispers.

“I’m gonna be good for you,” you whine, and he grabs your tiny panties yanking them down your legs.

“Good girl,” he pushes two fingers inside you, and your head falls back. His mouth is hanging open, watching you with devotion, “you’re so wet for me,”

You writhe against his hand biting on your pointer finger to keep quiet. You reach down with your other hand pushing the grey sweatpants slung low on his hips down his legs, hooking your toe into the waistband shoving them down with your foot. Andrew’s eyes roll back as you grab his rock-hard dick.

“Fuck,” he groans, shifting his body so he is next to you, pulling your waist so you lay on your sides, facing each other. He brings your leg over his hip and reaches down between your legs shoving his fingers back inside you. You gasp as he pumps in and out of you slowly and you twist and tug on his shaft, running your thumb back and forth over his tip. You whimper as he brings his thumb up to rub against your clit in long, aching strokes. He fucks his fingers in and out of you, drinking up the sounds of your pussy squelching and mixed with the sound of your moans Andrew is in heaven. He feels your pussy spasm.

“Andrew,” you whine, writhing against his hand, “I’m gonna come,”

“Come for me, beautiful,” he whispers, keeping up his tantalizing pace. You pull him towards you and press a hard kiss on his mouth, muffling your moans as you come on his fingers. He rolls you over onto your back before crowding over you, pushing your legs further apart with his thick thighs. He grabs the base of his cock with his hand before running the tip over your entrance in long, thick lines. He lines up with your entrance pushing the lips of your pussy open just slightly before leaning down and kissing you softly on the lips.

“Slow, ok?” he says in a low, raspy voice.

“Ok,” you whisper. He pins your wrists above your head and pushes into you slowly. He’s been so gentle with you ever since you had Gwen, even more so than normal, but you loved everything about it. You loved feeling him move against you so gently and with so much care. He buries his cock inside you so his balls press against your ass. He flexes his stomach so his dick twitches inside you making you feel even more full. You wriggle against him as he slides his tongue in your mouth, locking you in a warm, wet kiss, swallowing every sound you make like it nourishes him. He laces your fingers together as he pumps in and out of you, stretching your pussy so good a dull ache starts to crescendo in your stomach.

“Andrew,” you whine against his mouth, and he knows you’re going to come again. He feels your pussy spasm and squeeze around his cock as you tighten your grip on his hands, leaving little white marks underneath your fingers on the back of his freckled hands. He groans at the feeling of you fluttering around him

“Good girl,” he says against your lips, feeling the coil in his stomach tightening, “you want me to fuck another baby in you?” He pulls back so he can look at your face, cheeks flushed, pink lips glimmering with his spit, eyebrows scrunching in euphoric pleasure. 

“Yeah,” you whimper, “I wanna-” your eyes fluttering closed for a moment at a particularly deep thrust of your husband’s cock, “I wanna have your baby,” you manage to get out. Your words push him over the edge, filling your pussy with his creamy cum as he grunts and moans in your ear.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, as you milk his cock. The two of you stay pressed against each other, breathing in the other’s breath like it's the only air you need. He cups your cheek and places a lingering, soft kiss on your lips. He sits back on his heels and drags his hands down your body, running his fingertips over the stretch marks on your belly from your pregnancy. 

“I don’t think it works that fast,” you say, smiling up at him.

“Funny,” he says, leaning forward and crowding back over you as you lace your fingers through his curls placing another slow, warm kiss on your lips. He slides a hand beneath your body and rolls you over on top of him, still his favorite way to sleep. He brushes your hair back as he gazes into your eyes.

“I love you so much,” he says softly.

“I love you so much,” you place a sweet kiss on his cheek, “and I love you and Gwen more than anything.”

“More than anything,” he repeats, pulling you into him, you let out a little gasp as your core rubs against his firm leg. You’ve become so much more sensitive physically since having Gwen, and he’ll never admit it but it is an aspect of your motherhood that Andrew is obsessed with. He loved everything about your pregnancy: trying to get you pregnant, watching you belly grow with the baby you made together, fucking you while your tits were achingly full and your stomach swelled, taking care of you and your little Gwen when he took you both home from the hospital. 

Despite your protests Andrew stayed awake every night for the first month after Gwen was born, just watching her little body as she slept in the cradle next to your bed. If her cries ever woke you up Andrew would kiss you on the temple before whisking Gwen out of your bedroom and into the nursery. He had only started letting her sleep in there at six months, spending many nights sitting in the rocking chair for hours watching her little breaths. You could count the amount of diapers you’ve changed on one hand…

Gwen’s little cries drift down the hallway as you lay in Andrew's arms on the cusp of sleep.

“I got her,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your hairline. He slips on his boxers before opening your door and walking to Gwen's room. She wriggles around in her crib crying and Andrew lifts her up in one swift motion, pressing her tiny body against his chest.

“You’re ok Gwenny,” he whispers, rocking her back and forth, “I’ve got you, Daddy’s got you.” He sways with her tucked into his arms until her crying subsides and she babbles sleepily against his skin. He walks back to your room with Gwen in his arms, even though you had told him that she needs to learn to sleep in her crib, Andrew can’t help but want both his girls with him in bed every night. He nudges the door open with his foot and sees you asleep, curled up in his t-shirt. He pulls back the quilt, slipping into bed next to you. Even in your sleep you reach for him, rolling into his side, tucking your face into his neck.

Identity theft was the last crime Andrew ever committed. No, Andrew didn’t kill anyone, just stole a death certificate of a young man who died tragically young at 41 before it could be processed. Robert Carney, whose life was given to something worthwhile after being cut short by a heart attack. Robert, a woodworker with no family and not many friends to speak of, was easy enough to become. And it helped that his middle name was Andrew, a small coincidence that allowed this Andrew to keep using his own name, to keep hearing it in your voice.

It allowed him to marry you and despite your sadness that you weren’t marrying your Andrew Cody he was elated to get to marry you in any way at all. It still made his heart flutter thinking about getting down on one knee in front of you, asking you to be his for the rest of your lives. Andrew loves seeing his ring on your finger nestled against your gold wedding band with pearls, his birthstone, your idea. He loves spinning his own silver ring around on his finger, your initials engraved on the inside of the band along with your wedding date.

And even though he is bone tired, he lays awake, one arm around Gwen sleeping on his chest, the other around you, snug against his side, his forever wrapped up in his arms inside the house he built you as a cool breeze rustles the autumn leaves outside.

Chapter Three: Tiny Abbot

YOUR POV:

The newest ultrasound photo had been on the fridge for less than twenty-four hours, and you had already stopped in front of it seventeen times. Maybe eighteen. You had lost count somewhere between brushing your teeth, making coffee, forgetting what you had walked into the kitchen for, and standing barefoot in front of the refrigerator with one hand beneath your stomach while Jack pretended not to notice you staring at the same black-and-white image again.

He noticed.

Jack noticed when a patient’s breathing changed from across a trauma bay. He noticed when your ginger ale went untouched for too long. He noticed when your socks left tiny indentations above your ankles and when you were pretending the ache in your back was merely decorative.

There was no universe in which Jack Abbot did not notice you standing in front of the refrigerator like it had become a religious site.

He just had the good sense not to comment right away.

The photo was tucked beneath the little Pittsburgh magnet Robby had bought you as a joke three years ago and then acted offended when you used it. Your grocery list sat beside it, normal and ordinary and safe, with coffee, bread, honey, and paper towels written in Jack’s neat handwriting.

No proposals this time. Just groceries.

Still, the list made your chest warm every time you looked at it. But the ultrasound photo was the thing that kept pulling you back.

Not the first one.

The first one had been a blur of static and possibility, a tiny bright shape you loved before it looked like anything at all. The kind of picture people smiled at while secretly admitting they needed the ultrasound tech to point out where the baby actually was.

This one was different. This one had a profile. A forehead. A nose. A mouth.

Your son, still grainy and shadowed in black and white, looking briefly like someone the world had not met yet.

You were trying to be reasonable about it.

Truly.

You understood that an ultrasound was not a portrait. You understood that black-and-white medical imaging was not the same as seeing your son’s actual face. You understood that medical science would probably have several calm, boring things to say about image angles, shadows, and fetal positioning.

But you also understood something deeper.

Older. Instinctive.

You had made a Jack clone.

A tiny, curled-up, twenty-week version of your husband was currently living beneath your ribs, and you were holding out fragile hope that maybe he would at least inherit your eyes.

Or your smile.

Or your ability to enter a grocery store without declaring war on the parking lot.

Jack stood at the counter behind you, making coffee with the quiet efficiency of a man who had learned your current tolerance for morning conversation was directly related to how soon he could get caffeine-adjacent hope into your hands. Real coffee for him. The good decaf for you. The bag he had brought home after night shift sat beside the coffee maker, already clipped closed with the little metal clip he had found in the junk drawer after watching you struggle with the bag for three seconds.

He had not said a word. He had just taken it from you, clipped it shut, and put it where you could reach it.

Emotionally devastating maniac.

You stared at the ultrasound photo. “He looks like you,” you said.

Jack looked up from the coffee maker. “It’s black and white.”

“I know.”

“We haven’t seen him out yet,” Jack added.

“I know that too.”

Jack leaned back against the counter, one hand braced beside his mug. “Then how are you making this assessment?”

You looked at the photo again. His tiny profile. His little nose. The frankly suspicious set of his brow. You sighed. “Because I made a clone.”

Jack stared at you. “A clone.”

“A tiny Abbot,” you said mournfully.

His eyes narrowed. “Do not start that.”

You sighed louder. “I’m just hoping he gets something from me.”

Jack’s expression softened. He did not move right away. He only looked at you across the kitchen, morning light catching in the silver at his temples, coffee still dripping steadily into the pot behind him.

“He will,” Jack said.

You looked at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His mouth moved faintly. “He already has your stubbornness.”

You gasped. “That is slander.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “And your dramatic sense of injury.”

You frowned. “I am injured.”

“By an ultrasound,” Jack replied.

You pointed at him. “By genetics.”

Jack’s smile almost got free. Almost. You turned back to the fridge, trying to keep your expression dignified while wearing one of his sweatshirts and standing barefoot in front of a baby picture you had already stared at eighteen times. Maybe nineteen.

“He has your face,” you said.

Jack stepped closer. You felt him before he touched you. The warmth of him at your side. The soft brush of his shirt against your shoulder. The way the kitchen seemed to get smaller when he came near, even after all these years.

“He has a face,” Jack said.

You smiled. “Your face.”

Jack looked at the ultrasound. This time, he did not argue as quickly. His shoulder brushed yours. His eyes stayed on the picture, and for one quiet second, the practical line of his mouth softened into something you did not think he meant to show.

“You really think so?” he asked.

Your heart turned over. There it was. Not skepticism. Not entirely. Hope, carefully disguised as disbelief.

You looked up at him. “Yeah. I do.”

Jack swallowed once. Then he looked back at the photo. “Poor kid.”

You elbowed him gently. “Beautiful kid.”

His mouth softened. “Yeah,” he said. “That too.”

Your son shifted beneath your hand. Small. Lazy. As if he had heard the assessment and decided to participate only enough to remind everyone he was present.

You breathed out a laugh.

Jack’s gaze dropped immediately. “Again?” he asked.

You nodded. “Small one.”

His hand hovered near your stomach, not touching yet. Even now, even here, he still asked without words. That always got you. The care in it. The restraint. The way he treated your body like it was still yours, even when he loved the person growing inside it so fiercely he sometimes forgot how to breathe around the evidence. You covered his hand with yours and brought it to your stomach. Jack’s palm settled carefully against the curve beneath his sweatshirt. Your son did not move again. Jack waited anyway.

The sight of it made your throat tight. “He knows your voice,” you said.

Jack looked down at his hand. “Maybe.”

“He does,” you insisted.

“He could be reacting to anything,” Jack murmured.

You turned your head and stared at him. “Jack.”

His mouth twitched. “Pattern needs more data.”

“Oh my God.” You looked back at the ultrasound photo. “You are not evidence-basing our son’s love for you.”

“I’m not.”

You rolled your eyes. “You absolutely are.”

Jack’s thumb moved once against your stomach. “I’m being reasonable.”

“You’re being emotionally avoidant with a control group,” you corrected.

His eyebrows lifted. “That feels unfair.”

“It feels accurate.”

Your son shifted again. Small, but definite. Right beneath Jack’s palm. You looked down immediately. Then you looked up at him. “Data.”

Jack’s mouth opened. Then closed.

You smiled. “Data.”

“That is not—”

“Data,” you repeated.

Jack looked down at his hand, and whatever argument he had been preparing seemed to lose momentum somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Your son moved once more, as if he had decided to make your case for you.

Jack went still. Not trauma-still. Not clinical-still.

Father-still.

You watched the way his face changed. The way all the controlled, practical edges of him softened under the weight of one tiny movement from a person he had not met yet.

“You love that,” you said.

Jack did not look up. “What?”

“That he knows your voice.”

His jaw shifted once.

You smiled gently. “You love it.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on your stomach. “I might,” he said.

It was the smallest concession. Barely one at all. But his hand stayed exactly where it was, and his thumb moved again, careful and reverent.

Your chest filled. “A mother knows,” you said.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours.

For a second, you thought he might tease you. Say something dry about data or ultrasound accuracy or the legal admissibility of mother’s intuition.

He did not. He only looked at you. Soft. Private. A little undone.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened. “Yeah?”

Jack’s thumb shifted over your stomach. “Yeah. She does.”

That got you. Not enough to cry. Not today. But enough that the kitchen went a little blurry around the edges for one dangerous second. You blinked hard and looked back at the ultrasound photo. Your son’s profile.

Your tiny Abbot.

The Jack clone currently using your bladder as a rental property and responding to his father’s voice like he already knew exactly where home was.

Then your stomach growled. Loudly. Not delicately. Not romantically. A full, undeniable announcement from the digestive portion of your anatomy.

Jack looked down. You looked down too. Your son gave one more tiny shift, like he wanted to formally distance himself from the sound.

You closed your eyes. “Oh my God,” you said.

Jack’s hand stayed on your stomach. “What?”

“I’m hungry,” you murmured in awe.

His attention sharpened immediately. “Yeah?”

You nodded, excited. “Like, actually hungry.”

Jack looked at your face, then toward the counter, already recalculating the morning around this new, fragile miracle. “What sounds good?” he asked.

You opened your eyes. The answer arrived fully formed. Not from logic. Not from nutrition. From the deepest, most sacred part of your pregnant soul.

You looked him dead in the eyes. “I want married toast.”

Jack stared at you for one beat. Then his mouth twitched. “Married toast.”

“With Irish butter,” you said.

“Obviously.”

“And the good honey,” you added.

Jack nodded. “Farmers market?”

“The one that tastes like flowers and sunshine.”

Jack’s expression softened in the way that still made your chest ache, even after years of knowing what it felt like to be loved by him. “Toast is doable,” he said.

You lifted one finger. “Married toast.”

Jack’s mouth moved faintly. “Married toast is doable.”

You smiled, triumphant and starving.

Jack leaned down and kissed your forehead, his hand still warm against your stomach.

“Sit,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounded like husband tone.”

“It was breakfast tone,” Jack replied.

You shrugged. “Same thing.”

His mouth moved again, closer to a smile this time. You stepped away from the fridge and toward the kitchen island, one hand still under your stomach. Behind you, Jack opened the bread. The house smelled like coffee and morning, and the first real hunger you had trusted in days. You lowered yourself carefully onto the stool and looked back at the ultrasound photo on the fridge.

Your son’s little profile stared back in grainy black-and-white.

Jack’s face.

Your stubbornness.

Maybe your eyes, if genetics had any sense of fairness.

And the whole fragile, impossible thing still belonged mostly to the two of you.

For now.

Jack set the bread in the toaster.

You watched him move around the kitchen like this was the most ordinary thing in the world. Bread. Butter. Honey. Coffee. His hand checking the edge of the plate before he set it down, like he was making sure it would not slide. His thumb brushing a stray crumb from the counter. His body still close enough that you could reach for him if the moment got too big.

It almost did.

Then the toaster clicked.

Jack plated the toast with the kind of care he would deny under oath. Irish butter melted into the bread. Farmers market honey drizzled in a thin, golden line over the top. He set the plate in front of you.

Married toast.

You looked up at him. “I have never loved you more.”

Jack pointed one finger at you. “Do not start ranking again.”

“I’m just saying,” you replied with a smile.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You said the decaf won yesterday.”

You nodded seriously. “The ranking system is fluid.”

Jack leaned one hand against the counter. “That seems rigged.”

“It’s pregnancy.”

“That is not a legal defense,” Jack replied.

You clicked your tongue. “It should be.”

Jack poured your decaf and set the mug beside the plate. You picked up the toast and took one careful bite. For a second, the kitchen went quiet. The toast was warm. The butter was rich. The honey tasted like flowers and sunshine.

And your body, miracle of miracles, wanted it.

Your eyes closed.

Jack watched you from across the island. “Good?” he asked.

You nodded, mouth full, possibly emotional.

He grinned softly, “Words.”

You swallowed carefully. “If I speak, I might cry.”

His face softened.

You pointed the toast at him. “Happy cry.”

He sighed, “Still.”

“I’m fine,” you added.

Jack held your gaze. “Yeah?”

You looked at the ultrasound photo. Then, at the man in front of you. Then down at your stomach, where your son shifted faintly, quiet now but there. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

For once, he let that be enough.

He picked up his own coffee and came around the island, stopping beside your stool instead of across from you. You leaned your shoulder against his side. Jack’s hand settled gently on the back of your neck, thumb brushing once beneath your hair.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

The toast cooled by degrees.

The coffee steamed.

The ultrasound photo stayed tucked beneath the magnet on the fridge, grainy and impossible and still mostly yours.

A tiny Abbot.

Your tiny Abbot.

Still held inside the quiet of your kitchen.

Still safe beneath your sweatshirt.

Still nameless to the rest of the world.

Jack’s thumb moved once at your neck.

You closed your eyes and let yourself have the moment.

No texts. No questions. No highlighted lists.

No one asking for drawer lore, wedding photos, or explanations.

Just your husband beside you.

Your son beneath your ribs.

And married toast on the plate in front of you, tasting like butter, honey, and the kind of ordinary life Jack had once written a proposal into because he knew exactly where he wanted forever to begin.

By the time you got to PTMC, your son had kicked twice in the car, once in the elevator, and once while you were trying to unlock the Child Life office door.

You stopped with your badge still in your hand and one palm pressed low against your cardigan.

“Bud,” you murmured, “I am trying to work.”

Your son shifted again. Small. Busy. Unbothered by your schedule.

From the other side of the office, Brie looked up from the sensory bin cart. “Active today?” she asked.

You glanced over at her and smiled. “Very.”

Brie’s face softened immediately.

She knew.

Everyone in Child Life knew.

Not because you had made some dramatic announcement with cupcakes or a tiny onesie folded into a gift bag. Child Life knew because Child Life noticed everything, and because hiding a pregnancy from people trained to recognize coping behaviors, body language, and emotional overload was a doomed enterprise. They knew because Sarah had covered a prep session for you during your first OB appointment. They knew because Brie had found you in the supply closet at twelve weeks, crying over the smell of banana-scented markers. They knew because Abby had quietly started stocking ginger chews in the top drawer without saying anything about it.

They knew because they were your people.

Here, upstairs, you did not have to stand at a strategic angle or pretend ginger ale was a personality trait. You could sit behind the shared desk with your patient list open, one hand resting openly under your stomach, and let yourself smile when your son moved as if he were trying to rearrange the furniture.

Sarah rolled her chair back from the computer beside yours. “He still doing the Jack voice thing?” she asked.

You looked down at the spreadsheet you were pretending to update. “Unfortunately for Jack’s ego, yes.”

Abby grinned from near the supply shelves. “He knows his dad.”

“He knows dramatic timing,” you said.

Your son gave another small roll beneath your hand. You looked down at your cardigan. “I am literally trying to update the patient list.”

Brie leaned against the sensory cart, smiling. “Maybe he has notes.”

“He is twenty weeks old,” you said. “His notes are bad.”

Sarah clicked her pen. “Strong opinions, poor handwriting.”

You laughed, and the sound came easily. That was the best part of being up here. The ease. The lack of performance. The simple relief of being around people who knew and did not make you feel like your body had become public property. Downstairs, the ED knew you were married. Up here, Child Life knew you were pregnant.

Both truths were yours.

Just not in the same room yet.

Your smile softened as your hand curved over the small swell beneath your cardigan.

You were going to have to tell the ED soon.

Pretty soon, the cardigan strategy was going to stop being strategy and start being comedy. Your body had started keeping fewer secrets than you did, and now that everyone downstairs knew about Jack, they were watching you both too closely to miss things forever.

It was not that you did not want them to know.

You did.

Eventually.

You wanted Cassie’s happy tears, Mel’s soft smile, and Santos’s offended list-making. You wanted Javadi’s unfiltered joy. You wanted Robby’s smug, impossible uncle energy and Dana’s practical, quiet warmth. You even wanted the inevitable moment someone called your son Tiny Abbot, and Jack looked personally betrayed by the entire department.

You just wanted one more day where he was not a topic beside the medication room.

One more shift where he was still yours in the quiet way.

Your son kicked again. Firm. Low.

You paused with your hand over him.

Sarah noticed first. “Still going?” she asked.

You nodded. “He has been like this all morning.”

Abby tilted her head. “After the scan?”

“Yeah,” you said.

Brie’s smile softened. “Maybe he knows you saw him.”

That landed somewhere tender.

You looked down at your stomach, at the place your son had been making himself known all morning, and thought of the grainy black-and-white profile still tucked beneath the magnet on your fridge.

Tiny forehead. Tiny nose.

Suspicious little Abbot brow.

Your chest went warm. “Maybe,” you said.

Then you reached for your phone. “I have the new picture,” you said.

Sarah’s chair rolled back immediately. “Oh, absolutely.”

Abby crossed the room before you had even unlocked the screen. “Show us.”

Brie came around the sensory cart, her smile already soft. You opened the photo and turned the phone toward them. For a second, no one joked. The office went quiet in that gentle way Child Life spaces sometimes did. Not empty. Not heavy. Just careful around something small and important.

Sarah leaned in first. “Oh,” she said softly. “Look at his profile.”

Abby pressed one hand to her chest. “That’s a whole little person.”

Brie’s expression warmed. “He’s beautiful.”

Your throat tightened. “Thank you,” you said.

Sarah tilted her head, studying the screen. Then her mouth curved. “Oh, my God.”

You looked at her. “What?”

Sarah glanced from the ultrasound photo to you. Then back to the phone. “He looks like Jack.”

You pointed at her immediately. “Thank you.”

Abby laughed. “You’ve been saying that?”

“All morning,” you said. “Jack keeps telling me it’s black and white.”

Brie leaned closer to the screen. “No, he definitely looks like Jack.”

You let out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”

Sarah grinned. “That little brow is very attending physician.”

Abby nodded gravely. “Tiny chart-review energy.”

You looked back down at the photo and sighed. “I made a tiny Abbot.”

Brie’s eyes sparkled. “You did.”

“Maybe he’ll get my eyes,” you said.

Sarah smiled. “Maybe.”

Abby looked at the phone again. “But he got Jack’s whole face.”

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

Your son kicked again, as if he had heard the verdict and agreed.

You lowered the phone and looked down at your cardigan. “You know,” you told him, “you could at least pretend to be on my side.”

Brie laughed softly.

Sarah rolled back toward her computer, still smiling. “He’s on your side. He just brought Jack’s face with him.”

You sighed. “That is exactly the problem.”

Abby leaned against the supply shelf. “It’s a cute problem.”

“It is,” you admitted.

Because it was.

You loved that he looked like Jack. You loved it so much that it made your chest ache in ways you were not remotely prepared for. You loved the little profile, the tiny nose, the thoughtful shape of his mouth. You loved that some part of the man you loved was already visible in the son you had not met yet.

You were just holding out hope that somewhere in there, beneath all that unmistakable Abbot structure, there was something of yours too.

Your phone buzzed on the desk before the thought could make you too emotional.

You glanced down. ED consult request. Four-year-old female, possible forearm fracture after fall from playground equipment. Scared, crying, refusing X-ray. Parent overwhelmed. Child Life support requested. You sighed softly and pushed your chair back.

Brie’s expression shifted into work mode. “ED?”

“Broken arm,” you said, reaching for your bag. “Four-year-old. X-ray is currently the enemy.”

Sarah rolled back toward the supply shelves. “Bubbles?”

“Bubbles,” you said. “And Dr. Pickles.”

Abby grabbed the small container from the shelf and tossed it to you.

You caught it against your chest. Your son kicked. You looked down at your stomach. “Sir.”

Brie laughed. “He wants to consult.”

You shook your head. “He is not credentialed.”

Sarah smiled. “Legacy hire.”

“Nepotism,” Brie added.

“Absolutely not,” you said, sliding your bag onto your shoulder.

Your son shifted again, busy and insistent. You pressed one hand beneath your stomach and looked down at him through the soft fabric of your cardigan. “We are going downstairs,” you told him quietly. “You are going to behave.”

He kicked once. Firm. Disrespectful. You frowned down at your stomach.

Abby lifted her brows. “That looked like an answer.”

“It was the wrong one,” you said.

Brie picked up the patient list you had abandoned and slid it toward Sarah. “We’ll finish updates.”

You looked at her. “You don’t have to.”

Sarah was already clicking into the spreadsheet. “Go defeat the X-ray.”

Abby nodded toward your bag. “And take your uncredentialed consultant with you.”

You smiled, one hand still under your stomach. “Thank you.”

Brie’s face softened again. “Text us if you need anything.”

“I will.”

You headed for the door with your Child Life bag on your shoulder, bubbles tucked inside, Dr. Pickles peeking out of the side pocket, and your son apparently determined to make himself known before you were ready.

By the time the elevator doors opened onto the ED, you had accepted two things. The four-year-old with the broken arm needed you. And your son had no respect for timing. The little girl’s name was Maisie, and she had already decided the X-ray room was haunted.

Not scary. Not bad. Haunted.

There was apparently a difference, and she was very committed to it.

By the time you reached the ED, she was tucked against her mother’s side in bay four, face blotchy from crying, one arm held carefully against her chest. Her wrist was swollen, her little fingers curled around the edge of a stuffed rabbit that had clearly been through several life events already.

Santos stood near the nurses’ station with Javadi beside her, both of them looking toward the room like they were trying to decide whether they were allowed to be helpful or whether the four-year-old had declared all adult intervention illegal. Robby was at the board. Dana was half-listening while signing off on discharge paperwork.

Mel looked up the second you walked in. Her eyes flicked once to your cardigan, then to your face, then to the way your hand had settled low beneath your bag strap.

She smiled gently.

You smiled back and pretended that you did not feel like being seen through a wall.

Santos spotted you next. “Child Life,” she said. “Good. The X-ray room is haunted.”

You nodded solemnly. “That happens.”

Javadi looked at you. “Does it?”

“For four-year-olds?” you said. “Frequently.”

Santos pointed toward bay four. “She also said the camera is mean.”

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “That one is also common.”

Javadi’s eyebrows lifted. “The camera has been accused before?”

“Many times,” you said.

Your son shifted low beneath your cardigan. You kept your face calm through sheer professional practice. “We are working,” you murmured under your breath.

Santos’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

You looked at her. “Nothing.”

“That sounded like something,” Santos said.

“It was a Child Life prayer.”

Javadi nodded, like that made sense.

Santos pointed one finger at you. “I still have questions from yesterday.”

“I know,” you replied.

“Highlighted questions,” Santos added.

You sighed. “I remember.”

“You fled,” Santos said.

“I was employed elsewhere,” you said.

Santos’s eyes narrowed. “You used children as cover.”

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder. “Again, that is the job.”

Dana’s voice came from the discharge stack. “It is, unfortunately, a strong defense.”

Santos turned toward her. “You are always on her side.”

Dana looked up from the chart. “I am on the side of people doing their jobs.”

Robby glanced over from the board. “That explains so little about your tolerance for me.”

Dana’s expression did not change. “It explains everything.”

You smiled despite yourself. Your son kicked again. Not hard. Enough. You shifted your weight and pressed your bag a little closer to your front. Mel noticed. Robby noticed. Santos noticed that you had moved, but not why.

Maisie cried harder in bay four before Santos could say anything else, a small, breathless sound that cut through the ED noise and pulled your body toward the room before your brain had fully decided to move.

Your son shifted again, as if startled by the sound. You set one hand briefly against your cardigan. “Okay,” you whispered to him, then stepped toward bay four.

Maisie’s mother looked up when you came in, tired and worried in that specific way parents get when fear had been stretched too thin.

“Hi,” you said softly, crouching a few feet away instead of moving too close. “I’m with Child Life. I heard the X-ray room might be haunted.”

Maisie’s tear-wet eyes lifted from the rabbit. “It is,” Maisie said.

“That is very important information,” you said.

Her lower lip wobbled. “They want to take a picture of my bones.”

“They do,” you said. “And that sounds really weird.”

Maisie nodded hard.

You opened your bag slowly enough for her to watch your hands. “I brought someone who knows a lot about weird hospital pictures,” you said.

Maisie sniffed. “Who?”

You pulled Dr. Pickles from the side pocket. The green squishy dinosaur emerged with as much dignity as a squishy dinosaur could manage. Maisie stared at him. Her mother exhaled through a watery smile.

“This is Dr. Pickles,” you said. “He has had his bones photographed many times.”

Maisie looked suspicious. “He has bones?”

“That is between him and radiology.”

Her eyebrows pinched together. Then, despite herself, she looked closer.

You took that as a win.

You kept your voice quiet. Calm. Steady. You explained the X-ray like a camera with a special job. You let Maisie help Dr. Pickles practice holding still. You let her decide whether the bubbles were for before or after the picture, and she chose both because she was injured, not foolish.

Your son kicked twice during the explanation. The first one made you pause between sentences. The second made you lose half a breath.

Maisie noticed. “Are you scared too?” Maisie asked.

Your chest softened. “No,” you said gently. “Just surprised.”

“By the ghost?”

You smiled. “By something else.”

Maisie considered that. Then she held Dr. Pickles closer. “I can be brave if he comes,” Maisie said.

You nodded. “He is very good at X-rays.”

Maisie looked down at the dinosaur. “Even haunted ones?”

You smiled. “Especially haunted ones.”

That was how you ended up walking beside a four-year-old with a possible broken arm, her mother, one X-ray tech, and a squishy green dinosaur who had apparently become essential medical staff.

By the time Maisie was calmer, the X-ray room had been downgraded from haunted to suspicious. By the time the pictures were done, it had become kind of loud. By the time you returned to the ED, Maisie had informed Santos that Dr. Pickles was brave but lacked good shoes.

Santos looked down at the dinosaur in your hand. “That feels actionable,” Santos said.

“He is a dinosaur,” you said.

“Still.”

Javadi leaned against the counter, smiling. “Does he have a union?”

You grinned. “He has stickers.”

Robby looked up from the board. “Strong benefits.”

You tucked Dr. Pickles back into your bag and reached for the ginger ale you had left near the workstation. The moment you took a sip, your son rolled low and firm beneath your cardigan.

You closed your eyes for half a second.

Mel’s voice was gentle from the workstation. “Do you need to sit?”

Santos turned immediately. “Why would she need to sit?”

You smiled too quickly. “Because my feet hate me.”

Robby’s gaze flicked down. Dana’s pen paused. Mel did not move.

Santos looked at your shoes. “Your feet hate you?”

“They’ve been rude lately,” you replied.

“Rude feet,” Javadi repeated, like she was trying to decide whether this was a diagnosis.

You lifted one shoulder. “It’s a lifestyle.”

Robby lifted his coffee. “A tragic one.”

You leaned against the counter and tried to look casual. The baby moved again. Busy. Insistent. Like he had taken your quiet request to behave as a challenge.

You set your ginger ale down and placed one hand on the edge of the counter instead of your stomach. Careful. Always careful now.

Santos watched you for a second, then lowered her voice a little. “You good?”

The question surprised you. Not because Santos could not be gentle. She could. She just usually disguised it as an accusation.

You looked at her.

Her face was still sharp with curiosity, still armed with questions, but the edge had softened around concern.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’m good.”

Santos studied you for another beat. Then she nodded once, accepting it.

For now.

The ambulance bay doors opened before she could say anything else. Jack stepped in with coffee in one hand, dark scrubs neat, badge clipped at his chest, his hair still slightly damp from the shower he had taken after sleeping. He looked like he had gotten exactly enough rest to function and nowhere near enough to enjoy being questioned by Santos again.

His eyes found you immediately. They always did. Face. Shoulders. The hand on the counter. Ginger ale. The line of your cardigan. Back to face.

You felt the assessment like a touch.

Your son shifted.

Your whole mood lifted before you could stop it.

Santos saw your face. Her mouth curved, just a little. “You’re doing it.”

You looked at her. “Doing what?”

“Looking at him like that.”

Jack had almost reached the counter when you smiled. “Hello, husband.”

Javadi’s eyes widened.

Cassie, coming around the corner with a chart in hand, stopped dead. “Oh,” Cassie said softly. “I love that.”

Jack stopped beside you and looked at Santos. “No.”

Santos lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was,” she admitted.

You smiled up at him. Jack’s eyes came back to yours. For half a second, the ED softened around the edges. “Hi,” Jack said.

Then he stepped closer and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head. His hand settled at your side. Familiar. Automatic. Just above the place where your cardigan curved over your stomach.

Your son kicked. Hard. The biggest one yet. You gasped softly.

Right beneath Jack’s hand. Jack felt it. You knew he felt it because his whole body went still.

Not trauma-still. Not clinical-still.

Father-still.

His hand stayed exactly where it was. His eyes dropped. “That was a big one,” Jack said, surprised and soft.

Javadi blinked. “What was?”

You were still looking at Jack when you answered. “The baby kicked.”

Robby exhaled like he had been waiting for this since the moment Santos unfolded her highlighted list. “Finally.”

Dana smiled. Small. Satisfied. Like she had watched a timer reach zero.

Javadi and Santos turned at the exact same time. “THE BABY????”

The ED went silent. Not quiet. Silent.

Your brain caught up one second too late.

Oh.

Right.

They did not know.

Cassie’s mouth fell open.

Mel’s expression softened into something warm and unsurprised.

Robby closed his eyes like he had wanted this to happen with slightly more warning and had also known better than to expect it.

Dana turned one page with suspicious calm.

Santos stared at you. Then at Jack’s hand. Then, at your cardigan. Then back at your face.

Jack’s hand stayed warm at your side.

You looked up at him. He looked back at you, steady now, asking without words. Your call.

You took a breath. Then you set your ginger ale on the counter, unbuttoned your cardigan, and slowly pulled the edges apart.

The loose fabric fell open around the soft curve of your stomach.

There it was.

No longer hidden by layers and clever angles.

Small, but undeniable.

Twenty weeks of secret tucked beneath hospital-friendly clothes.

Your hand settled over the bump before you could stop it. “Our baby,” you said.

Cassie’s hands came to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

Javadi’s eyes went shiny immediately. “You’re pregnant?”

You glanced down at the bump. “That is the working theory.”

Santos lowered herself onto the nearest stool like her legs had stopped accepting new information. “You’re having a baby,” she said.

Her voice was quieter than you expected.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Santos looked down at your stomach again, all the sharp edges of her outrage blunted by wonder.

“Okay,” she said. Then, softer, “Wow.”

Dana looked up at last. “You asked the wrong questions,” she said.

Santos looked at her. For once, she did not argue. Robby made a sound that was almost a laugh and almost something else.

Santos turned toward him, but even that was softer than usual. “You knew.”

Robby looked at you. Then at Jack. Then back at Santos. “Yeah,” he said.

Santos’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Of course you did.”

Robby’s mouth curved. “I’m family.”

Jack’s head turned slowly. “Don’t make it weird.”

Robby lifted both hands. “Too late for that.”

Cassie stepped closer, eyes still bright. “How far along are you?”

“Twenty weeks,” you said.

Javadi’s expression softened. “Halfway.”

The word settled over you. Halfway. Halfway to holding him. Halfway to meeting the tiny profile on your fridge. Halfway to seeing whether he really did have Jack’s face.

Jack’s hand moved from your side to your back, steady and warm.

Cassie smiled through tears.

Javadi’s voice softened. “And everything is okay?”

That question made the whole moment gentler. It cut through the shock, the comedy, the list, the noise. You looked at Jack. His eyes held yours.

You smiled. “Everything looks good,” you said.

The words settled over the nurses’ station differently than everything else had. Softer. Careful. Cassie breathed out like she had been holding the air for you. Mel smiled. Dana’s pen paused, just for a second. Robby looked down at his coffee, then back at you with his mouth pressed into something too gentle to tease.

Santos did not say anything for once. Neither did Javadi.

The kindness hit you harder than the shock had.

You had expected noise.

You had expected questions.

You had expected Santos to become a one-woman investigative committee, Robby to make himself impossible, and Cassie to cry. You had expected Dana’s dry comments and Mel’s quiet warmth and Javadi’s wide-eyed disbelief.

You had not expected the room to go this tender.

Not all at once.

Not for Jack.

Not for you.

Not for your son.

Your throat tightened fast. Too fast.

Jack felt it before you said anything. His hand firmed at your back. “Hey,” he said quietly.

You shook your head, already smiling because nothing was wrong. That was the problem. Nothing was wrong. Everything was suddenly too good.

“I’m okay,” you said.

Jack’s eyes searched yours.

You could feel everyone watching, but it did not feel like being exposed. Not exactly.

It felt like they were seeing something true.

Jack shifted closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his chest. “Breathe,” he murmured.

You let out a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a cry. “I am breathing.”

“Barely.”

You pressed your lips together.

Jack lifted his free hand and touched two fingers lightly beneath your chin, gentle enough to guide your eyes back to him without making a spectacle of it.

The ED went quiet around you. Not awkward. Not nosy. Just watching. Seeing.

Jack kept his voice low. “Look at me.”

You did. His face was calm. Soft. Yours. “There you are,” he said.

That broke something open in your chest. A tear slipped free before you could stop it. Cassie made a tiny sound behind you.

Jack’s thumb moved once at your back. “You’re okay,” he said.

You nodded, laughing softly through the tears. “I know.”

“Happy?” Jack asked quietly.

You nodded again. “So happy.”

His mouth softened. “Good,” Jack said.

The word was simple. Steady. Enough.

You breathed in. Then out.

The room came back slowly. The monitor sounds. The phones. The movement beyond the nurses’ station. Cassie wiping beneath one eye. Javadi still looking stunned and soft. Mel’s expression warm. Dana looking down at her paperwork with suspicious focus. Robby watching you and Jack with an expression he would absolutely deny later. Santos holding the highlighted list against her chest like she had forgotten it was supposed to be evidence.

Jack’s hand stayed at your back. He did not move away. You did not want him to.

For the first time since the parking garage, it occurred to you that maybe letting people know did not mean losing the privacy of what you and Jack had built.

Maybe it only meant the circle got bigger.

Maybe it meant your son was loved by more people than you had allowed yourself to imagine.

The thought made your eyes fill again.

Jack saw it. His brows drew together by half a degree.

You laughed and wiped carefully beneath your eye. “I’m fine.”

His mouth curved. “Pregnancy fine or regular fine?”

Javadi laughed. The tension broke. You looked around the station, still a little teary, and the love in the room landed all over again. Robby’s crooked smile. Dana’s almost-smile. Mel’s quiet joy. Cassie’s wet eyes. Javadi’s wonder. Santos’s offended tenderness.

Jack beside you, steady and warm.

You swallowed. “I just realized something,” you said.

Jack’s hand moved once at your back. “What?”

You looked down at your stomach. Then back to the room. “He’s really loved.”

No one made a joke. Not even Santos. For one impossible second, the ED held that truth carefully.

Then Cassie nodded, voice thick. “Of course he is.”

Javadi smiled. “Very.”

Mel’s eyes softened. “Already.”

Dana looked up at you. “Obviously.”

Robby cleared his throat and looked toward the board. “Kid never stood a chance.”

You laughed.

Santos blinked hard, then pointed at Robby. “Do not make me emotional. I’m already behind on questions.”

The ambulance bay doors opened before anyone could say anything else. Shen came in first, pulling on his badge with one hand and holding a chart in the other. Ellis followed behind him, coffee in hand, already mid-sentence. Cruz came in last, shrugging into his jacket and looking toward the board.

The night shift arrived in pieces.

Then stopped.

Because day shift was gathered around you like something sacred had happened in the middle of the nurses’ station, and Jack was standing beside you with one hand at your back and the other hovering near your stomach like he was holding himself back from touching the whole miracle in front of them.

Ellis slowed first. “What happened?” she asked.

Cruz looked from Santos’s face to Cassie’s damp eyes. “Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Santos said, still emotional enough to sound offended by it.

Javadi pointed toward you and Jack, smiling now. “They’re having a baby!”

Cruz blinked. Then his eyes moved to your open cardigan and softened with instant understanding. “Oh,” he said.

Shen’s gaze moved to you. Then to Jack. Then to the soft curve beneath your open cardigan.

His expression changed. Not much. Enough. “Congratulations,” Shen said.

The word was simple. Sincere. No joke beneath it.

Jack went still for half a beat. Then he nodded once. “Thanks.”

Ellis stepped closer, her expression changing as the pieces landed. “You two are having a baby?” she asked.

You nodded, suddenly aware of the ultrasound photo waiting on your phone. “Yeah.”

Ellis looked at Jack. Her whole face warmed. “Oh, Abbot,” she said softly.

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting,” Ellis said, but her smile had already gone tender. “I’m happy for you.”

Something in Jack’s face changed. Tiny. Almost hidden. But you saw it. So did Ellis. So did Shen. So did Cruz.

Maybe that was the thing about night shift. They knew how to read small changes in terrible lighting. They knew what Jack looked like when he was annoyed, focused, exhausted, furious, amused, and worried. They knew what he sounded like when he was about to take over a room. They knew the shape of his voice over alarms. They knew the stillness that came right before he moved.

And now they were getting to see him loved.

Getting to see him as someone’s husband.

Someone’s father.

Cruz stepped closer, his eyes moving from your bump to Jack’s face. “You’re having a kid?” Cruz asked.

Jack’s hand stayed warm on your back. “A son,” Jack said.

The word changed the air around him. Not because he said it loudly. He did not. Jack said it as if he were still learning its shape in his mouth.

Cruz’s expression softened immediately. “A son,” he repeated.

Jack nodded once.

Cruz smiled, small but real. “That’s really great, man.”

Jack looked at him. For a second, he did not seem to know what to do with all of it.

The congratulations.

The softness.

The fact that night shift had walked in expecting work and instead found this piece of his life standing open in the middle of the nurses’ station.

“Thanks,” Jack said again. His voice was rougher this time.

Ellis glanced down at your phone. “Do you have pictures?” Ellis asked.

You looked at Jack. His eyes came to yours immediately. Your call.

You smiled, then opened the ultrasound photo and turned the phone toward them.

“There he is,” you said.

Ellis leaned in, careful and close, her expression going softer with every second she looked.

“Oh,” Ellis said. “Look at him.”

Cruz stepped beside her and looked at you. “About twenty weeks?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Shen moved closer last. He did not crowd. He only stood at Ellis’s shoulder and looked down at the grainy black-and-white image of your son. For three full seconds, no one joked.

Not Santos. Not Robby. Not even Cruz.

The nurses’ station, somehow, became quiet around the little shape on your screen. Tiny forehead. Tiny nose. Thoughtful little mouth.

The profile you had stared at on your fridge all morning, now reflected in the faces of people who knew Jack as their attending, their leader, their steady center in the worst hours of the night.

Ellis looked from the photo to Jack. “He’s beautiful,” Ellis said.

Jack’s eyes dropped to the screen. His expression went still.

Cruz studied the photo. “He looks like Abbot.”

Your head snapped toward Cruz. “Thank you.”

Jack closed his eyes. “It’s black and white.”

Cruz looked at him. “Still.”

Ellis smiled. “No, I see it.”

Jack opened his eyes and looked at her. “You do not.”

“I do,” Ellis said. “The profile.”

Shen looked at the photo a second longer. Then he looked at you. “You’re correct,” Shen said.

Your whole body filled with vindication. You pointed at him. “Thank you.”

Jack stared at Shen. “You too?”

Shen’s mouth barely moved. “Pattern recognition.”

Robby made a pleased sound. “Oh, that’s brutal.”

Santos looked between Shen and the ultrasound. “Wait. Even Shen sees it?”

Dana turned a page with great care. “Everyone sees it.”

Jack looked at her. “Not helping.”

Dana shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to.”

The smile faded from Cruz’s face, replaced by something more sincere. He looked at the ultrasound again.

Then at Jack.

“That kid’s lucky,” Cruz said.

Jack’s eyes lifted. “What?”

Cruz shrugged, but his voice stayed steady. “He’s got you.”

The ED quieted. Jack did not move. For a second, he looked like Cruz had hit something he did not know how to protect.

Shen’s gaze moved from Cruz to Jack. “He’s right,” Shen said.

Jack looked at him.

Shen’s expression stayed calm. “You’ll be good at this.”

That was what did it. Not the reveal. Not the congratulations. Not even the ultrasound photo.

That.

Jack went still. Not trauma-still. Not clinical-still. The other kind.

The kind where something had gone too deep for him to move around it.

You knew.

Before anyone else did.

You turned toward him, your hand leaving your stomach to settle over his wrist. “Jack.”

His eyes came to yours. They were wet around the edges. Barely.

Just enough.

Enough to make your chest ache.

Enough to make the room go quiet. You softened your voice. “Hey.”

His jaw shifted. “I’m good,” he said.

“I know.” Your thumb moved over his wrist. “Too much good?”

His mouth moved like he might laugh. He did not.

“Yeah,” Jack said roughly. “Too much good.”

You knew what he meant. Not because he said it. Jack would not say all of it here.

Maybe not ever in a room this full.

But you knew.

You knew the shape of the losses he carried. The rooms he had walked out of changed. The people he had not been able to save. The versions of his life he had quietly stopped expecting.

You knew that some part of him had never really believed he would get this.

You.

Your son.

His team, smiling at an ultrasound photo and telling him he would be good.

A future standing right there in the middle of PTMC, loud and impossible and real.

You stepped closer.

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

The crew watched. Quiet. Gentle. Getting to see, maybe for the first time, that your marriage was not only Jack steadying you.

It was this too.

You knowing where to put your hand when the joy went too deep for him to hold alone.

You keeping your voice soft enough for him to hear beneath the noise.

You standing close enough to remind him that this was not a dream he had to wake from.

“He’s not even here yet,” Jack said.

You smiled through your own tears. Jack looked down at your stomach. As if on cue, your son shifted beneath your hand. Jack’s breath caught. Not much. Enough.

Santos’s voice came softer than you had ever heard it. “Abbot.”

Jack looked up. She was still holding the highlighted list, but it had lowered to her side. Her eyes were shiny.

“We’re really happy for you,” Santos said.

Javadi nodded quickly. “Really happy.”

Cassie smiled through tears. “For both of you.”

Dana looked at Jack. Her expression was calm. Practical. Kind. “You deserve this,” Dana said.

Robby looked down.

 Jack stared at Dana for one second like he had no defense at all.

Then he nodded once. “Thanks.” His voice barely held.

You tightened your hand around his wrist. Jack looked back at you. You smiled. There you are, your eyes told him.

His mouth softened. There you are, his answered.

For one impossible second, the ED held that too.

Then your son kicked again. Small. Insistent. Apparently unwilling to let his father have an emotional crisis without offering commentary.

Jack looked down. You did too. The room followed.

Robby cleared his throat. Then, softly and with devastating sincerity, he said, “Hi, Tiny Abbot.”

Jack exhaled. It was almost a laugh. Almost a sob. Almost both.

He looked at Robby.

 Then at your stomach.

Then at the ultrasound photo still glowing on your phone.

For once, Jack did not say no.

The thing about Jack Abbot was that he never seemed to understand the effect he had on people.

Or maybe he did understand and simply chose to ignore it, which was honestly worse.

He stood at the bar between Robby and Shen, one elbow resting against the worn wood, his dark shirt rolled at the forearms, his wedding ring catching every now and then in the low amber light when he lifted his glass. He looked unfairly good. Relaxed in that very Jack way, which meant not actually relaxed to anyone who did not know him, but relaxed enough that his shoulders were not squared for battle and his mouth had softened around the edges.

You knew that mouth. You liked that mouth. You were trying very hard not to stare at it from across the room.

“You’re up,” Santos said.

You blinked and looked at the dart she was holding out to you. “I know.”

Santos’s brow furrowed. “You were not looking at the board.”

“I was assessing the room,” you corrected her.

“You were assessing your husband,” Santos shot back.

Mel leaned against the small high-top beside the dartboard, her drink untouched in her hand and her face carefully neutral in a way that meant she was absolutely entertained.

Ellis grinned. “To be fair, her husband is assessing her back.”

You glanced toward the bar. Jack was looking at you. Caught, he did not even bother pretending he had not been. He simply lifted his glass slightly, the corner of his mouth moving into something small and private and yours. Your stomach did something ridiculous.

“Disgusting,” Santos said. “He’s obsessed with you.”

You rolled your eyes. “He is not.”

“He is,” Mel said.

You looked at her. “You’re supposed to be the reasonable one.”

Mel shrugged. “I am being reasonable.”

Ellis nodded toward Jack. “Reasonably obsessed.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling when you turned back toward the dartboard. The bar was warm and loud around you, all low music and clinking glasses and off-shift laughter. You had tequila in your bloodstream, your favorite boots on, and your husband looking at you like he was still pleased to find you in every room.

It was a good night. You should have known better than to trust that. You threw your dart. It hit the board. Not where you had aimed, exactly, but on the board, which you felt deserved recognition.

Santos squinted. “Bold strategy.”

You shrugged. “It landed.”

“Barely,” Santos replied.

You reached for your drink, laughing, and that was when you saw her. She approached Jack from his left, all loose hair and sharp smile, sliding into the empty space near the bar as if she belonged there. At first, nothing in you moved. People talked to Jack. People looked at Jack. You were not new to being married to a man who drew attention without trying.

Then she touched his arm. Not a brush. Not an accident. Her fingers landed on his forearm, right below the rolled sleeve of his shirt, and she laughed up at him like she had said something clever enough to deserve contact.

Your smile died.

Santos followed your gaze. “Uh-oh.”

Mel turned. “What?”

Ellis straightened. “Oh. She saw something.”

At the bar, Jack shifted away immediately. It was subtle. A half step back, his arm moving out from under her touch, his glass switching hands so his left came into view. The ring flashed under the bar lights.

Good man.

The woman leaned closer.

You inhaled sharply.

Santos grinned. “Oh, I know that face.”

Mel looked between you and the bar. “Maybe we just let Jack handle it.”

You set your drink on the high-top without looking away from the bar. “I am letting Jack handle it.”

Santos looked down at the glass, then back at your face. “You put your drink down like you were preparing for combat.”

“I’m just observing,” you said.

Ellis took a slow sip of his beer. “That is the least reassuring thing you could have said.”

Across the room, Jack’s expression had gone polite in the way that meant the conversation was already over for him. Robby, beside him, had noticed too. Shen had turned his head, brows raised slightly, watching with the same calm interest he usually brought to terrible triage decisions.

The woman said something you could not hear. Jack shook his head once.

Then he lifted his left hand slightly, not waving it around, not making a production of it, just enough to show the ring. Your ring. Well. His ring. The ring you had put on his finger.

The woman glanced at it. You expected her to back off. She did not. Instead, she smiled wider.

Oh, absolutely not. You started walking.

“Here we go,” Santos said, immediately falling into step behind you.

Mel sighed. “Santos.”

Santos lifted both hands. “What? I’m supervising.”

Ellis followed too, because apparently nobody in your group had ever met a bad decision they didn't want a front-row seat to.

Jack saw you coming before you got halfway across the bar. His face changed. Not much. But enough. His eyes went from the woman to you, and something in his expression softened for half a second before sharpening again with warning. ‘Baby, do not,’ that look said.

Unfortunately, tequila had made you immune to silent husband warnings. You slid in beside him and put a hand against his chest, smiling brightly enough to hurt your own face. “Hi.”

Jack’s hand came automatically to your waist. “Hi.” His voice was low. Careful.

You ignored that, too.

The woman looked you over. Actually looked you over, from your hair to your shoes and back again, slow enough that you felt every inch of it.

Jack’s fingers tightened once at your waist. “This is my wife,” he said.

There was no hesitation in it. No apology. No reluctance. My wife. Usually, that did something lovely to you. Right then, it mostly made you want to bare your teeth.

The woman’s smile went thin. “Oh.”

You smiled back. “Yeah. Oh.”

Jack’s thumb pressed lightly into your side. Warning number two.

The woman glanced at Jack, then back at you. “You’re his wife?”

Santos made a tiny sound behind you.

Jack’s jaw shifted. “Yes.”

The woman gave a little laugh, airy and mean around the edges. “Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed you were his type.”

For one second, everything went very still. The bar noise blurred. Your smile stayed exactly where it was. Jack’s hand went tense at your waist.

Robby muttered, “Oh, shit.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, sweetie.”

Jack moved immediately. His arm came around your waist before you made it one full step forward. “Nope,” he said.

You kept your smile fixed on the woman. “Jack.”

Jack’s hold stayed firm. “No.”

You did not look away from the woman. “I just want to talk to her.”

Jack tightened his hold and took one step back, bringing you with him. “You absolutely do not.”

You tried to plant your feet. “I do.”

Jack shifted his body between you and the woman. “You do not.”

You finally looked up at him. “She said something rude.”

Jack looked down at you. “I heard her.”

You pointed past his shoulder. “Then let me respond.”

Jack caught your wrist and lowered your hand. “No.”

You blinked at him. “Jack.”

Jack’s face stayed calm. “Baby.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I can be civil.”

Jack glanced toward the woman, then back at you. “You said ‘oh, sweetie.’”

You lifted your chin. “That was civil.”

Jack started backing you away from the bar. “That was a warning shot.”

The woman’s mouth twitched like she thought this was funny. That was her mistake.

You tried to step around Jack. Jack stepped with you, broad shoulders cutting off your path like an exceptionally attractive barricade.

“Jack,” you said, still sweetly. “Move.”

Jack did not move. “No.”

You tried to look around his shoulder. “I can take her.”

Jack’s arm tightened around your waist. “That is exactly why we’re leaving.”

You looked up at him. “I didn’t say I was going to hit her.”

Jack started walking you backward from the bar. “You said you could take her.”

You planted one hand against his chest, trying to slow him down. “I was making an observation.”

Jack looked down at you. “You were making a threat.”

You pointed past him toward the woman. “I was making a promise.”

Jack caught your hand and lowered it. “That is worse.”

His arm tightened around your middle. Not hard. Not rough. Just firm enough to turn you away from the woman and start guiding you back across the bar. Your feet were still very much on the floor, but forward motion had become nonnegotiable in the way it did when Jack decided someone was leaving a situation.

Unfortunately for him, you were not done with the situation.

“Jack Abbot,” you said, twisting in his hold.

Jack kept his arm firm around your waist. “No.”

You tried to pull against him. “Let me go.”

Jack guided you another step away. “No.”

You glared at the woman over his shoulder. “She started it.”

Jack said, “I know.”

That stopped you for half a second. Jack glanced down at you, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead as he steered you away from the bar. “I know, baby. And I’m handling it by not letting my wife get thrown out of a bar.”

“I would not get thrown out,” you said, still trying to twist enough to look back at the bar.

Jack kept walking you backward toward the table. “You absolutely would.”

You huffed. “I would be elegant.”

Jack looked at you. “You are attempting to fight me in public.”

“I’m not fighting you,” you said, bracing one hand against his chest. “I’m attempting to pursue justice.”

Jack caught your hand against his shirt before you could use him for leverage. “You are attempting to pursue a misdemeanor.”

You looked up at him, offended. “That is a very cynical interpretation.”

“That is a very sober interpretation,” Jack countered.

You glared at him. “I don’t like your tone.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I know.”

From behind you, Santos cupped her hands around her mouth. “Kick her ass!”

Shen lifted his glass from the bar. “You could take her.”

Robby nodded solemnly. “I’ve seen her angry. My money’s on your wife.”

Jack stopped walking just long enough to turn his head. “Do not,” he said, voice flat, “encourage my wife to get into a bar fight.”

Santos pointed at you. “She has passion.”

Jack looked back at Santos. “She has tequila.”

“I have justice,” you snapped.

Jack looked down at you. You looked up at him, furious and flushed and trying very hard to lean around his body. For one dangerous second, his mouth twitched. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and hauled you the last few steps toward the table.

“I heard support,” you said, pointing back toward Robby and Shen. “This encouragement means I should do it.”

“That is not what that means,” Jack said, still steering you toward the booth.

You pointed toward Robby, Shen, and Santos with great conviction. “It is when it’s unanimous.”

Jack looked down at you. “It is not unanimous.”

You twisted in his hold and looked toward Mel, who had followed at a much calmer pace and now stood near the edge of the table with one eyebrow raised.

“Mel?” you asked.

Mel took a slow breath. “I abstain.”

You gasped. “Coward.”

Mel lifted her drink. “Alive coward.”

Santos slid into the booth, delighted. “For the record, I did not abstain.”

“For the record,” Jack said, easing you down into the booth, “nobody asked.”

Santos slid into the opposite side of the booth and lifted her brows. “You should ask more often. I have good instincts.”

Jack kept one hand at your waist until you were fully seated. “You told my wife to kick someone’s ass.”

Santos leaned back against the booth, completely unbothered. “And I stand by it.”

Jack looked at her for a long second. “That is not helping your case.”

“It was never my case,” Santos said. “It was justice’s case.”

Jack exhaled through his nose and turned back to you. Apparently deciding you still looked like a flight risk, he stayed standing in front of the booth, his body blocking your view of the bar.

You craned your neck around him. “You’re in my way.”

Jack did not move. “I know.”

You leaned the other direction. “I can’t see her.”

Jack kept his body planted in front of you. “That is also on purpose.”

You looked up at him, indignant. “I need to know if she’s looking over here.”

Jack stared down at you. “You do not.”

“I do,” you said.

“You don’t,” Jack said.

You said his name like a warning. “Jack.”

Jack answered in the same tone. “Baby.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

He stared back, calm and immovable and far too handsome for a man interfering with justice. Then Jack looked toward Mel. “Watch her.”

Mel blinked. “Me?”

Jack looked at Mel. “You’re the only one here I trust not to encourage her.”

Santos pressed a hand to her chest. “Wow.”

Ellis lifted his beer. “Accurate, though.”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t need watching.”

Jack looked down at you. “You tried to circle me like a raccoon with a grievance.”

“A wife with a grievance,” you corrected.

“That too,” Jack said. He pointed at Mel again. “Watch her.”

Mel sighed and slid into the booth beside you. “I’ll do my best.”

Jack nodded toward Santos and Ellis. “Do better than them. Low bar.”

Santos pressed a hand to her chest again. “I am being slandered.”

Jack looked at her. “You are being quoted.”

Santos smiled. “Still feels hostile.”

Jack turned back to you. “Baby, please stay here while I get you water.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounded bossy.”

“That was me asking nicely,” Jack said.

“No, it wasn’t,” you said.

Jack leaned down just enough for his voice to drop. “Baby, please stay here while I get you water.”

You stared at him. He stared back. “Fine,” you muttered. “But only because you said please.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Noted.”

He walked away before you could respond, heading back to the bar with the measured calm of a man who had removed many people from dangerous situations and was only mildly surprised one of them had turned out to be his wife.

The second he was gone, you leaned to look around Mel. Mel said your name. You froze. “What?”

“Don’t,” Mel said.

“I’m observing,” you said.

Mel angled her body slightly, blocking your line of sight. “You are rotating like a security camera.”

“I have to maintain visual,” you said.

Mel gave you a look. “No. You have to sit here and not get arrested.”

You frowned at her. “I wasn’t going to get arrested.”

Santos leaned over the table. “You were at least going to get escorted out.”

“Elegantly,” you said.

Mel’s expression did not change. “That does not make it better.”

Before you could argue, Robby and Shen reached the table, both of them looking far too entertained for men who had allegedly taken an oath to do no harm.

Robby dropped into the chair across from you. “I want to be clear. I support you.”

Mel pointed at him immediately. “No.”

Robby looked at her. “What?”

“Abbot put me in charge,” Mel said.

Shen slid into the chair beside Robby and lifted his glass. “For what it’s worth, I also think she could take her.”

Mel closed her eyes. “This is exactly why he asked me.”

You pointed across the table. “This encouragement means I should do it.”

Mel opened her eyes. “It does not.”

You looked at Robby, then Shen, then Santos. “It does when it’s unanimous.”

Mel shook her head. “It is not unanimous.”

You looked at her.

Mel lifted her drink. “I still abstain.”

You gasped. “Still cowardly.”

Mel lifted her chin. “Still alive.”

Robby leaned back in his chair, deeply pleased with the evening. “I feel like democracy is happening.”

Mel turned toward him. “Democracy is not happening.”

Santos lifted her glass. “Hydrated justice is still justice.”

You looked at your empty hands. “I don’t have water yet.”

Santos nodded solemnly. “Pre-hydrated justice.”

Mel looked at Santos. “You are not helping.”

Santos smiled. “I rarely do.”

Jack returned with a glass of water before the table could deteriorate any further. He set the water in front of you. “Drink.”

You looked at the glass, then up at him. “Is this because you think I’m drunk?”

“This is because I know you’re drunk,” Jack said.

You lifted your chin. “I’m emotionally lucid.”

Jack looked pointedly at the water. “You said you had justice.”

“I do have justice,” you said.

Jack nudged the glass closer. “Drink the water.”

You stared at him for another second. Jack did not move. Fine. You picked up the glass and took a sip with as much dignity as you could manage under the circumstances.

Jack watched until you swallowed. “Good.”

You lowered the glass slowly. “Don’t use your attending voice on me.”

Jack said, “Then stop acting like a patient elopement risk.”

Robby choked on his drink. Shen looked down, his shoulders shaking.

You turned to Jack. “I am not a patient elopement risk.”

Jack sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours. “You tried to leave the table before I made it three steps away.”

You looked at him. “To pursue justice.”

Jack looked back at you. “To start a fight.”

You lifted your chin. “Allegedly.”

Santos raised her glass. “Hydrated justice is still justice.”

Jack pointed at her without looking away from you. “Do not help.”

Santos lowered her glass, but she did not look sorry.

You took another drink of water, mostly because your mouth was dry and not because Jack told you to. Across the bar, the woman looked over. You saw her over Jack’s shoulder. She looked away too slowly.

Jack turned away for one second. One second. That was all you needed.

You looked directly across the bar and lifted your middle finger with the solemn conviction of a woman defending sacred vows.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jack muttered, catching your hand and lowering it.

You looked at him. “What?”

“You know what,” Jack said.

You pointed your water glass toward the bar. “She looked over here.”

Jack kept your hand in his. “And you chose diplomacy?”

“I chose communication,” you said.

Santos raised her glass again. “Clear communication.”

Jack pointed at her. “Enough.”

You picked up your water and took a deeply dignified sip. “I’m being mature now,” you said.

Jack looked at your hand, still loosely held in his. “You just flipped off a woman in a bar.”

“And now I’m drinking water,” you said. “People grow.”

For a second, Jack just stared at you. Then his mouth betrayed him. Not a full smile. Not in front of everyone. But enough that the tension in your chest loosened a little around the edges.

“There she is,” Robby said. “Growth.”

Jack gave him a look. “You’re one sentence away from walking home.”

Robby lifted both hands. “I support the institution of marriage.”

Jack looked at Robby. “You support chaos.”

Robby nodded. “I contain multitudes.”

You leaned back against the booth, still hot with tequila and humiliation and anger you refused to examine too closely. The woman’s words kept circling the back of your mind, no matter how many times you tried to shove them down. I wouldn’t have guessed you were his type.

Stupid.

It was stupid.

You knew Jack loved you. You knew he was faithful. You knew the woman at the bar was nobody.

But the way she had looked at you had gone under your skin anyway.

Like you were surprising.

Like you were funny.

Like she had seen Jack, then seen you, and found the math wrong.

You took another sip of water.

Jack’s thumb moved once over the inside of your wrist. Small. Private. Grounding.

“You okay?” Jack asked quietly.

You kept your eyes on the glass of water. “I’m mad.”

Jack’s voice stayed soft. “I know.”

Your throat tightened, which was rude and unnecessary and probably the tequila’s fault. At the other side of the table, Santos had started arguing with Ellis about dartboard rules. Robby and Shen had fallen into a side conversation about whether Jack would actually make Robby walk home. Mel’s gaze flicked briefly to you, then away again, giving you the dignity of pretending she had not noticed anything change.

Jack’s hand stayed around yours. Across the bar, the woman was no longer looking over. Good. Fine. You had won. Probably.

You leaned a little closer to Jack despite yourself, your shoulder brushing his arm. “I could’ve taken her,” you muttered.

Jack looked down at you. This time, he did smile. Small. Soft. Yours. “I know,” he said.

You frowned. “Then why’d you stop me?”

His thumb moved again, slow over your wrist. “Because I like being married to you outside of county lockup,” Jack said.

Santos lifted her glass without missing a beat. “Coward.”

Jack did not look away from you. “A married coward,” Jack said.

You wanted to stay mad at him. You really did. But his hand was warm around yours, and his ring was pressed against your skin, and he was looking at you like there was not another woman in the room. Not really. Not to him. So you took another drink of water. Under protest. Obviously.

The cold air outside the bar did not make you less mad. It did, unfortunately, make you more aware that Jack had his hand warm and steady at the small of your back, guiding you toward the car like you were precious cargo with a known history of trying to commit public disturbances.

“I could’ve taken her,” you said.

Jack unlocked the car. “I know.”

You looked at him suspiciously. “You keep saying that like you’re humoring me.”

Jack opened the passenger door and looked down at you. “I am humoring you.”

You frowned. “Rude.”

“Accurate,” Jack said.

You crossed your arms. “She was mean first.”

Jack’s expression changed. Not much. It never took much with him. His humor softened at the edges, and his hand moved from your back to your waist. “I know,” he said.

The quieter version of it made something in your chest pull tight. You looked away first. Across the parking lot, Santos whooped from somewhere behind you.

“Justice!” Santos called.

Jack closed his eyes for half a second.

Robby’s voice followed. “Hydrate and regroup!”

Shen added, “Solid effort!”

Mel said something too low for you to hear, but it sounded like a warning. Ellis laughed.

You lifted one hand in their direction without turning around. “Thank you for your service.”

Jack caught your wrist gently before you could do anything else with your fingers. “No more gestures.”

Your brow furrowed. “I was waving.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. That should not have warmed you. It did anyway. Jack helped you into the passenger seat without making a production of it. He waited until your legs were inside before he leaned across you for the seat belt.

“I can do that,” you said.

Jack paused with the belt in his hand. “Can you?”

You looked down at the seat belt. It was, admittedly, farther away than it should have been. “I was about to.”

Jack’s eyes flicked to yours. “I’m sure.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Patronizing.”

“Married,” Jack said.

“That is not a defense.”

Jack shrugged. “It is in this case.”

He drew the belt across your lap, careful not to jostle you, then clicked it into place. His hand lingered for half a second at your hip before he pulled back. You hated how much you noticed.

Jack straightened, one hand braced on the open door. “Comfortable?”

You looked at him. “I was more comfortable before justice was interrupted.”

Jack stared at you for a second. Then his mouth betrayed him again. Small. Soft. A little tired. “My mistake,” he said.

You leaned back against the seat. “It was.”

He shut the door before you could say anything else. Through the windshield, you watched him walk around the front of the car. He moved with that steady, slightly uneven gait you loved and pretended not to watch too closely in public. Even after all these years, even after marriage, even after seeing him half-asleep in your kitchen and shirtless in your bathroom and grumpy with morning coffee, the sight of him still made something in you go quiet.

The woman at the bar had looked at him and seen the obvious things.

The broad shoulders. The scarred hands. The silver-threaded hair. The wedding ring she had ignored until he made her see it. Then she had looked at you.

Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed you were his type.

You swallowed and turned your face toward the window.

Jack got into the driver’s seat. He closed the door. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then Jack started the car. The engine hummed low beneath the silence.

You watched the bar lights smear across the passenger window. “I’m not drunk.”

Jack glanced at you. “No?”

“I’m less drunk,” you amended.

Jack almost smiled. “That I’ll give you.”

You nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”

Jack pulled out of the parking lot. “You’re still not fighting anyone.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to fight her,” you grumbled.

Jack looked over at you.

You kept your eyes on the window. “Recently.”

Jack’s hand settled on the gearshift. “That’s progress.”

You sat a little straighter. “I’m growing.”

Jack kept his eyes on the road. “You did tell me people grow.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile.

The silence that followed was softer. Not awkward. Just full. You watched the city pass in little pieces of light and dark. Streetlamps. Closed storefronts. Wet pavement from rain earlier in the evening. Your own reflection in the window, softened by alcohol and tiredness and the makeup you had put on because you had wanted to feel pretty tonight.

You had felt pretty tonight.

Before.

That annoyed you most. The fact that one stranger with one mean little sentence had managed to get under something you had thought was steadier than that.

Jack turned down the radio until it was barely more than a murmur. He kept his eyes on the road. “You’re quiet.”

You leaned your forehead lightly against the window. “I’m reflecting.”

Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That sounds dangerous.”

You nodded once. “It is. I’m very deep.”

Jack glanced over. “I know.”

You looked over at him. “You do?”

Jack glanced at you, then back at the road. “You told me once during a migraine that you had the soul of a Victorian ghost and the knees of a haunted rocking chair.”

You stared at him. Jack kept driving.

“I was vulnerable,” you said.

You looked back out the window. The humor helped. It did not fix the thing underneath. For a few minutes, you let the quiet sit between you. Jack did not push. He never pushed when you went quiet. He just stayed there, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the center console, close enough that you could reach him if you wanted to. You did want to. You did not move.

Jack pulled into your driveway and put the car in park. The porch light was on. Home. Safe.

That made the ache worse somehow.

Jack turned off the engine, then looked over at you. “Ready?”

You unbuckled your seat belt. “I can walk.”

Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “Did I say you couldn’t?”

“You were thinking it,” you shot back.

Jack shrugged. “I was thinking the front step is uneven.”

You opened the door. “That is suspiciously practical.”

Jack came around the car. “That is usually what I am.”

You stepped out of the car and immediately had to catch yourself on the doorframe because the world tilted just enough to be disrespectful. Jack was there before you could pretend it had not happened. His hand settled at your waist.

You looked up at him. “Don’t.”

Jack’s face stayed calm. “Don’t what?”

You looked up at him. “Be smug.”

Jack kept a steady hand on your waist. “I’m not smug.”

“You are internally smug,” you replied.

Jack’s mouth tilted in a grin. “I’m internally relieved I didn’t let you start a bar fight.”

You pointed at him. “See? Smug.”

Jack closed the car door behind you and guided you toward the house. “Come on.”

You let him. Not because you needed the help. Not entirely. His hand at your waist was warm and familiar. His body moved close beside yours, steadying you without making it a thing. The whole night had been loud and ridiculous and humiliating, but Jack’s touch had never once made you feel foolish. That was also annoying. At the front step, your shoe caught slightly.

Jack’s hand tightened at your waist before you could stumble. You froze for half a second, then looked down at the porch.

Jack followed your gaze. “Step.”

You sighed. “I saw it.”

“I know,” Jack said.

You glanced up at him. “Don’t.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “I’m not.”

He did not tease you. He did not make it a thing. He just kept his hand steady at your waist while you found your keys and unlocked the door. Jack shut the door behind you, and the house went quiet around you.

The kind of quiet that came after a night out. Shoes by the door. Keys in the bowl. The soft hum of the refrigerator. Your reflection in the dark front window, a little rumpled, a little flushed, still wearing the lipstick you had thought looked good before some stranger made you feel like a punchline. You stood there for one second too long. Jack noticed. Of course he did.

He moved past you gently and turned on the lamp by the couch. Warm light filled the living room, softening the edges of everything. “Come here,” Jack said.

You looked at him. “That sounded bossy.”

Jack’s voice softened. “That was me asking you to sit down before you decide the lamp looked at you wrong.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Jack saw it. His expression eased a little. “There she is.”

You looked away before your face could do anything worse. “I’m still mad,” you said.

Jack waited beside the couch, one hand held out, palm open. “I know.”

You looked down at his hand. He did not push. He did not reach for you. He just stood there, steady and patient and Jack, giving you the choice even though you both knew he would catch you if you stumbled.

After a second, you took his hand. Jack helped you sit on the couch, careful without making a show of it.

“I can sit by myself,” you said.

Jack’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles before he let go. “I know.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re doing that thing.”

Jack moved toward the kitchen. “What thing?”

“The thing where you agree with me and still act like I need supervision,” you said.

Jack disappeared around the corner. “You flipped off a woman in a bar.”

You leaned back against the couch. “That was communication.”

From the kitchen, Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That was evidence.”

You crossed your arms. “I was very clear.”

The cabinet opened. The sink turned on. Jack came back a moment later with a glass of water in one hand.

He set it on the coffee table in front of you. “Drink.”

You looked at the glass, then up at him. “Again?”

Jack lowered himself onto the coffee table across from you. “Again.”

You reached for the water. “You are very committed to hydration.”

Jack watched you take a sip. “You are very committed to being difficult.”

You swallowed and lowered the glass. “Marriage is about balance.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Apparently.”

You leaned forward and started working on the zipper of your boot.

It did not cooperate. You frowned at it. The zipper remained unmoved. “Traitor,” you muttered.

Jack’s gaze dropped to the boot. “Need help?”

You sat back immediately. “No.”

Jack lifted both hands slightly. “Okay.”

You tried the zipper again. It stuck. Jack said nothing.

You glared at the boot. “This is not about you.”

Jack looked up at you. “I didn’t say it was.”

“You were thinking it,” you said.

Jack’s eyes moved briefly to the stuck zipper. “I was thinking you’re arguing with your boot.”

You looked up at him. “You are not emotionally supportive.”

Jack held out his hand. “Give me your foot.”

You hesitated for one second too long. Jack’s voice softened. “Baby.”

The fight went out of you in a way you hated. You lifted your foot. Jack took your ankle carefully, his thumb resting against the inside bone like he had done this a hundred times. He worked the zipper down without fuss, then eased the boot off and set it beside the couch.

He looked back at you. “Other one.”

You gave him the other foot. This zipper cooperated because apparently everyone respected Jack more than they respected you.

Jack set the second boot beside the first. “There.”

You looked down at your socked feet. “I had it.”

Jack’s hands rested lightly around your ankle for one more second before he let go. “I know.”

You looked at him.

Jack’s gaze stayed steady. “I know.”

That did it. Not dramatically. Not all at once.

But something in your chest cracked open just enough for the hurt to breathe. You looked away from him and reached for the water. Jack stayed where he was, sitting on the coffee table in front of you, close but not crowding.

You took a sip. Then another.

Jack waited. That was worse than him asking.

Finally, you lowered the glass. “I know it was stupid,” you said.

Jack’s gaze stayed on your face. “What was?”

You rubbed at your cheek, and your thumb came away with a faint smudge of mascara. “Getting mad.”

Jack’s answer came immediately. “I don’t think it was stupid.”

You huffed once. “Jack.”

Jack leaned forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “I think you were drunk.”

You gave him a look. “Helpful.”

Jack’s mouth barely moved. “And mad.”

“Also helpful,” you said.

Jack’s expression softened, but his eyes stayed serious. “And I think she hit something she meant to hit.”

You looked down at the water glass in your hands. That was the worst part. He knew. Of course he knew.

You swallowed. The room felt too quiet now. The bar had been easier. The noise had given you somewhere to hide. The tequila had given you a costume to wear. Feral wife. Angry wife. Wife with justice. Wife who could take her.

Here, you were just yourself. Socked feet. Smudged makeup. Too sober to be funny and not sober enough to pretend. You traced your thumb along the side of the glass. “She looked like someone people expect you to be with.”

Jack went very still.

You hated saying it.

You hated how small it made you feel after all that noise and swagger and fury.

You kept your eyes on the glass. “And then she looked at me like…”

Jack did not interrupt.

You pressed your lips together, then tried again. “Like I was the punchline.”

Jack’s face changed. The humor was gone now. All of it.

“Baby,” Jack said.

You shook your head. “I know you love me.”

Jack’s answer came without hesitation. “I do.”

“I know,” you said quickly.

Jack stayed still in front of you.

You gripped the glass a little tighter. “I know that.”

Jack nodded once. “Okay.”

You looked down at your lap. “I’m not saying I don’t know.”

Jack’s voice stayed gentle. “I know.”

You blinked hard. “But for one second, I just—”

Your voice broke off.

A small, humorless laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

Jack’s hand moved to your knee, warm and steady. “For one second, what?”

You stared at your lap. “I saw what she saw.”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

Not at you.

Never at you.

But something cold moved through his face, and for one second you saw the version of him that had looked back at the woman in the bar. The version who had not let you turn around because he knew exactly how badly you wanted to.

Then his hand softened on your knee. “Look at me,” Jack said.

You shook your head. “Jack.”

Jack’s voice lowered. “Baby, look at me.”

You did. Reluctantly.

His face was serious now. No teasing. No dry amusement. Just Jack, steady and devastating and yours.

“She doesn’t know what I see,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened. “Jack—”

“No,” Jack said, gentle but firm.

His hand found yours, and his thumb moved over your wedding ring. “She doesn’t know my type,” Jack said.

You looked down at his thumb on your ring.

Jack’s voice stayed steady. “She doesn’t know my wife.”

Your eyes burned.

Jack held your hand carefully. “She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about what I want.”

You swallowed. “And what do you want?”

Jack’s answer came immediately. “You.”

You breathed in shakily.

Jack did not look away. “Not because you’re my wife.”

Your fingers tightened around his.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your ring. “Not because I’m supposed to say it.”

You blinked hard.

“You,” Jack said. “In every room. At every bar. In front of every woman stupid enough to think she has a chance because she caught me before I said the word wife.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

Jack caught it with his thumb, his expression softening in a way that made it worse.

“There is not a single version of my life where I look past you,” Jack said.

You tried to breathe around that.

It came out uneven.

Jack shifted closer, moving from the coffee table to the couch beside you. He did not pull you into him right away. He waited until you leaned first.

So you leaned.

Jack wrapped his arm around you and tucked you against his chest.

You let yourself go there.

Because it was Jack.

Because it was home.

Because the anger had done its job and left you with the soft thing underneath.

His hand moved slowly over your back.

You pressed your face into his shirt. “I still could’ve taken her.”

Jack’s chest moved under your cheek. A laugh. Small and helpless.

Jack said, “I know.”

You sniffed. “You stopped me because you hate feminism.”

Jack pressed his mouth to your hair. “I stopped you because I like not bailing my wife out of jail.”

You closed your eyes. “Coward.”

Jack said, “Your coward.”

You smiled against his shirt despite yourself. Then you pulled back enough to look at him.

Jack’s hand moved to your face, thumb brushing beneath your eye where the mascara had smudged.

“You good?” Jack asked.

You nodded. Then you shook your head. Then you made a vague noise that meant absolutely nothing.

Jack’s mouth softened. “That clear, huh?”

You leaned your cheek into his palm. “I’m getting there.”

Jack reached for the water glass on the coffee table. “Drink more water.”

You looked at him. “Was that attending voice again?”

Jack handed you the glass. “That was husband voice.”

You considered that. Then you took the water. “Fine.”

Jack watched you lift the glass.

You took a sip, then lowered it. “But only because husband voice is hot.”

Jack stared at you. Then he laughed, low and warm, and pulled you closer again.

You drank the water. Under protest. Less than before.

Later, upstairs, the fight had gone out of you completely. The tequila. The anger. The justice.

All of it had softened into exhaustion by the time you stood at the bathroom sink in your pajamas, brushing your teeth with your hair pulled back from your face and the last traces of makeup washed clean from your skin. You leaned over the sink and rinsed your mouth.

When you straightened, Jack appeared in the doorway with his clothes from the night held loosely in one hand. He stopped.

You saw it happen in the mirror. The pause. The way his eyes moved over you, not quickly, not carelessly, but like he was taking in something he had no intention of looking away from.

You wiped the corner of your mouth with the towel. “What?”

Jack stepped into the bathroom and dropped his clothes into the hamper. “Nothing,” he said.

You turned from the sink and gave him a look.

He came closer and stopped in front of you. For a second, he almost smiled. Then his hands lifted to your face. Jack cupped your cheeks in both palms, warm and steady, his thumbs resting lightly beneath your eyes. He looked at you like the whole night had narrowed to this bathroom, this light, this version of you with no lipstick, no armor, no righteous fury left to hide behind.

“Jack,” you said softly.

His gaze held yours. “You are so fucking beautiful,” Jack said.

Your throat tightened at once.

He did not say it like a line.

He did not say it like reassurance he thought he owed you.

He said it like fact.

Plain. Certain. Almost rough with how much he meant it.

You tried to look away, but his hands held your face gently in place.

“Like this,” Jack said. “Right now.”

Your eyes burned.

Jack’s thumb moved once along your cheek. “Every room. Every bar. Every morning in this bathroom when you think I’m not looking.”

A shaky breath left you.

His voice dropped lower. “Especially then.”

You closed your eyes for half a second. When you opened them again, Jack was still looking at you. Not past you. Not around you. At you.

The ache in your chest loosened so suddenly it almost hurt.

You stepped forward, let your forehead drop against his chest, and slid your arms around his waist. “I love you,” you said.

Jack’s arms came around you immediately. “I love you too,” he said into your hair.

You pressed closer to him, eyes closed, your cheek against the soft, worn cotton of his shirt.

For a while, neither of you moved.

There was no music now.

No bar noise.

No woman across the room.

No tequila making you brave.

Just Jack’s hands slow over your back, his mouth pressed to the top of your head, his ring cool against your spine.

After a minute, you mumbled into his chest, “I still could’ve taken her.”

Jack’s laugh moved through him before you heard it.

Small. Warm. Helpless.

Jack said, “I know.”

You smiled against him.

Jack kissed your hair. “Water?”

You groaned. “Jack.”

Jack smiled faintly. “Husband voice.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him.

Jack looked down at you, eyes warm.

You sighed. “Fine.”

He reached for the water glass on the counter and handed it to you.

You took it from him with great dignity. “Under protest.”

Jack’s mouth softened. “Less than before?”

You took a sip. Then you leaned back into him. “Less than before,” you admitted.

Jack’s arms closed around you again. And this time, when he held you, there was nothing left in you trying to fight.