𝒜

--- --- ---

Therapist: Good morning, Jack. It’s good to see you.

Jack: Hey, good to see you too.

Therapist: (flips open her notebook) So, tell me - how are you?

Jack: Um. Yeah. Good. (scratches the back of his neck) I’ve got some big news.

Therapist: Always a good place to start a session. Tell me.

Jack: Um. (pauses) She’s pregnant. (pauses) We’re pregnant.

(The therapist looks at him for a long time, clearly caught off guard. Then she clears her throat.)

Therapist: Okay. That’s… a surprise.

Jack: (scoffs) Yes, it is.

Therapist: I do have a couple of questions.

Jack: (raises an eyebrow) You mean because she and I talked about it, decided we were done having kids and I got a vasectomy?

Therapist: Exactly. So… I figure the vasectomy wasn’t successful?

Jack: (sighs) No, it was successful. We were just… stupid.

Therapist: What do you mean by that?

Jack: We had unprotected sex before I had my follow-up appointment. It was reckless and stupid… and now I know firsthand what can happen if you ignore your doctor’s advice. (sighs) They should put my face on the warning page of every vasectomy leaflet..

Therapist: Okay, I see. (takes a note) So, how far along is she?

Jack: Five months now.

Therapist: When did you learn she was pregnant?

Jack: When she was like fifteen weeks along.

Therapist: Jack, I have to admit - that’s quite something.

Jack: Yes.

Therapist: I remember her first pregnancy was hard. She suffered from intense nausea, right?

Jack: Hyperemesis gravidarum, yeah.

Therapist: How is the pregnancy this time?

Jack: She’s tired and exhausted and she claims her feet are getting bigger - which is a real thing, I looked it up - but apart from that… surprisingly well. No nausea so far. A little heartburn but apart from that - surprisingly easy.

Therapist: That’s nice to hear.

Jack: (smiles a little) Yeah.

Therapist: Well, congratulations to both of you.

Jack: (smiles a little) Thanks.

Therapist: So since this was such a surprising pregnancy and you’d already decided you were done having children… did you two discuss your options?

(Jack looks down at his hands and nods slowly.)

Jack: Of course. We discussed adoption and well… abortion and yeah, keeping it.

(The therapist waits.)

Jack: It was a hard conversation to have. (shrugs)

Therapist: Why?

Jack: Because… we thought we were done. And she was really upset. Understandable - I mean… she thought she was approaching menopause with all these weird symptoms. And then she went to see Anya and then - boom, pregnancy.

Therapist: But if she found out when she was around fifteen weeks - abortion wasn’t an option, right?

Jack: (lets out a deep breath) No, it wasn’t. Not really. Which… I know this sounds horrible but I was kind of relieved about it.

Therapist: Why?

Jack: Because we had no other option but to keep it. So we only had to come to terms with the facts that… well, our family is growing.

Therapist: I guess you had an easier time accepting this than your wife.

Jack: Yeah. (pauses) On the day when she had the appointment - I didn’t even know she had it - but I didn’t hear from her for hours. She came home late - it was like six or seven already and I was busy putting Lizzie to bed and of course, I was worried sick. And she just sat in the living room and I was trying to act normal for Lizzie.

Therapist: That must have been hard.

Jack: (scoffs) You have no idea.

Therapist: What happened then?

Jack: Well, after Lizzie fell asleep we sat in the living room and I asked her where she had been and she told me she drove all the way to Cleveland.

Therapist: Cleveland? (blinks) Why?

Jack: She had no clue. She said she just started driving and the next thing she knew was she was in Cleveland. And I was ready to yell at her because - who just starts driving when your partner is worried sick, you know? And then she reached into her purse and handed me the ultrasound picture and said “You didn’t shoot blanks.”

Therapist: Okay. And how did you react?

Jack: I couldn’t believe it. I mean - I had the vasectomy and I had the follow up appointment and they confirmed azoospermia, so… you know?

Therapist: But you also had unprotected sex before you got the confirmation.

Jack: Yes but that’s like… I don’t know… a one-in-a-million chance? With that kind of luck I should’ve bought a lottery ticket.”

Therapist: So… you couldn’t believe it. What was the first thing you thought when you saw the ultrasound picture?

Jack: (looks down at his hands) I had this one fleeting thought - and I didn’t really believe it but… for one second I thought… did she cheat on me? (swallows) It lasted approximately two seconds and then I hated myself for even thinking it. 

Therapist: Why did you hate yourself?

Jack: (looks at her) Because… because that beautiful woman… my wife… (shrugs) … I trust her completely. And I know she would never do that to me.

Therapist: (clears her throat) Jack, I just want to point something out Two years ago you sat in that chair and you were convinced your girlfriend cheated on you with your best friend because she was seeking help during difficult nights.

(Jack shifts uncomfortably in his chair.)

Therapist: Today you’re sitting here and you discovered your wife’s pregnant after you had a successful vasectomy… and you’re telling me you’re not jealous, you’re not accusing her - you just had one fleeting thought and you didn’t act on it.

(Jack nods along.)

Therapist: That’s growth. That’s actual growth, Jack.

(He looks down at his hands again, smiling.)

Jack: It sounds like the bare minimum.

Therapist: Well, then we didn’t start at the bare minimum (smiles too) What happened then?

Jack: We didn’t talk much that night. It was just… a lot. And I wasn’t entirely sure if my wife had just experienced a major nervous breakdown with… you know… the driving for hours and landing in Cleveland. So we just went to sleep.

Therapist: What did you feel when you thought about your wife having a nervous breakdown?

Jack: (hesitates) I was… scared. Scared that our stupid mistake broke something inside her. That it would bring us back to square one. We’d been in a really good place lately and this… I was afraid it would take that away from us.

Therapist: But you didn’t vocalize these feelings?

Jack: No. It wasn’t… the right time.

Therapist: (makes a note) Go on.

Jack: (shrugs) Um, what else do you want to hear?

Therapist: You said you discussed your options. So… how did that go?

Jack: Oh. Yeah. Well… a couple of days later I was in the nursery, playing with Lizzie and she walked in. She was pale, looked miserable and she wanted to talk. So we sat down in the living room and well, we started talking about… you know… options. And at one point she was really angry and-

Therapist: (interrupts) Angry at whom or what?

Jack: At me, I guess. Or the situation. 

Therapist: Why?

Jack: Because… (sighs) She was frustrated because we did everything right and one tiny thing wrong and we ended up in a situation like that. (hesitates) I might have raised my voice at one point when she was a little unfair and-

Therapist: (interrupts again) How was she unfair?

Jack: She said… she said… (takes a deep breath) She was yelling at me because I was taking the whole thing too well for her liking. She said it was so easy for me because I wouldn’t have to bear the consequences of the pregnancy, the birth and everything that came afterwards.

Therapist: What did you say?

Jack: Um… well… I said that we agreed on not using condoms that one night - like it was a mutual decision - and… um, that I get that she’s angry but I didn’t knock her up alone and that she cannot say things like that when I’m clearly trying to help.

Therapist: I guess you might have said this a little more charged and not as calm as you just said it?

Jack: … no.

Therapist: What happened then?

Jack: She started crying.

Therapist: That must have been hard to watch.

Jack: Yeah. I hate when she’s crying.

Therapist: What did you do?

Jack: I hugged her and we both apologized. But that’s when we realized that Lizzie was standing in the doorway, watching us. And had probably been standing there for quite some time.

Therapist: That must have been quite sobering for both of you.

Jack: … yeah. I was kind of embarrassed, actually.

Therapist: Why?

Jack: Because… we usually don’t fight like that in front of her.

Therapist: So what did you do when you saw Lizzie standing there?

Jack: Well, we hugged her and talked to her. She didn’t seem to be concerned, you know? Maybe a little more clingy than usual but… honestly, she’s like that all the time, so no real difference.

Therapist: Did the topic of the fight come up again?

Jack: Well, yeah. (scratches his neck) A couple of days later she told Robby and he interrogated me about the fight.

Therapist: How did it feel?

Jack: What do you mean?

Therapist: How did it feel to have your daughter share intimate information about your family with him?

Jack: It was… weird. Because, well, she never did that before. And now she’s actually getting stuff? That’s just… mind-blowing.

Therapist: So you noticed your daughter is becoming an actual observer to your daily life.

Jack: Terrifyingly so. I spent two years thinking she was just this… miniature version of me who occasionally yells stuff. But no, she’s been watching us the whole time, forming opinions and… rats us out to my best friend.

Therapist: That’s one way to look at it. Another way would be to think she was looking for another adult she felt safe with.

(Jack stares at her for a long moment.)

Jack: Um… yeah, okay, if you look at it like that… then it’s actually a good thing.

Therapist: It is. It might be a little strange when you experience it the first time but I think it’s lovely Lizzie trusts Robby enough to share stuff like this with him.

(Jack nods slowly.)

Jack: He really is part of our family now, huh?

Therapist: (smiles) It depends on how you would define ‘family’.

Jack: Mhm.

Therapist: Speaking of family - how did they react when you told them about the pregnancy? I remember especially your sister being wary of your relationship?

Jack: (scoffs) Wary is a very nice way to put it. (shifts in his seat) Well, I wasn’t there when my wife told her mom, so I only have hearsay on that. But apparently her mom was over the moon. Like sobbing, hugging - the full shenanigans. And my sister… well. We did this announcement at our wedding, after cutting the cake. And it was… surprisingly emotional.

Therapist: I’m a little surprised, Jack. You never struck me as the guy who does big emotional announcements.

Jack: (chuckles) That’s true. And I didn’t particularly like it. But we just wanted it out in the open. And everyone we care about was at the wedding anyway. So it just made sense.

Therapist: I guess that gave the wedding a surprising turn?

Jack: You bet. I never had so many people hug me. (pauses) It was exhausting.

Therapist: (smiles) So your sister was happy?

Jack: Well… yeah. She hugged me and congratulated me. And well, she also hugged my wife. And that was something because… they didn’t have the best relationship since… well… you know.

Therapist: (looks at her notes) Since your sister told her she should make more of an effort to keep you happy after having an awful pregnancy and a screaming baby?

Jack: Yeah, that sums it up. And… (pauses again) Then my sister told me she’s back with her husband. The one who cheated on her and got his mistress pregnant.

Therapist: Well… that’s a turn of events.

Jack: Yes. But for me… it kind of helped? Because I suddenly realized that she’s… flawed too. Does this make sense? She had all these big words about my wife after she had Lizzie - all these opinions about how my wife should act and behave - and when it comes to her own life… it’s not so straightforward anymore. It’s kind of a revelation.

Therapist: It sounds like you brought her down from the pedestal you’ve been putting her on your whole life - and saw her as an actual human being.

(Jack nods slowly.)

Jack: Yeah, probably.

Therapist: How did the rest of your family react?

Jack: (furrows his brows) I don’t have any more family.

Therapist: (smiles) I’m talking about Robby.

Jack: Oh. (rolls his eyes) You’ve got me there. (shrugs) He was surprised. And well, happy. Very happy. He was pissed off when I got the vasectomy without consulting him first so… I think he’s just happy to get another tiny human to spoil.

Therapist: (chuckles) Sounds like it. But it’s good to know your support system still stands, right?

Jack: Support system? Robby is more like a spoiling system. (smirks)

Therapist: That’s something every family needs too. (looks down at her notes again) Your wife just started to work again, right?

Jack: Yeah.

Therapist: How is she doing with that thought in mind?

Jack: I think that was her main concern in the beginning.

Therapist: But not any longer?

Jack: No. Because… after we’d decided to keep the baby we talked about logistics. Extensively. And well… I just talked to Robby as the head of department last week and to HR and… (he lets out a long sigh) The plan is that she’s off work for around eight weeks after birth and I’m taking kind of a Sabbatical for ten months to take care of the baby while she’s at work. We already talked to the daycare and it seems like they have a spot in their infant program next summer so… this could work out.

Therapist: (lifts her eyebrow) You’re going off duty for ten months? That’s… new.

Jack: (shrugs) Yeah but it’s only fair, right?

Therapist: Fair? Walk me through this.

Jack: Well… she suffered through enough during her last pregnancy and the postpartum madness. And she finally got herself a job after being unemployed for such a long time. So… it’s only fair that she can work on her career and I’ll take care of things at home.

Therapist: That’s a very mature way of looking at it.

Jack: (grimaces) I’m trying.

Therapist: And succeeding as it seems.

Jack: Wait until you have to bear with me during month five of my Sabbatical when I start pacing and itching. (grins)

Therapist: (dryly) Well, you’re the one paying me per hour to hear you whine so I’ll be fine.

(Jack starts laughing.)

Jack: Fair.

Therapist: You said she’s five months pregnant, right?

Jack: Yeah.

Therapist: So, you already know what sex the baby will be?

Jack: (smirks) Um, yeah.

Therapist: Do you want to tell me?

Jack: Yeah sure. (looks down at his hands) It’s a boy.

Therapist: Oh, that’s nice. So little Lizzie’s getting a baby brother?

Jack: (smiles) Yeah.

Therapist: Is she excited about it?

Jack: She doesn’t really grasp the concept yet, to be honest. She just likes that mommy's stomach is getting more cuddly right now.

Therapist: Sounds about right. (peeks at her notes again) When you and your wife decided you were done having kids you were relieved because you were struggling with the thought of having a son.

(Jack shifts uncomfortably in his seat.)

Therapist: Did this change?

Jack: (thinks about it for a long time, then shakes his head while shrugging) I don’t know. I’m still scared I’ll fuck it up.

Therapist: Meaning…?

Jack: That I’m teaching him the wrong things. That he’ll grow up and suddenly… he hates women.  (shrugs)

Therapist: Jack, let me ask you something. Who taught you to respect women?

Jack: Um. I don’t know? My dad?

Therapist: From everything you told me about your dad already… did he really respect women?

(Jack looks down briefly, his jaw tightening.)

Jack: He respected women… as long as it wasn’t my mom.

Therapist: So. Your father wasn’t the perfect role model. And still you grew up respecting women. Who taught you?

Jack: (shrugs) Friends… colleagues… um… and well, I grew up thinking I’ll never end up like my father, so…

Therapist: So, you’re realizing that’s not your sole responsibility to shape your son, right? I don’t mean it gives you a hall pass for all kinds of shitty behavior (smiles) but your son will not only look at you for advice. He’ll look around and he’ll see the family you build around him - and he’ll turn to people with values if he’s looking for answers.

Jack: Mhm.

Therapist: How does this feel?

Jack: (exhales) A little reassuring actually. But it still feels like a lot. And God, I hope you’re right. And I hope he turns to the right people - not the schmocks.

Therapist: (tries to hide her smile) I think he will. And to be honest - I think I’ll still be there to guide you through that.

Jack: It seems like you lost all hope with me, huh?

Therapist: Not entirely. I’m just a creature of habit.

(They smile at each other.)

Therapist: Did you think about names yet?

Jack: (smiles sheepishly) Um, yeah, actually we have.

Therapist: Did you choose one?

Jack: Yes. Max.

Therapist: That’s a lovely name.

Jack: It was the easiest decision we made regarding this child.

Therapist: Any particular reason you chose that name?

Jack: No. (smiles) No tragic backstory. No dead war buddy. No family obligation. I also checked if Robby has any objection after what happened with Lizzie’s middle name. So, no, no reason. We just liked it.

Therapist: That sounds wonderfully ordinary.

Jack: (laughs) Doesn’t it?

Therapist: Not a sentence I say often in your sessions.

Jack: Enjoy it while it lasts.

Therapist: I will. (pauses) Are you excited?

Jack: I’m terrified.

Therapist: Well, that’s not exactly what I asked.

Jack: (rubs the back of his neck) Yeah, I know.

(There is a long pause.)

Jack: Yeah. Yeah, I am.

Therapist: (smiles) That’s good to hear. And the rest will fall into place.

Jack: … yeah.

Therapist: If you could say one sentence to the Jack who sat in this office three years ago… what would it be?

Jack: (laughs) “Stop being such an idiot.”

Therapist: (laughs too) Well, yeah. And really?

Jack: (thinks about it, then lets out a long breath) I’d tell him that life gets so much better than he thinks. And I would tell him that he definitely needs to go grocery shopping after night shift.

(She smiles and closes her notebook after glancing at the clock.)

Therapist: I would love to close this session with a simple question, Jack.

Jack: … okay?

Therapist: What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think about the future?

(Jack stares at her for a second before looking out of the window, thinking hard about it. A minute passes. Then he looks back at her, smiling.)

Jack: The first thing? (pauses for a long time) I really can’t fucking wait for it to begin.

--- --- ---

Thank you all for reading! (Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry - damn it, now I'm crying...)

--- --- ---

The house was quiet. Not sleeping quiet.

Not midnight quiet.

Not the strange, thin quiet that came after everyone had cried and finally stopped.

This was worse. This was afternoon quiet.

Wrong quiet.

The kind that sat in the corners and made every ordinary sound too clear.

The fridge hummed in the kitchen. The washing machine clicked somewhere near the end of a cycle. A loose strip of tape still clung to the front window from the welcome banner that had come down weeks ago, catching the pale daylight every time the curtains shifted.

Aurora slept upstairs. Actually slept.

Not grunted. Not fussed. Not threatened to wake every three minutes and then changed her mind.

Slept. Andie was gone.

Not gone gone. Not far. Not for long.

Craig and Deran had taken her out for a few hours with Baby Duck, a snack bag, two spare socks, one packet of wipes, and a list of instructions Andie herself had given them before leaving.

"No loud."

Deran had nodded solemnly.

"No run road."

Craig had said, "Good rule."

"No eat Duck snack."

Deran had looked offended.

"I have never eaten Duck's snack."

Andie had stared at him.

Deran had lowered his voice.

"Fine. One time."

Then she had kissed Aurora on the blanket, kissed you on the sleeve because your cheek was too high, hugged Andrew's leg, and marched out the door with Baby Duck under one arm like she was heading into negotiations.

The door had closed.

Her voice had disappeared down the path.

Deran had whispered too loudly, "I AM BEING QUIET."

Craig had said something you did not catch.

And then the car had pulled away.

Now the house stood still around you.

You stood in the living room with one hand resting on the back of the couch, staring at the space where Andie had been sitting ten minutes earlier.

Her small blanket was bunched on the cushion.

One plastic giraffe lay on its side near the coffee table.

Baby Duck's backup cup sat empty on the rug because apparently even stuffed ducks needed hydration plans.

You looked at all of it and felt a strange pull in your chest. Relief.

Guilt.

Exhaustion.

A little grief for no reason you could explain.

Andrew was in the kitchen, but not really in the kitchen.

He was standing at the sink with his hands braced on the counter, looking at a plate he had not washed yet.

You could see his reflection in the dark glass of the microwave. Still. Listening. Waiting for one of the girls.

That was what the two of you did now. Listened. Even when no one was crying. Even when no one needed you.

You still listened like need had become part of the walls.

You looked toward the stairs. Nothing.

No baby sound.

No toddler call.

Nothing.

You turned back toward the kitchen.

"We should probably do something."

Andrew did not move.

"We are."

You looked at him.

"Standing?"

"Resting."

A laugh left you, soft and tired.

"That is not resting."

He looked over his shoulder at you.

"You're not holding anyone."

"That is a low bar."

"Still counts."

You rubbed a hand over your face.

"There's laundry."

"It can wait."

"There are bottles."

"They can wait."

"The nappies downstairs need restocking."

"I did it."

"You did?"

"Yeah."

"The basket in the living room?"

"And the nursery."

"And the bedroom?"

"And the bottom stair."

You stared at him.

"You restocked the stair nappies?"

His mouth twitched.

"They're convenient."

"They're weird."

"They're convenient."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

"Fine. There are dishes."

He looked down at the plate in the sink.

"One plate."

"And a pan."

"That pan is soaking."

"It has been soaking since breakfast."

"It needs time."

"It made toast."

"It's stubborn."

You let out a breath that almost became a laugh and almost became something else.

Andrew heard the almost. He turned fully.

"What?"

You shook your head.

"Nothing."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

You hated that he knew your nothing. You loved it too.

He dried his hands on a towel and came into the living room. He moved quietly now. Not the same quiet he used to have, the sharp, careful quiet of a man trying not to disturb danger. This was different. Domestic quiet. Baby quiet.

The quiet of someone who knew which floorboard creaked outside Andie's room and which cupboard door clicked loud enough to startle Aurora. He stopped in front of you.

"What is it?"

You looked at his shirt.

There was a faint milk mark on the shoulder.

One of Andie's stickers stuck near the hem. A tiny yellow star.

You touched it.

"Did you know you have a sticker on you?"

He looked down.

"No."

"It suits you."

"No."

"Very pretty."

He peeled it off carefully and stuck it on the edge of the coffee table.

"Andie put that there."

"On you?"

"On Baby Duck first. Then me."

"Why?"

"She said I was good."

Your throat softened.

"Oh."

Andrew's face did that thing it did when tenderness got too close to the surface, when he wanted to turn away from it but did not anymore.

"She's strict with rewards."

"She is."

He looked at you for another second.

"You going to tell me?"

You sighed.

"I don't know what to do with the quiet."

His expression softened.

"Yeah."

"It feels like I should be grateful for it."

"You can be grateful and weird."

"I am not weird."

He raised his eyebrows.

"I am emotionally complex."

"That too."

You leaned against the back of the couch.

"It's just strange. When they're here, I think about how tired I am. How much I need five minutes. How much I want to sit down without anyone needing milk or a snack or a sock or a duck court ruling."

His mouth curved.

"Duck court ruling."

"You know what I mean."

"I do."

"And then the second Andie leaves and Aurora sleeps, I feel..." You stopped, annoyed at the sudden pressure in your throat.

Andrew waited. He was good at that now.

You looked down at your hands.

"Empty."

His face changed. Not panicked. Not pitying. Just open.

You huffed a small, embarrassed laugh.

"That sounds awful."

"No."

"It does."

"It doesn't."

"I don't mean I don't want the quiet."

"I know."

"I don't mean I want them crying."

"I know."

"I just..."

You pressed your lips together.

Andrew stepped closer.

"You miss them when they don't need you."

The tears came too fast. You looked away.

"That sounds pathetic."

"No."

"They're upstairs and down the road. It's not like they're gone."

"No."

"I wanted this. I wanted ten minutes where no one touched me."

His voice lowered.

"And now no one is."

The words landed gently enough to hurt. You nodded once.

"Yeah."

Andrew reached for you slowly. Not assuming. Not taking. Just offering.

You went into him before you could overthink it. His arms came around you, solid and warm and careful in all the places he knew were still tender even now, six weeks after giving birth. His hand settled high on your back. His chin brushed your hair.

For a while, you just stood there. No baby between you. No toddler asking to be lifted. No bottle in one hand. No muslin over his shoulder.

Just you and Andrew in the middle of the living room, holding each other like you had forgotten the shape of it.

Your face pressed into his chest. He smelled like laundry, coffee, and baby soap. You breathed him in.

"I feel like I've disappeared a little," you whispered.

His arms tightened. Not too much. Just enough.

You closed your eyes.

"Not in a bad way. Not all the time. I love them. I love them so much I can't even think about it properly. But sometimes by the end of the day, I feel like there isn't much of me left."

Andrew said nothing. You kept going because if you stopped, you might swallow it all back down.

"Someone always needs my body. My hands. My voice. My milk. My lap. My face looking happy so Andie doesn't worry. My calm voice so Aurora settles. And I want to give it. I do. But sometimes I look in the mirror and I don't know who I'm looking at."

His hand moved slowly over your back. You swallowed.

"My hair is always a mess. My clothes don't fit right. I cry over stupid things. I get angry over stupid things. I smell like milk half the time."

Andrew drew back enough to look at you.

You tried to look away.

He did not let you disappear from his gaze.

"I still see you."

The words were simple. Too simple.

They broke something anyway.

You laughed weakly, blinking through tears.

"Even when I'm leaking milk and crying because no one rinsed a spoon?"

His mouth softened.

"Especially then."

You gave him a watery look.

"Especially then?"

"Terrifying woman."

A laugh burst out of you. Small, broken, real.

Andrew's thumb brushed under your eye.

"There she is."

Your chest hurt.

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"Look at me like you know where I went."

His eyes stayed on yours.

"I do."

You wanted to argue. You did not. Because he did. Not always perfectly. Not magically. But enough.

Enough to find you in the kitchen at two in the morning when you were crying quietly because Aurora would not latch. Enough to take Andie to the park when he saw your shoulders starting to climb toward your ears. Enough to touch your face before touching the baby sometimes, as if reminding you that you still existed before need swallowed the room.

You leaned into his hand.

"I'm tired."

"I know."

"I'm happy."

"I know."

"I'm not unhappy."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

His voice was rough now.

"I know."

You believed him. That made it worse and better.

He brushed his thumb along your cheek again.

"You think I don't see you because everyone needs you."

Your throat tightened.

"Sometimes."

"I see you more."

You looked at him.

"How?"

"Because you keep showing up."

Your lips parted. Andrew's jaw shifted like he was trying to find words big enough and hated every one of them.

"You think it's the big things. The birth. The hospital. The staying awake. The feeding."

His hand moved down your arm.

"It's not just that."

"No?"

"No." He looked toward the stairs, then back at you. "It's you cutting Andie's toast even though you haven't eaten. It's you talking to Rora when you think no one's listening. It's you making room on the couch when you look like you can't move. It's you saying sorry to a two year old because your arms are full and you don't want her to think she stopped mattering."

Your eyes burned.

"Andrew."

"It's you putting Baby Duck under a blanket because Andie asked and you didn't have to, but you did. It's you remembering which song Rora settles to. It's you telling me I'm doing good when you're the one who can barely stand."

His voice caught slightly.

"You didn't disappear."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"You're everywhere."

You covered your mouth.

He reached for your wrist gently and lowered your hand.

"Don't hide."

You let out a shaky breath.

"I am very emotionally unstable."

"I know."

"You are making it worse."

"I know."

"You are not supposed to know that."

His mouth curved faintly.

"I know that too."

You laughed and cried at once. Andrew pulled you back into him.

This time you wrapped your arms around his waist and held on properly. For once, no one interrupted. Not immediately.

No tiny cry from the monitor. No small voice asking where Baby Duck's snack had gone.

Just quiet.

The kind you had not known what to do with.

The kind that now held you instead.

You ended up on the couch. You were not sure who moved first. Maybe you did. Maybe Andrew did.

Maybe gravity took one look at both of you and decided standing was too ambitious.

Either way, you sat down slowly, and Andrew sat beside you, then pulled you gently into his side until your legs were curled against the cushion and your cheek rested on his chest.

The television was off. The room was pale with afternoon light.

The house looked softer without Andie's voice bouncing through it, though her presence remained everywhere. Plastic animals under the coffee table.

A purple crayon on the windowsill.

Two socks that did not match sitting neatly beside each other because she had decided they were a pair and no one had the heart to separate them.

You stared at the socks.

"She really thinks those match."

Andrew followed your gaze.

"They're both socks."

"That was my argument."

"Good argument."

"She is going to grow up thinking matching means emotionally similar."

"Could be worse."

You smiled. His hand moved slowly over your arm.

Not in a way that asked for anything. Just touch. Just remembering.

You shifted closer.

"When was the last time we sat like this?"

He thought about it.

"Before she was born."

"Aurora?"

"Yeah."

You smiled faintly.

"You can say her name."

"I know."

"You keep saying the baby."

His hand paused.

"I do?"

"Sometimes."

He looked down at you.

"Not because..."

"I know."

He looked toward the stairs. You waited. He swallowed.

"Sometimes I say the baby because saying her name still gets me."

Your chest softened.

"Aurora?"

His eyes closed briefly.

"Yeah."

You touched his chest.

"Julia?"

He nodded. There it was. The name beneath the name. The sister inside the middle. The old grief tied gently to the new life.

You did not push. Andrew's hand covered yours.

"Andie says Rora like it was always supposed to be that."

You smiled.

"It probably was."

His thumb moved across your knuckles.

"She makes everything hers."

"She does."

"She made the baby hers."

"Bossily."

"Yeah."

You felt his mouth brush your hair.

"Good."

You tilted your head back to look at him.

"You were worried."

He nodded.

"After her wobble."

"Yeah."

"You thought she might feel replaced."

"I still worry."

"I do too."

His eyes moved over your face.

"She's okay?"

"She's two."

"That's not an answer."

"It is the answer. She's okay and not okay and okay again twelve times before lunch."

His mouth curved.

"That sounds right."

"She loves her."

"Yeah."

"She also thinks Aurora should follow rules and sleep when told."

"She should."

"Andrew."

"What? That would be helpful."

You laughed softly and rested your head back against him.

For a while, the room was quiet again. Better this time. Less wrong.

Andrew's hand continued moving over your arm, slow and absent, like he was reminding himself of you by touch. You let your eyes close.

Not to sleep. Just to be held.

Then he said, "I'm scared sometimes."

Your eyes opened. You did not move.

"What of?"

He was quiet for long enough that you knew the answer had been sitting in him for a while.

"All of it."

You turned slightly.

Andrew stared at the front window, at the strip of old banner tape catching the light.

"I look at them and I think..." He stopped.

You waited. He swallowed.

"I think I didn't know I could have this."

Your throat tightened.

He laughed once, but there was no humour in it.

"Not like this."

You touched his hand.

"And now?"

"Now I have it."

The room seemed to hold its breath.

"And sometimes I wait for something to take it."

There he was. The old fear. Not gone. Never fully gone. Just quieter now, buried under nappies and toast crusts and toddler rules.

But still there. Still waking in him during quiet afternoons.

You sat up enough to look at him.

"Andrew."

His eyes stayed on the window.

"I know."

"What do you know?"

"That I shouldn't."

You frowned.

"No."

He looked at you then.

"I wasn't going to say that."

His face opened a little. You held his hand.

"I was going to say I understand."

His jaw shifted.

"You do?"

"Yes."

He looked doubtful.

"Not the same way," you said. "But yes."

His eyes searched yours.

"Sometimes it feels too good," you whispered.

His hand tightened around yours.

"Yeah."

"Like something is going to notice."

His breath went still.

"And ask for it back," you said.

He looked away. There it was. Too close. Too true. You moved closer, ignoring the pull in your body.

"But this isn't temporary."

His mouth tightened.

"Everything is."

"No."

He looked at you. You shook your head.

"No. Not us."

His eyes held yours.

You felt the weight of every moment that had led you here. The prison visits. The phone calls. The baby he met behind rules. The house he came back to. The first fight. The repaired trust. The little bed. The second pregnancy. The birth. The name. The first night. Andie's wobble. Andrew on the floor with both girls asleep against him. All of it.

Not perfect. Never perfect. But real.

"You and me," you whispered. "Not us."

Andrew's face changed in tiny pieces. Like he wanted to believe you and was afraid believing too hard would break it.

You lifted his hand to your mouth and kissed his knuckles.

"We've been through too much to be temporary."

His eyes shone.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His voice dropped.

"I don't know how to be less scared of losing it."

"You don't have to be less scared today."

He looked at you.

"You just have to stay."

His mouth trembled once. Barely.

"I can do that."

"I know."

"I can stay."

"You do."

His hand came up to your face.

"I used to think staying meant standing still."

You leaned into his palm.

"And now?"

His thumb brushed your cheek.

"Now it's getting up every time they cry."

You smiled through tears.

"That too."

"It's making toast."

"Badly."

His mouth curved.

"It's learning which socks she thinks match."

"Important."

"It's singing in the hallway."

"Very important."

"It's holding Rora so you can sleep."

Your smile softened.

"It's letting me hold you."

His eyes searched yours. Something shifted then. Slowly. Not sudden. Not dramatic.

Just the air between you changing shape. Andrew looked at your mouth. You noticed. He noticed you noticing. For a second, both of you were still.

Then you leaned in. Or he did. It did not matter.

The kiss was gentle at first. Careful. Almost uncertain.

Not because you were strangers.

Because your bodies had spent weeks belonging to everyone else first. Because kissing without interruption felt unfamiliar.

Because wanting him again, not just needing him beside you, felt like opening a door you had forgotten was there.

His hand slid to the back of your neck.

Yours curled in his shirt. The kiss deepened slowly. Warm. Soft.

Enough to make your chest ache for an entirely different reason.

Andrew pulled back first, but only enough to rest his forehead against yours.

His breathing was uneven.

"Okay?"

You nodded.

"Yes."

His eyes moved over your face.

"Really?"

You smiled faintly.

"Still checking?"

"Always."

"I'm okay."

His hand slipped to your waist, then stopped. Waiting.

You covered it with yours and guided it there.

His fingers flexed once. Careful. So careful it almost made you cry again.

"You can touch me," you whispered.

His eyes met yours.

"I know."

"You're touching me like I might bruise."

"You might."

"I won't."

"You did."

Your throat softened.

"That was birth."

His mouth pressed together.

"Still."

You touched his face.

"I'm here."

He nodded, but his hand stayed careful when it moved over your side. Over the softness that had changed. Over the places that no longer felt exactly like yours because they had stretched and carried and emptied.

Your breath caught. Not from pain. From the vulnerability of it.

Andrew felt the change instantly. He stopped.

"What?"

You shook your head.

"Nothing."

His eyes narrowed.

"You hate when I say that."

"I know."

"So?"

You looked down at his hand on your body.

"I don't know how I feel in this body yet."

His face softened. You tried to smile.

"It's stupid."

"No."

"It is. I know what it did. I know I should be grateful."

"You are."

"I am."

His thumb moved once, barely there.

"But it feels different. Softer. Strange. Mine and not mine."

He looked at where his hand rested. Then back at you.

"Don't look at me like that," you whispered.

"Like what?"

"Like you're trying to decide what parts of me changed."

His brow furrowed.

"I know what changed."

You swallowed.

"And?"

His hand moved to your stomach, slow enough that you could stop him.

You did not.

He rested his palm there with a tenderness that made your eyes sting.

"This body brought both my girls home."

Your breath left you.

"Andrew."

He looked up at you.

"That sounds like something you say when I look awful."

His face did not move.

"That sounds like something I say when I mean it."

Your eyes burned again.

"You're going to make me cry through this entire one quiet afternoon."

His mouth curved faintly.

"Probably."

"That is very rude."

"I know."

He leaned in and kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.

Slow, unhurried. You closed your eyes and let yourself feel it.

Not enough to rush. Not enough to push your body somewhere it was not ready to go.

Just enough to remember that desire did not have to be demanding. It could be gentle.

It could be his mouth at your skin and his hand warm over your stomach and the quiet knowledge that he still wanted you even when you did not fully know yourself.

You turned into him and kissed him properly.

This one lasted longer.

Your hand slid to the back of his neck. His arm came around you.

For a minute, the house fell away. No nappies. No rules paper. No half folded laundry. No bottles. No cold tea.

No one calling Mama. Just Andrew.

His mouth. His breath.

His hand holding you like you were not something lost beneath motherhood but someone he had been waiting to find in the quiet.

When you parted, you were both breathing a little harder.

You smiled.

"Well."

His mouth touched your forehead.

"Yeah."

"That was almost dangerous."

His hand moved lightly along your back.

"Almost."

"I am not cleared for dangerous."

"I know."

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm patient."

You lifted an eyebrow.

"Are you?"

His mouth curved.

"With you."

Your heart warmed.

"That was a good answer."

"I have those sometimes."

"You do."

He kissed you again, smaller this time.

Then tucked you back into his side.

You rested there, your cheek against his chest, your hand over his heart. It was beating fast. You smiled.

"Still works."

"What?"

"Your heart."

He looked down.

"You checking me now?"

"Someone has to."

His eyes softened.

"You have enough to check."

"I can fit you in."

He laughed quietly. The sound moved through you. You closed your eyes.

For several minutes, no one said anything. The house stayed quiet. The kind of quiet you had feared at first. Now it felt like something it was giving you.

One small room of time. One held breath. One pause between being needed.

Then the monitor on the coffee table crackled. Both of you opened your eyes. A tiny sound came through. Aurora. Not crying yet. A little newborn grunt. A warning.

Andrew's body shifted automatically.

Then he stopped. You both listened. Another small sound. Then quiet. You let out a breath.

"She'll need us."

"In a minute," Andrew said.

You looked up at him.

His eyes were on the monitor, but his arm stayed around you.

A minute. Not forever. Not neglect. Just one minute. One tiny, chosen minute where nobody moved. Your throat tightened.

"In a minute," you whispered.

Andrew kissed your hair. For one minute, no one needed your hands.

For one minute, the house held both girls safely enough to give you back to each other.

For one minute, you were not reaching, lifting, feeding, soothing, answering, carrying, checking, worrying.

You were just there. In Andrew's arms. Breathing. Existing. Seen.

The monitor crackled again. This time Aurora gave a soft, building fuss. Andrew sighed.

"There she is."

You smiled against his chest.

"There she is."

He shifted, but before he stood, he looked down at you.

"Stay."

You blinked.

"What?"

"I'll get her."

"She might need feeding."

"I'll bring her if she does."

"You don't have to do everything."

"I know."

"You're doing the thing where you make me rest."

"Yes."

"At least admit it."

"I admit it."

You smiled.

He kissed your forehead. Then your mouth. Soft. Lingering.

When he pulled away, his eyes stayed on yours.

"Still us."

Your chest ached. You nodded.

"Still us."

Aurora fussed louder through the monitor. Andrew stood. You caught his hand before he could leave. He looked back.

"I love you."

His face softened fully.

"I love you too."

Then he went upstairs. You stayed on the couch because he had asked you to, and because for once, you let yourself.

You listened to his footsteps move down the hall. The nursery door opened. His voice came through faintly on the monitor.

"Hey, baby girl. I know. Bad nap. I've got you."

Aurora's fussing softened. Not stopped. Softened.

You leaned back into the couch and closed your eyes.

A few minutes later, he came down with Aurora tucked against his chest, her face pressed into his shirt, tiny hand curled beneath her chin.

"She's hungry," he said.

"Of course she is."

His mouth curved.

"She's also offended."

"Also of course."

He brought her to you and helped settle the pillow at your side without making a production of it. You took Aurora into your arms, and she rooted immediately, impatient and warm and entirely herself.

Andrew sat beside you. Not hovering. Not leaving. Just there.

His hand rested on your knee while you fed her. Aurora latched, and the room shifted again. The quiet became baby quiet. The pause became life again.

But something was different now. Not fixed. Not magically restored. Just remembered.

You looked over at Andrew. He was watching Aurora, then you. Both. Always both.

"What?" he asked.

You smiled.

"Nothing."

His eyebrows lifted.

You laughed softly.

"Fine. Not nothing."

His thumb moved over your knee.

"What is it?"

You looked down at your daughter, then around the living room, at the toys and the socks and the old tape still stuck to the window. Then back at him.

"I'm still here."

His eyes softened.

"Yeah."

You leaned your shoulder against his.

"So are you."

His hand covered yours.

"Yeah."

The front door stayed closed. Andie would come home later with sand in her shoes or crumbs in her pockets or some new grievance against Deran. Craig would probably bring more food. Baby Duck would need a full report. Aurora would feed again and cry again and sleep again. You would become Mama in every loud, needed way the second the house filled back up.

But for now, you sat beside Andrew with your daughter in your arms and his hand over yours.

Not gone. Not swallowed. Not only needed.

Still you. Still him. Still us.

And when Aurora made a tiny satisfied sound against you, Andrew looked down and smiled. Small. Private. Peaceful.

Like the quiet had left something behind after all.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

By the time Aurora was two weeks old, the house had developed a system. Not a good system. Not a neat system.

Not one anyone would recommend in a parenting book unless the book was titled Everyone Is Tired And The Duck Is In Charge.

But a system.

There were nappies in the living room, the nursery, your bedroom, and, for reasons no one could fully explain, on the bottom stair.

There were muslins everywhere. On the armchair. On the back of the couch. Over Andrew's shoulder. In Andie's toy basket. Once, somehow, inside the fridge, which Andrew had discovered at midnight while looking for a bottle of water and then stared at for long enough that you had asked if he had found a body.

Baby Duck had a permanent place on the couch now, though that place changed depending on Andie's rules for the day.

The baby swing still existed in the corner, functional and deeply disliked.

The rules paper remained taped to the fridge, curling at the edges. Andie added to it whenever she felt the household was slipping into lawlessness.

Current rules included: No loud. No face. No steal Mama tea.

Dewan practice quiet. Mama sit. No bad feet. Luboo.

Andrew had pointed out that luboo was less a rule and more a statement. Andie had told him, "Still rule."

No one argued after that. You had learned many things since coming home with a newborn and a toddler.

One was that newborns could make sounds no human should be able to produce.

Another was that toddlers could smell weakness.

And the most important was that Andrew Cody could function on almost no sleep, but he could not tolerate watching you pretend you were fine when you were not.

Which was unfortunate. Because pretending you were fine had become one of your main skills.

You were in the living room on a grey afternoon, sitting cross legged on the rug in a position you had chosen optimistically and now regretted deeply. A pile of tiny clothes sat in front of you, half folded, half not, because every time you folded one thing, Aurora made a noise and you forgot what you were doing.

She was asleep in the bassinet beside the couch, face turned slightly to the side, one hand loose near her cheek.

Andie was sitting beside you, placing socks into pairs with the confidence of someone who did not understand matching.

She held up one yellow sock and one white sock.

"Pair."

You looked at them.

"Almost."

Andie frowned.

"Pair."

"They are both socks."

"Yes."

"That is definitely a start."

She placed them together with deep satisfaction.

"Good pair."

You nodded.

"Lovely pair."

Andrew walked in from the kitchen holding your water bottle in one hand and a plate with toast in the other.

He stopped when he saw you on the floor. His face changed. Not dramatically.

Andrew rarely did anything dramatically unless one of his daughters made a noise he did not recognise.

But the look sharpened.

"Why are you on the floor?"

You looked up.

"Folding."

"You have a basket."

"I have several baskets."

"On the couch."

"The couch is full."

He looked at the couch.

The couch held one blanket, two muslins, Baby Duck, a toy giraffe, one of Andie's books, and nothing else.

"That couch?"

You followed his gaze.

"Yes."

His eyes came back to you.

"You sat on the floor because the couch was full?"

"I was already down here."

"No, you weren't."

"You don't know my journey."

"I left you in the armchair."

"That was before the socks needed me."

Andrew set the plate and water bottle on the coffee table.

"Up."

You smiled.

"Is that for me or the socks?"

"You."

"And if I say no?"

"I'll pick you up."

You glanced toward the bassinet.

"Aurora is sleeping."

"I can be quiet."

"You are not subtle when you're annoyed."

"I'm not annoyed."

"You have a face."

He crouched in front of you, ignoring that entirely.

"You're pale."

"I'm tired."

"You're shaking."

"I am folding socks under intense pressure."

Andie held up two completely different socks.

"More pair."

Andrew looked at them.

"Good job."

You pointed at him.

"You are encouraging chaos."

He looked back at you.

"You need to rest."

"I am resting."

"You are on the floor."

"It's a restful floor."

"You couldn't get up yesterday."

"I could."

"You said, and I quote, 'I live here now.'"

Andie looked at you.

"Mama live floor?"

"No, baby."

Andrew held out his hand.

"Up."

You stared at it. Then at him.

Then sighed, because the annoying thing was that he was right, and the even more annoying thing was that he knew he was right.

You took his hand.

He helped you slowly, one hand at your elbow, the other hovering near your waist without gripping too hard. You were more steady now than those first few days, but your body still had limits, and you had been very creative about ignoring them.

When you were standing, Andrew did not let go right away. His eyes moved over your face.

"You dizzy?"

"No."

"Pain?"

"Sore."

"Bad?"

"No."

"Tired?"

"Always."

His mouth pressed into a line.

"You're going upstairs."

You blinked.

"What?"

"Bed."

You looked at the bassinet.

"She'll wake soon."

"I know."

"Andie needs lunch."

"I know."

"The washing needs moving over."

"I know."

"There are bottles to sterilise."

"I know."

You looked at him.

"You cannot just know everything and send me away."

"I can."

"No, you cannot."

"Watch me."

You stared at him. Andie stared at him too, thrilled by the sudden authority in the room.

Andrew picked up the toast and handed it to you.

"Eat this. Then bed."

"I don't need bed."

"You do."

"I can sit on the couch."

"No."

"That feels rude."

"You will sit on the couch and fold more things."

"I might."

"You will."

"Fine, then I will sit on the couch and not fold."

"You'll stare at the baby."

"She's my baby."

"She'll still be your baby after you sleep."

The words landed gently, but you still felt the guilt rise. You looked toward Aurora. She slept. Tiny chest moving.

Tiny mouth soft. Impossible to leave even for an hour. Andrew saw your face and softened.

"Hey."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

"I just feel bad."

"For sleeping?"

"For leaving you with both of them."

Something shifted in his expression. Not hurt. Not exactly. More like the words had struck something old.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"You're not leaving me with them."

You swallowed.

"You know what I mean."

"They're mine too."

The sentence was quiet. Flat. True. It caught you somewhere beneath the ribs.

Andrew's eyes stayed on yours.

"They're mine too," he said again, softer this time. "You don't have to be in the room for me to be their dad."

Your throat tightened.

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Then bed."

You let out a shaky laugh because if you did not, you were going to cry over toast.

"You are so bossy."

Andie looked up at you.

"Dada rule."

Andrew nodded.

"Dada rule."

You looked at him.

"You have allied with the toddler government."

"She has good policies."

Andie lifted one finger.

"Mama sit."

Andrew pointed at her.

"Exactly."

"I am standing."

"Mama bed," Andie added.

Andrew looked smug. You looked at her.

"Traitor."

Andie smiled.

"I help Dada."

Andrew's smugness faded into concern.

"Oh."

You almost laughed. There it was. The danger. Andie helping.

Andie, who meant well with the force of a natural disaster. Andrew looked at her, then at you, then back at her.

"You want to help me?"

Andie nodded hard.

"I assistant."

You bit your lip. Andrew was silent for half a second longer than usual. Then he nodded.

"Okay. Assistant."

Andie climbed to her feet immediately, socks forgotten.

"I help Rora."

"Yes."

"I help Dada."

"Yes."

"I help Mama sleep."

Your heart softened. Andrew's eyes flicked to you.

"See?"

"I see."

Andie marched to the couch and picked up Baby Duck.

"Duck help too."

Andrew exhaled.

"Of course he does."

You lifted the toast and took a bite because three people and one stuffed duck were now apparently invested in your rest.

Andrew watched you chew. You gave him a look.

"Do not supervise my toast."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm making sure you eat."

"That is supervising."

"It's caring."

"It is aggressive caring."

He leaned down and kissed your forehead.

"Bed."

You sighed.

"Fine."

Andie clapped once.

"Mama sleep."

"Yes," Andrew said. "Mama sleeps."

"Quiet."

"Yes."

"No wake Mama."

Andrew nodded solemnly.

"No wake Mama."

Andie pointed at the bassinet.

"Rora no wake Mama."

Aurora slept on, uninterested in the law. Andrew looked at the baby.

"We'll discuss that with her."

You made it halfway up the stairs before turning back. Andrew had known you would.

He stood at the bottom with one hand on the railing, waiting.

"What?"

You frowned.

"I didn't say anything."

"You turned around."

"I forgot to tell you where the clean sleepsuits are."

"In the nursery drawer."

"The muslins?"

"Basket by the couch."

"The little socks?"

"Everywhere, apparently."

"What if she needs feeding?"

"I'll bring her up."

"What if Andie needs lunch?"

"I will feed her."

"What if she refuses lunch?"

"I will negotiate."

"What if Aurora cries while you're making lunch?"

"I will pick her up."

"What if Andie cries while Aurora cries?"

He looked at you.

"Then everybody cries."

You did not mean to laugh. It slipped out, pulling at your sore body. Andrew's face softened despite himself.

"I have them."

You breathed in.

"I know."

He tilted his head slightly.

"Do you?"

You looked past him. Aurora asleep in the bassinet.

Andie on the couch with Baby Duck, already whispering something to the toy about being assistants.

Your whole life downstairs. Your body felt too heavy and too empty all at once.

"I know," you said, quieter. "It's just hard."

Andrew came up two steps, enough to put his hand on your hip.

"Go lie down."

"I feel guilty."

"Feel guilty in bed."

You stared at him.

"That was not comforting."

"It was practical."

"It was very you."

His mouth curved.

"Yeah."

You touched his face.

He leaned into it for half a second, eyes closing in a way that made him look more tired than he would ever admit.

"You need rest too," you whispered.

"I'll rest after."

"You always say that."

"I mean it sometimes."

"No, you don't."

His eyes opened.

"I mean it today."

You did not believe him. He knew. He kissed your palm.

"Go."

Downstairs, Andie called, "Mama sleep now?" You looked over the railing.

"I'm going."

"Good," Andie said.

Andrew's mouth twitched. You pointed at him.

"Do not let her enjoy this too much."

"She's already gone."

Andie appeared at the bottom of the stairs, Baby Duck tucked beneath one arm, chin lifted with great importance.

"Mama no come down."

You raised your eyebrows.

"Oh?"

"Mama rest."

Andrew looked away, but you could see his smile.

"And what are you going to do?"

"I help Dada."

"With what?"

Andie looked at Andrew.

"What do?"

He looked suddenly less confident.

"We will figure it out."

You laughed softly. Then you turned and went upstairs before your body or your guilt could argue any louder.

For twelve minutes, everything was fine. Andrew knew because he checked the clock. Not because he was nervous.

He was not nervous. He was their father. He had this. Aurora was asleep in the bassinet.

Andie was sitting at the coffee table with a bowl of cut banana, a piece of toast, and Baby Duck placed beside her with his own empty bowl because apparently assistant work required snacks.

The house was mostly quiet.

The washing remained unfolded on the rug, but Andrew had decided that socks were not an emergency.

He stood in the kitchen, moving quietly as he filled your water bottle again for later, because you were going to wake up thirsty even if you insisted you would not.

Andie lifted a piece of banana toward Baby Duck's face.

"Duck no like."

Andrew looked over.

"Maybe Duck is full."

"No."

"No?"

"Duck waiting."

"For what?"

Andie looked at the empty bowl.

"Pasta."

"It's morning."

"Duck like pasta."

"Duck can have pretend pasta."

Andie sighed.

"Dada."

He looked at her.

"What?"

"Duck hungry."

Andrew stared at the stuffed duck. Then opened a cupboard and took out a small dry pasta shape.

He placed it in Baby Duck's empty bowl. Andie smiled.

"Good Dada."

Andrew felt absurdly proud of that. Then Aurora woke up. Not softly. Not in stages.

She went from sleeping to furious with no warning, one tiny squawk becoming a cry that filled the room faster than seemed possible.

Andie froze with banana halfway to her mouth.

"Rora loud."

"I know."

Andrew crossed to the bassinet. Aurora's face had turned red with effort, her fists waving near her cheeks.

"Hey," he murmured, bending over her. "Hey, angry girl. What happened?"

Aurora cried harder. Andrew checked the obvious things. Blanket clear. Breathing fine.

Nothing caught. No visible disaster. Still angry.

He lifted her carefully, one hand under her head, the other supporting her body, and settled her against his chest.

"There. Dada has you."

Her cry hitched, then continued directly into his shirt. Andie appeared beside his leg.

"Rora sad."

"She's okay."

"Rora loud sad."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't know yet."

Andie looked alarmed.

"Dada no know?"

Andrew paused. Important moment. He could feel it. If he panicked, she would panic.

If he pretended, she would know. So he kept his voice calm.

"Not yet."

Andie frowned.

"Find out."

"I'm going to."

Aurora cried again.

Andrew shifted her slightly and checked her nappy by touch, the way he had learned to do with increasing competence and decreasing fear.

"She needs changing."

Andie straightened.

"Assistant."

He looked down at her.

"Assistant gets nappy."

Andie ran to the basket, grabbed one, then ran back with the triumph of someone delivering medicine during wartime.

"Nappy."

"Good."

"Wipes."

"Yes."

She ran again. Came back with a muslin. Andrew looked at it.

"That is a muslin."

Andie looked down.

"Wipes."

"No."

She frowned.

"White."

"It is white."

"Wipes white."

"Good point. Different white."

She glared at the muslin as if it had deceived her. Andrew adjusted Aurora, who was now crying directly into his ear.

"Try again."

Andie ran back and returned with the wipes packet this time.

"Wipes."

"Good job."

Her chest puffed.

"Best assistant."

Andrew glanced down at her.

"Best assistant."

Aurora screamed. Andie's pride vanished.

"Rora no like."

"She does not."

"No cold."

"I'll be quick."

"No bad feet."

"I'll control her feet."

This was immediately proven impossible.

Aurora's legs kicked free the moment Andrew opened her sleepsuit, two tiny feet fighting the air with unreasonable determination.

Andie gasped.

"Bad feet."

"I know."

"Rule."

"She does not respect the rules."

Andie looked deeply offended.

Andrew changed the nappy with one hand braced lightly over Aurora's stomach and the other moving quickly, because he had become good at it in the way people became good at things they did fifty times while sleep deprived.

Aurora cried the entire time. Andie hovered near his knee, clutching the muslin.

"Rora sad."

"She's cold and annoyed."

"Make happy."

"I'm trying."

"Dada fix."

Andrew looked down at Aurora's furious face.

"I'm fixing."

Andie shoved the muslin forward.

"Here."

"Thank you."

"She need."

"She does."

Andie pushed it too close to Aurora's face. Andrew caught her wrist gently.

"Not near her face."

Andie froze. Her face changed. Not sad. Offended.

"I assistant."

"I know."

"You say."

"I did."

"You say best."

"You are."

"You say no."

Andrew heard the wobble. Small. Quick. Dangerous.

Aurora was still crying. The nappy tabs were not fastened. Andie was looking at him like he had demoted her in a profession she had invented ten minutes ago.

He took a breath. Then another.

"Assistant."

Andie's eyes stayed bright.

"What?"

"Best assistant still has to be gentle."

She looked at the muslin in her hand.

"Gentle."

"Yeah. You were helping. I know. We just keep it away from her face."

Andie sniffed.

"Because rule."

"Because rule."

"No face."

"No face."

Her shoulders lowered.

Andrew finished the nappy and zipped Aurora back up. She stopped crying for half a second, then started again, apparently offended that the process had ended without a formal apology.

Andie leaned close, carefully this time.

"No loud."

Aurora cried. Andie looked at Andrew.

"She no listen."

"She is very bad at rules."

Andie sighed.

"She learning."

Andrew picked Aurora up and settled her against his chest again.

"She's learning."

Andie patted Aurora's back with two fingers, gentle enough that Andrew almost broke apart right there.

"There," she whispered. "No sad."

Aurora cried once more. Then hiccupped. Then slowly began to settle. Andie's face brightened.

"I fix."

Andrew nodded.

"You helped."

"Best assistant."

"Best assistant."

She smiled. Andrew held Aurora against his shoulder and looked toward the stairs. He thought of you asleep upstairs.

Or trying to sleep. He thought about calling you. Not because he needed to.

Because his body still believed you were the centre he should return to when something felt too big.

But Aurora was quieting. Andie was smiling. The nappy was changed. No one was hurt.

He did not call you. He looked down at both girls and said, softly, "Dada has it." Andie looked up.

"Dada has Rora?"

"Yeah."

She touched his knee.

"Dada has Andie?"

His throat tightened. He crouched slowly, careful with the baby, until he was closer to her height.

"Always."

Andie stared at him. The word landed. He saw it. She looked down at Baby Duck tucked beneath her arm.

"Dada has Duck?"

Andrew's mouth curved.

"Duck too."

Andie nodded.

"Good."

Twenty minutes later, the snack bowl was on the floor. Not spilled badly.

Just enough that several banana slices had made a break for freedom. Baby Duck had acquired a bib.

Andrew was not sure how that had happened.

He suspected Andie had done it while he was trying to settle Aurora after another small fussing spell, but the timeline was unclear and he had chosen not to investigate.

The pasta shape in Baby Duck's bowl had been replaced by three raisins. Also unclear.

Andie sat beside him on the rug, eating toast with one hand while holding a muslin in the other like she was ready to respond to an emergency.

Aurora slept against Andrew's chest. Not deeply enough for him to risk putting her down.

Just enough that he had become trapped.

He was sitting on the floor with his back against the couch, one knee bent, one arm supporting Aurora, the other resting around Andie because she had backed into his side sometime after declaring that the rug was "too far."

The television was on low. He had not turned it on for Andie.

Andie had asked for it, then stopped watching after three minutes.

Now a cartoon dog was having a crisis no one in the room understood. Andrew stared at the living room.

The washing was still on the rug. The half folded socks had been mixed with Andie's plastic animals.

Your cold tea sat on the coffee table, untouched. Your toast plate still had crust on it.

The house looked worse than when you had gone upstairs. But both girls were quiet. That counted.

Andie leaned her head against his side.

"Dada."

"Yeah?"

"Mama sleep?"

"I hope so."

"No wake."

"No wake Mama."

"Rule."

"Rule."

Aurora made a tiny sound against his chest. Andie lifted her head.

"Rora wake?"

"Maybe."

"No. Sleep."

Aurora settled. Andie nodded.

"She listen me."

Andrew smiled faintly.

"She does sometimes."

Andie took another bite of toast. Then held a piece up toward Andrew's mouth.

"Dada eat."

He blinked.

"I'm okay."

"Eat."

"I'm holding your sister."

She pushed the toast closer.

"Dada hungry."

He took the smallest possible bite. Andie watched him chew with satisfaction.

"Good."

He swallowed.

"Thank you."

"You need water?"

Andrew looked at her. The words were familiar. Too familiar. He heard himself in them.

You too. The house speaking through your daughter.

"I'm okay."

Andie frowned.

"You say Mama need water."

"Mama does need water."

"Dada too."

He stared at her for a moment. Then nodded.

"Yeah. Dada too."

She reached for your water bottle. Andrew caught her hand gently.

"That's Mama's."

Andie paused.

"No steal Mama tea."

"Water too."

"Mama water."

"Yeah."

"Dada water?"

"In the kitchen."

Andie looked toward the kitchen. Then down at Aurora. Then back at Andrew.

"I get?"

"No, baby. Stay here."

"I assistant."

"I know. But you stay with me."

She considered this. Then settled back against his side.

"Dada stuck."

Andrew looked down at Aurora. Then at Andie tucked against him.

"Yeah."

Andie smiled.

"Both hands full."

The words hit him differently this time. Not like a title. Not like a thing to be frightened by. Just the truth.

Both hands full. Both daughters safe. You asleep upstairs. The house messy.

The day imperfect. And somehow, somehow, he was doing it. Aurora shifted in her sleep, mouth opening against his shirt.

Andrew watched her breathe. Andie's head grew heavier against his ribs. He felt the exact moment she began drifting.

She fought it, of course. Her eyelids lowered, lifted, lowered again.

"Not sleep," she mumbled.

"No?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Assistant awake."

"Very awake."

Her eyes closed. Andrew did not move. The cartoon dog continued its crisis.

The banner tape on the window caught a strip of grey afternoon light. Aurora slept against his chest.

Andie slept against his side. Baby Duck, wearing a bib, lay across his knee like a fallen soldier.

Andrew looked toward the stairs again. He still did not call you.

You woke slowly. That alone felt suspicious. There was no baby crying. No toddler yelling.

No Andrew saying your name in that careful voice that meant he was trying not to alarm you but had already become alarmed himself.

Just quiet. Not perfect quiet. The house still hummed. A floorboard creaked somewhere below.

The wind shifted against the window. But the urgent sounds were missing.

You blinked at the bedroom ceiling, disoriented by the fact that you had slept long enough to feel heavy with it.

Your body ached in the way it always did now, but less sharply than before. Your breasts were full, your mouth dry, your hair stuck to your cheek.

You turned your head toward the clock. Two hours. Nearly two full hours.

You sat up too fast and regretted it immediately.

"Idiot," you whispered to yourself.

Then you listened. Still no crying. No panic. No calling for you.

Your heart started moving faster anyway. Because quiet could be good.

Quiet could also mean disaster had taken a silent form.

You got out of bed carefully this time, one hand braced against the mattress, and pulled Andrew's hoodie around yourself before leaving the room.

The hallway was dim. Andie's door was open. Her bed was empty.

Your stomach dropped for half a second before you remembered Andrew had her. Andrew had them.

You moved down the stairs slowly, expecting some kind of scene. You found one. Just not the one you feared.

The living room looked like a small, very domestic crime had been committed.

The snack bowl was on its side on the rug, banana slices scattered nearby like evidence. Half folded baby clothes had been mixed with plastic animals. A muslin hung over the back of the couch. Another lay across Andrew's shoulder. Baby Duck was wearing one of Aurora's bibs and had three raisins in front of him on a toy plate.

The television played quietly to no one.

And in the middle of it all, Andrew sat on the floor with his back against the couch.

Aurora slept on his chest, one cheek squashed against his shirt, tiny body tucked safely beneath his hand.

Andie slept against his side, head heavy on his ribs, one arm thrown over his thigh. Baby Duck lay across his knee.

Andrew was awake. Barely, maybe. But awake. His eyes lifted to yours the second you appeared.

"You're up."

Your chest tightened.

"You didn't come get me."

"You were sleeping."

"For two hours."

"I know."

"You managed two hours?"

His mouth curved faintly.

"Almost."

You took in the room again.

"The house looks like a crime scene."

"We survived."

"What happened to Baby Duck?"

"Assistant uniform."

You pressed your lips together.

"And the raisins?"

"Payment."

"For what?"

"I stopped asking."

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. Andrew looked exhausted. Deeply. Beautifully.

There were shadows beneath his eyes. His hair was a mess from Andie's hands. A small damp patch sat on his shoulder where Aurora had either drooled or spat up. One of his legs had to be numb beneath Baby Duck and Andie's weight.

But his face was calm. Not peaceful exactly. He was too alert for that. But calm.

Steady. Full. You moved closer and sat on the couch behind him, careful not to jostle anyone.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded.

"Yeah."

"Really?"

His eyes softened.

"Really."

"You could have woken me."

"I know."

"Why didn't you?"

"You needed sleep."

"They needed you."

He looked down at Aurora, then at Andie.

"I had them."

There it was. Simple. Quiet. Everything.

Your eyes burned. Andrew saw it and tilted his head.

"Don't cry."

"You cannot say things like that and tell me not to cry."

"I didn't say anything."

"You said I had them."

"I did."

"That is something."

His mouth softened.

"You cry a lot now."

"I had a baby two weeks ago."

"I know."

"You keep forgetting that when it's inconvenient."

"I never forget."

That shut you up. His eyes moved over your face. Not checking in a panicked way this time. Just seeing you.

"You look better."

"I slept."

"Good."

"You look worse."

"I had assistants."

You smiled.

"Plural?"

His gaze dropped to Baby Duck.

"One was mostly symbolic."

You reached down and brushed a hand over Andie's hair. She did not wake.

"Was she okay?"

"Yeah."

"She didn't get upset?"

"A little."

Your eyes moved to him.

"What happened?"

He shifted his shoulder carefully, keeping Aurora steady.

"She brought the wrong wipes."

You blinked.

"That was the crisis?"

"She thought I said she wasn't a good assistant."

"Oh."

"I fixed it."

Your heart softened.

"Of course you did."

He looked down at Andie.

"She asked if Dada has Rora."

Your breath caught.

"And?"

"I said yeah."

His thumb moved over Aurora's back.

"Then she asked if Dada has Andie."

Your throat closed.

"What did you say?"

He looked up at you.

"Always."

Oh. You pressed one hand to your mouth. Andrew's face shifted.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're doing the face."

"I'm allowed to do the face."

"What face?"

"The face of a woman who got two hours of sleep and came downstairs to emotional murder."

His mouth curved.

"Emotional murder?"

"Yes."

Andie stirred against him. Both of you froze. She mumbled something into his shirt. Andrew looked down.

"What, baby?"

Her eyes did not open.

"Dada has it."

Your heart broke clean in two. Andrew went very still. Andie sighed and sank back into sleep.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Aurora made a tiny sleeping noise against his chest. The television murmured.

The house held its breath around you. You looked at Andrew. His eyes were wet. Not crying.

Not yet. But close.

You slid off the couch carefully and lowered yourself beside him on the rug, ignoring the way your body protested because this mattered more.

Andrew frowned immediately.

"You should not sit on the floor."

"I know."

"Then why are you on the floor?"

"Because you're down here."

"That is not a good reason."

"It is the reason."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but Aurora shifted, and he adjusted her instead.

You leaned against his free shoulder carefully. For a while, you just sat there.

Your family in a pile on the living room floor. Mess everywhere. Sleep everywhere. Love everywhere.

You reached over and touched Aurora's blanket. Then Andie's hair. Then Baby Duck's ridiculous bib.

"You really did have it."

Andrew was quiet. Then he said, "I was scared for a minute." You looked at him.

"When?"

"When they both needed something."

You waited. He swallowed.

"I thought about calling you."

"But you didn't."

"No."

"Why?"

His eyes stayed on the girls.

"Because you needed sleep."

You touched his wrist.

"That's not the only reason."

His jaw shifted.

"No."

"What was the other?"

He looked at you then. Raw. Tired. Honest.

"I wanted to know I could."

Your chest softened.

"Oh, Andrew."

"Not for you," he said quickly. "Not like proving something to you."

"I know."

"For them."

You nodded.

"For me too, maybe."

Your hand tightened around his wrist.

"I know."

He looked back down at Andie.

"She trusts me."

"Yes."

"And Rora doesn't know anything yet, but she..." He looked at Aurora, sleeping against him with impossible trust. "She settles sometimes when I hold her."

"Because she knows you."

His throat moved.

"She's two weeks old."

"She knows you."

He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he looked at you.

"I missed a lot with Andie."

"I know."

"I'll always hate that."

"I know."

"But this." His eyes moved over both girls. "This I can do."

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

"Yes."

He breathed out slowly.

"I can have them."

"You do have them."

His mouth pressed together. You watched him fight it. The emotion. The old disbelief.

The part of him that still sometimes looked around a happy room as if happiness required someone else's permission.

But he did not look like he was waiting to be told to give them back. Not today.

Not sitting there with Aurora asleep on his chest and Andie tucked against him, with Baby Duck in a bib and banana on the floor.

He looked exhausted. He looked wrecked. He looked happy.

He looked like a man with both hands full and no intention of putting anything down.

Andie shifted again, little fingers tightening in his shirt. Andrew looked down.

"Hey."

She blinked sleepily.

"Mama?"

"I'm here," you whispered.

Her eyes found you.

"Mama sleep?"

"I did."

She smiled, drowsy and pleased.

"Good."

You laughed softly.

"Yes. Good."

"Dada did it."

Andrew went still again. You smiled at her.

"He did."

"Assistant help."

"You did?"

She nodded, eyes half closed.

"Best assistant."

"The best," Andrew said, voice rough.

Andie looked at him.

"Dada has Rora?"

He nodded.

"Yeah."

"Dada has Andie?"

His mouth trembled.

"Always."

She smiled.

"Dada has Duck?"

He looked down at the bibbed doll on his knee.

"Unfortunately."

Andie frowned.

"Dada."

He softened.

"Yes. Dada has Duck."

Satisfied, she closed her eyes again. You stared at Andrew over her head. He looked back at you.

For once, there was nothing to fix. Nothing to reassure. Nothing to explain. The girls had asked.

He had answered. And the house believed him. A few minutes later, Aurora started rooting against his chest.

Andrew looked down.

"She's waking."

You shifted.

"I can take her."

He glanced at you.

"You just slept."

"She'll want feeding."

"I'll bring her to you on the couch."

"You're pinned."

"I've escaped worse."

You looked at the toddler asleep against his side, the newborn on his chest, the duck on his knee.

"Have you?"

His mouth curved.

"No."

You laughed quietly.

Andrew moved with impossible care. Somehow, he transferred Baby Duck to the rug, eased Andie's head onto a cushion, kept one hand on Aurora, and still managed to help you back onto the couch before you could argue.

By the time he placed Aurora in your arms, she was fussing softly, not yet furious. Andie slept on.

Baby Duck lay on the rug in his bib, deeply undignified. Andrew sat beside you and rubbed a hand over his face.

You settled Aurora against you and looked at him.

"You should sleep now."

He looked at Andie on the floor. Then at Aurora feeding. Then at you.

"In a minute."

"You always say that."

"I mean it."

"You don't."

He leaned back against the couch, shoulder touching yours.

"I will."

You watched his eyes drift toward Andie again.

"You won't."

His mouth curved faintly.

"Probably not."

You rested your head against his shoulder.

"You know," you whispered, "this is not helping."

"What?"

"You being amazing."

He looked down at you.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I changed a nappy and gave a duck a bib."

"You let me sleep."

"That's not amazing."

"It is to me."

His expression softened. Aurora made a small sound as she fed. Andrew touched the edge of her blanket with one finger.

You looked at his hand. Then at Andie sleeping on the rug. Then at the mess around you.

"Dada had it," you whispered.

His eyes lifted to yours. For a moment, he looked like he might deny it. Like the words were too kind. Too large.

Too dangerous to keep. Then Andie sighed in her sleep, one hand reaching blindly until it found Baby Duck's foot.

Aurora settled closer against you. Andrew looked at both girls. Then back at you.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I did."

You smiled. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. The house stayed messy. The socks stayed unmatched.

The snack bowl remained on the floor. Baby Duck kept his bib.

And for once, no one rushed to tidy away the proof of what had happened there. Andrew had held both girls.

You had slept. The house had not fallen apart.

And somewhere in the ordinary wreckage of banana slices, muslins, nappies, rules, and one very patient stuffed duck, Andrew stopped looking like a man trying to earn his place in the room.

He was already in it. On the floor. On the couch. In every cry, every rule, every whispered promise.

Dada had it. And all three of you knew he did.

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

a/n: whole house mad over brendon last update but he wasn't actually actually being rude 😔 pls forgive him he just doesnt know how to be nice. he's trying tho!

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1. Victoria Javadi

Being a child prodigy hadn’t been easy on Victoria Javadi. Specialized schools and skipping enough grades to be a third year medical student at twenty had hindered her social skills and robbed her of the experience of a teen dating phase. Being a certified genius of sorts had accelerated her life while robbing her of the ability to engage with cute boys her own age.

The longer she shadowed Cassie McKay, the more she seemed to notice Mateo Diaz. She took note of his genuine kindness, his quick wit, and his almost unconscious effort to ease the load of those around him. And without meaning to, she began to notice how difficult it seemed to breathe around him. She’d started to get caught in the web of a blooming crush and the warping it seemed to do to someone’s ability to think.

Had she wanted to, maybe Victoria would’ve noticed other things as well. Like the way Y/F/N Y/L/N and Mateo seemed to find each other after every case. Like how they seemed to drift toward each other at the nurses station or the gentle touches that brushed skin every time they passed each other. Like the way they both seemed to visibly soften each time they saw each other.

If she hadn’t been so fixated on her developing crush, she would’ve picked up on the more obvious things before her own humiliation. She would’ve thought more about Cassie’s layered questions hinting at something beyond the workplace. Maybe she would’ve picked up on the meaning slipped into Dana’s teasing comments or how Mateo and Y/N seemed to speak a secret language that no one else had figured out. And, God, she really wished that she’d noticed the ring hanging from the chain on Mateo’s chest.

“Oh, I’m married.”

Victoria Javadi had never wanted the floor to open up and swallow her more than that moment. Her cheeks burned sharply as her lips parted. Embarrassment flooded her, made worse by their patient’s sharp and audible inhale. She was flustered and shocked, struggling to get her brain.

“You-you’re married?” she finally stammered and swallowed thickly.

“That’s what the man said,” the patient and her cheeks darkened. His eyes flickered to Mateo whose gaze had flickered to his feet. “You don’t look old enough to be married.”

“Well, when you know, you know, I guess,” Mateo chuckled with a light shrug.

“Yeah, no, that’s great. I was just asking because I’m new and all. Just trying to make friends,” Victoria explained as she fidgeted with her fingers. She gestured over her shoulder at the door and caught herself turning from the door to Mateo and back to the door. “I, um, I just need to, um, yeah.”

She quickly shuffled through the door without looking back. Her eyes screwed shut and she contemplated how hard it would be to transfer to another hospital when a hand landed on her shoulder.

“You alright, kiddo?” Dana asked with a concerned crease in her brow.

“I think I might die of embarrassment,” she shakily admit.

“Oh, it can’t be that bad,” Dana returned and waved her off.

“Oh, it is,” Victoria countered and began pulling at her fingers. “I just asked out Mateo. With his wedding ring hanging in my face. And a patient was right there. Because I ignored literally every sign that he was not available.”

Victoria finished and pressed her mouth into a thin line. Dana, to her credit, didn’t laugh immediately. But when she did, she laughed so hard she grasped Victoria’s arm to keep from doubling over.

“Oh, honey, that was good,” Dana sighed and patted her arm. “It’s been about a year and a half since him and Y/N got married.”

“Him and Y/N?” Victoria stammered and her eyes flickered across the ER to you.

“Oh yeah,” Dana answered, shaking her head. “They’ve been together since they got here.”

“Oh,” Victoria squeaked as her eyes widened.

2. Trinity Santos

Trinity Santos was more observant of her coworkers than people gave her credit for. She noticed sunken shoulders and whispered conversations and more often than not she chose to just ignore them. But that didn’t stop things from bothering her.

One of the first things she noticed about you on her first day, aside from your startling confidence and your frustratingly high level of competence, was the way you always seemed to work the ring you kept around your neck between your finger. When she stopped you for a quick consult, your fingers grasped the ring. When you sat for a moment to work through a chart, you turned the ring back and forth. When you spoke with a patient, your fingers closed around the ring just to close around the ring. And she’d been noticing it every day after.

She also was quick to notice how you and Mateo seemed to orbit each other. You always ended up on the same side of the nurses station. Stolen moments at the vending machine nearly always seemed to extend to sitting in the break room until Dana forced you out. If one of you could be seen, the other was never very far. You and Mateo always seemed to talk with the quiet intimacy of two people who knew each other as deeply as two people could.

She’d suspected something was amiss between the two of you for a while but she couldn’t quite but her finger on it. She’d thought, either by sheer stubbornness or a severe overestimation of her skill in the area, that she’d figure it out through pure observation. It had always worked for her in the past. But you and Mateo had learned the art of semi-professionalism at work to a frustrating degree.

If Trinity could be thankful for anything, it was that she’d finally grown comfortable enough at the PTMC to have made a couple friends. Or maybe it was that the tail end of a shift made a gossip like Princess Dela Cruz a bit more open to sharing. When she tiredly dropped into a chair to begin an endless list of charts, Princess barely looked up.

“So,” Trinity began with a forced casualness. “Y/N and Mateo.”

“What about them?” Princess questioned and her eyes flickered to where the two of you stood shoulder to shoulder at the nearby mobile cart.

“Which of them is having an affair?”

That made Princess stop completely. She saved the progress on her chart and turned her chair to fully face Trinity. “Affair?”

“Yeah, an affair,” Trinity replied. Nervousness rushed over her and she let out a light chuckle. “They’ve both got wedding rings on a necklace but they’re way too cozy to not be having an affair.”

“Wait a minute,” Princess paused and a wicked grin twisted her mouth. “You think those two are having an affair with each other?”

“Yeah,” Trinity answered, her conviction draining from her voice.

“Babe,” Princess hummed. A snicker forced its way past her lips and she briefly ducked her head. “You’re right about them being married. They’re married to each other.”

“They’re married?” Trinity repeated. She felt her face flush and her eyes widened slightly. Princess nodded and Trinity sharply turned to her computer screen. “To each other?”

“Oh my God, wait, you really didn’t know?” Princess gasped and reached out to grasp her arm.

“I’m not talking about this,” Trinity immediately replied.

“Oh I love this,” Princess hummed, settling back in her chair.

3. Dennis Whitaker

Dennis Whitaker had started to regret letting you talk him into working a double by hour eighteen when he reached for the protein bar in his pocket only to realize he’d already finished it before the night crew even arrived. By hour twenty-one, he swore off doubles forever when a drunken patient looking for a fight decided he was as good an opponent as any. At hour twenty-four, handoffs were completed and he could almost be talked into giving up on medicine completely with how much his calves and knees ached.

“Well,” you began, forcing a tired smile as you stopped before Dennis. “You survived your first double.”

“I thought I wouldn’t,” he chuckled and watched you reach up to unclip your necklace.

“That bad?” you muttered. Your lips twisted sympathetically and you let the ring hanging from the chain fall into your hand.

“I thought it’d never end,” he snickered. His eyes dipped long enough to watch you slip the circular metal onto your left ring finger and slip the necklace into your scrub top pocket before his eyes found yours again. “I’m considering other career choices.”

“I don’t blame you,” you chuckled. “If Mateo wasn’t picking me up, I’d probably be on LinkedIn with you.”

“Wait, Mateo?” he asked. Confusion drew his brow together as he watched your head tilt. “He’s picking you up?”

“Yeah, Mateo’s picking me up. He also dropped me off,” you answered. Your brow pinched and you tucked your hands into your pants pockets. “Husbands do that on occasion.”

“Husband?” he slowly questioned and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “As in, you’re married?”

“You sound surprised,” you pointed out. Your lips twitched until they contorted into a smile.

“No, no, no! I don’t mean it like that!” he stammered and shook his head. “I just didn’t realize you married is all.”

“Yeah, it’s been about a year and a half. We keep it quiet so HR stays off our back,” you shrugged. Your phone buzzed against the nurses station and your gaze flickered across the text that lit the screen. “Well, my ride’s here. I’ll see you the next time we work together.”

“Yeah, for sure,” he answered and quickly nodded. He watched you retreat until you disappeared through the ambulance bay doors and quickly turned to Dana. “They’ve really been married this whole time?”

“Whole time,” Dana confirmed.

4. Mel King

Mel King is the first to figure it out. She’s surprised it took people longer than the five hours it took her to piece it all together.

She was notorious for struggling to pick up on social cues. She took everything at face value unless it was stated that there was underlying meaning in the words someone was saying. Despite her someone social ineptitude, she was actually much more observant that people give her credit for.

She noticed the quiet intimacy and that you and Mateo seemed to communicate without any words. She noticed the gravitational pull that tugs the two of you closer and the subtle touches you shared when you thought no one was looking. She noticed the rings hanging at your chests and how they seemed to match. And when she saw a shared kiss in the empty break room on her way past the open door, her suspicions had been confirmed.

In all of her noticing, it didn’t take long for her to gather that the two of you seemed to be, at the very least, private about your relationship. That’s why she waited to bring it up. As she picked gravel from a leg wound, her patient had fallen asleep. You’d been quiet when you slipped through the door and were careful as you shut it behind you. You were halfway through a recheck of his vitals for his chart when Mel decided to get confirmation.

“How long have you and Mateo been together?”

Her eyes barely flicker up from the patients leg. But she did see your lips tip upward. You quickly swiped your badge to open the computer and your fingers glided across the keyboard.

“Are we that obvious?” you asked and briefly cut your eyes at her.

“I don’t think so,” she mentioned. She shrugged lightly and let her eyes fall to the wound. “I just noticed.”

“We started dating our sophomore year of college,” you answered without looking away from the computer. “We got married a year and a half ago.”

“Working together doesn’t bother you?” she asked and let gravel fall from her tweezers and into the metal bowl.

“Not really,” you shrug. “It’s nice sometimes. I don’t think we’d see each other much of we didn’t.”

“Do other people know?” Mel inquired without looking away from the road rash.

He closed his eyes briefly like this information might actually kill him.

“Great,” he muttered. “Now I’m outnumbered.”

You smiled despite yourself, “Can I help you find anything?”

Mateo opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Looked down at the books.

Then at the kid.

Then back at you with the lost expression of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

“I need…” He exhaled hard. “Honestly? I don’t even know. Something for seven-year-olds that doesn’t involve murder, swearing, or emotional damage?”

“That eliminates a surprising amount of children’s literature.”

Lucia giggled.

Mateo looked tired enough to cry.

And maybe it was the way he kept unconsciously checking that Lucia was still beside him every three seconds. Maybe it was the way his shoulders stayed tense like he physically could not relax. Or maybe it was simply the expression on his face when Lucia tugged his scrub sleeve and asked quietly, “Are we gonna be okay?”

Something in your chest tightened.

Because he answered immediately, “Yeah, Luce. Course we are.”

But he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

You learned the basics over the next few weeks.

Not because Mateo volunteered information.

Mostly because Lucia did.

“I hate peas now.” “Mateo burned pancakes.” “He fell asleep sitting up yesterday.” “We had to move apartments.” “He cries in the shower sometimes but pretends it’s allergies.”

That last one hit you like a punch to the ribs.

You crouched beside Lucia while she colored at the little activity table near the register.

“Oh,” you said softly.

She nodded solemnly, “He thinks I don’t know.”

Children always knew.

That was the terrible thing.

Mateo came in almost every other day now.

At first, it had clearly just been desperation. Lucia liked the bookstore, and Mateo seemed perpetually one inconvenience away from losing his mind. The place was quiet, safe, and had a kids’ corner.

Then somehow it became routine.

You’d see him after shifts still wearing scrubs.

Sometimes with coffee stains. Sometimes barely awake.

Always apologizing for existing.

“Sorry she’s touching everything.” “Sorry we stayed so long.” “Sorry she asked if dinosaurs could beat Batman in a fight.”

“She’s right,” you’d said once. “Batman would absolutely lose.”

Mateo had stared at you in betrayal while Lucia cackled victoriously.

That was the first time you saw him really smile.

Not polite. Not exhausted. Real.

It changed his entire face.

Warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. Crooked grin. Soft laugh.

Dangerous, honestly.

And then one rainy Thursday night, everything shifted.

You were closing up when Mateo rushed in looking pale.

Actually pale. Like something was wrong.

Lucia was asleep against his shoulder, tiny arms wrapped around his neck.

“Hey,” you said immediately. “You okay?”

He blinked at you like he hadn’t expected kindness.

“Yeah. Sorry. I just—”

He stopped.

Swallowed hard.

“I got called into another overnight shift and my sitter canceled and I don’t…” He looked wrecked. “I don’t know what to do.”

You stared at him.

“How long have you slept?”

He laughed once.

That answered that question.

“Mateo.”

“I’m handling it.”

“You look like you died two days ago.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“You walked into a coat rack.”

“In my defense, it attacked first.”

Despite everything, you smiled.

Then looked at Lucia sleeping against him.

Then back at him.

And before you could overthink it, you said, “I can watch her.”

His head snapped up.

“What?”

“I’m serious.”

“No, no, I can’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t.”

“That’s worse.”

You folded your arms.

“Mateo. I’m offering.”

He looked immediately emotional about it, which clearly made him furious with himself.

“I barely know you.”

“You know where I work.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Lucia stirred sleepily against him.

“Bookstore lady?”

You laughed softly.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

“She smells nice,” Lucia mumbled.

Mateo looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

“Oh my God.”

“It’s okay,” you said, laughing.

“No, see, this is exactly why I can’t leave her with people. She says things like that.”

Lucia was already asleep again.

You looked back at him.

“You need help.”

His jaw tightened instantly.

That told you everything.

People who were drowning usually hated admitting it.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

You gave him a look.

He stared back for three seconds before deflating.

“I’m trying to be,” he admitted quietly.

And there it was.

The truth.

You stepped closer carefully.

“What happened?”

For a second, you thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then he looked down at Lucia.

“Our mom had a stroke three months ago.”

Oh.

“She’s alive,” he said quickly. “But… rehab facility. Long-term care probably. Lucia’s dad disappeared years ago and mine’s not exactly…” He rubbed a hand over his face. “So now it’s me.”

Twenty-five years old.

ER nurse.

Suddenly raising a seven-year-old.

Alone.

Your chest hurt.

“That’s a lot.”

His laugh sounded exhausted.

“Yeah.”

“And you’ve been doing this by yourself?”

“Trying to.”

No wonder he looked shattered.

You held his gaze.

“Let me help.”

He opened his mouth to refuse again.

Then Lucia shifted in his arms and he nearly stumbled from exhaustion.

That decided it.

Temporary turned into routine embarrassingly fast.

The first night became two.

Then Mateo started texting occasionally.

Hey. Any chance you’re free for two hours?

or:

Lucia has a school thing and I’m stuck at the hospital.

or:

I owe you approximately my entire life.

You always said yes.

Not because you pitied him. Because somewhere along the way, the two of them had quietly become important to you.

Lucia especially.

She attached to you with alarming speed.

By week three she’d started asking for you constantly.

“Can Y/N come?” “Can we call Y/N?” “Y/N says octopuses punch fish for fun.”

Mateo looked exhausted every time she brought you up.

Not annoyed.

Just emotionally overwhelmed.

One evening you arrived at his apartment carrying groceries and found him asleep at the kitchen table.

Actually asleep. Head pillowed on folded arms beside an untouched cup of coffee.

Lucia looked up from the couch and whispered, “He does that a lot now.”

Your heart cracked clean open.

You set the bags down quietly.

“Did he eat dinner?”

She shook her head.

“He forgot.”

Of course he did.

You walked over carefully.

“Mateo.”

Nothing.

You touched his shoulder gently. His entire body jerked awake violently.

For one horrible second, panic flashed across his face so intensely it scared you.

Then he saw you.

“Oh,” he breathed.

Relief. Pure relief.

“Sorry,” you said softly. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, I just…” He rubbed his face hard. “Sorry. I’m good.”

He very clearly was not good.

“You fell asleep sitting upright.”

“That’s basically self-care in healthcare.”

You snorted.

He smiled faintly.

Then noticed the groceries.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“You’re making me look incompetent.”

“You’re making yourself look incompetent.”

“That’s fair.”

Lucia appeared beside you.

“She bought dinosaur nuggets.”

Mateo gasped softly.

“You angel.”

“You haven’t eaten anything except vending machine food for three days.”

“Slander.”

“You had crackers for dinner yesterday.”

“Charcuterie.”

You laughed.

And for the first time in weeks, Mateo laughed too.

Real laughter. Tired but genuine.

The sound settled somewhere warm inside your chest.

The first time Lucia called you during a nightmare, Mateo almost cried.

It was two in the morning.

Your phone rang.

You answered blearily, confused.

Then heard tiny hiccuping sobs.

“Y/N?”

You sat upright instantly.

“Lucia? Sweetheart, what happened?”

“I had a bad dream.”

“Oh, baby.”

In the background, you heard Mateo speaking softly.

Then closer, soft, “She wants you.”

You could practically hear how guilty he felt about it.

You softened immediately.

“It’s okay,” you said gently.

Mateo exhaled shakily.

You stayed on the phone for almost forty minutes telling increasingly ridiculous stories about bookstore ghosts until Lucia stopped crying.

By the end of it, Mateo sounded half-asleep himself.

“You didn’t have to stay up,” he murmured.

“You needed backup.”

Silence.

Then very quietly, “You make this easier.”

Something about the way he said it nearly ruined you.

Not flirtatious. Not smooth. Just honest. Raw honesty from someone too exhausted to hide it anymore.

You swallowed.

“Get some sleep, Mateo.”

“Trying.”

A pause.

Then softer, “Thank you.”

The problem with falling for Mateo Diaz was that it happened slowly enough you didn’t notice until it was too late.

It was little things.

The way he always made sure you got home safe. The way he absentmindedly handed you the marshmallows from his hot chocolate because he remembered you liked them. The way he spoke to Lucia with endless patience even when he was clearly running on fumes. The way he looked at you sometimes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Like you were something precious.

And God, he was trying so hard.

You saw it constantly.

The parenting books stacked beside medical journals. The sticky notes on the fridge reminding himself about school lunches and dentist appointments. The exhaustion he tried desperately to hide.

One night you found him sitting on the kitchen floor after Lucia had gone to bed.

Just sitting there staring blankly at nothing.

You lowered yourself beside him carefully.

“You okay?”

“Nope.”

Honest.

That scared you more.

“What happened?”

He laughed tiredly.

“I forgot it was pajama day at school.”

“Oh no.”

“She was the only kid not wearing pajamas.”

Your heart twisted.

“She cried.”

“Mateo—”

“And then I cried in the hospital bathroom because apparently that’s who I am now.”

“You’re human.”

“I’m screwing this up.”

“No, you’re not.”

“She deserves someone who knows what they’re doing.”

You turned toward him fully.

“She deserves someone who loves her.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked at you.

Eyes glassy with exhaustion and grief.

“That’s the problem,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“I love her so much it feels like I’m constantly terrified.”

Oh.

Oh.

You understood that.

He scrubbed both hands down his face.

“I don’t know how parents survive this. Every day I’m scared I’m gonna fail her somehow.”

“You won’t.”

“You sound very confident for someone who watched me accidentally pack an energy drink in a second grader’s lunch.”

You laughed helplessly.

“That was objectively funny.”

“She told her teacher I’m ‘trying my best but deeply confused.’”

You lost it completely.

Mateo finally laughed too, head dropping back against the cabinet behind him.

God.

You loved him.

You realized it right there on the kitchen floor.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just suddenly undeniable. And terrifying.

Because Mateo already had too much on his shoulders.

The last thing he needed was complicated feelings from the woman helping him survive.

Unfortunately, Lucia noticed everything.

Children were horrifyingly observant.

“You love him.”

You nearly dropped your tea.

Lucia sat cross-legged on the couch coloring calmly like she hadn’t just detonated your nervous system.

“What?”

“You love Mateo.”

“I—”

“You get the same face he does.”

“What face?”

“The mushy one.”

You stared at her.

She stared back with the unsettling confidence only children possessed.

“You should marry him.”

You choked on air. “Lucia—”

“He likes you too.”

“You’re seven.”

“And observant.”

That was way too close to something Mateo would say.

You pointed accusingly.

“You sound exactly like your brother.”

“He says you smell nice too.”

“Oh my God.”

Lucia dissolved into delighted laughter.

Traitor.

The thing about Mateo was that he genuinely didn’t realize how much he gave away.

Especially when he was tired.

And he was always tired.

One evening you were making spaghetti while Mateo helped Lucia with homework at the kitchen table.

“Well,” Lucia announced, “Y/N says volcanoes can make lightning.”

Mateo looked over at you immediately.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s metal as hell.”

You grinned. “I know.”

He stared for a second too long.

Then Lucia groaned loudly.

“Mateoooo.”

“What?”

“You’re doing the face again.”

He blinked.

“What face?”

“The one where you look at Y/N like she invented Christmas.”

Silence. Absolute silence.

You stopped stirring the pasta.

Mateo looked like someone had hit him with a truck.

Lucia continued calmly writing spelling words.

“I’m observant,” she explained.

Mateo turned bright red. Actually bright red.

“Okay,” he said weakly. “Cool. Awesome. Great.”

You bit your lip so hard it hurt.

Lucia looked delighted.

“You both do it.”

“Lucia,” Mateo whispered desperately.

“What? It’s true.”

You finally lost the battle and laughed.

Mateo covered his face with both hands, groaning, “I’m being bullied in my own home.”

“You are,” you agreed.

He peeked at you through his fingers.

And there it was again.

That look. Soft. Fond.

Ruining your life, honestly.

Three days later, Mateo broke down in front of you for the first time.

Not dramatically.

Quietly.

Which somehow felt worse.

You’d come over after closing the bookstore and found him sitting at the table surrounded by bills and paperwork.

Lucia was asleep already.

Mateo looked exhausted.

More than usual.

His eyes were red.

“You okay?”

“Mmhm.”

Lie.

You sat beside him.

“What happened?”

He stared at the papers for a long moment.

Then said quietly, “The rehab center called.”

Your stomach dropped.

“How’s your mom?”

“She had another setback.”

Oh no.

He nodded once stiffly.

“They’re not sure she’ll regain full speech.”

You reached for his hand instinctively.

He looked down at it like he’d forgotten human beings could touch him gently.

“I’m sorry.”

He inhaled shakily.

“I just keep thinking…” His voice cracked. “What if Lucia forgets her old voice?”

Your chest physically hurt.

“She won’t.”

“But what if she does?”

And there it was.

Not just grief. Fear. Constant relentless fear.

You squeezed his hand tighter.

“Mateo.”

He looked at you.

Eyes exhausted and wrecked and painfully vulnerable.

“You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

That did it.

You saw the exact moment his composure snapped.

He bent forward suddenly, covering his eyes with one hand.

And then he cried.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet devastated tears from someone who’d been holding too much for too long.

You moved immediately, arms around him without hesitation.

He made this tiny broken sound that nearly destroyed you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely.

“No.”

“I’m trying so hard.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

“You can.”

But honestly? You understood why he felt like he couldn’t.

He buried his face against your shoulder, shaking slightly.

And you held him. Just held him while months of exhaustion and grief finally spilled out.

After a while he whispered, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You closed your eyes.

Dangerous sentence. Very dangerous sentence.

Nothing changed after that.

And somehow everything did.

Mateo started reaching for you unconsciously.

A hand against your back while passing behind you. Fingers brushing yours when handing you coffee. Leaning into your space like he felt safest there.

Lucia noticed all of it with the smugness of a tiny evil genius.

One Saturday afternoon she announced, “You should just kiss already.”

Mateo nearly dropped an entire pizza.

You choked laughing.

“Lucia!”

“What?” she demanded innocently. “You’re both acting weird.”

Mateo looked seconds from cardiac arrest.

“We are not.”

“You stare at her like a sad cowboy.”

You wheezed.

Mateo looked personally attacked.

“A sad cowboy?”

“You know. Like this.”

Lucia attempted the world’s most dramatic yearning expression.

You completely lost it.

Mateo slid slowly down in his chair.

“I used to be respected.”

“No you didn’t,” Lucia said immediately.

Honestly, fair.

The kiss finally happened because Mateo hit his breaking point.

Again.

But this time differently.

Lucia got sick.

Not dangerously. Just enough to be miserable.

Fever. Coughing. Crying at three in the morning.

Mateo hadn’t slept in almost thirty-six hours because he kept checking her temperature every fifteen minutes like an anxious ghost.

You arrived with soup and found him pacing.

“She won’t eat.”

“She’s sick.”

“What if she gets dehydrated?”

“She drank half a bottle of Gatorade.”

“What if—”

“Mateo.”

He stopped pacing.

You stepped closer.

“She’s okay.”

He looked at you helplessly.

“I know too much,” he admitted quietly. “Working in emergency medicine is like having every worst-case scenario permanently stuck in your head.”

That made awful sense.

You touched his arm gently.

“You’re a good brother.”

He laughed tiredly.

“I burned grilled cheese yesterday.”

“You also stayed awake all night making sure she could breathe.”

His face crumpled unexpectedly.

God.

He was so exhausted.

You softened immediately.

“Hey.”

“I just…” He rubbed his face hard. “I’m so tired.”

“I know.”

“And every time something happens I keep thinking I can’t screw this up because she only has me.”

The raw terror in his voice nearly broke your heart.

Without thinking, you cupped his face.

“You’re not screwing this up.”

He went completely still.

Brown eyes locked on yours. Your thumb brushed exhausted shadows beneath one eye.

And suddenly the air felt too tight. Too warm. Too full.

Mateo looked at you like he was starving.

Then whispered, “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Your breath caught.

Neither of you moved.

From the couch, half-asleep Lucia croaked, “Finally.”

You both burst out laughing.

The tension shattered instantly.

Mateo covered his face.

“Oh my God.”

“You’re welcome,” Lucia muttered.

Then immediately fell back asleep.

You laughed so hard you had tears in your eyes.

Mateo stared at you helplessly.

Then started laughing too.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, it shifted.

The laughter faded.

The room quieted.

And Mateo looked at you with so much tenderness it physically hurt.

“You’re incredible,” he said softly.

Then he kissed you. Gentle. Careful. Like he was afraid you might disappear.

Your fingers slid into his curls instinctively and he made this quiet surprised sound against your mouth that nearly ruined you.

When you pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Okay,” he whispered shakily. “Wow.”

You laughed softly.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve wanted to do that for a really long time.”

“Same.”

He looked genuinely offended, “Why didn’t you say something?”

“You were busy becoming a parent overnight!”

“That’s.. fair.”

You smiled.

Then his expression softened again into something unbearably fond.

“You stayed,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Most people would’ve run screaming from this mess.”

You touched his cheek gently.

“Mateo.”

He leaned into your hand unconsciously.

And God, that tiny movement told you everything.

“You and Lucia aren’t a mess.”

Emotion flashed across his face so quickly it almost hurt to look at.

Then he kissed you again.

This time less hesitant. Still soft. Still careful. But certain.

Like coming home.

Dating Mateo turned out to be surprisingly easy considering the chaos of your lives.

Mostly because you’d already accidentally become a family before either of you admitted feelings.

You were already there for movie nights. Already helping with homework. Already asleep on his couch half the time after late dinners and impossible shifts.

The only real difference now was the kissing.

And the fact Mateo looked constantly dazzled every time you touched him.

Which was honestly adorable.

One night after Lucia fell asleep during a movie, Mateo looked over at you curled against his side.

“You know she told her teacher about you?”

You smiled sleepily.

“Oh?”

“Mhm.”

“What’d she say?”

He laughed quietly.

“She said, ‘My brother was sad all the time and then Y/N showed up and now he smiles again.’”

Your throat tightened instantly.

Mateo looked down.

“I didn’t realise it was that obvious.”

“It was.”

He nodded slowly.

Then admitted softly, “I think I was drowning before you.”

Your chest ached.

You reached for his hand.

He intertwined your fingers immediately. Automatic now. Natural.

“I love you,” he said suddenly.

You stared at him.

His expression immediately panicked.

“Sorry. That sounded intense. You don’t have to say it back, I just—”

“I love you too.”

He stopped completely.

“You do?”

You laughed softly.

“Yes, you disaster.”

He grinned then.

Huge. Bright. Beautiful.

And honestly, it was worth every difficult thing that had brought you there.

Six months later, you were standing in Mateo’s kitchen helping Lucia frost cupcakes for a school fundraiser while Mateo danced badly to music with dish soap bubbles still on his forearms.

“You’re getting frosting in your hair,” you informed Lucia.

“It’s fashion.”

Mateo pointed at her proudly.

“She gets that from me.”

“She does not.”

“I’m iconic actually.”

“You wore two different shoes to work last week.”

“That was a cry for help.”

Lucia giggled hysterically.

Mateo caught your eye across the kitchen.

And there it was again.

That look. Still soft. Still full of wonder. Like he couldn’t believe you were really there.

The apartment was louder now than when you’d first walked into it. Warmer too.

Not because life had become easy. It hadn’t.

Mateo still worked brutal shifts. His mother still struggled through rehab. There were still hard days. Exhausting days. Grief-heavy days.

But now he had help carrying them. And somehow, together, the weight felt lighter.

Lucia suddenly held up a cupcake covered in approximately three pounds of frosting, “This one’s for Y/N because she’s the best.”

You laughed.

Mateo immediately nodded, “She’s right.”

Your cheeks warmed.

“Are you two conspiring against me?”

“Yes,” Lucia said cheerfully.

Mateo wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you against him.

“Constantly.”

You leaned into him automatically.

Comfortable. Easy. Home.

And as Lucia launched into a passionate explanation about why dragons would absolutely survive the apocalypse, Mateo pressed a quiet kiss against your temple.

...

By finals week you'd learned three things about John. He was insufferable, he was somehow always right and he had a truly heroic ability to make you laugh at the worst possible moments, like during a practice MCAT and you had to leave the room to stop laughing.

You'd also learned he had no plans for the summer. "None?" you said, over the world's saddest cafeteria pizza. "Nothing?"

"I was going to work at my uncle's insurance office. Just filing, for like three months.” He shrugged and took a bite of his apple.

"Come be a camp counselor with me!" 

He blinked at you. "I'm sorry?"

"Camp Bumblebee for kids. It’s up in the mountains. I've done it the last two summers, they're always short staffed, you'd get free housing and it's the opposite of filing boring business paperwork." 

"I don't know anything about children." he said. 

"Nobody does.” You pointed your fork at him. "Also I already put your name down as a maybe. So."

"You what." He stared at you for a long moment and you could see him actually considering it, which surprised you.

"Fine." he said finally. "But if I die out there in the woods, I want it on record that it was your fault."

"Duly noted."

...

Camp Bumblebee was all pine trees and bug spray and somehow, always smelled slightly like burnt marshmallow. John got out of the car, looked around at the lake, the cabins and the flagpole with its faded rope and said "There is no cell service here."

"Nope." You yanked your bags out of the trunk.

"None at all." He was tapping at his phone as if that would make some cell towers magically appear.

"You get one bar by the dining hall if you hold your phone up and pray."

He looked at you. "I hate it here already."

But as per usual, you were right. And he did not in fact hate it there. By day three he'd named every duck on the lake and had gotten into a full debate with an eight year old about whether a hot dog was a sandwich.

You were both assigned to Cabin 7, ages nine to eleven, a group of ten boys who within forty eight hours had established themselves as a small, feral government with no clear chain of command.

"They've unionized." John reported to you, deeply serious. "I found a note under my pillow. It said we want later bedtime and it was signed by all of them. In crayon."

...

A kid got stung twice by a bee during afternoon snack and within minutes her lips were swelling and her breathing had gone thin. Instinct kicked in and you were already calling for the epipen, already counting her breaths out loud so someone could time them and John was right there beside you, keeping her talking, keeping her looking at him instead of at the panic on everyone else's faces.

She was fine within the hour. Color back, breathing easy, sitting up demanding to know if she still got dessert. But it took a long time for your hands to stop feeling like they belonged to someone else.

That night, once the cabins had gone quiet and the last stubborn kid had finally stopped whisper arguing about ghost stories, you and John ended up at the fire pit behind the mess hall, the coals from the evening campfire.

"I keep thinking about her face." John said, staring into the coals. "Right before the epi kicked in. She looked so scared."

"I know."

"I wasn't, though." He said slowly, like something was dawning on him. "I thought I would be. I've never watched someone's throat close up, but still I wasn’t scared. I just wanted to fix it."

You poked at the fire with a stick. "Yeah. Me too."

He pulled his knees up, wrapped his arms around them, looking younger than you'd ever seen him look. "I don't think I ever thought I'd be good enough for something like that. Medicine, I mean. Actually doing it, not just talking about it at parties to sound impressive."

You looked back at him with a look of disbelief. John Shen getting vulnerable? And with you? 

"I'm serious. My whole life people have told me I'm smart, but not smart like someone should trust me with their kid's throat closing up." He huffed, not quite a laugh. 

"You know," you said, "I thought you were kind of an asshole when I met you."

"Excuse me?"

"In the library. Laughing at your phone like a maniac while I was trying to study." You knocked your shoulder against his. "And now look at us. Best friends."

John turned to look at you. "We are not best friends."

"We are absolutely best friends." You smiled and let your head drop sideways onto his shoulder. "We'd make amazing doctors." 

John was quiet for a second. You felt him nod, the idea was settling into a place inside him that hadn't existed before tonight. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, we would."

…

Now

The doorbell rang right as John was refilling both your glasses. "I am letting him in on this on a trial basis. He needs to pass the test."

You snorted into your spritz. "What test?"

John just shrugged, sipping his drink. "You'll see."

You both went to the door together and swung it open to find Jack standing in the hallway holding a plate of cookies and smiling like he had no idea what he was walking into.

John looked him up and down, assessing. Then, he produced a shirt from behind his back. "In order to come in you have to put this on."

Jack took it. Unfolded it. Looked back at the two of you, standing shoulder to shoulder, fully blocking the doorway. "Seriously?"

You both nodded. Neither of you moved.

Jack set the cookies down and pulled his own shirt off right there in the hall. "Woooooweee baby!!" you sang at him immediately, the alcohol coursing through your veins causing you to cat call your boyfriend with zero shame.

John gagged, shoving your shoulder with his own. 

Jack, ignoring both of you, pulled the new shirt over his head. Puffy pink letters stretched across his chest: I SURVIVED THE SISTER SLEEPOVER. He twisted to check the back in the hallway mirror, where smaller pink script added: ...barely.

He looked down at himself and then at you. You had stupidest grin on your face, absolutely delighted with yourself, and something about that expression got him, because he leaned in and kissed you, quick. "Cute." he said.

You giggled and stepped to the side, finally letting him through.

As he passed, John looked at him, wounded. "What? No kiss for me?"

Jack didn't even hesitate. He turned and planted a big, sloppy kiss right on John's cheek. "Oh yuck!!" John reeled back, scrubbing furiously at his face with the sleeve of his own ridiculous shirt. "Disgusting. I take it back. Get out."

"Too late." Jack said, already heading for the couch. "I'm in the club now."

...

Several drinks later, the opening chords of Dancing Queen kicked in over the TV speakers, and you and John were on your feet before the first line even hit.

John turned toward the couch mid verse, still singing, and beckoned Jack up with both hands, no room for negotiation.

Jack stood without a second of hesitation. Didn't need convincing, didn't need the bit about it being tradition, just got up and joined in, off key and completely unbothered by it, mangling the falsetto right along with John, and for the length of one entire ABBA song the three of you were, collectively, a menace to the neighbors and to good taste and to your own dignity, and none of you cared even a little.

When the song ended, John looked over at you, slightly out of breath, grinning. "He passed."

Right now, that rhythm was being tested to its absolute limit on a patient crammed into the makeshift overflow area near the ambulance bay. The man on the gurney was large, aggressive, and reeked of cheap bourbon and woodsmoke, his upper thigh torn open by a jagged piece of shrapnel or a ricochet from the festival grounds. He was thrashing, his eyes rolling back in his head as he roared obscenities, fighting the very hands trying to save his life.

Frank was leaning over him, his broad shoulders tensed as he applied heavy, two-handed pressure to the femoral artery, his face a mask of fierce, locked-in concentration. You were positioned just opposite him, your fingers deftly trying to establish a secondary IV in the man’s uninjured arm while the chaos of the ER swirled madly around you.

Just a few feet away, Dr. Abbot was shouting orders, his voice cracked with exhaustion as he directed a trauma team toward a crashing teenager. Dana was somewhere down the corridor, her authoritative tone echoing as she managed the triage nightmare at the front doors. Everyone was stretched to their absolute breaking point, operating on instinct and sheer willpower.

"I need that line running now!" Frank barked, not out of anger toward you, but to be heard over the deafening noise of a nearby heart monitor screaming and the desperate sobbing of a girl two bays down. "He's losing his pressure. We don't have time for him to be fighting us."

You nodded quickly, your voice calm and steady as you spoke to the thrashing man. You told him he was safe, told him that he was at the hospital and that Frank was going to fix his leg, but the words didn't seem to penetrate the thick fog of his intoxication and terror. The man gave a sudden, violent heave, his free arm flailing out wildly. His fingers clawed frantically at the heavy tactical waistband of his cargo trousers, diving beneath the blood-stained fabric of his shirt.

It happened in a terrifying, fragmented blur that defied the frantic speed of the room. You saw the dark glint of steel before your brain fully processed what it was, a compact handgun snagging on his belt as he yanked it free in a blind, paranoid reflex.

"Gun! He’s got a gun!" someone screamed from the corridor. It sounded like Robby, his voice cracking with a raw, primal panic that instantly silenced the immediate vicinity.

Time seemed to violently liquefy. Frank’s eyes widened, a sudden, horrifying comprehension dawning on his features as he instantly let go of the wound, lunging across the gurney in a desperate, instinctive attempt to smother the weapon or shield you. The patient fired blindly into the air, the deafening roar of the gunshot exploding inside the enclosed space, shattering a nearby fluorescent light fixture in a shower of sparks and white dust.

From down the hall, the immediate, instinctual response was instantaneous; voices shouted to get down, and a chorus of bodies hit the linoleum floor as medical staff and ambulatory patients dropped to seek whatever cover the flimsy privacy curtains and stainless-steel carts could provide.

But the man’s wrist snapped sideways as he recoiled, the weapon discharging a second time before Frank could pin his arm to the mattress.

There was no grand explosion of pain, just a sudden, violent impact against your ribs that felt like being struck full-force by a swinging baseball bat, knocking the breath entirely out of your lungs. The momentum threw you backward, your feet tangling in the stool behind you, and you went down hard against the cold, hard floor, the bag of saline you had been holding bursting against the metal leg of the gurney.

For a second, the world went completely silent, the ringing in your ears drowning out the screams, the shouting, and the heavy thud of security guards finally tackling the gunman to the ground just inches away from where you lay. You stared up at the cracked ceiling tiles, wondering vaguely why the air felt so thick, why it was suddenly so incredibly difficult to draw a single breath.

Then the silence shattered, and the world rushed back in with a terrifying, agonizing roar. Frank was on his knees beside you before you could even register that you were on the floor, his hands trembling in a way you had never seen before as they hovered over your chest. His face was entirely drained of colour, his lips parted in a silent gasp of horror that quickly transformed into a frantic, breathless plea. "No, no, no, please, God, no," he muttered, his voice stripped of all its usual authority, sounding entirely small and broken.

His palms came down hard against the left side of your upper abdomen, just beneath your ribs, and the sudden, searing agony that ripped through your torso made your back arch off the floor, a choked, ragged scream tearing from your throat. The fabric of your scrubs was already turning a deep, heavy crimson, the warmth of your own blood soaking through his fingers as he pressed down with everything he had.

The immediate area exploded into a frenzied, chaotic scrum of activity, but this time, the emergency was you. Robby was there in an instant, his face pale and eyes wide with shock as he dropped to his knees on your other side, "I’ve got the back, Frank, I’ve got the exit wound, keep pressing!" Robby yelled, his voice shaking as he tried to stabilize your writhing frame.

Jack appeared above you, his authoritative calm momentarily cracking as he took in the sight of one of his own nurses bleeding out on the floor. "Get a gurney over here now! Someone get me a chest tube tray and two units of O-negative!" Jack roared, his commands snapping the stunned onlookers into motion.

Samira was right behind him, her hands steady despite the visible tremor in her jaw as she ripped open a pack of trauma dressings, quickly tucking them under Frank’s straining hands. Dana was on the radio, her voice cutting through the hospital page with a sharp, trembling urgency, calling for an immediate surgical consult and clearing a path straight to the operating theatres.

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a wet, shallow gasp and the sound of it seemed to fracture something deep within him. "Stay with me, do you hear me? Look at me, sweetheart," he begged, leaning down so close that his sweat-dampened hair brushed against your forehead. His eyes were wild, swimming with tears that he refused to let fall. "Don't you dare close your eyes. You breathe for me, come on, just keep breathing."

The vulnerability in his voice was terrifying; this was a man who stared down death every single day without flinching, but looking at you, he looked utterly defeated, stripped entirely of his medical armor.

With a coordinated heave, Frank, Robby, and Jack lifted you off the blood-slicked floor and onto a clearing gurney, the sudden movement causing the agony in your chest to flare into a blinding, white-hot sheet of pain that threatened to turn the world completely black.

You gasped, your fingers clawing blindly at the air, and Frank instantly caught your hand in his own, his grip incredibly tight, almost crushing, yet it was the most comforting thing you had ever felt. He didn't let go, not even as Jack began cutting away the remnants of your ruined scrubs, exposing the neat, horrific puncture wound where the bullet had torn through your muscle and bone.

“Shit, this doesn’t sound good," Jack muttered, his stethoscope pressed firmly against your skin, his expression grim. "Dr. Mohan, give me that scalpel, we need to drop a tube now before they arrest."

"Frank," you whimpered, the word barely a whisper, your vision beginning to tunnel, the bright fluorescent lights of the ER fading into a hazy, shimmering blur.

"I'm right here, I’m not leaving you, I swear to God I’m right here," Frank cried, his voice breaking completely as he used his free hand to wipe the blood from your lip, his thumb caressing your cheek. He looked up at Jack, his eyes blazing with a mixture of terror and fury. "Do it fast, Jack, please, just do it fast."

You felt the sharp, sudden sting of the local anesthetic, followed almost immediately by the heavy, suffocating pressure of the chest tube being inserted between your ribs. It was an invasive, brutal sensation, a choked sob tearing from your throat as you tried to pull away from the pain.

Frank held you steady, his strong arm wrapping around your shoulders to keep you pinned to the mattress, his face pressed against the side of your neck as he whispered frantic, broken promises into your skin. "You're okay, you're doing so well, just hold onto me, sweetheart. I've got you."

As the tube found its mark, a dark, heavy rush of blood and trapped air hissed into the collection chamber, and suddenly, a massive, cooling relief washed through your lungs. You could breathe again, the suffocating weight lifted from your chest, even as the profound exhaustion of blood loss began to pull you down into the dark.

The gurney was suddenly in motion, rattling violently as it was pushed out of the trauma bay and down the long corridor toward the elevators. Dana was there at the doors, holding them open, her face pale as she reached out to briefly touch your leg, her voice fierce as she looked at the surgical team waiting for you. "Take care of them," she ordered, her tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.

Frank walked alongside the moving bed, his hand still locked in yours, his eyes on you, his thumb tracing endless, soothing circles against the back of your hand.

When they finally reached the double doors of the surgical suite, the anesthesia resident stepped in front of him, gently but firmly placing a hand on Frank's chest. "Frank, you need to stay here. We've got them, we're going to take care of them, I promise."

Frank stopped, his sneakers skidding slightly on the polished floor, his chest heaving as he fought the urge to push past the man. He looked down at you, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a profound, terrifying helplessness, his grip loosening only when the momentum of the gurney forced your fingers to slide apart.

"I'll be right here," he called out, his voice echoing down the sterile hallway as the heavy doors began to swing shut, separating you from his sight. "Right here when you wake up. I love you, do you hear me? I love you!"

As the darkness finally took you, the smell of antiseptic and the bright, shadowless lights of the operating room fading into nothingness, the last thing you felt was the lingering warmth of his hand against your skin, and the steady, unbreakable promise of his voice.

Everything felt incredibly heavy, as though your limbs had been poured full of wet sand, and your throat was dry and parched, tasting of stale plastic from the oxygen cannula resting beneath your nose. For a long moment, you simply drifted in that twilight space, aware of a dull, throbbing ache radiating across the entire left side of your chest, a deep-seated soreness that flared into a sharp pinch every time you tried to take a deep breath.

But beneath that pain, and the overwhelming exhaustion pulling at your eyelids, there was a profound, grounding warmth enveloping your right hand.

Slowly, with an effort that felt almost monumental, you forced your eyes open. The harsh, chaotic glare of the emergency department was gone, replaced by the soft, dimmed shadows of a private recovery room in the intensive care unit. The blinds were drawn against the morning light, casting long, quiet bars of grey across the linoleum floor. And sitting right beside your mattress, his frame uncomfortably curled into a stiff hospital armchair, was Frank.

He looked entirely shattered. He was still wearing his scrub trousers, though he had swapped his blood-stained top for a faded, oversized grey university sweatshirt that looked as though it had been pulled from the bottom of his locker. His elbows were resting on the edge of your mattress, his face buried in the crook of his arm, his fingers tightly, desperately interlaced with yours.

As you shifted your weight slightly, trying to ease the pressure on your chest tube site, a soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips. The sound was barely audible, but it acted like an electric shock to Frank. His head snapped up instantly, his eyes bloodshot, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath them. For a fraction of a second, his expression was blank with a raw, lingering terror, but as his gaze focused on your open eyes, his face cracked, a look of profound, overwhelming relief washing over his features.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice incredibly thick and hoarse, rough from hours of silence and unshed tears. He shifted instantly, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your chest ache for reasons completely unrelated to the bullet wound. "Hey, beautiful. Don't try to move too much, alright? You're okay. You're safe."

"Frank," you croaked, the word catching in your throat, sounding small and entirely broken.

"I'm here. I'm right here," he murmured, his touch lingering against your skin as if he needed the physical contact to completely convince himself that you were truly alive. He reached for a small plastic cup on the bedside table, dipping a pink foam swab into some ice water before gently pressing it against your cracked lips. "Just a little bit, sweetheart. Your throat's going to be sore from the ventilator, just let it sit there."

The cool moisture was an absolute blessing, and you closed your eyes for a moment, letting the relief wash over you. When you opened them again, you looked down at the heavy, white dressings taping the chest tube firmly to your ribs. The memory of the gunshot, the sudden, violent impact, and the terrifying sight of Frank kneeling over you in a pool of your own blood came rushing back with a vividness that caused your heart rate to spike on the monitor.

Frank noticed the rhythmic acceleration of the beeping instantly. "Hey, look at me, honey," he commanded softly, squeezing your hand a little tighter. "The guy's gone. Security took him down, police have him. The hospital is secure. You are out of danger, I promise you."

"You... you look terrible," you managed to whisper, a faint, weak attempt at a smile touching the corners of your lips.

A ragged, wet laugh spilled from his chest, his shoulders dropping as he leaned his forehead gently against your shoulder, his breathing heavy and uneven. "I have never been so terrified in my entire life," he confessed into the fabric of your hospital gown, his voice trembling in a way that made your throat tighten. "I’ve seen a lot of things in that department. A lot of blood, a lot of close calls. But when you went down... when I saw what that bastard did... I froze. My brain just stopped working because the only thing that mattered was that it was you."

You squeezed his hand back with what little strength you had, your heart swelling at the raw vulnerability in his tone. "You didn't freeze," you murmured softly. "You caught me. You held me."

"Because I couldn't let you go," he said, pulling back to look down at you, a single tear finally escaping and tracking down the rugged line of his jaw. "Robby, Jack, Samira... they all practically had to drag me out of the operating theatre doors. Dana sat with me in the hallway for four hours while you were under. She kept telling me to go home, to wash the blood off my clothes, but I couldn't leave this building knowing you were in there. Collins kept checking the surgical log every fifteen minutes just to give me updates. Everyone's been by, sweetheart. They’re all terrified for you, but they're all waiting to see you."

"Tell them thank you," you whispered, the exhaustion beginning to pull at your consciousness again, your eyelids growing heavier by the second as the hospital pain medication kept you drifting.

"I will. I'll tell them all," Frank murmured. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "You just rest now. I'm not going anywhere. I’ll be right here when you wake up again, and I’ll be here when we finally get to go home. I love you so much."

As the darkness drifted back in to claim you, softer this time, devoid of the terror and the pain of the ER, you let yourself sink into the mattress, completely enveloped by the steady, protective warmth of his presence and the quiet, reassuring beat of his heart right beside you.

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────﹒♡﹒────

“We can still leave.” 

You look over at Pope; his brow furrowed and concern written all over his face. 

“Andy, babe, it’s gonna be fine.” you say, rubbing soothing circles on his bicep. “If things get weird, we’ll dip.” you shrug. 

Pope huffs. “So we’ll walk in and then immediately walk out?” he jokes.

You snort out a laugh, slapping his arm. Pope shoots you a lopsided smile.

“C’mon, let’s go.” you say, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. Heading into the arena (aka the Cody house) hand in hand.  

You’re walking through the house when all of a sudden, you hear this agitating, grating voice call to you from the kitchen. 

“In here you two!” Smurf yells. 

You feel Pope tense next to you as you make your way into the kitchen. Smurf greets him with a hug first, barely acknowledging you. 

“Hi, baby.” she says, kissing the corner of his mouth. Smurf turns to you with a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes. “So nice to see you again, Y/N.” her tone bored, giving you a brief hug, fingers digging tightly into your arms. 

“You want some wine?... If Cath hasn’t drank the whole bottle.” Smurf laughs, turning back to the pot of pasta sauce boiling on the stove. Cath bristles, lazily chopping a carrot. 

“Hey Cath!” you say brightly, giving her a little wave. She smiles back, relaxing slightly at your presence. “I’d love a glass of white.” you request, keeping your tone even. 

Smurf gives you a tight smile, her patience with you already waning. Before she can bark out an order, you quickly turn to Pope, giving him a sweet smile. 

“Babe, would you get me a glass?” you say, batting your eyelashes at him. 

“Sure, sweetie.” he mumbles gruffly, giving your hand a squeeze before moving through the kitchen. 

Smurf looks you up and down, sizing you up. You meet her gaze head on, not shying away. Leaving you both in a silent standoff. Cath has abandoned the carrot, staring between you two with a mixture of worry and amusement. 

Pope returns to your side, handing you the glass. Noting the tension but saying nothing. 

“Thanks, Andy.” you smile, wiping away where Smurf kissed him and planting a sensual kiss on Pope’s lips. 

You see Smurf tense, but her fake smile stays plastered on her face. 

“Need any help, Smurf?” you ask, tone sweet but with a sharp edge to it. 

“No, Cath and I’ve got it. You don’t seem like the kind of girl who likes to get her hands dirty.” she says it lightly, but there’s an undercurrent of ridicule behind it. 

You let out an obviously fake laugh, narrowing your eyes at her. 

“C’mon babe, let’s go sit.” you say, gripping Pope’s arm tightly in your perfectly manicured hand. 

You give Cath a wink and a smirk as you leave the kitchen and head to the living room to sit with the rest of the family. 

────﹒♡﹒────

Deran and Craig are already giving you side eye as you walk in, both wondering what you’ve got planned. 

“Idiots.” you nod to them both, before turning to Baz and J.

 “J, good to see you.” you smile. He gives you a simple nod in response. “Barry.” you say flatly, not bothering to look at him as you guide Pope down on the couch, next to Deran. 

You settle yourself right on his lap, nestling comfortably against him. He gives a surprised look but quickly grips onto your hip, holding you close to him. You can feel the heat of Baz’s stare looking up and down your body. You ignore him, focusing your attention on Craig. 

“So… what’s happening in the ghost hunting world.” 

“Alright so they’re in an old hotel, fuck ton of spirits. One of em’ is a 12 year old boy named Radcliffe. He’s from the civil war, I guess. I think-”

You’ve already stopped listening, your eyes glazing over. Craig’s making punching motions with his fist, saying something about being able to take Radcliffe. 

Pope chuckles under you, making your eyes shoot over to him. He’s staring at you with a warmth in his eyes that’s only reserved for you. You quirk a smile at him, cocking an eyebrow. You take a hearty gulp of wine, a drop dripping from your mouth and down your chin. Pope catches it with his thumb, bringing the drop to his mouth. Sucking it off his thumb. 

You giggle, leaning in to give Pope a light kiss. 

A harsh gagging sound breaks you from yours and Pope’s bubble. 

“Yo! You two are fucking nasty.” Deran groans. 

“Oh my god, chill. We’re kissing.” you roll your eyes. 

“Craig! Come in here and help me with the garlic bread!” Smurf calls from the kitchen. Craig groans, dragging himself from the couch. 

“Dude, you better wash your hands. I’m not missing out on garlic bread cause’ you got your unwashed ballsack hands all over it.” Deran complains. 

“I second that motion!” you pipe up. 

“M’ gonna wash my hands.” Craig says, offended. “Do you guys think I’m an animal or somethin’?” 

You and Deran answer “yes” at the same time. Both of you turning to each other with a laugh, and high fiving. 

Craig mumbles “fuck you guys” under his breath as he stumbles out of the living room. Cath passes him, settling in next to Baz. You give each other knowing looks. 

Cath snorts out a laugh, earning stares from the rest of the room. You giggle behind your wine glass. Pope raises an eyebrow but you just shake your.

Cath lets out another chuckle, shaking her head at you. You wink at her and finish off your glass of wine and move to stand up. 

“I’m gonna get a refill.” 

Pope almost doesn’t let you up, gripping you tighter against him. You kiss his cheek and he releases you, reluctantly. He gives you his hand, helping you stand up. 

“Thanks honeybee.” you smile, giving his hand a rub. 

“Honeybee?” Deran snorts. 

“I don’t need your toxic energy right now Deran.” you say, giving a ‘talk to the hand’ gesture as you walk past. 

You head into the kitchen, bracing yourself for whatever bullshit Smurf’s gonna throw your way. Thankfully, she’s setting the table. Craig’s digging into a jar from the fridge. 

“Dude, what are you doing?” you ask, grabbing the bottle of wine and refilling your glass. 

“Hungry. Wanted a snack.” Craig mumbles around a mouthful of…

“Bro no way you’re raw dogging pickled jalapeños right now?” you snort. 

Craig shrugs and shoves a couple more slices into his mouth, sucking his fingers clean. 

“Oh hey…. You find Ferretuccine yet?” you whisper conspiratorially. 

“No.” Craig sighs dejectedly. “He’s living in the walls now. Found a hole Smurf don’t know about. Been leaving food for him. I hear him rustling sometimes, so at least he’s still alive?” 

“What are you two whispering about?” Smurf says, annoyed. 

“Nothing.” you both say simultaneously. 

Smurf gives you both a narrowed glare, shaking her head. Moving about the kitchen. 

“Dinner’s gonna be ready soon.” Smurf says coldly, giving you a judgemental look up and down. “Y/N, go get my boys.” she turns away from you, her tone possessive. 

You hum, taking another gulp of wine. This is going to be… interesting. 

────﹒♡﹒────

You’re all seated around the dining table, the sounds of casual conversation and clinking utensils filling the room. Smurf’s at the head of the table, watching you carefully. Baz is next to her, trying to talk business, with Cath bored out of her mind next to him. J’s on Smurf’s other side, picking at his food and texting under the table. You’re in the middle, between J and Pope. Craig and Deran seated across from you. 

Pope hasn’t moved his hand from your thigh since you sat down. You’ve never seen him more tense than he is right now. He’s barely eating, his eyes flickering between you and Smurf. 

Craig’s shoveling forkful after forkful of pasta in his mouth. Deran’s watching him in disgust, like a car crash you can’t look away from. 

“Craig, no one’s gonna take it from you.” you mock, picking at the piece of garlic bread on your plate. 

Craig takes another huge forkful out of spite and flips you off. 

“So Y/N, how long have you and Andrew been together now?” Smurf asks, studying you. 

You take a long sip of wine, making her wait. Pope’s staring her down, waiting for when she might strike. 

“Oh… It’s been what, babe?” you turn to Pope in mock wonder. “5-ish months?” you look back over at Smurf with a smile that’s anything but sweet. 

Craig snorts. 

You glare at him. 

“What? You’re acting like you don’t keep track down to the day.” Craig shrugs. 

Deran kicks him in the shin. Mumbling at him to “shut the fuck up”. 

“Craig, don’t be a weasel.” you glare, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Right… sorry. Shutting up.” He mumbles, stuffing an entire piece of garlic bread into his mouth. 

“Down to the day, huh?” Baz scoffs. 

You can feel your eye start to twitch. 

“Okay fine. 5 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days.” you say matter of factly. 

“Cute.” Smurf chuckles, continuing to size you up. 

Cath tries to steer the conversation toward neutral territory, something about renovations on their house. You give her a thankful look. 

Smurf doesn’t budge. 

“Over 5 months and Andrew’s just now bringing you around for a family dinner?” she says thoughtfully. “I thought you said it was serious?” 

“Oh it is!” you correct, smile tight and fake. “I guess I’ve just been… keeping him busy.” you smirk at her, letting the insinuation land. Pope’s grip on your thigh tightens. 

Smurf’s jaw ticks, narrowing her eyes at you. 

The room has gone quiet, except for Craig's scarfing. 

You take another deep gulp of wine, trying to steady yourself. 

“Smurf, what’s with all the questions?’ Deran says, breaking the silence. 

She shoots Deran a look that has him clearing his throat and looking back down at his plate. 

“Just wanting to get…. reacquainted with Y/N. As Andrew’s… girlfriend-.” she says girlfriend like it’s a bad taste in her mouth. “Not just yours and Craig’s little groupie.” 

“Smurf…” Pope warns. 

Deran and Craig are looking between the three of you like this is a tennis match. 

You grip your fork tightly, considering jamming it right in Smurf’s eye. Pope rubs soothing circles on your thigh, reminding you that you’re not alone in this. 

“Groupie? Do you mean a ‘friend’?” you joke. “I know you don’t have any of those that aren’t either blackmailed or bought, so it must be confusing.” you say with mock sympathy. 

Everyone at the table freezes. Deran and Craig are looking at you like you’ve grown a second head. Cath lightly gasps, her eyes going wide. 

Smurf bristles, putting her wine glass down. 

“Hmm… funny.” Smurf says, leaning back. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s your going rate?” 

You furrow your brow, tilting your head slightly. 

“Your work.” Smurf says, like it’s obvious. “Do you have any other clients or is it just my son paying you to spread your legs?” 

You can’t help the shocked laugh that bubbles from your throat. 

The table falls dead silent for a moment before erupting into chaos. 

Deran and Craig both protesting, asking Smurf “what the fuck.” You can feel the anger radiating off Pope, his hands now flat on the table. He’s staring at Smurf like he might rip her head off. 

“Smurf…” Pope warns, voice coming out in a growl. 

“What?” Smurf asks innocently. 

Pope just stares her down, eyes full of hatred. It catches Smurf off guard for a moment before she’s able to replace her mask of cool indifference. 

“This tracks…” you mumble, rolling your eyes. 

“What tracks?” Smurf asks. 

“You being way too interested in where your son sticks his dick. It tracks.” you shrug, not breaking eye contact. 

“Y/N, please don’t.” Deran groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“What are you implying?” Smurf asks, leaning forward in her chair.

“I think you know exactly what I’m implying.” you say, a laugh escaping. 

Smurf is speechless. Actually speechless. Her eyes go wide, full of fire. 

“You disgusting little-“ 

You hold your hands up in surrender. 

“Hey, you’re the one who’s always macking on her adult sons.” you say. 

“Listen here you little bimbo-“ 

“Oh my god! I’m so sick of your monologuing, you fucking cunt-“ 

Pope slams his palms down on the table hard, making everyone jump. 

“Enough.” he commands harshly. 

“Andrew-“ Smurf starts. 

“No Smurf. I said enough.” Pope grunts. “You will not talk to her that way.” His eyes never leaving Smurfs. 

“Talk to her that way?! This little slut just called me a cunt!” 

You scoff. Rolling your eyes and crossing your arms. 

“I don’t care. You started it. I’m finishing it.” Pope says. “Y/N is mine. No one talks to her that way.” He clenches his fists and his jaw. “No. One.” 

Smurf is silent, reassessing her son. Her eyes cloud with several different emotions; anger, shock, fear. 

Her and Pope are still in a standoff when Baz laughs into his beer, earning a jab in the ribs from Cath. 

“I know your ass isn’t laughing right now.” you warn, shooting Baz daggers. 

Baz shrugs with a smug smirk. 

“No seriously, Y/N. Is he paying you? Cause that would make him pulling you make way more sense.” Baz asks. 

“Baz, I swear to god.” Cath grumbles, covering her face with her hands. 

“Excuse me?” you ask darkly, squeezing your hands into fists. 

“Y/N… chill.” Deran says carefully. “He’s not worth it.” 

Baz chuckles, leaning back and putting his hands up in surrender. 

“I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Pope’s a freak, he’d have to pay a chick to put up with him.” Baz laughs.

“Baz, that’s enough-“ Smurf starts 

You don’t let her finish. You’re already flying out of your chair, knocking it to the ground behind you. You grip your fork and lunge across the table at Baz.

“I will fucking gut you, you shrimp dick motherfucker.” you growl, jabbing your fork in his direction. 

Pope wraps his arms around you quickly, holding you against his chest. Deran is up and trying to take the fork from you. Craig is cheering you on, clapping and whooping. J is staring between you and Baz in shocked silence. Cath is trying to mediate, without much success. And Smurf is watching you, shocked, with her eyebrows up to her hairline. 

“Let me go, Andrew!” you grunt, trying to free yourself from Pope’s grip.

Baz is backing away from you with his hands up and his brows furrowed. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Baz shouts.

“Choke and die.” you say simply.

Deran is able to pry the fork from your vice like grip, letting it clatter to the floor. 

“Y/N, calm down.” Pope mumbles into your ear, still hugging you to his chest.

“No! I’m not gonna let this sack of shit talk about you like that.” 

“Get her out of here before she destroys my dining room.” Smurf yells, watching you like you’re a live grenade. 

“Craig.” Pope motions to you with his head. “Take her outside.” 

Craig hesitates briefly, before coming around the table and throwing you over his shoulder. 

“Oh put me down you big doofus.” you complain, slapping at Craig’s back. You pass Baz and Cath on your way out. “Baz… when I get my hands on you…” you warn, looking at him with complete disgust and hatred. 

You’re spewing insults at Baz, “cocksucker” and “manwhore”, as Craig carries you out of the house and to Pope’s truck. 

“Craig put me down already.” you huff, pushing at his back. 

“You promise you’re gonna be chill?” Craig questions.

“Sure, whatever.” you grumble, rolling your eyes. 

Craig groans, pulling open the passenger side of Pope’s truck and depositing you into the front seat. You cross your arms over your chest, glaring towards the house. 

“Dude…” Craig starts “That was fucking awesome.” he laughs, sticking out his fist for a fist bump. 

You stare at him for a moment, trying to fight a smile, before rolling your eyes and giving in. Bumping your fists. You sit in silence like that for a minute before you groan in realization. 

“Smurf is totally banning me from the house now…” you pout, slumping in your seat. “There goes my pool time.” you grumble. Craig chuckles and ruffles your hair. 

Movement near the front door catches your eye; Cath and Baz are headed towards their car. Baz is avoiding looking your way, moving quickly as Cath angrily berates him. She looks over to you and nods. 

“Sorry Cath!” you say, cringing at the fact that she was caught in the middle of that.

Baz scoffs, throwing open his door. “Get in the car, Catherine.” 

Cath turns to you.

 “I’ll text you.” she says softly, giving you a small smile, before joining Baz in the car.

He wastes no time, pulling out of the driveway quickly and driving off. You flip off the car as it goes, shaking your head. 

Craig lets out a low whistle, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Can you go see what’s taking Andrew so long?” you ask. 

“Yeah sure thing, dudette.” Craig nods, giving you an awkward pat on the knee before heading off back to the house. 

Tossing your phone on the center console, you watch Pope stalk towards you. He doesn’t say a word as he stands in front of you and buries his head in your chest, taking deep breaths. 

“Andy… I’m so sorry…” you say, your voice small and vulnerable. 

Pope doesn’t speak, just grips your waist tightly and groans. He doesn’t look at you as he pulls away and gets you settled in your seat, buckling you in and closing the door. You watch him cross in front of the truck, rubbing a hand down his face in frustration. 

He still doesn’t say anything to you when he gets in the car. Or when he pulls out and heads towards your apartment. You’re halfway to your place when you finally break the silence.

“Andrew. I really am so sorry. I shouldn’t have-” 

“You’re fine.” Pope grunts, keeping his focus on the road. 

“Andrew-” 

“Sweetheart. Drop it.” 

“We need to talk about what happened.” 

“Later.” he says, pulling into your complex. 

“But-” you whine lightly. 

“No.” he says, a finality in his tone. 

The intensity in his eyes tells you not to argue. You just nod, looking down at your hands in your lap. 

You can’t help but worry that the family dinner from hell ruined things. That you ruined things. 

────﹒♡﹒────

────﹒♡﹒────

You toss your phone on your bed and finish getting unready. Sliding on your pink, silk pajamas. Making your way out of your bedroom, you spot Pope sitting on the couch; his head in his hands. Padding your way to him, you clear your throat. Pope shoots his head up, dropping his arms to his sides. You plop down onto his lap and lock your arms around his neck. 

“Okay first things first.” you start, meeting his stormy eyes. “I’m sorry for calling your mom a cunt and trying to murder Baz at the dinner table.” 

Pope huffs, shaking his head. “Sweetheart…” 

“No. Let me finish.” you cut him off. “Second. Deran told me what went down after I left… I love you so so so much for defending my honor against Smurf. You are the sweetest, most amazing boyfriend anyone could EVER ask for.” you say, kissing him sweetly on the lips. 

Pope chases your mouth as you pull away. His eyes are glossy and a red flush across his cheeks. 

“And finally… Baz is a fucking moron.” you say, rolling your eyes. “We haven’t talked about it but… I want you to know I see a future with you. The whole white picket fence thing…” you say shyly, voice small and vulnerable. 

“Really?” Pope questions, voice coming out hoarse.

You giggle and nod your head. “I mean- I am so not ready to be a mom.” you laugh. “But eventually… I would love to have a baby with you.” you whisper. Kissing him again, slower and sensually. 

Pope whimpers into the kiss, holding onto you like a life preserver. You quickly find your rhythm, the kiss turning open mouthed and sloppy. Your tongues exploring each other's mouths. You whine into the kiss, feeling him harden underneath you. 

He reluctantly pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. 

“You really mean that?” he asks, his voice full of hope and longing. 

You nod at him with a shy smile. Hugging him tightly.

“Come to bed Andy…” you say breathlessly. Your lips are swollen from the kissing, eyes hooded, and face flushed. 

He growls and scoops you up in his arms, hauling you to the bedroom. A giddy shriek leaving your lips. You hold on tight, looking up at him like he hung the moon. 

────﹒♡﹒────

The second thing everyone learned about you was that you were a menace.

Not in a dangerous or in an incompetent way. Robby would have kicked you out of his emergency department within the hour if you were either of those things. No, your particular brand of menace came wrapped in big eyes, an innocent expression, and the kind of unhinged Gen Z vocabulary that made half the staff feel like they were being actively aged by exposure.

You had been at the Pitt for less than two months before Santos started calling you “the prodigy gremlin,” which was unfair only because she said it like you weren’t proud of it.

You were very proud of it.

Especially today.

Today, the emergency department was already groaning under the weight of a bad morning when the call came in. A bus had clipped the median on an icy stretch near an overpass and caused a multi-vehicle collision that sprawled across three lanes of traffic. Initial reports were messy, the way they always were in the first few minutes of a disaster. Multiple injuries. Entrapments. Possible ejections. At least one paediatric patient. EMS was still triaging on scene, but they were already warning hospitals in the area to prepare for overflow.

Robby stood at the center of the department as the air changed around him.

It happened quickly, that shift from ordinary chaos into organized crisis. Dana’s voice cut through the noise at the nurses’ station, assigning beds, clearing rooms, moving patients who could be moved and snapping at anyone who looked like they were waiting for permission to be useful. Robby started calling out roles before the first ambulance even arrived, eyes sharp, posture squared, his entire body seeming to settle into the shape of command. Collins moved with grim efficiency. Langdon grabbed a tablet. Mohan started checking available trauma bays. Mel’s expression closed into focus, all soft edges vanishing as she turned toward the work that needed doing. McKay was already tying her hair back, irritation and readiness blending into one sharp line across her face.

Then someone announced that night shift was being held over.

A collective groan rose from somewhere near the nurse station.

Jack appeared with a coffee in hand and the expression of a man who had spiritually clocked out six hours ago and was now being dragged back into the narrative against his will. Ellis followed him, already annoyed, jaw tight, eyes scanning the board like it had personally insulted her. Shen came in a moment later with his usual calm, looking like he had accepted the cruelty of the universe and planned to chart it appropriately.

Brendan, who everyone still called Park the Shark when he was out of earshot and sometimes when he wasn’t, appeared from ortho with a surgical cap still shoved half into his pocket.

“Tell me this isn’t as bad as it sounds,” he said.

Dana looked up from the board. “It’s worse.”

Brendan shut his mouth.

You, standing beside Whitaker with a fresh pair of gloves tucked into your pocket, watched all of them arrive like reinforcements in a war movie and felt something bright and terrible spark in your chest.

A captive audience. A stressed captive audience. A stressed captive audience containing several people over the age of forty.

Perfect.

Whitaker noticed your expression and immediately narrowed his eyes. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you just had an idea.”

“I have many ideas.”

“That’s what scares me.”

You gave him your sweetest smile, the one that made Santos once say you looked like a raccoon about to commit tax fraud. “Relax, Dennis.”

“No.”

“Lowkey, you worry too much.”

Whitaker’s face tightened. “See, that. That’s what I mean. I don’t know what percentage of your sentences are threats.”

“Skill issue.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, defeated before the day had even properly begun.

The first ambulance arrived three minutes later, and whatever mischief had been gathering behind your eyes vanished so cleanly that anyone who hadn’t known you would never have believed it had been there at all. The bay doors opened, cold air rushed in, and EMS rolled in a teenage girl strapped to a backboard, blood matting the hair near her temple, one leg splinted, oxygen mask fogging with shallow breaths. Robby stepped in at once, voice steady, asking for vitals, mechanism, interventions done en route. You moved when Dana pointed you toward Trauma Two, falling into place beside Mel and Collins as EMS rattled off the report.

“Seventeen-year-old female, restrained passenger, significant intrusion on passenger side, brief loss of consciousness on scene, GCS thirteen, BP ninety-two over sixty, heart rate one-thirty, obvious deformity to right femur, abdominal tenderness, FAST not done, two large-bore IVs established.”

“On my count,” Collins said, and everyone moved together.

One, two, three.

The patient shifted from stretcher to bed, monitors connected, clothes cut away, warm blankets pulled up as much as possible while still allowing access. You stood near the foot of the bed, hands moving before your brain had to command them, helping expose the injured leg, checking pulses, noting the rotation, the shortening, the swelling that already made the skin look too tight. Mel called out vitals. Collins ordered blood. Dana pushed someone toward the warmer. Robby stepped in briefly, eyes sweeping the room.

“What do you have?” he asked.

You answered before anyone else could. “Likely femur fracture with hypotension concerning for haemorrhage, plus abdominal tenderness after high-speed impact. Distal pulse present but weak. We need pelvic binder considered if instability worsens, type and cross, trauma labs, FAST, pain control, ortho consult, and imaging once stable.”

For half a second, Robby’s gaze landed on you.

Then he nodded. “Good. Keep going.”

You did not say anything.

You did not say anything because there was a bleeding teenage girl on the bed and you were, contrary to popular belief, capable of behaving like a normal human being when it mattered.

But when the FAST came back negative, when the blood pressure responded to fluids and the first unit of blood, when Brendan arrived and took one look at the leg before muttering that, yes, obviously ortho was involved now, and when the room settled into the controlled rhythm of a patient who was not okay but was no longer actively trying to die in front of you, you finally let yourself breathe.

Brendan finished assessing the leg, his hands careful despite the irritation permanently stamped onto his face. “We’ll need traction films and then she’s going upstairs. This isn’t staying down here.”

You nodded solemnly. “You ate that.”

The room went quiet in a way that no medical emergency had managed to achieve.

Brendan slowly looked up. “I what?”

“You ate.”

His eyes shifted to Collins, then to Mel, then back to you. “Is that…medical?”

“No.”

“Is it bad?”

“No.”

“Then why did you say it like that?”

“Because you did.”

Mel’s mouth twitched.

Collins turned away with a cough that was very obviously not a cough.

Brendan stared at you for another beat, decided he did not have the time, energy, or spiritual resilience to investigate further, and looked back at the patient’s leg. “I hate this place.”

You leaned slightly toward Mel and whispered, “Park the Shark is giving confused.”

Mel did not look at you. “Please don’t make me laugh in front of the femur fracture.”

“Valid.”

Across the room, Dana saw the entire exchange and made the mistake of smiling.

That made her next.

You waited until the patient was transported to imaging, until the bed was stripped and reset, until Dana swept through the bay with clean efficiency, barking at Whitaker to stop standing in the doorway like a decorative plant and actually restock gloves if he wanted to be helpful. She moved with the kind of terrifying competence that made the entire department bend around her. A family member appeared at the desk demanding information, a monitor started shrieking in Trauma Three, and someone dropped a tray of instruments with a crash that made three people flinch. Dana handled all of it without so much as blinking.

You watched her redirect two nurses, answer a question from Robby, locate a missing portable ultrasound, and scare an intern into moving faster using only one eyebrow.

When she passed you, you pressed a hand to your chest. “Queen behaviour.”

Dana stopped.

Very slowly, she turned her head.

“What?”

“Queen behaviour,” you repeated, reverent.

Dana looked at Robby. “Am I being insulted?”

Robby, who was signing something on a clipboard, did not look up. “Probably.”

“I’m complimenting you,” you said.

Dana’s eyes narrowed. “That makes me trust it less.”

“You slayed the house down.”

Whitaker, who had been restocking gloves exactly as ordered, made a strangled noise.

Dana’s stare sharpened. “I’m sorry, I what?”

You smiled. “Nothing.”

“No, say it again.”

“I value my life.”

“Smart kid.”

“Thank you, queen.”

Dana pointed at you as she backed out of the trauma bay. “Thin ice.”

The second she was gone, Whitaker collapsed against the cabinet, one hand over his mouth. “You’re going to get us killed.”

“Us?”

“I’m associated with you against my will.”

“Bestie, that’s so sad.”

“I am begging you to stop calling me things.”

You patted his arm.

He stared at the ceiling. “I’m not built for this.”

By the time the third and fourth ambulances arrived, the department had tipped fully into disaster mode. The noise became a living thing, pressing against the walls, filling every corner with alarms, voices, wheels, footsteps, orders, pain. Patients came in waves: a middle-aged man with chest trauma from the steering wheel; an older woman with a scalp laceration that bled dramatically but blessedly less dangerously than it looked; a child with a fractured wrist and eyes too wide for his face; a driver with glass embedded along one cheek and a blood pressure that made everyone in the room stand straighter.

You were assigned where you were needed, which meant everywhere.

One minute you were helping Santos keep pressure on a wound while Robby placed a chest tube, the next you were pulling up medication dosing for Javadi, then running labs, then helping Mateo move a patient, then answering a question from McKay before she had finished asking it.

You were good.

Infuriatingly good.

Even Parker Ellis, who looked as though compliments physically pained her, seemed forced to acknowledge it when you correctly flagged a possible compartment syndrome developing in a patient whose forearm had been crushed between two vehicles.

Parker swept in with Brendan, irritation sharpening into focus as she assessed the limb. The patient was pale, sweating, trying not to cry as his arm swelled against the splint. You gave the history cleanly, noting pain out of proportion, increasing paraesthesia, tense compartments, and preserved but concerning pulses. Brendan’s face changed immediately. Parker’s did too.

“Good catch,” Parker said, briskly, already reaching for the next step.

You blinked at her.

Parker made the mistake of noticing. “What?”

“I’m processing.”

“Process faster.”

“You complimented me.”

“I acknowledged a clinical observation.”

“Mother is mothering.”

Parker froze.

Brendan, beside her, closed his eyes like he had just developed a migraine behind both temples.

Parker turned to you, slowly. “Do not call me that.”

“Understood.”

“Do not explain it either.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“You lowkey ate, though.”

Parker inhaled through her nose.

Brendan muttered, “I don’t know what that means, but I feel attacked on your behalf.”

“You should,” Parker said.

You grinned.

Parker pointed a gloved finger at you. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t need proof. I have instincts.”

“Your instincts are giving paranoia.”

Parker stared at you for one long, dangerous second before turning back to the patient. “I want them off my service.”

“I’m not on your service.”

“Then I want them farther away from me spiritually.”

From the doorway, Ahmed the security guard leaned in just enough to observe the aftermath. He had been posted near the ambulance entrance since the first combative patient of the morning tried to swing at Mateo, but he had somehow managed to appear wherever the funniest thing was happening, which told you that security work had given him either incredible situational awareness or a deep appreciation for workplace chaos.

Possibly both.

He looked at Parker’s expression, then at your delighted one, then at Whitaker absolutely failing to pretend he had not been listening from the hall.

Ahmed’s eyes narrowed with interest.

Fifteen minutes later, during the first true lull anyone had seen since the mass casualty began, you found him near the security desk with a folded piece of paper and a pen.

Whitaker stood in front of him.

“So ten on Robby?” Ahmed asked.

Whitaker nodded gravely. “He’s already halfway there.”

Ahmed wrote it down.

You stopped walking.

Whitaker stiffened.

Ahmed did not.

“What is this?” you asked.

“Nothing,” Whitaker said too quickly.

Ahmed looked up at you calmly. “Morale initiative.”

Your eyes dropped to the paper.

There were names.

Robby. Dana. Ellis. Brendan. Jack. Shen. McKay.

Beside each name were dollar amounts.

You gasped.

“Is this a betting pool?”

“No,” Whitaker said.

“Yes,” Ahmed said at the same time.

Whitaker turned to him. “Dude.”

Ahmed shrugged. “She was going to find out.”

You stepped closer, delighted beyond measure. “A betting pool for what?”

Ahmed clicked his pen. “Who breaks first.”

You pressed both hands to your chest. “Because of me?”

“Mostly.”

“I’ve never been so honored.”

Whitaker looked deeply regretful. “This is going to make you worse.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Ahmed studied you for a moment, then added something to the paper.

You tried to look. “What did you write?”

“Side bet.”

“On?”

“Whether you get all of them before end of shift.”

Your grin spread slowly.

Whitaker groaned. “Ahmed, why would you give them a goal?”

Ahmed capped his pen. “Because I believe in excellence.”

“You believe in chaos.”

“That too.”

Before you could respond, Dana’s voice cracked across the department with terrifying precision. “Y/N! Trauma Two!”

You spun on your heel. “Coming, queen!”

“Thin ice!”

“Love you too!”

Whitaker looked at Ahmed. “We’re doomed.”

Ahmed looked down at his paper. “No. We’re invested.”

By early afternoon, the hospital had settled into the long, gruelling rhythm that followed the first violent impact of disaster. The initial wave was over, but consequences kept arriving. Patients who had seemed stable on scene started to decline. Imaging revealed worse injuries than expected. Families arrived panicked and demanding answers no one fully had yet. The operating rooms filled. Ortho kept getting called. Surgery moved in and out of the department like storm clouds. Everyone looked a little more tired, a little sharper around the edges.

Abbot appeared beside you at the nurse station while you were charting, his coffee replaced by another coffee, because apparently his bloodstream had given up and simply become caffeine.

“You’re causing trouble,” he said.

You kept typing. “Allegedly.”

“I respect it.”

That made you pause. You looked up slowly. “You do?”

Abbot leaned against the counter with the casual confidence of a man who had decided, very incorrectly, that he understood the assignment. “I’m not like Robby. I know things.”

You stared at him. He nodded once, as if confirming this to himself. “I’m cool with the kids.”

From the other side of the station, McKay looked up from her charting with immediate interest.

“Oh?” you said.

Abbot smiled. “Yes.”

“Define ‘rizz.’”

His smile faltered for half a second before recovering. “Charisma.”

You blinked. Unfortunately, he was correct.

McKay’s eyebrows lifted.

Abbot looked smug. “See?”

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Define ‘ate.’”

“Performed well.”

Your mouth dropped open.

Abbot pointed at you. “I told you.”

McKay leaned back in her chair. “I don’t like this. He’s adapting.”

Abbot took a sip of coffee, visibly pleased with himself. “I contain multitudes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Define ‘Ohio.’”

Abbot stopped. The silence stretched. McKay’s grin grew. Abbot set his coffee down with great care. “That’s a state.”

“Yes.”

“But not in this context.”

“Correct.”

His eyes narrowed. “Bad?”

“Sometimes.”

“Embarrassing?”

“Sometimes.”

“Cursed?”

“Getting warmer.”

He looked genuinely invested now, the mass casualty temporarily forgotten in the face of a linguistic puzzle he had absolutely no business trying to solve. “So if I said Robby was being Ohio—”

From behind you, Robby’s voice cut in. “Don’t.”

All three of you turned. Robby stood there with a chart in hand, exhaustion settling into the lines of his face, his glasses slightly crooked, his expression caught somewhere between suspicion and resignation.

Abbot straightened. “We’re discussing language.”

“You’re discussing nonsense.”

“It’s actually quite nuanced.”

You nodded solemnly. “Dr. Abbot is lowkey cooking.”

Abbot pointed at you. “That’s good.”

You beamed. “That is good.”

“I knew that.”

Robby looked between the two of you. “Why are you encouraging him?”

“Because he’s cool with the kids.”

Abbot looked deeply satisfied.

McKay muttered, “God help us.”

Robby stared at Abbot for a long moment, then at you. “Both of you back to work.”

“Yes, king,” you said automatically.

Robby closed his eyes. Abbot’s shoulders started shaking. McKay turned fully away from her computer, delighted.

Robby opened his eyes again. “Do not call me that.”

“Understood.”

“Do you understand?”

“Highkey.”

He stared at you.

You stared back, angelic.

Robby looked at Abbot. “Translate.”

Abbot, glowing with the confidence of two correct definitions and one catastrophic failure, said, “It means very.” Robby looked betrayed that this was a real answer.

You clapped once. “He ate!”

Abbot lifted both hands. “I’m telling you, I know things.”

Robby rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I have patients actively trying to die, and somehow this is still the thing giving me a headache.”

“Skill issue,” McKay said under her breath.

The three of you went silent. You turned to her slowly. McKay’s face changed as she realized what had just left her mouth.

“Oh no,” she said.

You pointed at her. “YOU’VE BEEN INFECTED.”

“I have not.”

“You said skill issue.”

“I said it medically.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

Abbot looked thrilled. “Welcome.”

McKay glared at you. “I hate all of you.”

Before anyone could respond, another overhead page called Robby back toward Trauma One, and the moment snapped back into motion. The department swallowed everyone again: Robby to a decompensating patient, McKay to a shoulder reduction, Abbot to a confused older man with chest pain, and you to wherever Dana pointed next.

But the damage had been done. The language had spread. And you had witnesses.

Ahmed caught your eye from across the department and silently lifted his betting sheet. You gave him a thumbs-up. He shook his head, but he was smiling.

By the time you reached Trauma One, Robby was already elbow-deep in the kind of controlled chaos that made everyone around him move faster. The patient was a man in his forties who had initially seemed stable after the crash and then suddenly wasn’t. His pressure was dropping. Breath sounds were diminished on one side. The room smelled like antiseptic, blood, sweat, and the metallic bite of adrenaline. Robby called for a chest tube with that rough, steady authority that made even panic organize itself around him.

You stood ready when Dana shoved supplies into your hands. Santos watched from the far side of the bed, eyes wide but focused. Mateo assisted with positioning. Robby worked quickly, cleaning the site, draping, anesthetizing, cutting through skin and tissue with practiced precision. He moved like someone who had done this too many times to be impressed by it, fingers sure as he dissected down and pushed through the pleura. Air rushed. Blood followed. The tube slid in, connected, secured. The patient’s oxygen saturation began to climb.

For a moment, the room exhaled.

Robby pulled off his bloody gloves and looked at the monitor. “That bought us time. Get surgery down here now.”

Dana was already moving. “On it.”

You watched the numbers stabilize, watched the team reset around the patient, watched Robby’s shoulders lower by a fraction.

And because you had been very good for almost twenty whole minutes, you smiled.

“Respectfully,” you said, “you devoured that chest tube, king.”

The silence was immediate.

Robby turned his head very slowly.

Santos looked at the floor. Mateo looked at the ceiling. Dana, halfway to the door, stopped dead.

Robby stared at you with the expression of a man who had just been forced to process a second emergency against his will. “I did what.”

“You devoured.”

His eyes narrowed. “The chest tube?”

“Metaphorically.”

Dana made a sound that might have been a cough if she had ever been less committed to lying.

Robby looked at her. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I think a lot of things.”

He looked back at you. “Is that supposed to be good?”

“So good.”

“No cap,” Mateo added, and immediately looked like he regretted every choice that had led him to this moment.

You whipped around. “MATEO.”

He pointed at you. “No. Don’t make it weird.”

“You’re learning.”

“I’m surviving.”

Dana finally lost the battle and laughed, one sharp burst before she walked out of the room shaking her head.

Robby stared at the doorway she had escaped through, then at Mateo, then at you. His face shifted through exhaustion, confusion, irritation, and something dangerously close to amusement before settling back into command by sheer force of will.

He shook his head once.

Quietly, almost to himself, he muttered, “Kids these days.”

Your entire body went still.

Santos’s eyes widened.

Mateo whispered, “Oh no.”

You pointed at Robby with both hands, triumphant. “HE SAID THE THING.”

Robby looked immediately regretful. “What thing?”

“THE THING.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“YOU SAID THE LINE.”

“I say a lot of lines.”

“Iconic behaviour.”

“Stop.”

“Never.”

From the hallway, Whitaker appeared at the doorway like he had sensed comedy through the walls. “Did he say it?”

You spun toward him. “HE SAID IT.”

Whitaker doubled over.

Robby’s eyes closed.

Somewhere behind you, Ahmed’s pen clicked.

And even though there were still patients waiting, charts unfinished, families crying, surgeons being paged, and half the hospital running on fumes, laughter rippled briefly through the trauma bay like a pressure valve releasing steam.

Robby opened his eyes, looked at the ridiculous collection of people around him, and sighed with the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who knew he had lost control of something far less medically significant and far more spiritually damaging than a mass casualty event.

“Back to work,” he said.

“Yes, king,” you replied.

Dana’s laughter echoed from the hall.

Robby pointed at you without turning around. “Thin ice.”

You smiled sweetly.