Misslean

Three years.

Three whole years of loving Joe. If someone had told you that the one you keep feeding pastries and the man who accidentally locked himself out of his apartment would become the love of your life, you would've laughed in their face.

Yet here you were.

Three years later. There had been ups and downs, of course. No relationship was perfect. No love story looked like the movies after the credits rolled.

There were days Joe disappeared into recording studios before sunrise and came home long after midnight, smelling like coffee and exhaustion. There were weeks when you practically lived inside your café, testing recipes, managing staff, and running between your two branches.

Sometimes the two of you barely saw each other. Sometimes your schedules collided so badly that dinner together meant eating takeout at one in the morning while sitting on the kitchen floor.

But there were also the quiet moments. The moments that mattered most. Dancing barefoot while pastries cooled on the counter. Falling asleep halfway through a movie. Morning walks with Ponkan, stubbornly refusing to go in the direction either of you wanted. Monthly trips. Rainy days. Lazy afternoons spent tangled together on the couch. The kind of moments that slowly became a life.

The café bell chimed behind you. Your newest employee rushed past carrying a tray of pastries. Three years ago, there had only been one tiny café. Now there were two, two locations, eight employees, hundreds of regular customers. A wall filled with photographs and enough stories to fill a lifetime.

Life was good.

Which was exactly why Joe's recent behavior was driving you insane. For the past few weeks, he'd been acting very suspicious. The kind of suspicious that made you narrow your eyes every time he entered a room.

Phone calls he wouldn't explain. Random disappearances. Whispered conversations. And worst of all, your employees were involved. Every time you walked into the kitchen, someone suddenly changed the subject. Every time Joe visited, your staff exchanged weird looks. Even Ponkan seemed involved, you just had no proof.

But you knew something was going on. Which was why you currently found yourself sitting across from the old man from 6D in his living room, halfway through your weekly chess game.

"You know he's hiding something, right?" you said, moving your bishop.

The old man hummed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You absolutely do."

"I absolutely don't."

"You smiled."

"I always smile."

"You only smile like that when you're keeping secrets."

The old man moved a piece. "Check."

"You're lying."

"No."

"You're a terrible liar." The old man tried and failed to suppress another grin.

"Oh God." You dropped your head into your hands. "Everybody knows except me."

The old man patted your shoulder. "Maybe."

You groaned. "This is torture."

Five Days Before

The apartment was lively, not loud lively. You were sprawled across the living room floor, a pillow tucked beneath your head while an old Ella Fitzgerald record spun softly in the background. Ponkan was asleep beside you, stretched out dramatically as if he'd worked a double shift at the café. Life was peaceful for exactly three seconds then the front door burst open.

"Honey!" Joe practically stumbled into the apartment. It made you and Ponkan jumped. Joe stood there looking absurdly excited, holding something behind his back.

You narrowed your eyes. "Why do you look like you just discovered gold?"

"Because I found treasure." With a dramatic flourish, he revealed an old recipe book. "I found this at a thrift store."

Immediately, you sat upright. "Oh!"

Joe watched nervously as you took it from his hands. The notebook was beautiful. Cream-colored pages. A floral cover. Tiny handwritten notes tucked between recipes. It looked loved. The kind of book someone spent years using.

"Oh my gosh." You carefully flipped through the pages. "Baby, this is adorable." Relief immediately washed over Joe's face. You smiled up at him. "Thank you."

Joe grinned. "My gift, since apparently I've been acting weird."

You snorted. "Apparently? You whispered something to my barista yesterday."

"Maybe I had business."

"You don't have business with my barista."

Joe was about to say something to counter, but instead, "Fair point."

You laughed and pulled him down beside you. Neither of you noticed Joe sneaking one terrified glance toward the back pages.

Four Days Before

Joe had made a terrible mistake. A horrible mistake. The worst mistake of his entire life. Because you loved the recipe book. You loved it so much that you'd carried it everywhere for the past twenty-four hours. It sat beside you at breakfast. It sat beside you in the café. It sat beside you while watching television. You were currently using it in the kitchen and Joe was suffering.

"You know," he said casually from his spot at the counter, "there are some really good recipes in there."

You glanced up. "There are."

Joe nodded quickly. "You should try the rainbow brownie one."

"Maybe."

"Or page seventy-three."

You squinted. "Why specifically page seventy-three?"

Joe nearly choked. "No reason."

"Hm." You returned to measuring flour.

Joe watched you turn a page then another and then another. His soul briefly left his body. "Joe, my baby."

"Yes?"

"Please stay on the counter."

Joe blinked. "What?"

"Stop hovering."

"I'm not hovering."

"You've followed me around the kitchen for twenty minutes."

Joe glanced at the recipe bookand back at you. "...maybe."

You pointed a wooden spoon at him. "And stop eating the chocolate chips."

Joe froze, one chocolate chip halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he put it back in the bowl. "You hate me."

“You’re dramatic.”

Three Days Before

Joe's stress level had become alarming. You sat comfortably on the couch reading through the recipe book while he pretended to watch television.

Pretended being the important word because he wasn't watching television. He was watching you. Specifically, your hands. Specifically, the pages. Specifically, how close you were getting to the special section. Each page flipped, Joe stopped breathing.

"Huh."

Joe's heart stopped. "What?"

You traced your finger along a handwritten note in the margin. "This handwriting feels familiar."

Joe felt his entire nervous system shut down. "Oh?"

You studied it again. "Yeah, really familiar."

Joe laughed most unnatural laugh ever produced by a human being. "Haha." You stared at him,  he smiled while sweat appeared on his forehead. "I think lots of people have similar handwriting."

"Do they?"

"Sure."

You continued staring. Joe continued sweating. Eventually, you shrugged and turned another page, and Joe nearly fainted.

Two Days Before

That night, the recipe book rested on your bedside table. Which, unfortunately for Joe, meant he could see it.

The problem was that only one of you knew there was something hidden inside. The other was happily making her way through the pages one recipe at a time. You climbed beneath the blankets while Joe wrapped an arm around your waist.

You reached for the recipe book and Joe's eyes widened. "You know," you said, opening it, "I'm gonna read this before I sleep."

Joe sat upright. "NO."

You blinked. "Why?"

His expression immediately changed. "I mean—" He cleared his throat. "No pressure."

"...You're weird."

You returned to reading. Joe spent the next twenty minutes pretending to sleep while secretly peeking every time you turned a page.

At one point, you caught him. "Joe."

"Hm?"

"Did you just open one eye?"

"No."

"You absolutely did."

"No proof."

You sighed. Joe nearly had a heart attack when you turned another page. Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.

One Day Before

Joe had reached a level of anxiety previously unknown to mankind. He was standing inside the café kitchen surrounded by your employees, who had collectively decided this was the funniest thing they'd ever witnessed.

Your co-baker leaned against the counter. "So?"

Joe groaned. "So what?"

"So how's it going?"

Joe dropped his forehead onto the prep table. "She's still reading it."

The barista burst out laughing. "You did this to yourself."

"I know."

"How many pages left?"

"Not enough."

Another employee walked by carrying a tray. "You look terrible."

"I haven't slept."

"Because?"

"I might propose tomorrow."

The entire kitchen immediately made sympathetic noises then started laughing again. Joe pointed at all of them. "You people are horrible."

"We love you too."

The back door suddenly opened. The old man from 6D appeared carrying a paper bag, which made everyone immediately straighten.

Joe groaned. "No."

"Oh yes." The old man sat beside him. "How's future husband life treating you?"

Joe covered his face. "Please."

"Has she found the page yet?"

"No."

"Good."

"How is that good?"

The old man shrugged. "Because suffering builds character."

Joe looked genuinely offended and old man laughed. Joe sighed. The old man smiled then his expression softened. "You know she's going to say yes."

The kitchen suddenly became quieter. Joe looked down. A nervous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I know."

The old man patted his shoulder. "Then stop looking like you're being sent to war."

Before Joe could answer, the kitchen door swung open. You walked in holding a broken mug. Everyone froze instantly and suspiciously. The silence was deafening. Your eyes slowly narrowed at everyone.  . "...I don't like this."

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

One employee still held a tray halfway in the air. The old man suddenly became very interested in a muffin. Joe looked one second away from fainting.

D-Day

The day arrived disguised as an ordinary Saturday. Which made it even more dangerous. The morning had started normally with coffee and breakfast, Joe pretending to act casual while internally experiencing the worst anxiety of his entire life.

You had started noticing flowers. A small vase of daisies on Joe's coffee table. A few pink carnations near the window. Some baby's breath on the kitchen counter. It was really odd. Mostly because Joe had never been a flower guy before.

"Did you buy flowers?" you asked one afternoon.

Joe, who was currently moving a vase for the third time in ten minutes, froze. "No."

You blinked. "Then why do you have so many flowers?"

Joe stared at the flowers. "People buy flowers."

By noon, you had completely taken over his kitchen not that Joe minded. You were happiest when you baked. And three years later, watching you move around a kitchen still felt like watching magic.

The recipe book rested beside a bowl of flour. Its pages worn from constant use throughout the week, exactly as Joe had hoped. You stood at the counter measuring ingredients while Joe tied your apron strings behind your back.

His hands lingered for a second. You smiled. "Thank you."

Joe kissed your shoulder. "Anything for you."

The words came out softer than usual. You didn't think much of it. Joe, however, nearly passed out. Because hidden inside that recipe book sat the most important question he would ever ask and every passing minute brought you closer to finding it.

The afternoon drifted by peacefully. Two pastries cooled on the counter. The apartment smelled like vanilla, caramelized sugar, and melted butter. Ella Fitzgerald’s Dream a Little Dream of Me hummed softly through the speakers. Ponkan slept in a patch of sunlight. It felt like home. It felt like every ordinary moment you'd ever loved. Eventually, you wiped your hands on your apron and reached for the recipe book.

"Only a few pages left," you said.

Joe stopped breathing, LITERALLY STOPPED BREATHING.

You flipped another pages. Joe suddenly became very interested in staring at the wall. The ceiling. The floor. Anything except the book. Your eyes moved across the final recipes. Small notes scribbled in the margins. Little reminders. Measurements. Adjustments. Tiny pieces of a story. Then, you reached the last page.

At first, you smiled, it looked like another recipe. Of course it did. The entire book had been recipes. Why would the last page be different?

You read aloud. "Ingredients..."

Ingredients

2 neighboring apartments

1 orange cat named Ponkan

1 very patient old man from 6D

Endless pastries

A thousand walks through Central Park

Several trips around the world

Too many hugs to count

A ridiculous amount of kisses

Three years of choosing each other

One woman who makes every room feel like home

One man hopelessly in love with her

Instructions

Leave baked goods on your neighbor's doorstep.

Accept her invitation to taste pastries. Warning: side effects may include falling completely in love.

Spend every possible excuse together.

Teach her guitar, she never improves at.

Let her teach you that happiness can be found in ordinary days.

Dance in kitchens.

Hold hands in airports.

Adopt every lonely person, cat, and grandpa you meet.

Love her when life is easy.

Love her more when life is hard.

Build a life together one day at a time.

Make sure she never doubts how loved she is.

Spend years trying to give her everything she deserves.

Continue loving her for the rest of your life.

You kept reading ‘til your voice grew quieter, eyes blurring.  Your hand covered your mouth. "Oh, Joe..." The final words sat alone near the bottom of the page. 

You finally understood this wasn't a thrift store find. Joe had made it page by page, recipe by recipe. He had rebuilt something that time had nearly taken away. Something precious. Something irreplaceable. Something that belongs to you. And at the very bottom of the page written in pink glitter pen, were four words.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

The room disappeared, your tears made everything blurry. The book slipped lower in your hands.

And when you finally looked up, Joe was already there on his both knees. Apparently he'd panicked too much to choose one. His hands trembled. His eyes were red. And he looked even more terrified than you.

“Hi, honey.” Joe looked up at you with watery eyes, letting out a shaky laugh as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweater. "I had this whole speech memorized," he admitted. "I practiced it in the shower... in the car... I even made the old man listen to it twice." He laughed through a sniffle. "And now you're standing in front of me, and my brain has completely left my body." 

That earned a teary laugh from you. He smiled, relieved to hear it. "But maybe..." He took a deep breath. "maybe that's okay because everything I've ever wanted to tell you has never been something I needed to memorize."

Joe took a shaky breath more than you count. Trying to steady himself. Trying to put three years of love into words. Trying to explain what you meant to him. Trying to explain the impossible. Finally, he looked directly at you and smiled. The same smile that had first appeared in your hallway years ago.

"Every good thing in my life started after I met you." Fresh tears blurred your vision. "You taught me that ordinary days could be extraordinary. That trying a new recipe on a Tuesday, walking through Central Park with nowhere to be, listening to Ella Fitzgerald while we washed dishes... those are the moments that matter the most."

He laughed softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "You made me believe home isn't a place." his voice trembled. "...it's a person."

You completely lost it. Joe swallowed hard, blinking away his own tears. "Thank you... for loving me when I thought I wasn't always easy to love. Thank you for believing in me even on the days I doubted myself." He smiled, small and impossibly fond.

"Thank you for filling my apartment with the smell of butter and vanilla... for leaving cupcakes outside my door before you even knew me... for inviting me to taste pastries that completely changed my life."

He let out another shaky laugh. "I thought I was moving back to New York." He shook his head. "but I was really moving toward you." A sob escaped your lips.

Joe's own voice cracked. "Thank you for making me feel safe enough to be myself. Thank you for being my quiet after every loud day. My rest after every long flight. My favorite conversation. My favorite hello... and somehow, after all this time, you're still my favorite goodbye, because I know I'll get to see you again."

He sniffed, smiling through tears. "Thank you for leaving the lights on for me." You nodded, crying harder and you were on your knees too, unable to carry yourself anymore.  "Silly," he whispered with a watery laugh. "because you still have this thing about the dark..." His thumb brushed away one of your tears. "But I know that no matter how late I come home... no matter how far work takes me... if the lights are on, I'll find you there."

He looked at the recipe book resting on the floor.

"And that's all I've ever wanted." His eyes found yours again. "A home where you're waiting for me." He took a slow, trembling breath. "So... thank you." A smile broke through his tears. "Thank you for choosing me every single day. And if you'll keep choosing me. I'd like to spend the rest of my life choosing you too."

Joe opened the trinket ring box with pink gems he bought at the thrift store back in Japan.  Inside rested a flower-shaped ring. Six delicate pink diamond petals. Soft rose-colored light catches against the stone.

Beautiful, unique, perfect, just like you, exactly what Joe thought of you. And, incredibly, yours. Joe looked at you. Like you were the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen cause you were. "Can you make me the happiest man in the entire gala—?"

You didn't even let him finish. "YES." You threw yourself at him. The ring box nearly flew across the apartment. Joe barely managed to catch it. "YES, I'LL MARRY YOU."

Joe laughed that comes from pure relief, pure joy, pure love. The ring slid onto your finger perfectly—Joe kissed you. Through tears. Through laughter. Through three years of memories. Through every version of yourselves that had led here. When you finally pulled apart, Joe pressed his forehead against yours, still crying and smiling. 

And, you thought, maybe your grandmother had been right. Someday, someone was going to love you very, very much. She just forgot to mention it would be your neighbor.

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issy talks: i hope i made it clear that joe made a copy of one of her grandma's very very old recipe books, if not i'm gonna find the nearest sharp object and impale myself. kidding.

emoji anon/s #🍪anon

the girl next door (is not a grandma) masterlist

pairing: joe keery x reader

summary: joe thinks his new neighbor is a grandma

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

part 5

more...

𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑙𝑒𝑠

joe gets jealous when your customer tries to flirt with you

more...

your head hung low, barely awake. your system was full of drugs and some sort of alcohol

but you started to prefer the drugs after a while. they made things more..tolerable

half the time you would just lay there, barely conscious. it had been this way for years

you spent most of your time this way, hanging from the ceiling, or buckled on the floor when night comes along

at first, life with him had been great. perfect. he was so kind, and he loved you so much

or, at least, you thought

but if you’ve learned anything in your life, you can’t always trust what people say

after a while, when you started getting attached, he changed

when you first started the journey, you felt free. free from your parents. free from their expectations and abuse

you never went to the same small town diner more than once or twice, to stay hidden

you had to stay hidden so that nobody would try to find you guys and make you leave him, that’s what he told you

and when you were in those motel rooms? it was like he was the only man you knew who wasn’t angry. besides joe of course

he never told you why he was on the road too. he told you he had fallen in love with america and wanted to see it all. you didn’t ask him about his life before

you were just so in love

but not all good things last forever, you suppose

he started to manipulate you

it was small at first, he knew exactly what to say and do. he would make you feel guilty if you didn’t sleep with him

didn’t you want to make him happy?

and you fell for it. because you couldn’t get away, you were too attached, too convinced you were in love, convinced he loved you

turns out all he wanted to do was get your clothes off and hurt you

the first time he used the drugs, you absolutely hated it. they weren’t like the sleeping medication your mother would make you take when you were younger

they were so gross, so terrifying. you didn’t want to do them, drugs were bad for you

but after a while, you gave in you didn’t have much of a choice, you either let him give you them or he forced a needle in your arm

besides, it helped you forget. or, at least, in the moment. but it always came back to you at night when you were alone

one day, he brought you with him to some sort of club or party. whatever it was, it was sketchy

to get there, you had to follow him through some creepy abandoned building, and then down the stairs to the basement

that was never a good sign

the sound of music gets closer the further down you walk, along with the smell of cheap alcohol and cigarettes

when the basement door opens, the bright colored lights blind you

you squint, trying to adjust to the lighting. he doesn’t even seem phased. he pulls you along as he strides in

there’s couples dancing, well, more like grinding on each other

everyone had a drink in their hand. at a table in the corner, a group of guys were snorting something

isaiah leads you to the back of the room, ignoring the rest of the party

he leads you to a spot with a curtain instead of a door. lovely

he tugs you closer as he pushed it open, revealing a room with a group of men

black leather and dark glasses was all you could see

the men are scattered around the room, some drinking, some smoking, some doing other drugs

there’s a table in the middle of the room. there were cards scattered across it as the some of the men argued while playing..poker?

the men look up when you two enter the room, and these grins cover their faces

disgusting, gut wrenching grins

isaiah closes the curtain and leads you into the room

“hey sweetheart, what’s your name?” a tall, intimidating man asks as he stands, approaching

"y/n.." you barely whisper, pure fear filling your eyes as you look up at him

“what a pretty little thing” another man chuckles. one of them turns to isaiah “how much?”

“hundred bucks per hour” isaiah states

a man grabs a few bills, counting them and handing them over as if it was nothing

“how’s a grand for five hours? i’ll throw in a little as a tip for the pretty thing” the man winks at you, knowing none of the actual money would he going to you

“deal” isaiah grins, pocketing the bills as another man turns to you, grabbing a hanger and handing you it

you stare at it, confused with the whole situation. a hundred dollars an hour for what?

on it hung a lingerie set, and isaiah grabbed your arm, pulling you to a corner with another curtain

he pushes it open, pulling you in and closing it “w-what’s going on?” your voice is shaky, your hands gripping the hanger in fear

“you love me right?” he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. you nod and he smiles sickeningly

“good. put this on and make those men happy just like you make me”

he watches you put it on, your body trembling with fear. he guides you to step out slowly, watching as the men stare like you’re a piece of meat

he made sure everyone knew he was the first one to leave his mark on you. he wanted everyone to see who you belong to

then he sat back, drinking and watching. he pours another while you shake your ass

you begged him not to make you do it again the next time he brought you there

you stood outside the building with him, pleading through tears. but he just pulled you into his arms, his embrace more crushing than comforting

“remember when you said you wanted to make happy?” he strokes your hair, knowing you would do anything he asked

and you did. so you gave in, following him in again, every single time

he had an obsession with the money, you were addicted to the drugs

you still thought of joe, all the time. wondering, hoping that maybe, just maybe, you would get to see him again one day. if you could just run into his arms, cling to him and never let gopp

you remember the last time you spoke like it was yesterday. you had gotten into a fight, throwing harsh words at each other

“it’s not my fault you care more about popularity than your best friend!” you had yelled

you knew it was stupid. you knew he cared about you more than anything. but you felt like you were losing him to it.

and instead of talking about it like a normal person would, you did what you always did. push him away anyway without realizing

“that’s not true and you know it y/n!” he shouts back, running his fingers through his hair “then why did you just ditch me the second you got popular!”

“i didn’t! you separated yourself!” he exclaims and you purse your lips, knowing he’s right. he always is

“god, this is why we didn’t work out. you don’t trust me. and you make everything ten times more dramatic than it needs to be” he sighs

your stomach drops at his words, overthinking them immediately

“don’t look at me like that” he adds in an almost pleading tone, seeing the look of hurt and disappointment

“how else am i supposed to look at you?” you snapped, trying to hide your sadness with anger

“i know this all is hard for you, but i can’t be there for you if you yell at me every second” he tried to step forward- you step away

“fine, then don’t be there” you spit and turn around, truly devastated with yourself as you walk away from your best friend

the one person who’s ever truly been there for you

you were never allowed out of the house. that was just one of the rules. you stay in the attic, and you don’t get punished. simple

so you definitely hadn’t expected it when isaiah had told you that he needed to go run an errand, you were coming with him

usually he just kept you drugged while he was gone or chained up, the door locked

“hey, i gotta run to the store, get up” he walks over, unlocking the chain

you stumble, rubbing your sore wrists- you chew your lip, steadying yourself and following him down the creaky stairs

he pulled out his key, unlocking the latch on the door and guiding you out

he locked the door behind him before leading you down the path. the house was in the woods, so you had to walk a bit to get to his car

the dirt was rough on your socks. you walked for about five minutes, silent except for the sound of twigs under your feet

the forest was calm, save for the few occasional birds. it was the opposite of the attic

you made it to his truck, and he helped you in. you buckled in, fidgeting with your nails

you had no idea that he was letting you out because he wanted you to see life one last time

one last time before he took that life away. completely

the drive was quiet, the music on the radio and the engine purring the only sound filling your ears. you watched the surroundings nearby as the car drove

after a while of driving, he pulls up to a small store. it’s not very busy, the area far away from the house and in a smaller town

he reaches into the back of his truck, grabbing a hoodie and tossing it at you. you pull it on, pulling the hood on

he gets out of the truck, walking around and opening your door. you climb out, following as his large frame leads you to the doors

he opens the door, leading you in. the smell hits you. it’s not something everyone else smells when they step into a store like this, but it is for you

books

you look up at him, and he nods. you quickly rush over to the shelves. you run your fingers over the spines

he had brought you books in the past, his way of ‘rewarding’ you for behaving. but he had never actually brought you to pick for yourself

he let you look around for hours. he wanted to at least let you have something nice before he took your life

after all, you had earned him a lot of money for a while, he figured he would let you go out and choose what you wanted instead of just getting something for you himself

plus, he liked watching the way him doing such a small thing made you so happy. he thought it was pathetic

you leave the store with four books. he drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives back to the house, occasionally glancing over

you stare at the first book intently as you read

he found it ironic. you bought romance books when the romance in your life was all a lie

he pulls into the lot, hopping out. he walks around the car again, opening your door

he grabs the collar from the back, fastening it back around your neck. you hop out, carrying the bag of books so delicately

you followed him back inside the house. he locked the front door and turned to you

"head up to the attic" he commanded. you walk upstairs, climbing into the attic

you walk over and sit down on the mattress in the corner, setting the bag down and grabbing the book out

the wind blew in from the cracked window. his footsteps neared the attic, and he appeared a few moments later. he walks over

he kneels down next to you, stroking your hair almost mockingly

“what do you say?” he tsks, as if he was speaking to a child. you look up at him, so fucking manipulated “thank you isaiah” you speak timidly

every time you spoke, he loved it. your soft voice made him want to break you even more

and he knew you would never leave him. because nobody would love you after everything he had done to you

a few days had passed, and he had been so oddly sweet to you. you didn’t understand. he brought you a bunch of baked goods from a bakery

you just didn’t know he had laced them before coming upstairs

you had grown to not know whether or not you were being drugged. you got used to the taste

usually he never lets you have anything nice to eat. all you ever got was enough to keep you alive

you hadn’t even noticed when you blacked out

your eyes open slowly, your arms still above your head hanging. you look around, still in the attic. you hear footsteps and tense again

but the face that appears isn’t the man who causes you pain. it’s the one who made you feel love

joe..

he looks over, face a mask of horror “oh my god-y/n” he gasps, stumbling back

you’re hanging there like a piece of meat, arms tied above your head against the beam, feet barely touching the ground, completely numb

he hurries over, big hands cupping your cheeks “what happened to you?” he whispers, wiping your tears

his face was a mix of devastation and relief. you couldn't speak through the muzzle, just looked up at him, trembling and eyes wet with fresh tears

"hey, hey it’s okay. 'm here, i'm here. we’re going to get you out" he promises, hands trembling as he reaches above you, looking for a way to get you down

“just-just hang on, okay? i’m gonna get you down” his hands fiddle with the metal, snapping the rusty lock

he breaks the chain, catching you. he slowly lowers to the floor, cradling you “i’ve got you, i’ve got you” he whispers, holding you close and cradling you

you cling to him, feeling the freedom. his hands slowly start to get colder, and his grip loosens. you look up and suddenly everything goes dark

your eyes snap open and you look around frantically. no.. no, no no no! “hey, i’m talking to you bitch” isaiah spits, snapping you back to reality

“you were whining that poor boys name. do you miss your little friend?” his tone is mocking “well i don’t care. you’re mine now, not his”

tears stream down your face and he tsks

“such a poor thing" he whispers, stroking your cheek above the muzzle "my sweet, sweet mourning lamb" he pulls away, looking you over

he slaps you across the face “pathetic” he spits

when he hits, it hurts. you had been subject to abuse occasionally growing up, but nothing like him

he uses all his strength, big hard punches straight to the fact, stomach, anywhere

but nothing was as bad as the torture. and he tightens the restraints, grabbing a metal pole, and starting it again anyway

when your head falls forward, his pole hits your wrists. you yelp in pain, then gasp when you feel the chains weaken. you yank them, the rusty metal falling to the floor

you put all your effort in and slam them into him, making him groan and stumble back

you gasp as you yank yourself free. thank god the chain was rusty. you turn and run down the stairs, stumbling from the pain. you pull on the door desperate to get it open. you hear him groan and stand up. you grab a piece of wood and smash the window open

you climb out, falling to the ground. you push yourself back up, running down the porch. the sound of the door opening and closing echoes in your ear, along with the sound of him chasing you

you push to run despite the horrid burn in your body. you couldn't die, you couldn't let him kill you

you turn to see where he is, he's getting closer, you need to keep going, keep pushing just a little-

thump

you fall to the ground with a thud as you trip over a pile of rocks. no no no. you drag yourself back up, but he's so close now. you're slower now, your legs burning with a whole new pain

he grabs you in a headlock, cutting off your air

you let out the loudest scream you could manage "stop!" your scream echoes through the forest, but no one hears it. he drags you back to the house

he pulls you to the basement instead, tossing you on the ground

he grabs the chains, tightening them and tying it around your neck

“get on your knees” he snaps, and you stumble to your knees despite the pain

“you know what you are? you’re a filthy slut. my dirty pet. an animal. you know what happens to animals when they misbehave?” he growls, tugging the chain

“t-they get punished” you whimper in pain “that’s right. and what are you?”

“a-an animal” you choke out. he grabs a muzzle, tying it around your mouth “much better”

“now, since you’re an animal, you’ll sleep like one” he drags you to a wire cage and forces you in, tying the chain to a wall and locking the cage

he walks up the stairs, turning the light off and leaving you alone in the cold dark cage, trembling in pain

he walks downstairs the next morning, kneeling in front of the cage. he unlocks it, pulling you out

"stand up" he demands sharply. you struggle to stand up, making him lt out a mocking laugh "pathetic little thing. cant even stand up

he drags you up, yanking you towards the wall and tying your wrists to the chains on the wall

“i should’ve killed you years ago. fucking you dead would’ve been much nicer”

he grabs his ring and a lighter. he slowly flicks it on, keeping eye contact with you as he heats it slowly

“you think you can run away from me?” he sets the lighter down, slowly stepping forward and grabbing your arm. he pushes your sleeve up and hivers the metal over your arm

“this is what happens when you try to run” he presses it hard and you scream in pain as he holds it there. you sob, but he’s holding you down firmly

he pulls it off, looking at the raw skin. he reaches into the bag he keeps in the corner

you pour all your strength into one hard kick. he falls forward, straight into a beam, knocking him right on the nose and he blacks out. you knew you didn’t have much time

you yank on the chains. you yank and yank until they snap off the board

you fell to the floor, coughing and hacking. your whole body ached, protesting with each movement. you groan as you push yourself up, stumbling to the stairs

the restraints on your arms and ankles slow you down, but you force any energy you have into getting out

you climb up the stairs, gripping the railing. you nearly fall down them, reaching the door. you push it open and climb out

you stumble to the front door. the window you had broken during your last attempt to escape had been fixed. fuck

you look around frantically, spotting an axe. you grab it, smashing the glass, shards flying. you climb out of the window, falling to the ground with a broken groan as you land in glass

you grip the support beams, pulling yourself up. you think of joe, and you force all your energy into running. and that’s what you do

the first few steps are utter torture, but you force your legs to move

you run through the woods, not knowing where you’re headed. every step is more and more exhausting, and you feel as though your body may give out at any moment

you fall on your hands and knees, sobbing in pain. the chains dig into your skin, the collar nearly choking you and the muzzle making you feel silenced

you try to crawl, desperate. you claw at the restraints. a foot comes flying down onto your back

you fall face first. your jaw smacks into a rock, and if it weren’t for the muzzle, you were sure it would have been broken

you try to push yourself back up, but the boot stays firm holding you down

you knew who it was

you knew the moment you looked up, you would see that face, and you would lose all hope

he doesn’t give you a choice

he grips your shoulder, lifting his boot so he can flip you over. he towers over you, staring down at you with pure rage and hatred

he pushes his boot on your chest, enough to make you struggle for air. he kneels, straddling you

he doesn’t mutter a single word. he doesn’t have to. because you already know what he’s going to do

he takes his big hands, wrapping them around your neck. his weight pins your body to the ground, and all you can do is gasp weakly and claw at his arms

your nails dig into his skin over and over but he doesn’t care. he lifts you by your neck slightly, watching you struggle to breathe

you stare up at him with wide panicked eyes, tears streaming down your face as you struggle for air

you feel reality slipping away. but it was real this time. he wasn’t just doing another threat or scare like he used to

you were actually dying

your life was playing in your head. you had born into a life without love. you had built love with joe, and then you had fallen for a man you met, and now you were going to die without love

you choke, eyes watering as you feel consciousness slipping away slowly. your eyelids flutter, your grips getting weaker

suddenly, he loosens his grip. he yanks you up, throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. he starts walking, heading straight to his truck

you can't fight. you're torn between screaming and staying frozen in fear. he opens the passenger door, tossing you in roughly and slamming it

he walks around, climbing into the driver's side. he starts the car, immediately slamming on the gas. you sat in the seat, head lolling, half conscious. every time you move, he pushes your head against the window

he pulls over near a big shop. he gets out, walking around and yanking your door open

he yanks the hoodie on you, pulling you out. you stumble, unable to fight back

he walks inside the store with a tight grip on you. he walks around, grabbing rope, a knife, and a gun

you keep your head down as you wait in the line. he sets the items on the belt. the woman at the register kept giving you concerned looks,but didn't say anything

until she saw a glimpse of your face when Isaiah yanked you with him. you were clearly out of it, your face was bruised and battered. but the main thing she noticed was who you were

you had been all over the news. and she could tell you weren't safe. so she grabbed her phone and immediately dialed 911, frantic to get a hold of someone before you got too far

he shoves you back in his car, throwing the stuff in your lap and climbs into the drivers seat

he turns the key, revving the engine before taking off once again "did you make any faces at that woman?" he grits out. you frantically shake your head through your drugged state

he throws his fist into your head making you hit the window again. he grips the wheel tightly as he speeds down the highway

he grabs the collar, tightening it around your neck again and fastening the muzzle

you struggle to breathe through the tight hold as he holds it around your neck tightly, choking and coughing

and just as your vision is about to go black, the sound of sirens near. he lets go to look behind him, multiple police cars behind him

he turns back to face the road, slamming on the brakes seeing more in front of him. your head falls straight into the dashboard, groaning

police officers climb out of the cars, guns raised and walk slowly "get out of the car with your hands in the air"

he hesitates, weighing out his options. he slowly steps out of the car, hands up

"on the ground!" another officer commands. you watch him kneel, his sharp eyes refusing to break eye contact

two officers immediately grab him. a male officer grabs both his arms, yanking them behind his back

you barely process what's going on. your mind is spinning. you can hear the officers speaking to him faintly, slumped in the car

"you have the right to remain silent. anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law" court of law?

"you have the right to an attorney. if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you"

all you can hear is Isaiah arguing with the cops and them yelling at him to cooperate. you stumble out of the car, falling to the ground

one of the officers approaches you slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal

“gomez, go grab something to get these chains off” the officer commands another, who quickly rushed to the police cars. you curl into yourself, suddenly terrified

“it’s okay, we’re not gonna hurt you” the officer assures you, but you don’t believe it

your looking around frantically for an escape, though you knew you wouldn't be able to get up. you were too weak

a red haired woman steps out “hey..i promise. we just want to help” she kneels next to you. you flinch. the second officer rushes over with two more officers, some pliers and chain cutters

officer gomez carefully kneels, trying to help take the restraints off. you curl into yourself

“it’s okay, i promise. we won’t hurt you” the red haired woman says. a man approached slowly as well, speaking with a british accent “we’re joes friends” you freeze. joes friends?

the redhead nods, agreeing with the man “i’m sadie. that’s charlie. we just want to help” she promises. you look between her and the cop, still scared

should you trust them? what if you were just imagining it? and then you hear a voice. frantic, shouting, trembling. familiar. the voice is deeper than you remember, but impossible to miss

that’s joe

it’s really him. you look up and he’s running over to the scene. and he nearly stops breathing when he sees you

you looked so broken. dressed in an off white dress that was covered in dirt and slight spots of your blood. scars on your body, bruises along with them

you were trembling, wrists and ankles stuck to chains, a metal collar on your neck, and some sort of muzzle still caught on your face. you looked so scared, so traumatized

he almost broke down. the love of his life was finally in front of him after fifteen years. and somehow, you looked even worse than his nightmare, yet you were still the beautiful woman he loved

he slowly walked towards you, watching your wide doe eyes follow his every move “y/n..?” his voice cracks, seeing tears fall down your face. sadie steps aside

he slowly kneels next to you. you flinch, but not away. just habit “i’m here..i’m here, just let the officers help you please” he begs

you hesitate, still terrified and processing the situation. you were caught between refusing, still scared, and letting them free you

on one hand, this was finally your chance to be free, fully escape. but you also had the fear stuck in your mind, terrified to let anyone touch you

“i promise you, they are not going to hurt you” he tried to coax you into letting the officers help, desperate to make you safe

after almost fifteen minutes, the desperation for freedom won

you slowly nod, making everyone sigh in relief. the officer slowly knees beside you, carefully working to clip the muzzle. you tense at any contact

she works gently, avoiding any contact of the tool with skin. a sharp creak noise echoes and the restriction falls from your face, the other officer quickly grabbing it before it falls onto your lap

multiple officers are standing near, hiding view of you from all the reporters and people nearby

your jaw is red and sore. next comes the collar, freeing your neck. the skin is red and raw, and the feeling of nothing on it feels ten times better than you imagined

two officers work on the chains every so carefully. joe sits next to you the whole time, hand hovering over your back, scared to touch you and startle you

the moment every restraint is off, it truly hits you

you were free

the sounds of sirens approaching is heard as an ambulance nears. you tense “hey, hey it’s okay. i’m right here” joe assures you again

paramedics rush over, carrying a stretcher. after some convincing, they manage to get you on the stretcher. they had to lift you because you were so weak

it wasn’t difficult though. you were severely malnourished

they lift the stretcher into the ambulance as joe promises over and over that he’ll meet you at the hospital. the doors close, cutting him off

the sirens blare as the ambulance speeds off “y/n? honey, im going to give you some sedatives okay?” a female paramedic speaks softly

you stare at the ambulance ceiling, not responding. she carefully takes a needle, ever so gently sticking it in your arm and giving you the sedative

the last thing you hear before falling unconscious is the paramedics discussing your condition, worried

-joe-

he practically runs inside the hospital, looking around frantically. he rushes over to the receptionist while officers stand by the hospital doors

everyone knew that there would be news people here soon. celebrities frantically rushing to a hospital was bound to make a headline

the receptionist looks up, startled “can i help you sir?” she speaks gently “i’m here for y/n buxbaum”

her expression turns grim. the name was familiar from the paramedics rushing you in just minutes before

“ms. buxbaum is currently being examined. are you family?” she asks. he hesitates “i’m..her best friend.. i’m all she has” his tone is pleading. she nods, typing a few things in her computer

“the doctor will let you know once she’s able to have visitors. for now, you’re welcome to wait over there” she motions to the waiting room, giving him a sympathy look

he nods, walking over and slumping in a chair, leg bouncing with his lower lip in between his teeth

a few moments later, charlie and sadie are hurrying in “is she okay?” they ask him, worried. joe rests his head in his hands “i don’t know”

they sit next to him, charlie resting his hand on joes back “she’s gonna be okay man” he assures joe

all the overwhelming emotions wash over him, and he breaks down into sobs, processing everything. charlie stays by him comforting him

the wait feels excruciating. his phone constantly blows up with messages from his friends asking if you’re alright

charlie offers him a coffee, jod barely acknowledging it. eventually he takes it and sips it, though his eyes are stuck on the hallway doors

a doctor steps out, exhausted but relieved “family of ms. buxbaum?” he speaks, making joes head snap up. he’s over in an instant

“yes, yes that’s me” joe nods, frantic for any update “she’s stable. she was very malnourished and injured. we’ll need to keep her here for a little while” the doctor explains

“how long?” joe asks “could be weeks, could be months. it depends on her willingness. patients like this often refuse to let doctors and nurses touch them or help them” the doctor explains

“what do you mean? patients like what?” joe asks almost reluctantly, terrified of the answer “victims of domestic and.. sexual violence”

the words make everything in his world stop, and joe thinks he might pass out for a moment. he had been refusing to consider that possibility the whole time he was waiting

the state he saw you in, he didn’t want to believe it was true “c-can i see her?” his voice is a broken whisper

the doctor nods professionally, though he gives a sympathetic look, similar to the nurses earlier “yes. but she’s still unconscious”

joe he nods, following as the doctor leads him to your hospital room. the sight of you laying on the bed, pale and unconscious makes his heart ache even more if possible

he walks over to the bed, pulling a chair up and sitting down next to it

you looked older now. of course you did, it had been almost fifteen years. but he would always be able to recognize you. your hair, once soft and beautiful, now tangled and rough.

he makes a mental note to buy you some shampoo and conditioner. you had always loved when he would brush your hair when you two were younger

you had always thought he was just naturally good at it. you didn’t know that he had spent hours asking his mom and sisters to teach him how to braid hair

he remembers when kids used to make fun of you for having messy hair when you were younger. he would always tell them to back off and he always felt so bad because it made you cry

he knew you didn’t have anyone to take care of you the way his family always took care of him. and so he had promised himself he would always take care of you

the guilt had eaten him alive the years you were missing. of course, he had an amazing life going

he had pursued his singing career and started acting. he joined a band, and he auditioned for stranger things, landing one of the main roles in a hit tv series

he started making his own music with a new band and became known as a famous artist too. he was living an amazing life, but he never stopped thinking of you

the best thing that could ever happen was to live that life with you. and now he finally had you back after so long

but he wondered if you would still want him. if you still loved him. after all these years, after all that's happened

but he knew that in the end, he didn’t care if you loved him again. even if all you wanted now was to be his friend, he would do anything just to have you back in his life, even if that meant you only being his best friend. you were his everything

he knew that the most important thing right now was helping you heal. he had no idea what had happened to you, but he knew it wasn’t good, and he knew you would be struggling

he was determined to make sure you got everything you needed. he was going to take care of you, just like he promised years ago

he knew you were going to need all the support he could give you

especially because there were already headlines. and he knew they would only get so much worse as time went by. and he knew this would be serious. whether you wanted to go to court or not, he knew you there would be a trial

he knew it would be hard. because that’s how courts were. and he knew the way lawyers would be, and he knew you were going to have to relive all the pain you went through

and he knew he was going to have to hear every single thing. and as much as that pained him, he knew he had to be there to support you

and if there was anything else he knew, he knew your parents were going to show up. and that? that would be one of the worst parts of this

and he wasn't going to leave you alone again. never, ever again

a/n✄ could you tell I have a problem with toxic relationships. did i cry multiple times writing this? yes. am i just a sensitive person? also yes. i literally crashed out trying to write this properly . i may have gone insane with this one i fear

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first, a multi-car pileup at dawn bled into a series of critical post-ops. then, every time he had tired to reach for his coat, another “one last thing” tethered him back to the floor. now, nearly ten hours into a forced double, the walls feel like they’re closing in. all he wants right now is to be through his front door, to shed the smell of antiseptic and the weight of the hospital, and to finally disappear into the quiet comfort of his home, where you were probably already waiting for him.

“it’s too quiet,” dana mutters as she organizes a stack of charts.

jack offers a ghost of a tired smile. “don’t say the ‘q’ word. you’ll jinx us.”

his mind drifts, as it often does during these rare lulls, back to you. he thinks about the way you looked when he left. half-asleep, tangled in the duvet in your hared bed, grumbling about the warmth leaving you as jack got out of the bed. he’d kissed your forehead, whispered that he’d be home by eight, in time to share breakfast with you, and headed into the belly of the beast. as he walked into the hospital, he felt a rare pang of guilt; he’d been working so many double shifts lately that your shared home felt more like a hotel.

i’ll make it up to her, he thinks. maybe he can take you out to that new sushi bar you showed him on your phone the other day. no, you’ll probably prefer thai. you’ve always loved-

the thought is cut short by the sharp, rhythmic chirp of the trauma radio. the sound like a physical blow to the silence.

“dispatch to mercy trauma, we have a level 1 activation. multiple vehicle collision, pileup on the i-579. initial reports suggest a jackknifed semi and at least six passenger vehicles. multiple red-tags. first eta is four minutes. lead bus is carrying a female, blunt force chest trauma, unstable vitals, gcs of 6.”

the er transforms in a heartbeat. the “slump” dies instantly, replaced by the practiced, frantic choreography of a trauma team who’s been through this million times.

robby, that was contrasting the lab results from one of his patients jumps into action.

“abbot, i need you in trauma. we need to get bays 1 and 2 ready. i want respiratory on standby. grab the o-neg. if this is a pileup, we’re going to be drowning in ten minutes.”

“let’s go!” jack barks, his voice dropping into that authoritative, calm register that defined him as he signals some of the residents to follow him,

the coffee is now discarded and forgotten on dana’s desk as jack pulls on a pair of gloves, the snap of latex echoing against the white, bright walls of room. here, in the chaos of trauma 1, he’s in his element. he’s dr. abbot, the man who’s used to holding the line between life and death. he feels the familiar rush of adrenaline, the narrowing of his world until only the patients matter.

“eta one minute!” someone shouts.

robby stands at the ambulance bay doors, peering through the glass. a faint rain has started. a cold, miserable drizzle that blurs the red and blue lights of the approaching sirens.

the first ambulance screeches to a halt and the back doors swing open. immediately, a paramedic jumps out, already pumping a manual respirator. “female, trapped in the driver’s side for twenty minutes. we had to use the jaws. bp is 80 over 40 and dropping. she’s trending toward traumatic arrest!”

robby’s breath catches for a fraction of a second. his eyes scan the familiar face, noticing all the blood, the cuts and bruises.

no, he thinks. please, let it not be true.

“get her to bay 1!” he orders, returning to reality as he steps forward to catch the side of the gurney as it flies past.

as robby pushes the gurney, he refuses to look at the patient’s face. but when he walks past dana’s desk, he looks devastated, and she notices. rounding her desk, she walks next to him, matching his quick step.

“i need abbot out of that room,” he says. “now.”

frowning, dana walks next to him.

“what? why?”

robby just shakes his head. “i need you to take him to trauma 2. anywhere, really. just… away from…”

but it’s already too late.

jack’s eyes are locked on the gurney, tracking the way the patient’s body jolts with every bump of the wheels, noticing the blood-soaked bandages on her chest.

“on three! one, two, three!”

the paramedics help slide the patient onto the trauma table. and it’s only then, as one of the them pulls away the oxygen mask to swap it for the hospital’s ventilator, that the world truly stops spinning.

the air leaves jack’s lungs as if he’d been punched.

“jack…” robby tries, but he doesn’t look at him. he can’t react at all.

the female with blunt force chest trauma and unstable vitals isn’t a stranger.

it’s you.

your face is ghostly pale under the smears of blood and road grime. your hair, which he’d smoothed back just hours ago in the quiet of your bedroom, is matted with glass shards. you lay limp, your chest barely moving, a hollow shell of the person he loves.

“jack?” dana’s voice comes from a distance, sharp and concerned. “jack, what are you doing? we need to intubate!”

jack abbot, the man who never flinches, who doesn’t shake under stress, no matter how hard or critical the case, now stands frozen. his hands, usually as steady as stone, are shaking so violently they seem to rattle against the metal railing of the bed.

robby glances at dana over his friend’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“no,” jack whispers, the word catching in his throat. “no, no, no…”

“okay, “robby mutters to himself. “abbot, i need you to get out. now.”

but jack still can’t react, he doesn’t even flinch when dana closes her hand around his forearm, trying to pull him out of the room.

robby pushes past him. “she’s crashing! i need a central line now! jack, get out of the way!”

robby grabs a scalpel, his movements clinical and fast. he doesn’t stop to consider who is on the table. to him, right now you are just a ‘red tag.’ he can’t allow himself to think of anything else.

right now, you can’t be the woman who has quickly become one of his closest friends, one of the main supports on his hardest days. the woman he proudly considers family, the same one he shared secrets and past anecdotes with when he came by to yours and jack’s house for dinner every month.

dana is still trying to get jack out of the room, threatening to call security on him when the attending’s weak whisper makes her stop in her tracks.

“stop,” jack rasps, his voice cracking. he lunges forward, shaking dana’s hand off, too desperate. “stop. that’s… that’s my wife.”

the room goes dead silent for a heartbeat, save for the screaming of the heart monitor. robby looks up, nothing but pity for his friend boring in them.

“jack… you can’t be in here, brother. you know the protocol.”

“i am not leaving her!” jack roars, his voice echoing off the trauma bay walls, raw and heartbroken. “my wife is dying. i am not leaving her!”

“you’re making it worse!” robby hisses back. “you’re compromised! you’re going to kill her if you don’t let us work!”

jack looks down at you. he sees the blood. he sees the way your heart rate is flickering on the screen like a dying candle. a cold, terrifying clarity suddenly washes over him. the panic doesn’t disappear, of course it doesn’t, but he forces it down into a small, dark box in the back of his mind.

he steps back slightly, chest heaving. but his hands stop shaking, the roaring in his ears slows to low hum, enough for him to hear his own thoughts again.

“fuck the protocol. i’m staying,” jack said, his voice now terrifyingly low and steady. “robby, get the chest tube. and i need 10 of epi. now!”

he doesn’t look at his colleagues as he works. he looks only at you.

“stay with me,” he whispers, so low only you could have heard it if you were awake. “don’t you dare leave me, do you hear me? stay with me.”

and so the chaos begins in the trauma bay. robby and jack, along with a couple of residents and some extra hands work together, in synchronicity.

“i need a fast exam, now!” jack’s voice cuts through the noise, steady but edged with desperation, focused on the monitors, on the jagged green lines of your heart rate, the terrifyingly low oxygen saturation. he tries not to look at you, knowing that if he did he’d see your eyes, closed and bruised, and he would shatter.

“jack, i’ve got the ultrasound,” rabby says, his voice softer now, cautious.

he moves the probe over your abdomen, eyes flicking between the small screen and your still form.

you’re so still. the woman who loves dancing in the kitchen to grainy jazz records is now buried under layers of medical plastic and blood-stained gauze.

“we’ve got internal bleeding,” robby mutters, his brow furrowing. “she’s bleeding out into her peritoneum. jack, we need to get her to or immediately.”

“wait,” jack says, eyes falling to the darkening bruise on your lower belly. “check the pelvis. i want a full sweep. if there’s a pelvic fracture we didn’t see—”

“i’m on it,” robby replies. he moves the probe lower, his movements clinical.

the room seems to go silent, though the machines are still screaming. jack watches the ultrasound screen, his mind already three steps ahead, calculating surgical approaches, estimating blood loss, praying to a god he hasn’t spoken to in years.

then, the image shifts.

robby freezes. the probe stops moving.

on the grainy, black-and-white screen, nestled deep within the shadows of your body, is a small, unmistakable flicker. a pulsing light.

jack’s breath hitched. his world, already tilted on its axis, began to spin violently.

“jack…” robby’s voice was barely a whisper. “is that…?”

“no,” jack breathes, the word a plea. “no, it can’t be.”

he grabs the probe from robby’s hand, his fingers slick with ultrasound gel. he presses it down again, his eyes wide and frantic as he searches the screen. and there it is. a gestational sac. maybe ten weeks. perhaps older. a tiny, fragile life tucked away inside the chaos of your broken body.

a life he didn’t know about. a life you hadn’t told him about.

“she’s pregnant,” robby breathes from the bedside, his hand flying to his mouth.

the realization hits jack like a physical blow to the chest. this isn’t about just you anymore. it’s about both of you. every choice he makes in the next ten minutes will not just decide the fate of his wife; it would decide the fate of their child, too.

“we can’t use the standard protocol, jack,” robby says, his voice rising in panic. “the meds we were going to use for the induction, the ct scan, the radiation…”

“i know!” jack roars, the sound raw and guttural. he drops the probe and it hits the floor with a dull thud.

the “doctor mode” he has spent years perfecting, the emotional armor he wears like a second skin, cracks wide open. the image of that tiny, flickering heartbeat burned into his retinas. he sees you then; not as a patient, not as a ‘red tag,’ but as the mother of his child, dying on a cold metal table because of a patch of ice and a moment of bad luck.

the room begins to tilt. the bright fluorescent lights turned into blinding white spots. the sound of the ventilator—hiss-click, hiss-click—is like a ticking time bomb.

“jack, look at me,” robby says, stepping into his line of sight, grabbing jack’s shoulders. “jack, you’re hyperventilating. you need to step back.”

“i… i didn’t know,” jack stammers, his legs suddenly turning to lead. “she didn’t… we couldn’t…”

he looks back at you. your face is a mask of trauma, but in his mind, he sees you the way you were hours ago when he left you cold on your shared bed. the way you smiled at him. did you know then? maybe you were waiting for dinner to tell him.

the grief and the shock collide in his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. jack’s knees buckle.

“he’s going down!” robby cries, catching him under his arms before he hits the floor.

jack doesn’t fight him. he can’t. his strength is gone, evaporated. he slumps against the wall, his head in his hands, the bloodied plastic of his blue gown crinkling as he collapses.

“get him out of here,” robby orders, his voice firm as he takes over the lead position at the bed. “now! someone, please, get him to the breakroom. i’ll take her up. i promise you, jack, i will do everything. just go!”

jack feels hands on him, a strong grip pulling him up, guiding him away from the bed. he tries to resist, tries to reach out for you, but his body simply won’t obey.

as he’s led through the swinging doors, the last thing he sees is the team swarming around you, the red light of the blood bags hanging over your head, and the ultrasound screen, displaying that tiny, flickering heart once more.

the doors click shut, leaving him in the hallway, the rapid beat of his heart a deafening roar in his ears.

he’s a doctor. he’s a husband. and now, he’s a father.

and he might lose everything before the sun went down.

jesse lets go of his arm when they arrive at the breakroom, and with a quiet “i’m sorry” and a gentle nod he leaves jack behind and returns to the room where the rest of the team is still fighting to save you.

you and the baby.

god, the mere thought raises tears to jack’s eyes.

a baby.

his baby.

biting the inside of his cheek, jack thinks of the previous times when he heard these news. of the sound of your excited, cheerful voice the first time you came up to him with a positive test.

unfortunately he also remembers your heartbroken wails as he hold you tight to his chest, both of you sitting on the bathroom floor at home. he remembers how he bit his lips, forcing himself to stay strong for you but wanting nothing more but to crumble into pieces right there.

you had stopped trying after the second miscarriage. a decision none of you wanted to made but that you needed in order to protect your own hearts and your sanity.

and now… now you’re laying on a cold, metal exam table, closer to death than you’ve ever been and jack has everything to lose.

the breakroom smells of stale coffee and industrial-strength floor cleaner. it’s a room designed for brief reprieves, for five-minute naps and hurried meals, but right now, for jack, it feel like a cage.

he seats on the edge of a vinyl chair, his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands, at dark, shiny band on his left hand.

you are pregnant. the thought keeps looping in his mind, a frantic, broken record. how could he miss it? he’s a doctor, for god’s sake. he is trained to notice the smallest shifts in physiology, the subtle cues of the human body.

he thinks back to the last few weeks; your sudden preference for tea over coffee, the way you’d been falling asleep on the couch before the 11 o’clock news. he’d chalked it up to stress, to the gray pittsburgh winter, to his own grueling schedule and the fact that he didn’t seem to have time to spare, time for you.

he closes his eyes and sees you in the kitchen three days ago, laughing at the ridiculous apron he usually wears when he cooks. you looked so vibrant, so incredibly alive. now, you have been reduced to a series of vitals on a monitor, a problem to be solved by people who don’t know the sound of your laugh or your favorite movie from your childhood.

“god, please,” he whispers into the empty room. now, jack abbot is hardly a religious man, but the silence of the hospital is demanding a sacrifice. “take me. just… don’t take them. please.”

the door creaks open and jack bolts upright, his heart hammering against his ribs. dr. robby, his best friend, his brother, stands there. he’s stripped off his bloody gown, but his scrubs are darkened with sweat. somehow, he looks older than he did twenty minutes ago.

“jack,” robby says, his voice level, cautious.

“tell me,” jack demands, his voice cracking. “please, tell me. is she… are they-”

“she’s still on the table,” robby says, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him. “we’ve stabilized the splenic bleed, and the chest tube is draining well. but jack…” robby let’s out a long, heavy sigh. “ the situation is complicated. you know the physiology as well as i do.”

jack slumps back into the chair, the “doctor” part of his brain forcing its way through the grief. he does know.

in a trauma patient, pregnancy changes everything. the blood volume increases by 50%, which means a woman can lose a massive amount of blood before her blood pressure even begins to drop. by the time you see the “crash,” it’s often too late.

“her vitals are brittle,” robby continues, leaning his back against the vending machine. “because of the pregnancy, her heart is already working overtime. and we’re struggling to keep her map high enough to perfuse the placenta without blowing out the repairs we just made.”

“and the baby?” jack asks, the word feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue.

“the fetus is roughly twelve weeks,” robby says. “at this stage, there’s no ‘saving’ the baby independently. the only way to save the pregnancy is to save the mother. but the vasopressors we’re using to keep her pressure up… they cause vasoconstriction in the uterus. we’re effectively starving the baby of oxygen to keep her brain and heart alive.”

it’s the ultimate medical catch-22. to save you, they had to risk the baby. to save the baby, they might lose you.

“the ultrasound showed some subchorionic hemorrhaging,” robby adds softly. “with the impact of the steering wheel, the placenta might be starting to detach. if that happens, she’ll bleed out from the inside faster than we can pump blood into her.”

jack buries his face in his hands. he knows the statistics. he knows that in maternal trauma, fetal demise is as high as 40-50% depending on the severity of the crash.

“i should have been there,” jack groans. “i should have driven her. she told me the brakes felt ‘soft’ last week and i told her i’d look at them on my day off. i didn’t… i didn’t look at them, robby.”

“jack, stop,” robby says firmly, walking the few steps separating him from his friend and crouching in front of him. “the police report said a semi hydroplaned across the median. it wouldn’t have mattered if she was driving a tank. don’t do this to yourself.”

jack looks up, his eyes bloodshot and raw. “how can i not?i’m the one who’s supposed to fix people. i spend twelve hours a day stitching strangers back together, and the one person who matters,” his voice breaks. “i didn’t even know she was carrying our child.”

robby sighs, his expression softening. “she’s a fighter, jack. we both know that. she’s held on this long. but i need you to stay here. if you go back in there…. i can’t worry about you too. i need to focus on them.”

“i can’t just sit here, man,” jack says, his voice rising. “i’m going crazy in this room.”

“then go to the chapel. go for a walk. or go home. but do not come back to that room,” robby warns. “i’ll send dana or jesse out when we have another update.”

as robby turns to leave, jack calls out, “wait.”

robby pauses at the door.

“the heartbeat,” jack whispers. “was it… was it still there when you left?”

robby hesitates for a fraction of a second, a beat that feels like an eternity to jack.

“it was,” robby says. “faint. but it was still there.”

and with that, the door clicks shut, leaving jack alone again.

the breakroom remains too quiet for far too long. jack paces the narrow strip of linoleum between the coffee machine and the round table, his mind a minefield of memories. he keeps seeing you in the passenger seat of his car, laughing at some stupid joke he told, the sun reflecting the stars in your eyes. he keeps thinking about the baby, whose existence had already rewritten the map of his future, even if they haven’t met yet.

then, the overhead speaker crackles. it’s a sound jack hears a dozen times a shift, a sound he usually meets with professional focus.

“code blue, trauma 1. code blue, trauma 1.”

the world doesn’t just tilt; it shatters.

trauma 1. your room.

jack is moving before his brain can even process the command. he throws open the breakroom door, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a bang that echoes down the corridor. he doesn’t care about protocol. he doesn’t care about robby’s orders. he doesn’t care about his own career.

he runs.

the hallway feels miles long, the floor slick under his clogs. he passes a group of residents who scramble out of his way, eyes wide as they see night shift attending sprinting with a look of pure, unadulterated terror on his face.

he bursts through the double doors of the trauma bay, his lungs burning.

“jack, wait!” a nurse shouts, trying to grab his arm as he reaches the scrub sinks.

he doesn’t even look at her. he pushes the doors open with his shoulder, crashing into the room like a storm.

the scene inside is a nightmare rendered in high-definition. the rhythmic, mechanical hiss-click of the ventilator has been replaced by the frantic, high-pitched scream of the heart monitor. a flat, unwavering ekg line that slices through the air like a blade.

robby’s standing on a step-stool over your body, his hands locked, his weight throwing everything into the rhythmic compressions of your chest. crunch. crunch. the sound of ribs giving way under the pressure—a sound jack has heard a thousand times—feels like it’s his own bones that are snapping.

“jack, get out!” robby yells, not breaking his rhythm. his face is drenched in sweat, his eyes fixed on the monitor.

“what happened?” jack screams, stumbling toward the foot of the bed. “what the fuck happened?!”

“she went into v-fib, then pea,” dr. santos shouts over the noise. she was at your side, her hands pressed firmly against the left side of your abdomen, pushing your pregnant belly toward the left.

jack’s medical brain registered it instantly. in a pregnant woman in cardiac arrest, the heavy uterus compresses the inferior vena cava, blocking blood from returning to the heart. if they don’t push the baby aside, the compression robby is doing will be useless. there’s no blood to pump.

“charging to 200!” the tech shouts. “clear!”

robby jumps back. your body jolts off the table as the electricity surges through you. jack watches your hands, the same hands he loved to hold while you both were cuddling on the couch on a slow saturday, flop lifelessly back onto the sterile drape.

the line stays flat.

“again!” jack roars, stepping up to the bed, his voice raw. “increase to 300! charge it again!”

“jack, she’s lost too much blood,” robby pants, resuming compressions. “the acid-base balance is gone. her heart is too tired.”

“don’t you say that! don’t you dare say that!” jack lunges forward, grabbing the paddles from the tech’s hands. his eyes are wild, his breathing ragged. “move, robby! move!”

robby hesitates for a second, then steps aside, hands raised in surrender, letting jack take over.

jack looks down at you. this close, he can see the gray tint creeping into your skin. he can see the way the light in the room seems to be fading out of you.

“you do not leave me,” he hisses, the words a jagged prayer. “you hear me? you stay. you stay for me, and you stay for this baby. do not do this to us.”

“charged!”

“clear!” jack slams the paddles against your chest.

thump. your body arches. the monitors wail.

silence.

one second. two. three.

then, a tiny, erratic blip on the screen. then another.

“i have a rhythm!” dr. santos cries, her fingers pressed to your carotid artery. “i have a pulse! it’s weak, but it’s there!”

the room seems to exhale all at once, but the tension doesn’t break. it just shifts.

“we need to get the bleeding under control now,” robby says, his voice shaking. “jack… she can’t take another arrest. if she codes again, we won’t get her back. the fetal heart rate is in the 60s.”

robby doesn’t finish the sentence, but jack hears is loud and clear.

you’re both dying.

jack stands there, the paddles still in his hands, staring at the flickering green line of your heart. he’s covered in your blood, his gown torn, his soul laid bare in front of his entire team.

he looks at robby, and for the first time in his career, michael sees the “great jack abbot” looking utterly broken.

“save them,” jack whispers, his voice barely audible over the hum of the machines. “whatever it takes, i don’t care. just… don’t let them… save them. please.”

robby nods slowly. “we’re going to try a high-risk embolization to stop the deep pelvic bleed. it’s the only way to avoid more surgery, but the radiation… it’s dangerous for the pregnancy.”

jack looks at your stomach, then back at your face. the choice is impossible.

life or life.

“do it,” jack says, his voice hardening into a cold, desperate resolve. “save her. save my wife. we’ll deal with the rest when she wakes up.”

as they begin to prep the specialized equipment, jack doesn’t leave. he backs into the corner of the room, his back against the cold tile. he watches them work, his eyes never leaving the monitor, counting every single beat of your heart as if he could keep it moving through sheer force of will.

the icu is a different kind of purgatory than the er. in the er, death is a screaming, bloody predator you could fight with a scalpel and a shout, something loud and violent. in the icu, death is a shadow. something silent, patient, and impossible to pin down.

it’s 11:45 p.m. hours have passed since you were moved up from the er.

now you lie in the center of a web of plastic tubing and wires, the steady, rhythmic hiss-click of the ventilator the only thing keeping the room from falling into a grave-like silence. a cooling blanket draped over your legs to keep your temperature regulated, and a specialized fetal monitor strapped across your bruised abdomen, its screen showing a jagged, persistent little line

142 bpm.

jack is sitting in the hard plastic chair pulled flush against your bedside. he hasn’t changed out of his scrub bottoms, though someone forced him to put on a clean gray hoodie to cover the bloodstains on his undershirt. he looks older, tired. devastated. the harsh overhead led lights catch the new lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes.

he’s holding your hand, the only part of you that isn’t covered in bandages or sensors. your skin feels paper-thin and cold.

“i’m here,” he whispers, his voice a dry rasp. “i’m not going anywhere.”

he checks the fetal monitor. that sound, the rapid thump-thump, thump-thump of the baby’s heart, is the most beautiful and terrifying thing he has ever heard. it’s a ticking clock. every beat a miracle, but also a reminder of how much he stands to lose.

“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks softly, his thumb tracing the line of your knuckles, the stone crowning you ring finger cold and harsh against his skin.

were you scared? were you waiting for the ‘right’ moment? god, he would have given anything for that moment to have been over dinner, or in bed, or literally anywhere but on a trauma table.

he leans his forehead against the metal railing of the bed, his eyes closing.

“i went through our messages while i was waiting for you to come out of the or,” he admits, a ghost of a self-deprecating laugh escaping him. “i looked for clues. i looked for a hint. and all i found were grocery lists and you telling me to come home early because you missed me. but i didn’t come home, did i? i stayed for that extra shift. i stayed to fix people i didn’t even know while you were… you were growing a life.”

his guilt is a physical weight, a cold stone in his stomach. he’s dr. jack abbot. he’s supposed to be the one with all the answers, the one who sees the things no one else notices. but he has been blind to the most important thing in his own world.

a nurse slips into the room, her movements practiced and quiet. she checks the bags hanging from the iv pole, her eyes lingering on jack with a mixture of pity and professional concern.

“the baby’s heart rate is holding steady, dr. abbot,” she says softly, nodding toward the fetal monitor. “and her map is at 70. she’s stable for now.”

“for now,” jack repeats, the words feeling like ash. “stable is just another word for ‘waiting for the next crisis’ in this building, and you know it, claire.”

“from what i’ve heard, she’s a fighter, jack,” the nurse replies, mirroring robby’s words from earlier. “and so is the little one. i’ve seen people come back from worse.”

“not many,” jack mutters, but he squeezes your hand a little tighter.

when the nurse leaves, the silence rushes back in. jack stands up, his joints popping, and leans over you. he carefully places his hand on your stomach, right over the sensor. closing his eyes, he tries to feel through the layers of skin and muscle, trying to connect with the tiny being inside you that he had only just met through a grainy ultrasound screen.

“hey,” he whispers to your belly. “i’m your dad. i’m… i’m a bit of a mess right now, but i’m here. and i need you to do me a favor. i need you to keep fighting. i need you to give your mom a reason to wake up. because i don’t think i can do this without her. i know i can’t do this without her.”

before he can realize what’s happening, a tear escapes, tracing a hot path down his cheek and landing on the sterile white sheet.

“i’ll be better,” he promises, his voice cracking. “i’ll be home. i’ll fix the brakes. i’ll learn how to be whatever you both need me to be. just… don’t let go. please, don’t let go.”

outside, the rain continues, now heavier, fiercer. but inside the room, time remains frozen. jack abbot, the man who usually held the city’s lives in his hands, now seats back down and waits for the only life that truly matters to come back to him.

from time to time, doctors filter into the room, checking vitals, checking on jack. robby comes up from the er a couple of times to share a sympathetic smile with him, to promise that everything will be fine.

jack sighs, “i’m a doctor too, robby. you can’t lie to me.”

“and i’m your friend and i know that a bit of hope is what you need right now.”

he stays for a while, keeping jack company until his pager calls him back to action.

“shouldn’t you be home already?” jack asks. “your shift was over hours ago.”

robby only shrugs. “people need me around here.”

at that, jack’s eyes regain that teary shine. nodding, he promises robby to call him if anything changes and waves his fiend goodbye before leaning back again on the chair, his eyes fixed on the slow rise and fall of your chest.

the world doesn’t come back all at once. it returns in fragments. first, the rhythmic hiss of a machine, the smell of antiseptic, and a heavy, weighted warmth on your left hand. your eyelids feel like they had been leaded shut, but the persistent, low hum of the icu finally pulls you toward the surface of consciousness.

you groan, the sound catching in the back of your throat, dry and scratchy from the tube that has only recently been removed.

then there’s the faint scratch of a chair scraping against the floor.

“hey… hey, look at me. open your eyes, sweetheart.”

that voice. you know that voice better than your own heartbeat. it’s the same voice that whispers sweet nothings into your ear at night, the same one that you hear in your warmest dreams. except now it sounds rough, exhausted, and trembling with a hope so fragile it feels like it might shatter any moment.

you force your eyes open. the light blinding at first, a sterile white haze, but then it focuses. jack. he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. his hair is a mess and his eyes, usually so sharp and clinical, are now swimming with tears.

“jack?” you rasp, your voice coming out as barely a breath.

“i’m here. i’m right here.” he leans over, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. he kisses your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long moment as he takes a shuddering breath. “you scared the hell out of me, love.”

you try to move, but a sharp pang in your abdomen makes you wince. memories start to bleed back in. the rain, the blinding headlights, the screech of metal. you instinctively try to reach for your stomach, but your arm feels like lead.

“the… the accident… jack, i…”

“it’s over,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your temple. “you’re safe. i’ve got you.”

a few minutes pass by until the door pushes open quietly. robby walks in, followed by an ob-gyn specialist you didn’t recognize. robby looks at you, a genuine, relieved smile breaking through his professional mask.

“welcome back,” robby says, checking the monitors. “you’ve had a hell of a day, but your vitals are finally starting to behave.”

the ob-gyn, a woman with kind eyes that introduces herself as dr. pauline , steps forward. “we need to talk about why you’re feeling so much pressure in your abdomen, besides the surgical repairs.”

jack’s grip on your hand tightens. he looks at you, his expression a complicated map of wonder and fear.

“you’re pregnant, dear,” dr. pauline says softly. “about twelve weeks. the accident was severe, and the trauma to your body was significant. we had to perform some emergency procedures that were high-risk for the pregnancy, but as of twenty minutes ago, the fetal heartbeat is steady.”

the world stops right there and then.

you look from the doctor to jack, your mouth falling open. “pregnant? are you sure?”

dr. pauline nods and you have to bite your lip to keep it from trembling. jack’s grip on your hand tightens.

“it’s going to be a long road,” dr. pauline continues, her tone turning serious but encouraging. “you have a lot of healing to do. your ribs and the internal repairs, plus the blood loss. and for the baby, we’re going to have to monitor you both every hour. there’s some bruising near the placenta, so it’s going to take hard work, absolute bed rest, and a lot of time before we can say we’re completely out of the woods. but right now? right now, you’re both winning.”

“thank you, doctor,” you whisper, voice so small it makes jack’s chest squeeze. “and thank you, michael. jack told me you were the one who took care of me when i arrived.”

robby gifts you with a small, soft smile. grabbing your free hand, he gives it a squeeze.

“i’m glad i could help. but i don’t think i could’ve done it without my team. or without dr. abbot’s aid.”

that has you snapping your attention back to jack.

“you were there?” he simply nods, eyes glued to your hand, to the ring on your finger. “i thought you guys had protocols for that kind of thing.”

“we do,” says robby, nodding.

“fuck the protocol,” barks jack at the exact same time. “my wife was dying. what was i supposed to do? go home? i did what i had to.”

when your eyes finally connect with his again you see it, the utter exhaustion, but behind that there’s something more. something raw and vivid.

“i’m so sorry,” you whisper. “i’m sorry you had to see that, jack. i can’t even imagine…”

“shh…” leaning forward, jack offers you the safe space of his shoulder to cry. “what matters is that you’re alive, love. you both are.”

after the doctors finish their checks and leave the room, a heavy, comfortable silence settles over the two of you. jack doesn’t let go of your hand. he seats on the edge of the bed, staring at you as if you were a ghost that might vanish if he blinked.

“jack,” you whispered, your voice a little stronger now. but you still feel the pressure of your tears threatening to spill at any given moment.

the thought of jack having to bring you back to life, your blood covering his gloved hands… knowing that he had to find out about something you had been suspecting for a couple of weeks through a scan in a trauma room in the er…

“twelve weeks,” he says, his voice thick with his own tears. “and you didn’t… you didn’t tell me.”

there’s no accusation in his voice, only a profound, echoing confusion.

you look down at your hands, the plastic hospital bracelet stark against your skin. “i didn’t know, jack. not for sure.”

jack doesn’t speak, he holds on tight to your hand, dropping a feather like kiss on your knuckles.

“i was suspicious,” you admit, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “but i told myself i was just imagining it. that my brain was playing some twisted tricks on me. but then i started feeling so tired. then there was the coffee. god, the smell of it started making me nauseous about two weeks ago. i’ve been drinking tea ever since.”

jack lets out a short, wet laugh, rubbing his face with his free hand. “i’m a doctor, i should have seen it. i should have known.”

“how could you?” you reach out, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “we stopped looking for the signs a long time ago, jack.”

the air in the room shifts. the “last two times”, two years of hope, two positive tests that ended in heartbreak before the first trimester was even over. they were the shadows that had lived in the corners of your apartment, the reason you both had stopped talking about possible names or color palettes for the nursery. you had both quietly agreed to stop trying, to protect what was left of your hearts.

“i didn’t want to say anything until i was certain,” you whisper, tears pricking your eyes. “i couldn’t handle seeing that look on your face again if it didn’t stay. i was going to buy a test this weekend, i promise. i just… i wanted to be sure before i gave you hope again.”

jack leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. his breath hitches. “hope is all i’ve had for the last few hours, watching you on those monitors. i don’t care about the timing. i’ve got you two now. and that’s all i need.”

he moves his hand, sliding it under the hospital blanket to rest flat against your stomach. his palm is warm, steady, and large enough to cover nearly the entire area where the new life rests tucked away.

“we’re going to do the work,” he vows, his voice low. “whatever the doctors say. whatever it takes. i’m not losing either of you. we’ve fought too hard to get here.”

for the first time since the sirens started screaming hours ago, the tension in jack’s shoulders finally breaks.

you rest your head on his shoulder, the steady thump-thump of his heart syncing with yours. it isn’t the perfect, easy ending. there are months of recovery ahead and a thousand medical hurdles to jump but for now, in the quiet of the icu, the three of you are together.

“i love you,” he whispers into your hair.

“i love you too,” you breath, finally letting your eyes drift shut. “both of us.”

the transition from the icu to the step-down unit was supposed to be a victory. it has been ten days since the crash. your chest tube is out, your color is returning, and jack has finally stopped vibrating with the manic energy of a man haunted by ghosts.

but the “pitt” never let anyone relax for long.

jack is sitting in the armchair, his laptop open as he tries to catch up on charts while staying by your side. you are propped up on pillows, picking at a bowl of fruit, when a sharp, searing cramp radiates across your lower abdomen.

it isn’t like the dull ache of your healing surgical incisions. this is different. cold. deep.

“jack,” you gasp, the plastic fork clattering onto the tray.

he’s at your side before the fork hit the floor. “what is it? where’s the pain?”

“cramping. hard.” you grip his forearm, your knuckles turning white. “it feels… it feels like the last times, jack.”

the color drains from his face, but the doctor in him takes the lead before he can panic. he throws back the blankets. and there it is. a small, terrifying smear of crimson on the white sheets.

“pauline! anyone! i need a fetal doppler in here now!” jack shouts toward the hallway, his voice cracking the quiet of the ward.

minutes felt like hours. dr. pauline rushes in, her face set in a grim mask of professional focus. jack stands in the corner, his hands pressed against his mouth. unfortunately, he knows too much. he knows all the signs, just like he knows that post-traumatic subchorionic bleeds could trigger labor or a final, fatal abruption.

the room is filled with the static sound of the doppler searching.

whoosh. whoosh.

the sound of your own pulse, too fast, too frantic.

then, a silence that feels like a death sentence.

“come on,” pauline whispers, moving the probe. “come on, little one.”

thump-thump-thump-thump.

the sound burst into the room. fast, rhythmic, and stubborn.

“heart rate is 150,” pauline exhales, a visible wave of relief washing over her. “the cervix is closed. it’s a ‘threatened’ event, likely just the hematoma from the accident draining. but we are increasing your progesterone and you are on strict, absolute bed rest. no sitting up, no laptop, nothing but breathing.”

jack doesn’t move for a long time after she leaves. he just leans his head against the wall, his chest heaving. the setback lasted only ten minutes, but it had aged him a decade.

“jack,” you call his name softly, patting the free space next to you on the bed.

he walks over and sat on the edge, taking both of your hands in his. “we almost lost the light,” he whisper. “i can’t… i don’t know that i could take it if it happened again, sweetheart.”

“we didn’t lose it,” you said, pulling his hand to your cheek. “they’re still here. we’re still here.”

jack sighs with relief, nodding. he leas down to press a soft, careful kiss to your lips.

three weeks later, the air in pittsburgh finally shifts from the bitter bite of winter to the hesitant warmth of early spring.

you’re not wearing a hospital gown anymore. instead, you wear one of jack’s oversized soft hoodies and a pair of leggings, sitting in a wheelchair by the large windows of the garden pavilion. you are still weak, and your gait is a slow, painful shuffle, but today is the day the doctors, your husband included, have circled in red on the calendar.

week 14. the beginning of the second trimester. the safe zone.

jack walks into the pavilion carrying two cups of herbal tea and a small, rectangular envelope. he looks different today. he’s actually shaved, and for the first time since the night of the pileup, the haunted look in his eyes has been replaced by a quiet, steady glow.

“happy second trimester,” he says, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.

“we made it,” you breathe, looking out at the budding trees. “i honestly didn’t think we would.”

“i have something for you,” he says, sitting on the bench beside your chair. he hands you the envelope with a bright smile.

you open it with trembling fingers. inside isn’t a medical chart or a bill. it is a high-resolution 3d ultrasound from that morning’s check-up.

the image is vividly clear. you can see the curve of a tiny nose, the miniature perfection of ten fingers tucked near a chin, and the long legs that robby joked would make the kid a track star.

“look at that nose,” jack whispers, his finger tracing the print. “that’s your nose.”

“yeah. that’s your chin, though,” you laugh softly, a tear of pure, uncomplicated joy sliding down your face. “the abbot stubbornness is already visible.”

while you are still contemplating the small piece of warmth and joy that was still growing inside of you, jack reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, velvet box. you look at him, confused.

“jack? we’re already married.”

“i know,” he says, opening the box to reveal a delicate band with a tiny, shimmering stone on top. the birthstone for the month the baby was due. “but the night of the crash, i realized i’d spent so much time being a doctor and a provider that i forgot to be a good husband. i forgot to celebrate the life we were building.”

he takes your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger next to your wedding band.

“this is a promise,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “no more double shifts when i don’t have to. no more missed dinners. from here on out, it’s the three of us.”

you lean your head back against the headrest of the wheelchair, looking from the ring to the ultrasound, and then to the man who quite literally pulled you back from the edge of the grave.

the trauma is still there, the scars on your body and the stiffness in your limbs would be reminders for a long time, but as the sun warms your skin, the angst of the past month finally begins to dissolve.

“jack?”

“yeah?”

“i think i want thai food tonight.”

jack laughs. and it’s a real, booming abbot laugh that echoes through the garden. “you heard the boss,” he whispers to your stomach. “thai it is.”

bonus

the spare bedroom at the end of the hall had spent years as a storage space for jack’s medical journals and your half-finished art projects. it had been a room of “maybe someday,” a door you both tended to keep closed, preferring to keep the bad memories on the other side.

now, six months after the rain-slicked pavement nearly took everything, the door stands wide open and the scent of paint lingers in the air. a soft, muted sage green that jack spent three weekends perfecting because he refused to let anyone else touch the walls.

you seat in the newly assembled rocking chair, your hand resting atop the prominent, solid curve of your stomach. the baby is active today, a rhythmic tapping against your ribs that feels like a secret code. you are thirty-four weeks along, a milestone that, for a long time, felt like a destination on a map you weren’t allowed to reach.

“i think the crib is slightly crooked,” jack mutters, kneeling on the floor.

he was wearing an old pittsburgh steelers t-shirt, his hair disheveled, looking less like the formidable dr. abbot of the er and more like… like you husband, who was utterly determined to defeat a piece of furniture.

“jack, it’s perfect,” you laugh softly. “the level said it’s straight. you’ve checked it four times.”

“five,” he corrects, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans. he walks over to the crib, shaking the railing with enough force to test a bridge. “i just… i need it to be steady. everything has to be steady.”

you reach out, taking his hand and pulling him towards you. immediately, he sinks onto the ottoman at your feet, resting his head against your knees. the fierce, protective energy he carries is a byproduct of the trauma; a lingering shadow of the man who collapsed back in that trauma room. but it was softening, replaced by a deep, quiet anticipation.

“oh. i just remembered. we haven’t opened michael’s gift yet,” you say, pointing to the changing table.

sitting atop a stack of colorful onesies is a beautifully wrapped box with a heavy silver bow. next to it is a card embossed with the university of pittsburgh medical center logo.

according to jack, robby dropped it off at the nurse’s station for him to bring home.

“he said if he had to hear me talk about ‘fetal heart rate variability’ during a trauma shift one more time, he was going to quit, so he bought this to shut me up,” he said as he lay the box on the changing table the other night.

you open the card first. in robby’s cramped, hurried physician’s handwriting, it read:

to my dear friends (and my future favorite abbot),

i’ve known you two for a long time and i truly can’t think of anyone better to take care of each other. i also know that kid will be so lucky to get to call you two mom and dad. i can’t wait to meet the little one.

congratulations on the final stretch!

— robby

inside the box is a high-tech, medical-grade infant vitals monitor, the kind that synced to a smartphone. it’s exactly the kind of gift dr. robby would give: a way to keep watch even when the lights were out. underneath the monitor was a tiny, hand-knitted sweater with a small stethoscope embroidered on the pocket.

“he’s a softie,” you whisper, running your hand over the wool.

“don’t tell him i said so, but he’s the reason we’re sitting in this room,” jack said, his voice drops into that low, honest tone he saved only for you. he looks up at you, his eyes reflecting the soft nursery light. “when i saw you on that table… i forgot how to be a doctor. i forgot how to breathe. he held the line until i could find my way back.”

jack stands up and leans over you, pressing a long, lingering kiss to your forehead before moving down to press his ear against your belly. he waits, silent and still, until the baby delivers a sharp kick right against his cheek.

“hey there,” jack whispers to the bump, a grin breaking across his face. “i hear you. we’re ready for you. everything is ready.”

he stands back, surveying the room; the crib, the sage-green walls, the gift from his brother, the man who helped save your lives, and the woman who was his entire world. the angst of the pitt, the screams of the monitors, and the cold terror of the icu feel like a lifetime ago. they are just scars now. like faded, silver lines that proved they survived the storm.

“do you think the baby will like the room?” you ask.

jack wraps his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both look out at the quiet pittsburgh street below.

“she’ll love it,” jack promises.

The next few days are quiet. Every evening, Clark returns to the same rock in hopes that you would be there. He had some idea on what had happened, assuming you were overwhelmed with everything and he had gone too far too fast. He swore to himself he would back off and tell you he could slow down, he just needed to see you.

Sometimes he sits on the rock. Other times he paces back and forth. Most of the time though he stands and stares over the horizon as if he’s waiting for you to surface. But you don’t. You linger fall below in the water, the weight of whatever feeling this was weighing on your chest.

It was unrealistic and went against every instinct you had naturally to fall for him. It was scary, though you’d never admit that. Even if you did allow yourself to fall for him, what would happen when he grew bored of having to come to the water? He could fly literally anywhere in the world, there was no way he could be content with someone who was trapped within the salt water of the ocean.

On the fourth night, you rise close enough under water to catch a glimpse of him from behind. He is sitting on the same rock just staring out into the open water. His cape is soaked with mist as the waves lap strongly against the perch. For a moment you almost break the surface, wanting to at least sit in silence with him, but you can’t. So you sink again and the days continue to stretch.

You float in the middle of the sea, staring up at the thousands of stars in the black sky. It is easy to fall into thoughts and memories of his face and the way he laughs. His smile was perfect, his teeth straight and white and he had the kind of laugh that made you want to return it. Sometimes you could even hear his voice through the waves.

It was hopeless. You were hopeless. You couldn’t hunt, couldn’t sing, or even rest on your rock without the ache of his absence clawing at you. You really don’t belong in his world, yet you couldn’t find a way to fully return to your own.

At this point, Clark doesn’t know if he should keep coming. He tells himself each night that if you don’t show, he’ll stop. It would be for the best to let you go if that’s what you wanted but he continues to keep coming back to check.

~

One night, you are drifting along the surface once more, floating on your back. The good thing about the ocean being your home was there was plenty of space to sulk around and be hopeless without anyone actually seeing you. So you fell into your new routine, letting the heavy silence become a background noise to your thoughts.

That was why you didn’t notice the shadow at first. Not until the suddenness of a heavy weight was thrown over you, smacking you in the face and tail. You instantly darted under, only to find you were pulled back and surrounded by a net. The thick rope tightened around you as you thrashed, pulling toward the bottom of the ocean as hard as you could as you felt the resistance of the boat the net was attached to. But the damage was already done. You had been caught off guard, and once you were lifted from the water there was only so much your violent squirms could do.

Your body was soaked and dripping as you were lifted from the sea. Once above the deck, the net was dropped with a loud thud as your body slammed against the wooden deck. The impact knocked the breath from your chest as you were completely taken by surprise.

You then lifted your head to find three men staggering back, their faces pale as if they had seen a ghost.

“Woah,” one of them whispered, half in awe and half in fear. “A mermaid.”

A growl built in your throat as you finally got your senses back. Your muscles tightened as you locked eyes with the young one, the fool who had called you something he could only wish you were. With a sudden lunge, you quickly reached out and grabbed his ankle through the cords and yanked him down. His body hit the deck as hard as you did, letting out a horrible cry as he sprawled out. Your claws dug deeply into his skin as he flailed desperately.

Before you could drag him closer, a brutal hand fisted in your hair before your head was yanked back. You hissed in rage, twisting violently before the third man had already began moving in. A coarse rope was shoved between your lips and pulled tight around your head, choking off any sound you could make before it left your throat. Your hands were then tied behind your back, using multiple ropes to secure you.

The young one stumbled back, still on the ground as he clutched his bleeding leg. You writhed and spat at the gag, hatred flashing in your eyes, but you were only met with a grim look from the oldest fisherman.

“This is no mermaid,” he said darkly, staring down at you as you strained against your restraints. “If she is able to use her voice, we lose everything, including our lives. We’ll take her into town, maybe auction her off in the morning before the government gets ahold of this.”

The young one nods as he has now stood up, still staring at you in shock. You glare at him silently, watching as he approaches you once more. Some just don’t learn.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, his voice trembling. “Imagine the money. Imagine-“

But he had used his boot to poke at your tail in a stupid and giddy fashion. His sentence is cut short as you thrash your tail forward, sweeping him off his feet and back onto the deck with a thud.

He yelps again as the other men turn around.

“You are an idiot. Stop messing with her. She is dangerous,” the other snaps.

The boat creaked as it was guided into a quiet harbor. The men docked the boat, the night full of silence as they tied it quickly to the dock. Their voices were hushed as if they were afraid the town would hear of the prize they had just brought in.

You lay bound to the deck, your hair plastered to the side of your face as all you could do is stare at the sky above. The ropes had begun to dig into your skin raw, but it was nothing compared to the new suffocating feeling of being away from water this long. Your scales itched and pulled tight as if they were drying and cracking beneath the dried salt.

You listened to the older fishermen bark orders at the young one to watch over you under they returned. They needed to leave to get some things to prepare for the morning.

The young man leaned against the edge of the boat, far from you as he steals glances at you. Your eyes wanted to roll to the back of your head as he started his mindless rambling, partly of what he would do with the money, about how he couldn’t believe he had found you. Your eyes just fixed on him with a death glare. It seemed to make him nervous eventually, causing him to retreat out of the boat and onto the deck. He leaned against a pole, half watching you as he sighed. Before long, his head lolled forward as his eyelids drooped shut.

Fucking finally.

You began to try to inch toward the edge of the boat. It was a struggle, but you managed to move yourself closer as you tried to sit up. The ropes pulled at you, making it hard as you tried to pull at them. God. Could you really blame Clark this time for making you this kind of weak?

You huffed as your head dropped back onto the deck. You breathed a few times before going to try again. This time though, you were met with a sharp pain in your tail, causing you to give up straining.

Your chest heaved slightly as you breathed through your nose, trying to ignore the strange discomfort. It was only a moment later that a burning sensation ran up your spine, your muscles twitching violently beneath the ropes. The feeling grew worse, almost as if your own body was tearing itself apart from the inside. You twisted as the gag muffled your raw cries as the pain ripped through you.

Your scales dried and cracked as they begin to shed onto the deck around you. The muscles in your tail spasmed as bones began to reshape. The agony was blinding as you couldn’t even scream.

By the time your waves of pain subsided, your chest heaved as your body trembled. Your tail that was once stretched was replaced by two human legs trapped under the ropes. Your eyes were wide in horror as you looked at them, your breaths shallow and desperate.

As dawn broke, the sky was painted in a muted orange color. Your heard the sounds of boots hitting the dock as the other men had returned, holding the one who was supposed to be watching you awake.

When they climbed back into the boat, they stopped dead in their tracks.

“What the hell?” One barked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at you in your new state. You laid against the deck, your body trembling and clammy where you tail had once been. “What happened to the siren?”

The younger one staggered forward. “I- I don’t know what happened. I swear, she was-“

“What did you do?” The other demanded.

“I didn’t do anything!” He cried, voice now in a panic. “She- she changed. I don’t understand.”

~

Back at the Daily Planet a few states away, Clark had arrived at his day job. Perry White glanced up at him with a small scowl, pretty much accepting that employing Clark Kent meant it came with him clocking in five minutes late everyday.

“Kent! Got something for you,” Perry called from the doorway of his office. Clark turned on his feet obediently, following into his office. He had still been a little heartbroken over the fact he hadn’t seen you in a week.

Clark stood behind his chair, glancing at the monitor as Perry shook his head as he opened the email.

“Some nut job out in Mass thinks he’s got himself a mermaid. Probably just three drunks and a fishing net, but the story is already gaining some traction online. Conspiracy, myth, hell, it might even make a funny side story. Why don’t you-“

He stops, frowning as he realizes he is speaking to an empty office now.

“Kent?” He asks, finding Clark gone. He blinked toward the open doorway, shaking his head. “Strange kid.”

Clark was already gone, weaving through people until he found an empty alleyway. He stumbled to change into his suit before tossing his glasses into his bag. The world blurred around him as he darted into the sky, begging inside his head that it wasn’t you as he headed toward the town.

~

When Clark arrived, the men continued to argue as their voices grew louder with every word. None of them noticed until the sound of his solid boots thudded against the deck.

They froze, looking up at him as his cape settled behind him. Their mouths fell open after their argument had died as Superman stood before them. His jaw clenched, staring at them with pure fury.

He didn’t even bother to spare them long to wait. In one stride, he had one of the older fishermen by the collar and slammed him against the wooden pole of the dock. The wood shuddered under the impact as his cold gaze bored into the man.

The older man’s face drained of color as Clark leaned close.

“You will not say another word about this. To anyone.”

He tightened his grip slightly as to emphasize his warning.

“When people arrive, you tell them she escaped over the side of your boat. Do I make myself clear?”

The man swallowed hard before nodding frantically. “Y-yes, Superman. Of course.”

Clark released him as the man stumbled forward. His cape snapped behind him as he turned to approach you. Of course, he was a little surprised to see you in this condition, but now wasn’t the time to ask you about it. He knelt down to easily tear the ropes away, freeing your skin from the tight restraints.

His eyes had changed back into the same you knew, no longer holding any anger or intimidation as he scooped you in his arms. He lifted you easily against him, holding you tightly as he began to fly toward the sea.

You didn’t say anything as your heart thumped in shock, the wind blowing past your bare skin as Clark flew you back to the familiar spot you two met at. He hesitated if he should put you on the rock or into the ocean, but decided to lower you into the water.

You sunk into the waves in relief, closing your eyes as you resurfaced and let out a soft sigh. Thankfully, the process of your tail returning was not painful like gaining legs was. You returned to your normal state as the salt water felt relieving against your skin.

You opened your eyes to glance up at him as he sat on the rock next to you, watching you thoughtfully.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly. Your arms rested on the rock as you placed your head on them.

Clark looked down at you, the corners of his mouth turning up in a small smile. He reached down to push some hair behind your ear.

“You’re welcome. I’d never let anything happen to you.”

The words lingered in the air between the both of you. You didn’t roll your eyes or snap at him, instead just forcing yourself to sit in the silence. The ocean felt alive around you once more, comforting you in a way you didn’t know you could miss so much after the night before. The only thing that seemed to crash heavier against you than the waves was his gaze. For a few long moments, a comfortable silence settled between you.

“Did you know you could do that?” He asked, tilting his head slightly as the question had nagged him since he saw you.

A wry smile tugged at your lips as you shook your head. “No. I’ve never even heard of any of my kind doing that, actually,” your voice was soft, almost uncertain. “I was out of the water for a couple hours when it started to happen. I guess I’ve never been out that long before.”

Clark nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving you. Another moment passes before he is slipping into the water, suit and all. He didn’t move quickly but instead just closed the distance between your bodies with a quiet certainty. When his hands found your arms his touch was feather light. His thumbs gently brushed across your wet skin as your eyes locked. The warmth of his body contrasted with the feeling of the cool sea water.

“I understand why you push me away,” his voice speaks eventually. “I know it’s unnatural. I get that you have to protect yourself. But I can take it.”

He pulled you just a little closer, being careful not to startle you. “I can’t stop myself from coming back to you. I have to see you even if it’s just like this. At least let me be your friend.”

Your heart feels heavy in your chest. On one hand, you feel guilty for wanting him. You knew he deserved someone more like him. Someone simpler, or kind, or at the very least someone who hadn’t killed people before. On the other you felt sick at the thought of just being a friend to him. But words are hard, so you just blink at him before your eyes flicker to his mouth again.

Before you could convince yourself otherwise, you leaned forward and crashed your lips against his. He froze for a moment feeling stunned. Then, his body melted into yours. His large hands slip up to cup your face softly as his kissed you back with aching tenderness. His soft lips molded against yours like he’d been waiting his entire life for you.

The kiss was slow at first. It was passionate in a way that made your whole body hum. Your tail lapped gently in the water, brushing against his legs every once in a while as you hold onto him. You felt yourself slipping deeper into him than you already had.

Your tongue slid into his parted mouth, bold and hungry. The sound of his low groan vibrated against your mouth. He kissed you harder in return as if he never would let go.

Eventually, you pull away. You were breathless in a way you hadn’t experienced before but nothing could prepare you for the sight in front of you. Clark’s eyes were hazy and unfocused, his cheeks faintly flushed. There was a lazy, lovesick smile curving his lips as he looked at you.

“Woah,” he breathed, his voice tinged with awe and daze all at once.

You try to wipe the smile from your own expression as you attack his mouth with more kisses, practically pressing him against the rock.

The feeling of his warm, steady hands rested on your waist as he pulled you close before they move to tangle in your hair. Your own hands held the sides of his face, craving more of him as both of you basically swallowed each other. It was messy, fevered, desperate, and made your whole body light up in excitement.

It was a terrifying feeling to think about the amount of men you had lured just to end up letting some indestructible puppy like man pull you under. The feeling was dizzying, intoxicating, and someone you never wanted to let go of.

When you finally tore away, your foreheads rested together as the both of you smiled, pressing a few more soft kisses to each other paired with soft giggles. “Gosh…” he muttered, stroking your skin softly as your head rested against his. It was quiet for a moment as the two of you pressed against the rock just holding one another.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly. His smile had faded as he looked at you seriously. You didn’t even respond before he continued. “Stay with me at my apartment. Please. I don’t care how, but we can make it work. It will be fun and you can come back to the water at any time if you don’t like it.”

You are a little startled by his request, feeling the familiar instinct to pull away building inside of you. But you can’t. He is too sweet and you do genuinely want to be his.

With a small breath from your nose, you nod slightly as your eyes stare into his. “Okay,” you reply quietly, leaving it simple.

He doesn’t seem completely satisfied as his hands continue to rub your arms softly. “Am I freaking you out?” He asks, his voice a little softer. “We don’t have to talk about this. I can keep visiting you.”

You shake your head, giving him a small smile.

“No, Clark, I want to. Really. Our relationship is already weird enough so I don’t really think it’s possible to freak me out. I want to come with you.”

He smiles an actual smile, one with teeth before kissing you again.

“Really?” He grins, holding your face as he presses his lips to yours over and over. You squirm against him, laughing slightly as you shove his chest gently.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” you grin.

That afternoon, you are laid out next to Clark in a secluded beach area that was surrounded by a forest. The sun was warm against your damp skin as you let out a sigh, every inch of you aching with the slow process of drying out.

Clark, of course, had plopped himself in the sand right beside you. He lays on his side, an arm propping up his head as the grin on his face hasn’t left since he carried you up to the shore.

“Stop,” you laugh, narrowing your eyes as you begin to feel slightly insecure under his gaze.

He only grinned wider, leaning forward to press a kiss to your forehead before settling back down. His gaze remained filled with warmth that you began to accept you did indeed crave his attention.

His finger ended up trailing random patterns on your arm. “Anything I can do to speed this up?” He teased, his tone filled with that annoyingly cute boyish charm. “I mean, I could blow on you. Maybe take you flying.”

Your hand lunged for his face as you grip his jaw, squeezing his cheeks tightly. “You are just so cute,” you grit your teeth in mock adoration. Clark’s eyes widen before he is laughing beside you.

Eventually, the two of you rolled over onto your stomachs as your elbows propped in the sand. Clark reaches out and begins to trace shapes into the damn grains. At first they were just random swirls before he decides to put your initials together. He drew a heart around it with a grin.

Your eyes narrowed as he explained what the letters meant, but you couldn’t help the small smile that landed on your lips. Then he started talking. His voice was calm and full of excitement at the same time as it made your chest ache. “I can’t wait to take you to this Italian food place I love. You’ll love pasta. Oh- and there’s this park by my house we can walk through. When the weather starts to get colder, the leaves change colors and it’s like this beautiful display of orange and red, you’ll love it. And your first bite of ice cream? I can’t wait to see that.”

You sigh softly as the smile has stayed on your lips. Your arm has now linked around his as you lean your head against his shoulder. His warmth seeped into you in a way other than his body temperature.

He kept talking, planting these little visions of a future together. You honestly lost track of the words for a moment, just enjoying the sound of his voice and your own images of how this all seemed too good to be true.

“… and we’ll binge these things called tv shows together. We can watch the first episode of a variety of ones, give you some options. There’s nothing like curling up on the couch and finishing a whole season in one sitting.”

You laugh lightly, your nose scrunching as you continue to lean against him.

Clark glanced down at you, his brow lifting slightly. “What? Too much?”

You shook your head still smiling. “No, not at all. First of all, I don’t even know half of what you’re referring to. And I was just also thinking it’s cute how you haven’t mentioned anything sexual yet. That’s usually all guys think about.”

Clark blinked, swallowing as he was caught off guard on that topic before his smile returned.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve thought about it,” he grins, nudging your side. “But I want you, not just like that. I want all of you and I’m just too excited to show you your new world. I would never rush you into anything you didn’t want to do.”

You are about to respond before you feel the familiar pang from the night before. You sigh, feeling your muscles spasm once before you swallow.

Clark instantly notices your change in demeanor as he sits up.

“Are you okay? Is it happening?”

You nod in response as the scales continue to tighten and crack against your skin, the unforgiving sharp pain rolling up your spine.

It isn’t as agonizing as the night before so far, but your face twists in slightly discomfort as you let out a small whine.

But Clark doesn’t like seeing this. He reaches down to gently take your arms, preparing to lift you into his grasp. “You don’t have to do this. Let me take you back to the water.”

“No,” you firmly say quickly, gripping his wrist. “I want to.”

His brows knit together in worry, but he nods and doesn’t argue. He stays close as he lets you squeeze his hand as hard as you want, his heart breaking slightly as more pain ripples through you.

Finally, the change is complete as you let out a large sigh of relief. Your breathing is slightly heavier as you are left with a pair of soft legs stretched out before you.

A shaky laugh left your lips as you stared at them. Clark’s lips curved in a gentle smile before forcing his gaze away, not wanting to stare considering you were now completely naked.

“Nice legs,” he murmurs.

You grinned and shook your head. “You’re weird.”

A few moments pass as you try to get used to the feeling. You eventually sit up, Clark behind right next to you as he gently rubs your back. Your hand runs up the new skin you now had, almost as if you were checking to make sure it was real.

“Should I stand up?” You ask. Clark nods, his hands intertwining with yours. He instinctively almost looped his hands under your arms to lift you, but he knew you were independent and could do things on your own.

You tried to stand, replying heavily on Clark as your knees quivered with the new sensation. It was strange going from having a powerful tail to muscles aching from never being used. After a moment, you steadied yourself.

“Okay,” you said, breathless. “You can let go, I think.”

Clark hesitated before nodding and slowly withdrawing his grip on your hands. To your delight, you remained upright.

“I’m pretty strong,” you grin happily.

Clark’s laugh was soft and genuine as he fought the urge to pull you back into his arms. “I never doubted it.” He then tilted his head with a sideways grin. “Want to try a step?”

You didn’t bother answering him. Instead, you lifted a leg as you attempted to step forward. The motion was clumsy and caused your knee to buckle at the wrong time before toppling forward right into Clark’s waiting arms.

He caught your arms easily, holding you up like you weighed nothing as the two of you erupted into giggles.

“This is hard,” you whine, the smile not off your face.

“We have all the time in the world to practice,” he tells you softly, kissing your head. Surprisingly, it didn’t take very long for you to get the hang of it. You could now actually walk without falling over, although it still didn’t feel completely natural.

Without warning, Clark’s arms wrap around you as he pulls you close into a hug. He lifts you easily against his chest, burying his face into your neck. The unexpected embrace catches you off guard but you return it by wrapping your arms around his neck.

He pulls back, looking down at you with a lopsided grin. “Unfortunately, I think we need to get you some clothes, beautiful.”

Heat crawled up you at his words, your chest tightening. “But for now I think we should get you back to my place. Does that sound okay?”

You nodded even though your stomach knotted with a nervousness you couldn’t quite name. Suddenly, this was all becoming very real.

Clark shifted, moving his cape so that it wrapped snuggly around your body. He was careful when tucking it around you, shielding you from the world and possibly anything else that might be a threat toward you. When he looked at you once more it was filled with tenderness that made your throat tighten.

“Ready?”

You gave him a small nod. Before you could change your mind, the world dropped beneath your feet as he shot into the sky. Your stomach dropped, hands gripping him as tight as you could. Thankfully, you were shielded from the wind by his cape as you buried your face against his chest. There wasn’t much that scared you, but this was definitely one of those things. With him though you almost felt safe enough to forget your fear. Almost.

It wasn’t long before Clark landed on top of a tall building. You blinked, your racing heart still pounding in your chest as he quickly snuck you down the stairs and into his apartment.

Once inside, the door clicked shut behind him. He set you gently down as his hands lingered slightly until he was sure you were balanced.

Your gaze swept over his place in awe. You had never been inside a house or apartment before of course, but something about his space felt welcoming. Maybe it was the way it smelled like him. Or the way it was minimal, not overwhelming at all as everything seemed to be neatly kept.

You stepped further in, walking slowly through his living room as your eyes traveled over everything thoughtfully. He didn’t say anything as he didn’t want to overwhelm you. Your fingers brushed over the wood of a book shelf that housed many books as well as a picture. In it was Clark, sitting between two older people. He was dressed in a flannel, the same genuine smile on his face that made your stomach twist.

“Are they your parents?” You ask as he smiles with a small nod.

After a while of looking around, Clark disappears down the hall to return with him changed out of his suit. Your eyes run down his body as he is dressed casually now, his dark curly hair now falling lazily over his forehead. He had brought out a shirt for you, helping you slip into it. It was soft, cotton, and swallowed you whole, but you loved it. Your chest warmed as the material against your skin now smelled like him.

Then came the blanket. It was soft in a way you hadn’t felt before. It also smelled like him, a mixture of laundry soap and cedar as it wrapped around you.

“Want to sit down?” He asks, guiding you to the couch.

“Sure,” you respond as you slip onto the soft cushion. Clark settled beside you, giving you enough space to not crowd you. It was shocking how the girl who once had a retort for everything had now turned shy when taken out of her element. His arm rested against the back of the couch, an unspoken offer to lean into him if you wanted to. It didn’t take long for you to take up that offer, leaning into his warm body as your head rested against his shoulder.

Clark smiles softly, gently holding you as he presses a kiss to your head in the silence.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” he says against your skin. You sigh softly, closing your eyes as you let yourself melt into him. Your ear presses right to his chest, listening to the sound of his heart beat as the new, unfamiliar sounds of the city buzz outside of the small apartment.

“I’m happy I’m here too.”

~

The days that followed were some of the best of your life. It was unreal how hard you had fallen after enjoying being alone before you met him. Now, you couldn’t imagine a world without Clark in it.

He showed you how to work the tv first. You sat on the edge of the couch, amazed at the moving pictures like they were some kind of dream come to life. He’d flip over random shows on Netflix, smiling at your parted lips and wide eyes until you noticed and smacked his arm.

The first show you really took a liking to was Wednesday. Two episodes in, you turned to him with a huge grin and grabbed his shoulders.

“I’m an outcast,” you smiled, shaking them lightly as he laughed in amusement.

“The cutest, sweetest outcast ever,” he says playfully, pressing exaggerated kisses on your face between each compliment.

When you weren’t curled up together in front of the tv, Clark brought you to the park. He had brought you some different styles of clothes as you picked something basic out. His hand wrapped in yours firmly as the two of you strolled on the quiet sidewalk. It felt strange walking by people as they continued to stay in their own conversation, not even batting an eyelash of course as you now looked completely human.

Afterward, he did bring you for ice cream at a small corner shop. There were barely any people as he ordered a few different flavors and then led the both of you to a booth.

You took the first cone from his hand as you decided to just bite into the ice cream part. Clark cringed, making a small noise as he watched you.

A half laugh escaping his lips. “Didn’t that feel uncomfortable? You can’t bite ice cream unless you want to look like a psycho,” he tells you quietly.

You grin, swallowing the bite that was thoroughly enjoyable as you nod.

“No biting. Got it.”

You continued to eat it, licking it instead as he now had to force his eyes away before new thoughts formed.

The next day was labeled ‘date night’ by Clark. He walked you to a small restaurant down the block of his apartment, his hand on your lower back as you stepped inside the small but lively building.

You sat at a small table against the wall as the whole building erupted with chatter, laughter, and the clinking of silverware. You sat across from Clark who was leaning forward slightly, grinning as he pointed out different meals from the menu.

“This one,” he tapped a different pasta dish. “It’s the best in the city. You’ll love it.”

You tried to focus on his voice and what he was saying, but the thoughts began to flood you like gates crashing open.

The man across from your table was practically drooling in his thoughts, running vulgar scenarios about the younger server in his head. The woman in the booth behind you was silently fuming as her mind practically screamed about ditching her date the first chance she got. And the man from a few tables over made your body shiver in discomfort as you realized he was still picturing your ass from when you had walked by a few moments ago.

You blinked hard as your heart pounded. You had assumed that you powers would have disappeared with your tail, but they were still very much with you. The voices wouldn’t stop. Layer after layer of desire, frustration, hunger. It got too much. You glanced up at Clark who was still scanning the menu in front of him. “I’ll be right back,” you murmured before slipping from the table.

He froze mid sentence as his eyes watched you go. A second later, his own chair pushed back as he followed you outside.

You sank against the side of the brick building, pressing a hand to your temple. Clark crouched down next to you as worry crossed his features.

“Hey,” his voice was soft and careful. “Is it too loud in there? Do you need space.”

You nodded, not knowing exactly how to explain how you felt. “I- I can still see what everyone is thinking. There are so many people in there. I didn’t think I’d still be able to.”

His expression shifted as recognition flickered over his features. He was quiet for a moment as he didn’t rush to fix it, just listened. His warm hand wrapped around one of yours as he lifted it to his mouth to kiss it.

“I know it’s overwhelming,” he said quietly. “We can take this a little at a time. When I was younger, I used to hear everything around me. It drove me crazy until I learned how to narrow it down. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

Your eyes lifted to look into his. “It helped me to force myself to focus on one thing. Maybe we can try that. Maybe it can be me. Or someone’s whose thoughts aren’t so loud or ugly.”

The pounding feeling inside your chest eased slightly as you nodded in agreement, giving him a small, grateful smile.

“Do you want to wait here? I can get our food to go and we can just have it at our place.”

Our place. He had to say that right when you had began to calm your racing heart. The words spoken aloud by him made it seem so real.

“You can do that? You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” he smiled, giving your hand a small squeeze. “I think I might even prefer it.”

So that’s what you did. Dinner turned into take out containers at his dining table, free from any pounding thoughts of others. Just him.

You watched as he cleaned the table up, insisting that you just sit on the couch. You watch him over your shoulder silently as he does the mindless task.

You realized you were no better than a man as your eyes raked down his tall figure. The way his shirt was rolled to his elbows, tight against his biceps and showing off his forearms. His face was soft and unassuming as the dark curls rested over his forehead slightly. But the thing that turned you on most of all was the way he made you feel completely safe and comfortable.

Honestly, if he didn’t want to be pounced on the way you did when he joined you on the couch, he shouldn’t be so sexy without trying. His eyes widen as you straddle him, smiling widely and about to open his mouth to say something before your lips crash against his.

You laughed breathlessly against his mouth at his surprise until the kiss deepened. His large hands rested on your hips as the tips of his fingers slipped subtly under your top, making your skin feel hot.

Clark’s lips were warm and insistent against yours as you felt you could drown in him. Your tongues brushed each others as you gently tugged at his soft hair.

You couldn’t help the way your hips pressed into his solid form. Your chest pressed flush to his before your hips rolled instinctively against him, causing him to groan against your mouth. The hear that bloomed inside of you was shocking. It felt like a fire sparking in places you’d never known could burn this way. The friction was almost too good to handle as you grinded against him but you needed more. So this is what has humans jumping overboard for you thought to yourself.

Clark continued to hold you tight, moving his mouth against yours as another moan entered your mouth. When you finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together as you panted lightly.

“Gosh,” he rasps, his eyes now a darker shade of blue. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

“Show me,” you smile, kissing his jaw before moving lower to his neck. You weren’t even sure what you were doing, but you needed him so badly. His grip on your hips tightened as he nodded and took a breath.

“You’re sure?” He asks, his head falling back against the couch. You barely processed his question as all you could imagine was practically dry humping his leg to get rid of this aching feeling. “I want this to be special.”

You had to focus on nipping the skin of his neck to avoid rolling your eyes. Virgin or not, you were sure you could fuck him right then and there. You had seen enough visions to know a thing or two.

“I’m sure, Clark. It is special.”

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —

notes: AHHHH did not mean for it to be this long but you know I love yapping and details. I want the next part to be the last, and obviously it’s going to be heavily smut filled. I also am wondering if I should even do it because I feel like my smut isn’t amazing :( and this build up/slow burn deserves some bomb ass sex yk

Anyway love how she is giving lover girl now like it’s so easy to do when you have Clark :,)

© 2025 aliendickrocks

And still no epidural. The anesthesiologist was swamped, and you were minutes away from tracking him down, and killing him.

Your girls had been eager downstairs, but it seemed that now you were ready for them, they’d like to take their time. You’d plateaued at 7 minutes between contractions, and each time you were checked on, you were no more than 3 centimeters, 70% effaced. You hadn’t even broken your water yet. The contractions were — well, what you’d expect. Excruciating? Aching? Debilitating?

Yes.

Robby had one of your sweaty hands clutched in both of his, rubbing it soothingly as you breathed through another one. Hair was plastered to your forehead, and your cheeks were flushed with heat.

“I hate this,” you whined, as your pain tapered out.

“I know honey,” said Robby, kissing your knuckles. “Just a little bit longer.”

“I never pretended I could do this, you know,” you panted. “I was very clear about the drugs. I want the fucking epidural, for fucking fucks sake!”

Between contractions, your muscles felt tight. It wasn’t helped by the million monitors strapped to your belly. You could see Baby A’s heartbeat, Baby B’s heartbeat, and track the contractions. You didn’t really understand the point of that last one, you were pretty sure you could sense them just fine.

Robby looked physically pained as he watched you grimace.

“He’ll be here any minute,” he said, though he doubted it was true. “Just breathe.”

“I’m fucking breathing!” you snapped, not opening your eyes.

Robby didn’t say a thing, just kept rubbing your hand comfortingly. His eyes flickered over to the monitor like they did every two minutes. Baby A, Ada, was holding strong and steady with 140 beats per minute, never dipping lower, and Baby B, Naomi, was a little higher at 150. All good, all healthy, all within the normal range. Still, if there was one thing Michael Robinovitch was going to do, it was worry.

You squirmed slowly, pushing up slightly, adjusting your hips, only to collapse back down, no more comfortable than before. The sheets on the bed were kicked all the way down to the foot, and every inch of your skin glistened with sweat. Your jaw was clenched.

“Do you want to listen to some music, sweetheart?”

“No,” you grunted.

“Audiobook?”

“No.”

He fiddled with your wedding ring, desperate to help but unsure how to.

“Why don’t we call the nurse? We can try some —”

“Unless it’s a nurse anesthetist, I don’t wanna hear it!”

Deciding maybe that the best way to help was to shut up unless spoken to, Robby closed his mouth. A second later, the door opened, and the nurse that walked through it was probably even better than an anesthetist.

“Dana!” Robby greeted, still not letting go of your hand.

Your eyes shot open and you looked around for her, eyebrows pinching with emotion when you saw her. She held out her arms when she saw you, dropping the bags on the couch and going to the bed.

“Oh, Dana,” you sighed, falling into her arms. “Get me out of here.”

“Trust me, sugar,” she said calmly, patting your head. “This is the place you wanna be.”

You huffed, eyes closing again.

“Then why don’t I have a fucking epidural yet?” 

She chuckled, brushing your braids back.

“Because men are idiots,” she said. “I’m technically still working, I just came by to drop off the stuff Jack brought.”

You had asked Jack to grab some things from your house on his way in. Robby of course had emergency hospital bags in his locker in case of this situation, but you still wanted the going home onesies you’d had laid out for the twins, and although he wouldn’t admit it, Robby needed his special pillow to keep his neck from getting stiff.

“Thank you,” said Robby, grabbing the duffel and unzipping it.

“Don’t mention it,” she said, without glancing his way. “Are your sisters on the way?”

“No,” you said regretfully. “I’ll probably deliver in the OR, so they couldn’t be with me anyways. They’re heading here first thing tomorrow.”

The one thing you really wanted to have with you, second only to your husband and the epidural, were your baby sisters. But you had to make certain sacrifices with high risk pregnancies.

There was a part of Robby, a secret, guilty part he would never tell you, that was glad your sisters couldn’t come. He knew he’d have to fight them just to hold his own daughters. He was pretty sure you’d ditch him for either of them in a heartbeat, something he actually admired. He was eternally grateful his girls were going to have each other.

Dana kissed your cheek and stood.

“Well, I better be going,” she said, eyes still twinkling kindly down at you. “That place falls apart without me.”

“Don’t we know it,” said Robby with a smile. “Thanks for coming by.”

She gave him a kiss too, and headed for the door.

“Good luck, hun,” she said. “And hey — I know you’ve already decided on names, but it's never too late to change. ‘Dana’ has served me well for almost 60 years. Just something to think about.”

She winked as she shut the door. You and Robby could only smile at each other. What Dana didn’t know was that you had named a baby after her. Naomi Danielle.

“She’s gonna cry,” you said, smiling for real.

“Yeah, and agree to babysit for the rest of her life,” Robby chuckled, moving back to your side.

9:01 pm

You wanted to cry. You had cried, but you wanted to again. And again, and until you finally convinced that son of a bitch anesthesiologist to stick the damn needle in your back.

You were lying on your back, Robby pressing a stupid cup of ice chips to your forehead. You had been there for over three hours, fending off pain-induced nausea, and you were still feeling every little spasm, every little muscle tightening in contraction. Your headphones had calming ocean sounds covering your ears, but you felt far from calm.

You were just about to ask Robby to shake some of the ice chips into your mouth when a sudden warmth gushed down onto the Chux pad under your butt.

You jolted, pulling the headphones off one ear. Robby’s head snapped up, already on the edge of his seat.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded, looking down.

“Water,” you croaked. “Broke.”

Placing the cup on the table, he hurried to look under the edge of your gown. He let out a breath.

“It’s clear,” he said, relieved.

He pressed the call button, and Marsha, the 72 year old veteran, came bounding in, a smile on her rosy cheeks.

“You rang?”

“Her water broke,” said Robby, not matching Marsha’s smile.

She didn’t falter.

“Let’s take a looksie, shall we?” 

“It’s clear,” said Robby, hands on the back of his neck as he peered over Marsha’s shoulder. “Looks okay, right? They’re okay?”

“Looks just right,” she said calmly. “We just want to keep an eye on baby’s heartrate, because—”

The rest of her sentence was on deaf ears as the monitor began to alarm. Ada’s heartrate, which had been consistently bouncing between 140 and 145, was beginning to dip. 130, 125, 120…

Your heart began pounding uncomfortably, nausea stronger than ever, while Robby grabbed hold of your hand. You could feel his pulse racing at his wrist.

“What, what’s happening?” he croaked, looking pale.

“Deep breaths,” said Marsha soothingly. “This is completely normal, it's just some pressure on the cord from the fluid shift.”

Right, you thought, as she called on Dr. Atwood. You knew that. You still had to place a hand over your racing heart and take a second. Robby was right there with you.

“Let’s just move you over to your left, okay dearie?” said Marsha, taking gentle hold of your arm with calloused hands. “That’s it.”

You rolled slowly onto your left side, eyes glued to the monitor. Without having to ask, Marsha placed your peanut ball between your legs. For a few more painful seconds, Ada hovered around 110. Then, quickly, she began climbing back up. 

You could feel Robby relax with your back to him, feel his hand loosening its grip, feel the sigh of relief on the back of your neck. Dr. Atwood strolled in a bit too leisurely for your liking.

“How’s my favorite patient?” she asked, rubbing some hand sanitizer on and sitting on her stool.

“Baby A had a brief variable deceleration, but recovered quickly,” said Marsha. “And the water is officially broken! Exciting!”

You hummed noncommittally, eyes still watching the numbers on the screen.

“Looks good,” said Atwood. “Very good. Alright, I’d like to check up after this next contraction.”

“When’s — ah!” you cut yourself off, hands shooting to your belly.

You’d almost forgotten to be constantly dreading the next contraction, but your uterus was quick to remind you. Your thighs squeezed the peanut ball tightly, as you breathed through clenched teeth, eyes scrunched shut. One hand was taken up by Robby, the other by Marsha, who had a soft towelette dabbing at your forehead.

“Breathe, honey, breathe,” said Robby shakily, a finger smoothing along your brow. “In and out.”

In, out. In, out. 

“46 seconds,” said Dr. Atwood when it finally subsided. “Good job, Mama.”

“Didn’t feel like seconds,” you murmured wearily.

Robby pressed a kiss to your temple, breathing you in, even in your less than fresh state.

“That was so good,” he said.

Marsha pressed the towelette into Robby’s hands, who immediately took up wiping your damp forehead. She grabbed a hand towel and began to wipe the amniotic fluid from your legs.

“I’d like to do an internal, whenever you're ready,” said Atwood.

“Wait, will — will I drop the heartrate if I move?” you asked, still in your sidelying position.

“No, they’ll be fine,” she said.

“I’ll just grab this,” said Marsha, rolling up the soiled Chux pad and throwing it in the bin. “And I have a new, dry gown ready for you when you're done.”

“Thank you,” Robby said, because you were too tired to.

He and Marsha helped move your aching bones back onto your butt, and placed your feet in the stirrups for you. The monitor didn’t like that; it harped annoyingly at you, and Marsha tsked.

“Hold on, we’re losing Baby B here,” she said, adjusting the top monitor. “There we go.”

Atwood wheeled to the foot of the bed on her stool, pulling on gloves.

“Alright Mrs. Robinovitch,” she said. “You know the deal. A little discomfort, but there shouldn’t be pain.”

You nodded as she inserted her fingers. You disliked it at first, but after experiencing the discomfort of a contraction, this was nothing.

“Still holding fast at 3 centimeters,” she said apologetically, and you whimpered slightly, rolling your head into Robby’s shoulder. He brought a comforting hand to your head. “About 75% effaced, so progress. Baby A is well applied to the cervix, and definitely still cephalic.”

“That’s good,” said Robby desperately. “Really, really good.”

Dr. Atwood removed her hand and discarded the glove, then palpated your belly. Marsha was standing by with the ultrasound probe and gel.

“Seems like Baby B is still breech,” she said. “We’ll confirm.”

Marsha handed her the probe and squirted some jelly onto your skin.

“Sorry for the cold, hun,” she said quietly, while Atwood watched the screen.

“It’s actually kind of nice,” you said, still feeling hot as an oven.

Robby was watching the screen as intently as Atwood was, and saw the confirmation at the same time, tightening his grip. He still looked far more grim than she.

“It looks like Baby B is head up,” she said. “Fortunately, it appears to be Frank Breech.”

You racked your brains. Frank Breech. Right. Frank Breech was the easiest position to deliver vaginally, due to the legs being straight up against the body, rather than down or crossed.

“Okay,” you said.

“Is there an OR ready?” asked Robby anxiously. 

“I don’t want a C section,” you said grumpily.

“I know honey, I know, we just want to be prepared, right?” he said too fast, squishing your hand between his.

You opened your mouth to say something mean, but Atwood spoke first.

“There will be an OR ready for her at any stage,” she said. “But we’re still pretty early, there’s a chance Baby B flips on her own. Give it time.”

“And the epidural?” you asked. “Marie, I’m dying here. You gotta give me something. Tell me he’s on his way. Tell me he’ll be here in, like, five seconds.”

She gave you a sympathetic wince, and you knew the answer. You threw an arm over your eyes in despair. 

“I’m afraid Dr. Manning is still tied up with an emergency C section,” she said. “The second he’s free, he’s headed to you, I promise. We’ll go ahead and up your IV fluids in preparation.”

You let out a strangled moan in response. Robby spoke up again.

“And hemorrhage protocol,” he said. “Her blood type is A negative. In case of —”

“Jesus, Robinovitch, they know my fucking blood type!” you say, a little loud. “They have eyes! And a chart! You want to help? Go find Dr. Manning and threaten him with litigation!”

That shut him up. You hadn’t called him just Robinovitch since before you’d gotten together. Dr. Atwood excused herself, while Marsha, unphased, helped you into a clean gown. When she left, Robby reached for your hand again, but you pulled away. You put on your headphones.

“Go sit in your chair, with your penis, and your — your no uterus, and leave me in the misery you caused!” you huffed, pulling on a sleep mask so you didn’t have to look at him.

He wrung his hands nervously.

“Honey,” he said softly. “Do you want me to just go get a cup of coffee? Give you some sp—”

“Don’t you dare leave me here, Robinovitch,” you hissed in a deadly whisper. “I will divorce you so fast.”

He nodded a nod you couldn’t see and jumped into the chair like you told him.

You didn’t want to look at him, but you knew in five minutes, when you changed your tune, you’d regret sending him away.

10:32 pm

By the time Dr. Atwood came back with some good news, Robby had changed out of his scrubs into some sweats, and he was helping you through a contraction. You sat on your peanut ball, swaying slowly back and forth, hands and arms supported by Robby’s, who was crouching in front of you. When the door opened, he looked up at her, but you were focusing on your deep breathing.

“Get excited,” she said. “Dr. Manning is free and headed this way.”

Robby’s shoulders relaxed somewhat, knowing this pain would be ending for you. Your eyes were still closed as you let out a long, slow breath.

“That’s great,” he said. “Did you hear that, honey?”

 He leaned back down to meet your eyeline, but your eyes didn’t open. He waited for your heart rate to go back down, for your face to smooth out, before he tried again.

“Honey, did you hear that?” he asked, and you sleepily shook your head. “That epidural’s coming, baby. Almost here. Almost over.”

You didn’t seem to have the energy to express excitement.

“Really?” you said weakly.

His heart was quickly collapsing in on itself like a dying star. He’d seen you tired before, more than not, these past nine months, but the pure exhaustion in your eyes then was heartbreaking. This wasn’t what you signed up for, and you shouldn’t have had to do it.

“Really,” he said. “Want to get back up into bed?”

It took you a second to not. He and Dr. Atwood supported your hips and belly as you made your shaky way over and laid down, IV pole wheeling along behind you. He adjusted a pillow under your head and kissed your burning cheek.

“Mikey,” you slurred.

He leaned in close.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You let your eyes close again.

“I’m so tired.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, and stroked your hair.

“I know. It’s almost over.”

That was kind of true. Dr. Manning walked in about two minutes later, looking a little tired, but put together. Marsha trailed behind him. Robby looked from where he was rubbing your back, and jumped straight to his feet.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Manning, I’m —”

“The epidural, yes,” Robby cut him off, shaking his hand vigorously. “Yes, we’ve been waiting. Listen, she’s been on fluids for almost an hour, she’s ready to go.”

Dr. Manning nodded and headed to sit on your right.

“Hello, Mrs. Robinovitch,” he said kindly. “I’m Dr. Manning. I’m here to do your epidural.”

Not kindly enough.

“Where the fuck were you,” you croaked, not opening your eyes.

He took it in stride. No doubt you weren’t the first pregnant person to be upset with him.

“I apologize sincerely for the delay,” he said. “But we’re gonna get that epidural up and running as soon as possible, okay?”

“Okay,” you said drily.

“Shouldn’t be more than 25 minutes,” he said, squirting some hand sanitizer. “Do you have any drug allergies?”

“No,” said Robby automatically, and Manning shot him a look. “Sorry.”

You sighed, wishing desperately that Robby was allowed to do all the talking for you, and knowing that another contraction was right on its way.

“No,” you repeated.

“Wonderful,” he said absently, checking your chart. “And your platelet count looks good. Any blood conditions or spinal abnormalities?”

“No,” you croaked again.

“Okay, good,” he said. “Now Mrs. Robinovitch, I'm going to walk you through some of the risks of this procedure.”

“Dr. Robinovitch,” you corrected. “I know the risks. I give my consent. Please just do it.”

He blinked, hesitant, but ultimately conceded.

“Very well,” he said. “I’m just going to place a blood pressure cuff on you, so we can monitor it throughout.”

“I got it,” said Robby quickly, strapping the fabric securely in under two seconds.

Dr. Manning blinked again.

“I’m Dr. Robinovitch, too,” he said.

“I see,” said Manning. “I’m afraid you are going to have to sit up for this, Dr.”

You groaned. Marsha rushed in to help you up, and placed a stool at the side of the bed. As they got you to the edge, she placed your feet on the stool.

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to curl forward,” said Dr. Manning, donning his gown, mask, and gloves.

“Hug your babies,” said Marsha, in a calm, quiet voice. “Good, just like that.”

You curved your stiff spine forward and wrapped your arms around your middle. You felt the back of  your gown open, and what you knew was iodine being swiped across your skin. You shivered, and Robby got down on his knees in front of you, resting his arms on your knees for you to rest your forehead on.

“You’ll feel a small prick and some burning,” said Manning, voice muffled by his mask. “That’s the local anesthetic.”

You barely noticed the sensation. After a few minutes, all was numb.

“Here comes the big needle.”

You took a deep breath. There was acute pressure on your lower back, but no pain. The only sound was the beeping of the monitor, and your heartbeat in your ears. Then pain did start. Not the sharp sting of a needle, but the gradual, fast approaching ache of a contraction.

You twitched, and dug your nails into Robby’s arms.

“Try really hard not to move,” said Manning.

“Contraction,” said Marsha. “A little early.”

Robby placed his cheek against the top of your bowed head, gripping you harder as though attempting to take some of your pain for himself. You sucked short, shallow breaths in through your teeth. You longed to move, to stretch, to yell. You dreamed of your ball, or the bed, anything to take pressure off your abdomen.

“We’re in,” said Manning. “Stay still.”

You let out a whimper.

“You’re almost there,” said Robby, brushing a thumb along your knee. “You’re doing so good.”

“Catheter in, needle out,” said Manning. “Excellent job, Dr. Robinovitch.”

You waited in agony as he applied a mountain of tape and dressings to your back, then up around your shoulder.

“You’re all done,” said Robby. “You’re okay, honey, you’re okay.”

You collapsed slightly, into his arms, and he encircled you without a second thought. He helped you back into bed, onto your side.

“Your heart rate and blood pressure are holding up,” said Dr. Manning. “Same for the babies. I’m administering the bupivacaine and fentanyl."

The contraction started to wane, not a second too soon. You let your eyes slide back shut, taking in the familiar scent of Robby. He leaned close, hands finding yours. It was laundry detergent, and ink, and coffee, and just him. He muttered praises as you breathed, lips pressed against your temple.

It started at your toes; a slight tingling, like pins and needles. Then it slowly crept up your legs, one inch at a time.

“Michael,” you said. “Yeah, baby.”

“I think it’s starting to work.”

And it was that realization, not the needles or contractions, that sent tears to your eyes.

12:44 am

The epidural was everything. You had made the right choice, for you and your baby. However, with the pain gone, the nausea subsided enough to let your appetite shine through.

You hadn’t eaten since 3 pm. Robby hadn’t, either, but he didn’t complain. Not like you did.

“Chicken tenders from Cane’s,” you said dreamily, eyes closed. “With extra Texas toast, and extra sauce. I’d put that sauce on anything.”

You laid in bed with Robby, his arms holding you to his chest, where you happily rested. He hummed.

“Ooh, or a burger!” you gasped. “Ugh, I’d kill for some Five Guys right now. I’d get a —”

“Double patty, ketchup and mustard, and pickles on the side, a large fry, and a chocolate malt,” said Robby instantly. “You’ve gotten the same thing for 15 years.”

“That’s ’cause it’s great,” you said. “Oh my god. I can picture it so clearly.”

You waved a hand out in front of your closed eyes, and Robby chuckled and caught it, bringing it to his lips.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You opened your eyes sluggishly to peer up into his. They lowered the lights in your room, not that you’d be able to sleep with the rumbling hunger in your stomach or the beeping of the monitors. Not that Robby would be able to sleep without the monitors, steadily telling him his family was okay. Not that anything could keep you from recognizing the brown eyes you fell in love with.

“For what?” you whispered.

“For doing this,” he said, tapping your belly lightly. “For going through this. To get us these girls.”

You smiled, eyes burning again. He looked so open to you, eyes dilated and glistening. You couldn’t help but remember the scruffy gunner who you’d met all those years ago, who barely knew how to boil an egg by himself. Now, here he was, crying with joy at the idea of being a dad. No showy motorcycles, or nights out at bars, just this.

“You’re welcome,” you said back. “Thank you for being the person I’m doing it with.”

He kissed you softly.

“Can you believe we’ll meet them today?” he said, an uncontrollable smile pulling at his lips.

“Don’t jinx it,” you chided tiredly. “I’d hardly be the first person to be in labor for over 24 hours.”

“You won’t,” he said confidently. “I have a feeling we’re going to meet our daughters today.”

There was a soft knock on the door, and it opened. Dr. Atwood stepped in.

“Knock, knock,” she said quietly. “You awake over there?”

“Yes,” said Robby scratchily. “Awake. Forever.”

Dr. Atwood turned the lights on to low, but you still had to wince and blink to adjust. She examined the Toco tracing on the screen. You heaved yourself up, though the bed was already elevated.

“How have your contractions been?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” you said. “I haven’t been feeling a thing. Sometimes I think I feel some pressure in my pelvis, but I’m not sure. Nothing crazy.”

“Excellent.”

She clacked the keyboard, the sound feeling particularly loud in the dark silence.

“Well, the monitor shows them as every five minutes, lasting 55 seconds,” she said. “You’re moving along, but a little slowly. If you're not seven centimeters dilated, I’d like to start a low pitocin drip.”

You nodded, and Robby stood to place your heavy, numb legs in the stirrups. You were happy to lay still and let him move you however Atwood needed. As far as you were concerned, you wouldn't be moving until delivery. She gloved up and felt around.

“Yes,” she said, not happily. “Still only five. I’ll have Marsha come in and set up the drip. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” you said contentedly, sending a lazy thumbs up.

“Thank you,” said Robby, as Atwood retreated.

Once the drip was set, and you were back in the dark, just you and Robby, you wondered. The little babies inside of you were going to be out in a day's time. What would they look like? You pictured two little Michaels, but you were sure he pictured two little yous. Would they like medicine, would they be nurses or doctors when they grew up? Would they like sports? You could picture the name ‘Robinovitch’ on the back of a hockey jersey, winning gold.

“What are you thinking?”

You nudged back up under his chin, and his hand covered yours on your stomach, careful not to upset the monitors.

“I’m wondering if they’ll like hockey,” you said, quietly, despite being alone.

Something about the dark made you feel like you couldn’t be too loud. Robby did the same.

“Oh, they’ll like hockey,” he said. “And they’ll be Penguins fans.”

You scoffed.

“They will not!” you said, and you would have kicked him if your legs were at full function.

“I can’t raise Bruins fans,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, you’ll just have to try,” you said. “I’m the one who pushed them out of my vagina, I’m the one who gets to decide what sports teams they like.”

He sighed, unable to argue.

“Can’t we just each take one?”

“Oh yeah,” you laughed. “Then you can handle the meltdowns, and the fights, thank you very much.”

“Right,” he said.

“I’ll tell you what,” you said. “I get hockey and baseball, you can have football and basketball.”

“Deal,” he said, then he paused. “Although, I probably won’t show them football. I don’t want them to get interested in a sport that almost guarantees brain damage.”

“Good thinking,” you said. “Except, I’m still gonna show them hockey probably.”

He sucked his teeth.

“Yeah, it’s hard to get around that. Hockey’s the best.”

“The best,” you whispered.

You went quiet for a second. Robby’s hand went up to your hair, stroking your temple. You closed your eyes, but kept imagining.

“They better not have your eyes,” he said softly.

You made a face, pressed to his neck.

“I thought you loved my eyes.”

“I do,” he said, like it was obvious. “If they get your eyes, I’ll never be able to say no to them.”

You huffed a laugh.

“You won’t be able to say no to them anyways,” you said. “Besides, you think it’s easy for me to say no to your baby browns?”

“You say no to me all the time.”

You giggled a bit.

“Yeah, but I have to look away,” you explained. “Otherwise, you do make it hard.”

You sighed into each other, pulling close. As quiet fell, you could hear the ticking of a clock, as the beeping monitor faded into the background. Sleep, which had been sitting at the edges of your vision for hours, was winning over. You knew it would only be a matter of time before you were checked on again, so you let it take you. Enveloped by your husband's arms, breathing him in, you could think of no better place to be.

2:30 am

“I mean, I don’t get it. They already live together, why do they need to get married?”

“Becuase they love each other. And they want to celebrate that love with the people that are close with them.”

“If you wanna call that a reason!”

The sound of the laugh track was comforting and familiar, as you sat back against Robby’s chest, arms around your bump, munching on ice chips.

“Ross is such a wank,” you said.

“Hmm,” said Robby distantly.

You’d gotten about 45 minutes of sleep, not a bad amount, before Dr. Atwood came in to check and told you were seven centimeters, and would likely be ready to push within three or four hours. You were both thrilled and scared shitless at the idea. When she found Naomi was still breech, Robby got quiet.

You knew he was worried, and he didn’t want to worry you any further with his worrying. You’d made it very clear how you felt about that. But now he was just bottling it all up, and you were afraid he was going to explode. Not at you, never at you, but somehow, someway.

Sure, you were nervous, too. Every time you thought about having a c section, your heart felt about ready to crawl up your throat. But you also felt confident in the ability of your team, otherwise you wouldn’t have chosen them.

You felt weird, but okay. You were starving, you had a catheter in for the first time in your life, and you couldn’t walk on your own, but there was also this almost giddy sort of excitement, thinking about what was coming. You wanted Robby to have that too, but he couldn’t even pull himself out of his thoughts long enough to laugh about Joey’s smell-the-fart acting. You thought it likely he would chew his bottom lip clean off, so you gave it a kiss. You liked that lip.

He turned and gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Robby, honey,” you said. “What’s going on?”

He sighed.

“Nothing,” he said unconvincingly.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Then, what’s going right?”

It was a game you’d play, a coping mechanism. You’d walk each other through it when you got anxious. It was an exercise to help you focus on the positive, see what you had to work with, and make a plan. Robby closed his eyes for a second, then fixed them on your.

“Your epidural went well, and you aren’t feeling pain,” he said, and you nodded encouragingly, taking some more ice chips in your mouth. “Ada’s in perfect position and will almost definitely be a simple vaginal birth.”

“Definitely,” you interjected around your crunching. “She said definitely.”

“Definitely,” he corrected. “Both of them are measuring well, and might not even need the NICU. Their heart rates are good and consistent. You’re progressing normally so far. Your blood pressure is perfect.”

You smiled.

“What wonderful news,” you said. “Sounds like the girls and I are in good shape, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, not quite cheerful, but lighter still. “Perfect.”

He placed his large hand over where you knew Naomi’s head was, swiping his thumb back and forth.

Dr. Atwood had successfully delivered breech babies before, vaginally. You wouldn’t tell Robby this, quite yet, but you were determined. You knew he’d want you sent straight to the operating table the second there was even mention of a complication, but you also knew that if you trusted the doctors, and you listened to your body, you’d be quicker to try the old fashioned way a little longer. Robby would deal, but you didn’t want him trying to not try to talk you out of it.

“One of my clients died on the massage table today.”

“That’s a little more relaxed than you want them to get.”

That time, both you and Robby laughed along with the audience. Still, when Dr. Atwood came back in, you felt him tense beneath you. You turned the volume down on your show.

“How’s it going with you four?” she asked as she sat down.

“Great,” you said. “Some of us are a little nervous, but we’re working through it.”

She gave Robby a knowing look.

“Well, hopefully it eases your mind a bit to know that we’re pretty much all set up for delivery,” she said. “We’ve got an OR prepped, where it will happen, just in case we need to get a quick c section. We’ve got two warmers all ready, and the NICU team standing by.”

You gave Robby’s hand a reassuring squeeze, as Atwood propped up your legs and gave you a check.

“8 centimeters,” she said happily. “About one centimeter in one hour, so we’re right on track. And you said you’re feeling some pressure now?”

“Oh, yes,” you said, rubbing one hand along the base of your belly, the other still linked with Robby’s. “Definitely. And getting more intense.”

“But no breakthrough pain?”

“None.”

“Fantastic,” she said.

Robby spoke up.

“So, um, what exactly is the plan,” he said carefully, clearly trying not to let on just how much he’d been overanalyzing everything. “You know, if she’s still breech. Straight to c section, or…?”

You’d spoken alone with Dr. Atwood before, and she knew your priorities.

“Well, I understand Mom does not love the idea of surgery,” she said.

“I hate it.”

“Hates the idea of surgery,” said Dr. Atwood. “So, after Baby A is born, I thought I’d try external cephalic extraversion. It’s proven effective many times in my career.”

“Yes,” you said quickly. “Yes, I want that.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said. “If that doesn’t work, we can assess position, and go from there.”

You both thanked her as she left the room, air tenser still.

“You okay?” Robby whispered in your ear.

“Yes,” you said. “I just kind of want this to be over.”

He kissed your ear.

“Me too.”

3:56 am

The pain was gone, but you breathed heavy as Dr. Atwood came into the room, a little rush in her step.

“What’s happening?” she asked, gloving up already.

“I feel like I need to push,” you panted, “or take a shit. But if I feel like I need to take a shit, it probably means I need to push, right?”

Atwood checked under your gown and confirmed it.

“10 centimeters.”

Robby made a strange, quickly stifled noise, and gripped you tighter. Your heart was going at the speed of light just thinking about what was about to happen. As everyone began rushing around, moving you, donning PPE, preparing transfer, you started to panic, just a little.

“I think I’m gonna pass out,” you said, and Robby dropped down to meet your eye level.

“Honey, honey, look at me,” he said, cradling your face tenderly in his hands. “Breathe, okay? In and out.”

You watched his chest, rising and falling. Though faster than normal, it was slower than yours. You tried your best to copy it, letting everything around you fall into background noise. Just breathing. Yours and his. Your contraction passed, and you slowed down.

“Okay, Drs Robinovitch!” said Marsha, familiar round face discernable though her body was coated in blue, gown, cap, gloves, mask down on her chin. “We’re transferring to the OR now. Ready to have a baby?”

You weren’t sure.

They made Robby leave your side as they prepped you. They had to act as though you were headed to surgery, in case that’s how it ended up. When you saw him again as they rolled you in, he was wearing the same gear as Marsha.

You didn’t like it. It was bright, and crowded. Dr. Manning was there, so were a team of OB nurses, and two NICU teams prepped, one for each baby. The room was colder, and smelled strongly of antiseptic. You knew it was beneficial, but you couldn’t help but think that this was not the room you wanted your daughters to be born in.

You took another deep, deep breath as Robby found his way back to your side. Everything was moving so fast, but he was the calm in the storm. You knew he had a million different things going on behind his eyes, but he was hiding them from you. You also knew he would probably not maintain his composure past the first birth, but you were grateful for the front now.

Two nurses placed your groggy legs up into stirrups.

“Robby,” said Atwood. “Are you listening to me?”

He met her eyes.

“You are not a doctor for the next few hours,” she said firmly. “You are just a father. Understood?”

He nodded.

“I don’t want to see you down here, peeking over my shoulder and getting yourself worked up,” she said. “Your wife and your kids don’t need that. Right?”

“Right.”

She went back to work, and Robby let out a breath. You wished the guys downstairs could get a betting board for how long his determination would last, before he went making diagnoses.

“Okay, Mama,” said Marsha. “You ready?”

You couldn’t help but look around, at the orangey walls, glaring fluorescent lights, chemicals stacked in cabinets, sterile drapes, sterile sheets, sterile tools, sterile, sterile, sterile.

“Okay,” you breathed, heart rate picking up again. “Okay. Okay. Okay, okay. Okay.”

“Hey,” said Robby, crouching down, mask still resting on his chin. “Breathe.”

“You keep saying that,” you joked, but it came out weak and uneven.

He smiled nervously. 

“It’s kind of important,” he said. “Listen. It doesn’t matter what room we’re in, right? All that matters is that soon, our girls will be here too.”

You gave him a nod, eyes still wide, and reached out a shaky hand. He took it instantly, tightly.

“You can do this,” he said, and there wasn’t a single quiver of doubt in his cadence. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You gave his hand a squeeze back. Dr. Atwood called your attention.

“Okay, Dr.,” she said steadily. “The next contraction should be along in about 20 seconds. Push when you feel the need to, alright? Don’t fight it.”

You nodded again, stronger now, and worked yourself up to your elbows.

“Dad,” said Marsha, taking one of your legs and pulling it up towards your chest. “I need you to grab her other leg and pull it back like this. Got it?”

Robby looped an arm around your thigh, and held it up to your shoulder.

“Is this uncomfortable?” he asked you.

“No,” you said. “I think it’s coming.”

You could feel your muscles tightening and you leaned forward. Robby leaned with you, like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

"Okay, Mom, push,” said Atwood. “Push!”

You bared down with every fiber of energy left inside of you. You hadn’t missed it, but sweat started beading along your hairline, under your cap. You could feel the blood rushing to your face, pounding in your head.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Robby muttered under his breath. “Yes, yes, yes.”

You took a breath, and Atwood praised you without lifting her head.

“Good job, good job, now again.”

With each contraction, you pushed. With each push, the pressure in your pelvis grew heavier. By minute forty, you were heaving, dripping with sweat.

“That’s so good, Baby,” said Robby, breaking a hand from yours to dab at your head with a towel. “You’re so so good. I love you so much.”

“Alright, relax for a second,” said Atwood. “The next one should be along in about 90 seconds.”

You lifted a feeble hand and grasped the front of Robby’s gown. You were probably contaminating it, but your mind was a bit too preoccupied to think about that. You were trying very hard not to think about the whole picture. You were maybe a third, or maybe a sixth of the way to Ada. Then you had to figure out how you were even getting to Naomi. Your mind started to swim.

“Mikey,” you whispered desperately. “Mikey, I can’t. I can’t —”

“Yes, yes you can,” he said, leaning his forehead against your sweaty one. “You can, you can, if anyone can, it’s you. I know you can, you're almost there.”

You wanted a nap, but you felt the familiar clenching and gritted your teeth.

Every time you pushed, your eyes scrunched tight, your hands closed into fists, and your lips pulled back into a severe grimace. It felt impossible not to do. The pressure kept increasing, more than you thought it could.

“Okay,” said Dr. Atwood around minute sixty. “I can feel the head. It should be coming along with the next contraction.”

You could feel it, the urge, heightened, as you pushed next. Robby couldn’t help it — he peaked around your leg.

“I can see her,” he gasped, eyes welling up immediately. “Oh, there she is! She has your hair.”

You let out a strangled sort of laugh as you pushed. He grasped your slippery, sweaty shoulder as you rested. He was smiling, wider than you’d ever seen, wider even than your wedding day. 

“One more push,” he said, kissing your face and neck, and everywhere he could reach. “Just one more.”

He peeked back around when the next one came up.

“What do you see?” you wheezed, eyes still shut.

“Here comes her face!” he said, tears leaking down his cheeks. “Her shoulders are out clean, no problem; arms, and hands! Hands, with ten perfect little fingers!”

4:19 am

As the rest of her slid out, you felt the pressure release, and then a glorious, vigorous, strong cry cut the air, and you broke. You had to wipe the tears streaming from your eyes like a water faucet just to see your daughter's little red face.

Your daughter.

“Oh my god,” you wept. “Hi.”

She was perfect. She was the most perfect thing you could ever see, or hear. She was yours.

Then she was swept away. Your crying intensified.

“Where’d she go?” you sobbed.

Robby, crying next to you, held your trembling shoulders, while Atwood assessed you. One hand at your cervix, one hand maneuvering the ultrasound probe.

“They need to get her cleaned off,” he said, trying to blink his tears away. “And we need to get ready for Naomi.”

You were bone tired. Your muscles hurt, everywhere, all of them. Your chest rose and fell rapidly. You wanted to find your baby and go to sleep. As the nurses swarmed around you, shouting numbers, and the NICU team around them, inspecting your little girl, clouded your ears, your cries worsened still.

“I can’t… I can’t…”

Your legs were placed back in the stirrups.

“I know,” Robby shushed, stroking your sweat-saturated hair. “It’s almost over. We just need to get Naomi, and then we can go home.”

“Home,” you said softly.

“In your fuzzy pajamas,” he consoled. “And Jack said he’d bring sushi up as soon as he could.”

“Sushi,” you said, and your stomach stirred, making Robby laugh.

“Alright, Baby B is still breech, and higher up in the uterus,” said Atwood seriously. “I’m going to attempt an external version. It will be uncomfortable. Are you ready?”

You met her gaze, still slightly dazed, but nodded. Right. Two babies, one birth for each. You needed to bring Naomi home.

Atwood scooched forward on her stool and placed her hands on your stomach. With one hand near Naomi’s head, the other near her bum, she pushed deeply into your abdomen. You winced, a little. It was pressure, but not pain. Robby still gripped you like an iron fist.

“This isn't working,” Atwood said, a minute or two in. “I’m going internal.”

“Ah!”

You jolted as her hand breached your cervix, the other still pushing on top. As you watched the movement underneath your skin, all thoughts of sushi went out the window. An intense wave of nausea passed over you, as the pressure built up inside.

“Heart rate’s dropping!” said Marsha, and the nausea worsened.

Robby looked pale, and dotted with perspiration as he held your hand like a lifeline. He watched your baby’s heart rate fall from 150 down, down, down to 110, and further still. He finally tore his eyes away from the screen to see you, looking gray. His heart was constricting more with each passing second.

“Sick,” he said weakly, then stronger, “she’s gonna be sick!”

A basin was provided just as you chucked up whatever remnants of protein bar were left inside you. He stroked your forehead and let Marsha wipe your mouth off. You took a deep breath.

“Okay, this isn’t going to work,” said Atwood, retracting her hands.

Naomi’s heart rate was floating somewhat consistently around 95. Atwood changed her gloves and rolled to your side. She said your name softly.

“I know you don’t want this,” she said. “But at this stage, I’m going to recommend the c section.”

Your heart rate and respirations jumped right back up at those words. Your already wet eyes filled up with more, fresh tears.

“No,” you said, panicking now. “No… that’s not… no…”

Even Robby’s soft hands moving up and down your arms couldn't ground you.

“Honey…” he said hesitantly. “If it's what Naomi needs —”

“I said no!” you snapped shrilly, eyes wider than ever and absolutely pouring with tears again. “No! She needs to come out now, here! I can’t do a c section, Michael, I can’t!”

He pressed you into his chest the best he could, and met Atwood’s eyes behind you. His were filled with anxiety. He couldn’t stand to see you this way. It wasn’t fair. Not after all the pushing, and pain, and close calls. He started crying again too.

“What can we do?” he pleaded.

Atwood’s eyes flicked back to the monitor. The heart rate was climbing back up, however slowly.

“Still moderate variability,” she said. “We could attempt a controlled breach extraction. She’s still fully dilated and Baby A was smooth sailing. What do you say?”

“Yes,” you sobbed. “Yes, please, Michael.”

Robby wiped his forehead on his sleeve. It was more of a risk, but it was your call. And he didn’t want to see you going through a recovery you didn’t even need.

“Yes, yeah, let’s do it.”

Straight away, you were swarmed with nurses. Dr. Manning stepped in to make sure the epidural stayed secure as you were moved.

“We’re repositioning her to all fours,” said Marsha. 

It was a bit of a struggle to wrangle you into position, with your sluggish, numb legs and aching muscles. You tried to help as much as you could, but you felt weak, and exhausted. Mostly, you let a team of three or four nurses and Robby prop you up at the very foot of the bed, thighs held up by some pillows and knees spread wide. They had Robby meet you at the top and wrap his arms around you beneath your arms, which curled around his neck.

“Alright, the next contraction should be along any second,” you heard Atwood’s voice from behind you. “I’m gonna need you to push hard.”

You couldn’t even nod, just bowed your head. Robby followed suit, taking over your eyeline. His hair was flyaway, his eyes wide and panicked, forehead almost as sweaty as yours. But he was familiar. You latched onto him, trying not to think too hard about what they were doing down there.

“Now!”

You felt the pressure and pushed, but you couldn’t feel it building, and you knew, somehow, it wasn’t enough.

“Harder!” said a nurse.

You let out a whimper as the contraction ended, breathing heavily.

“Okay,” said Atwood, trying hard to be sensitive. “She’s not moving, you’re going to have to push harder. We’ll try again in a minute.”

You just cried. Robby wiped your tears.

“Just focus on me,” he said. “Just look right at me. You will get through this. And when you do, Naomi will be waiting for you.”

“I’m not strong enough,” you sniffed.

“You are, you are,” he said. “Tell me, what do you think Naomi will look like?”

You forced your eyes to stay open and on him, as the doctors geared up for the next contraction. You looked at his soft, dark hair.

“Your hair,” you whispered, as he dabbed your skin.

You felt pressure again, and bared down with all your will, lips pulled and arms shaking with fatigue. Robby adjusted his around you so more of your weight was supported on him.

“Keep going,” he said. “I think she’ll have your eyes. And your sister’s one fang tooth.”

You let out a distressed, quickly muffled laugh as you finished pushing and took a breath. Your sister always hated that one canine, longer than its twin, but Robby knew you thought it was charming.

“Good progress,” you heard someone praise behind your head.

He talked you through the next fifteen minutes. She’d play hockey. She’d love reading. She’d love the color purple. She’d hate math, but excel at history and english. She’d prefer her hair shorter and manageable, while her sister would want it long like Rapunzel. His low, soothing voice led you, until you heard it.

“I can see the buttocks. She’s almost here.”

Robby’s arms tightened around, but his eyes never wavered. You heaved. Your tears had never stopped, but they picked up in production and speed. You wished you could see it, but you knew it was probably better if neither you nor Robby could. This, believe it or not, was the tricky part.

“Hands off,” said Atwood. “Let the body come.”

You felt the stretch, different than before, as the trunk protruded further, leaving the legs hanging out. Atwood used only minimal support of the hips while you rested.

“She’s halfway through,” she updated you. “Next, we’ll get the arms.”

You could feel the rotation as you pushed. She gently pulled one arm free, then the other.

“Tell-tell us what’s happening,” said Robby, still unwilling to part from you.

“Arms out,” said Atwood, somewhat absentmindedly as she focused. “I’ve got her body on my arm. “Using the MSV maneuver… Push now, slow and steady.”

You did so, and perhaps you could imagine, more than feel, the head flexing, and Atwood moving it up and out.

5:11 am

You felt the pressure release, but with a pang, realized you couldn’t hear a thing.

It was this that finally broke your eye contact with Robby, as he snapped his gaze over you to see his daughter.

“What —”

They rubbed her chest, and then there was a sharp squeal, and you all took a breath. The cry wasn’t loud like Ada’s, but it was steady, and reassuring. You collapsed down onto the bed, turning to see her.

You were right, she had lots of dark, downy brown hair, just like her dad. Her limbs curled around nothing as though moving through water, as opposed to her sisters flailing.

Robby collapsed down above you, careful not to smush you, but laying comforting weight over your shoulders, tears dripping freely onto you  and your pillow. His head was still craned to watch her as they wiped her off.

“Would you like to cut the cord, Dad?”

Crying almost as much as you, Robby stepped forward, not letting go of your hand while with the other, he took the scissors. He’d cut cords before, other people’s, but it felt like a whole new experience as he tore cleanly through the spongy tissue that had kept the little baby alive for months. They’d had to whisk Ada away so quickly, he was glad he got to do one.

They clamped the stump and moved Naomi over to the warmer. Robby settled back down by you, kissing your forehead slowly.

“You did it,” he cried into your sweaty hair. “You did so good. They’re perfect.”

You sniffled into him, eyes tracking Naomi over to where she and her sister lay, crowded by teams of doctors and specialists. You wanted nothing more than to have them with you, but you had one more thing to worry about.

“Looks like the placentas are coming right along,” said Dr. Atwood. “Push when you need to.”

Much to your dismay, your feet were placed into the stirrups again, but the placental delivery was easy, barely two pushes.

“Are they —”

“Completely intact,” she answered your husband’s question. “No fragments, bleeding well controlled.”

After that, things were a daze. The only thing on your mind was your girls, as you were cleaned, patched up, and sent back to your room. The babies followed you and Robby through the halls, in their warmed cots. Atwood said they’d probably have some gaps in temperature regulation, so they’d have to stay monitored and on warmers until cleared. Other than that, they were free to stay with you.

Ada was robust, as expected. Seven pounds, one ounce, pink and chubby and loud. Naomi was slightly smaller, at six pounds five ounces, and slower, but catching up. By the time you were set up back in your room, they were ready to be held.

You couldn’t contain yourself as Marsha rolled them over. She picked up Ada first, who put up a bit of a protest, but settled quickly once she was placed against your chest. She was surprisingly warm, and wriggly, and perfect. Your arms, which had been trembling with both overuse and anticipation, steadied quickly around her, like your body knew the importance. 

Next was Naomi, who stayed fast asleep. She needed the rest, you thought, as she was placed next to her sister, little fist curling against you. You let out a dry sob around the lump in your throat. Robby was absolutely weeping next to you.

Marsha excused herself as Robby climbed into the bed next to you, one arm around your shoulders, the other supporting the babies. You could feel his tears wetting your head, but you didn’t say anything. He stroked Naomi’s little foot, and she cooed.

“I can’t believe they’re ours,” he wept softly, hiding his smile in your shoulder.

“I know,” you muttered.

You sat there like that for a while, just watching every little movement, memorizing every little sound. They’d never be that little again.

“You ready to hold ‘em?”

He broke into a whole nother level of noisy sobs, and had to put his head between his knees.

6:43 am

You thought your husband couldn’t get any hotter, but that was before you saw him do skin to skin with your girls. He sat in the hospital recliner, one on each side, just crying, biting his lip to keep from waking them up. It was your phone wallpaper in seconds.

Naomi really had needed her sleep — a breech birth wasn’t easy on any party involved — but Ada got hungry straight away. She started crying into Robby’s chest, which in turn, upset Naomi. Luckily, the lactation consultant got Ada latched fast. You weren’t surprised she got your appetite, when Robby wasn’t exactly picky either. To get Naomi to calm down, Robby started talking. Just talking, about anything that came to mind. It seemed all those late night bedtime stories, when they woke you up from kicking, had paid off. His voice soothed her instantly.

It was a soothing voice, you thought, as he jabbered on quietly. Your eyes were on Ada, watching her suckle away happily.

“So Mama said, she told me, she knew she put the plates in that cupboard, and if they weren’t there, I must have moved them,” he said, tracing circles on Naomi’s diapered butt. “And there’s one thing you should know about Mama, she is always right. Don’t even bother trying to argue with her.”

You smiled sleepily, shaking your head, as a knock sounded at the door.

“Hello, Robinovitch family!” said Marsha’s chirpy voice. “You have a visitor! Are you ready for him?”

“Jack?” you asked instantly, desperately. “Let him in.”

You knew he wouldn’t mind your breastfeeding. You’d known him almost as long as you’d known Robby, and there was no such thing as being shy when you spent that long as ER doctors. Besides, the most important part, he had promised sushi.

You actually started salivating as he walked in, two large bags in one strong hand. You’d been provided with graham crackers and ginger ale, but you needed a real meal. And you’d been thinking about a dragon roll since the positive pregnancy test.

“Hey,” said Jack in his raspy voice, approaching slowly so as not to startle the babies. “How’s it going?”

Robby opened his mouth, to gush, probably, but you had an agenda.

“Fantastic, hand me that sushi or you’ll never know their names.”

You and Robby had sent out a group text after the babies were born, just to let everyone know they were here, and doing okay, but you hadn’t wanted to reveal the names until you’d had a chance to tell Jack and Dana in person.

You actually moaned in ecstasy as you popped the first roll into your mouth. You shoved a second one in before you had even finished swallowing. You had to wipe a drop of sauce off of Ada’s head, but you were too famished to care. She was, too.

“Please don’t aspirate,” said Robby worriedly, tamago in hand. “I don’t think I could handle them without you.”

“M fine,” you mumbled around your chewing.

Robby, who had fasted in solidarity, or, partially because he knew you’d kick him out if he’d had the gall to eat in front of you, was almost as hungry. Jack allowed the two of you to gorge yourselves sick for a few minutes before opening his mouth.

“So,” he said, a smile already pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Now can I know their names?”

You and Robby glanced at each other. You thought Jack really should be holding Ada to hear her middle name, so you nodded towards Robby.

“Her first.”

Jack rubbed on about a ton of hand sanitizer, rolled up his sleeves, and sat in his chair expectantly, arms outstretched. Robby, very carefully, stood and transferred the baby from his chest to Abbot’s arms.

“The head,” said Robby, compulsively.

He leaned back, fingers twisted together nervously, as Jack let Naomi settle into the crook of his elbow. Her brow tweaked just slightly, before she fell back into a deep sleep. He smiled warmly down at her, and poked her little chubby cheek.

“This is Naomi,” said Robby, watching her over his friend’s shoulder. “Naomi Danielle.”

“We named her after Dana,” you said, still stuffing your face, and rightfully so.

“Hi, Naomi!” Jack whispered, running a finger over her fuzzy head. “Oh, Dana’s just gonna lose it when she meets you, isn’t she?”

As you started on your shrimp tempura, Ada began rejecting your nipple. She pulled back with a slight whine, but seemed in and out of sleep. You pulled your gown up, and Robby smiled at you. He reached down and took Naomi back, much to Jack’s chagrin.

“Wh — I wasn’t done with her yet,” he said indignantly. “I know how to hold two babies at once.”

“Calm down,” said Robby, placing Naomi down in her warmer. “We’ll have the second with you in a moment.”

You were jittery and excited as Robby lifted Ada from your arms.

“Oh, she’s a big one,” he said, as Ada was handed to him. “What is she?”

“About seven pounds,” Robby said. “Naomi’s six, and six ounces.”

Jack whistled.

“I know,” you said. “I shudder to think how big they would have been if they’d had those last few weeks to cook.”

Jack chuckled, bouncing Ada slightly to settle her. An arm broke free of her blanket, and her hand latched securely onto Jack’s finger. You knew, logically, that that was nothing more than a reflex. But you couldn’t help the lump in your throat.

“So what’s this one’s name?”

One look at Robby told you you’d have to be the one to say it. His eyes were red, and he rubbed his upper lip harshly. You cleared your throat.

“Ada James,” you said, and Jack froze. “Ada for Dr. Adamson, and James after…”

You didn’t have to say it. Jack was already blinking furiously, curling his arms closer into his body.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Oh.”

That was all he could say, for a while. He just rocked her back and forth. He’d had the foresight to remove his germy scrub top, so he was in a white t-shirt, soft and clean, just like the babies. He rubbed his eyes, then covered them all together and leaned his head back. You smiled. He wasn’t a dumb stunted man, he was in touch with his emotions, just not a lot of things drove him to tears. You were pretty sure the only other time you’d seen him cry was after his wife’s passing. 

“We got ’im,” you said, somewhat triumphantly. “We got you. Didn’t we?”

He just nodded and heaved a breath, hand still over his eyes. Robby clapped him on the shoulder, choking back tears of his own.

“Screw you guys,” he sighed, letting his hand fall and revealing pink rimmed lids. “Just screw you.”

“Hey, not in front of the babies,” Robby chuckled gruffly.

“Now I gotta go back downstairs and do hand off,” said Jack. “If I let those guys see me crying, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He reluctantly handed the baby back to Robby. He gave him a half hug, careful of Ada, then went over and gave you a peck on the forehead.

“Thank you,” he said. 

You just smiled, and patted his chest. When he was gone, Robby let out a heavy breath.

“I think I need to be hooked up to an IV,” he said. “I’m losing too many damn fluids.”

“Oh, we still need a photo,” you said. “For my sisters. They made me promise.”

So Robby squished the girls together on Naomi’s cot and snapped a photo. You sent it to the family group chat.

December 1, 2025.

Ada James, 4:19 am, 7 lbs, 1 oz

Naomi Danielle, 5:11 am, 6 lbs, 6 oz

“She’s going to need a CT,” she said. “The nose is definitely broken, but we need to rule out a concussion or any intracranial bleed.”

The trauma room slowly began moving again. Nurses prepared transport equipment while someone adjusted the monitors attached to you. Another nurse checked the IV line to make sure it was secure for transport.

Robby didn’t move.

He stood near the foot of the bed, staring at you silently.

Of all the things that could go wrong tonight, this was probably the worst. A mass casualty event was already coming in and now Jack’s daughter was one of their patients.

He had no idea how Jack was going to react.

The thoughts kept piling up in Robby’s head until a soft sound pulled him back.

Crying.

He glanced toward the doorway.

Olive was still standing there, tears streaming down her face as she muttered to herself.

“How could I not know she has epilepsy?” she whispered shakily. “I mean, I’m her best friend… she was fine one minute. I should’ve done something.”

Her words began tumbling over themselves.

“I should’ve caught her. I should’ve called 911 faster. I just stood there—”

Dennis stood in front of her, his expression soft with concern.

“This isn’t your fault,” he said gently. “She’s here now, and we’re going to take care of her. Okay?”

Olive tried to nod, but her eyes drifted past him toward you lying on the bed.

The tears only came faster.

Robby stepped forward, placing a hand on Dennis’s shoulder.

Dennis moved aside slightly.

Robby crouched down just enough to be closer to Olive’s eye level, lowering his voice.

“Olive?” he said softly. “Do you remember me?”

She sniffed, blinking through tears as she looked at him more closely.

“I’m Y/N’s uncle,” Robby continued. “I was at her birthday party last year.”

Recognition flickered across her face.

“You got her that skateboard, right?” Olive said quietly. “I don’t know how many cuts she got from it.”

Robby let out a small laugh at the memory.

“Yeah,” he said. “Her dad almost killed me for that one.”

Olive’s expression cracked again.

“She’s going to be okay, right?” she asked, her voice breaking.

Robby didn’t hesitate.

“She’s going to be okay,” he said firmly. “I promise.”

He gave her a reassuring smile.

“I’m going to get her dad here. And once she’s settled into a room, you can go sit with her if you want. But right now, why don’t you go with Dr. Whitaker to the waiting area?”

He nodded toward Dennis.

“You can wait there for a little bit.”

Olive hesitated, but eventually nodded.

Dennis opened the trauma room door and gently guided her out.

The moment the door closed behind them, the room felt quieter.

Robby turned back toward you.

Your breathing had steadied now, oxygen tubing resting beneath your nose. Your face was pale beneath the streaks of dried blood.

It had been years since the last time you’d had a seizure like this.

And even then, Jack had been with you when it happened.

This time, you’d been alone.

The thought made Robby’s chest tighten.

He was supposed to leave when his shift ended.

He was supposed to go on his trip.

And you were his niece.

Was he really just going to walk out of here tonight?

His eyes drifted back to your face, still smeared with blood.

“Dr. Robby? Dr. Robinavitch?”

Al-Hashimi stood a few feet away, watching him carefully.

It took a second before her voice registered.

Robby blinked and looked up.

“She’s ready for CT,” Al-Hashimi said. “Do you want to check anything before she goes?”

As she spoke, Robby stepped closer to the bed.

He reached out and gently brushed a piece of hair away from your forehead.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

Then he shook his head.

“No,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t be working on her anyway. I’m listed as one of her emergency contacts.”

Al-Hashimi nodded in understanding.

She turned toward one of the nurses.

“Jesse, go ahead and take her up.”

Jesse nodded and motioned for two other nurses to help move the bed.

The wheels unlocked with a quiet click.

They began rolling you out of the trauma room toward the elevators.

Robby didn’t move.

His hand slowly fell from your hair to his side as he watched you disappear through the doors.

Only once you were gone did he look down at the floor, blinking hard to keep his emotions under control.

Al-Hashimi waited until the gurney had fully disappeared before speaking again.

“Should I tell Dana to call Abbot?” she asked quietly. “With the system down, they’ll probably have to do it from the ambulance bay.”

Robby rubbed a hand over his face.

“It’s probably stress-induced,” he muttered. “She never skips her medication. She’s got alarms on her phone and Jack’s got one too.”

Al-Hashimi nodded thoughtfully.

“Maybe,” she said carefully. “But we can’t rule anything out. It could be a new trigger. Or her dosage might need adjusting. Or the seizures could be getting—”

“Don’t say that.”

Robby cut her off sharply.

He stared at the floor again.

“It was stress-induced,” he repeated.

He said it like a fact, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he knew Al-Hashimi might be right.

She studied him for a moment before speaking again.

“How about we focus on getting Abbot back here?”

Robby nodded once.

Without another word, he pushed open the trauma room doors and walked toward the central hub.

Dana was standing at the desk when he approached.

Robby stopped in front of her but didn’t speak.

He just stared down at his shoes.

Dana noticed him after a moment and pulled her glasses off.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

Robby opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

He shook his head slightly.

“It’s Dr. Abbot’s daughter.”

Al-Hashimi had followed him out and spoke from behind.

Dana’s face immediately dropped.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered. “Like this day couldn’t get any worse.”

Robby let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

Dana was already pulling her phone from her scrubs pocket.

“Emma,” she called.

Emma stepped forward.

Dana unlocked her phone and held it out to her.

“I want you to go to the ambulance bay and call Abbot. If he doesn’t answer, you keep calling until he does. Got it?”

Emma nodded.

“Tell him Y/N is here,” Dana continued. “And he needs to get back immediately.”

Emma didn’t ask any questions.

She simply took the phone and hurried toward the exit.

“I didn’t even know Abbot had a kid,” Trinity commented, glancing between Dana and Robby.

A lot of people didn’t.

You used to come around the hospital a lot when you were little. But as you got older, and the epilepsy testing became more frequent, you started avoiding hospitals whenever possible.

“Yeah,” Robby said quietly. “She’s not really a fan of hospitals.”

He smiled faintly at the memory of the many times you had complained to him about hospital visits Jack couldn’t attend.

“Bit ironic,” Trinity said with a small smile.

Dennis returned a moment later after dropping Olive off in the waiting area.

He looked more serious than usual.

“You okay?” Trinity asked.

Dennis sighed and leaned against the counter.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s just… Olive’s really beating herself up about it. She thinks she should’ve done something.”

Trinity nodded sympathetically.

“They’re both sixteen,” Dennis continued. “That must’ve been terrifying to watch.”

Robby was about to respond when Samira walked up.

“Who’s sixteen?” Samira asked as she walked up, everyone turning to look at her.

“Dr. Abbot’s daughter,” Dennis answered. “She came in seizing. She has epilepsy.”

Samira blinked in surprise.

“Abbot has a kid?”

The words slipped out before she could stop them. Her eyebrows pulled together slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. The two of them had gone out over the weekend, and Jack hadn’t mentioned having a teenage daughter, not once.

She quickly pushed the thought aside.

Trying to hide the confusion, and maybe a hint of irritation, she crossed her arms and focused back on the conversation.

“Has anyone called him yet?”

Trinity nodded.

“Dana sent Emma outside to call him.”

Samira nodded slowly.

Everyone stood in an uncomfortable silence for a moment, each of them imagining how Jack was going to react when he found out.

Just then, Emma walked back in and handed Dana her phone.

“Had to call twice,” she said, glancing toward Robby. “But he’s coming back.”

Robby gave her a quick thumbs up before straightening, slipping back into attending mode.

“Alright,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Everyone check your patients. We’ve already got a few more from the water park coming in, and there’ll probably be more behind them.”

He motioned for everyone to move.

“Let’s be ready.”

The staff scattered again, returning to the controlled chaos of the emergency department.

But even as the noise picked back up around him, Robby knew something about tonight had completely changed.

Because somewhere upstairs, you were in CT.

And Jack Abbot was on his way back.

────୨ৎ────

Robby stood leaning against the doorway of the room they had placed you in within the ED.

The lights had been dimmed, leaving the room bathed in a soft glow from the monitor screens. The steady beep of the heart monitor echoed quietly as your chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

Olive sat in a chair in the corner, slumped slightly to one side. At some point exhaustion had overtaken her, and she was now sleeping, soft snores slipping out every few seconds.

For the first time since the ambulance doors had opened, Robby felt the smallest hint of relief.

You were resting. Breathing steadily. Not seizing.

But the events from earlier were still fresh in his mind.

The gauze wrapped around your broken nose. The bruises beginning to darken across your arms from the nurses holding you still while the seizure raged.

“Robby.”

Dana’s voice came from behind him.

He straightened immediately and stepped into the hallway, quietly pulling the door closed behind him.

Dana lowered her voice.

“Dr. Al just got the CT results back,” she said. “She had to track down the tech who ran it since the system’s still down, but the scan’s clear except for a grade two concussion.”

Robby exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

“Okay,” he said. “Let me know when Abbot gets here.”

Dana nodded.

Robby pushed himself off the wall and headed back into the department to check on the other trauma patients that had started arriving from the water park.

As he left, Dana turned and nearly ran into Dennis.

The resident was standing there with his usual soft, concerned expression.

“What’s up, hun?” Dana asked gently. “You doing okay?”

Dennis nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Olive’s parents are here. They asked if someone could come get her so they can take her home.”

Dana nodded toward the room.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Just try not to wake Y/N.”

Dennis nodded and slipped quietly inside.

A few minutes later he returned with Olive trailing behind him, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

She had protested softly about wanting to stay until Jack arrived, but Dennis had eventually convinced her to go, especially once she realized her parents were waiting for her.

He walked her to the entrance where her parents were standing before heading back toward the hub.

Dennis leaned against the counter again.

“Abbot is coming, right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Dana replied without looking up from the papers she was sorting through. “He’s on his way.”

She glanced up when she noticed Dennis hadn’t moved.

“Kid,” she said gently, “you can’t just stand here worrying the rest of your shift. Go check your patients. We’re all worried, alright?”

Dennis nodded quietly and pushed himself off the counter before heading back into the department.

Even the staff who had never met you felt a strange sense of responsibility tonight.

They all knew Abbot.

And that alone was enough to make them care.

────୨ৎ────

Samira slipped quietly into your room.

She closed the door gently behind her before stepping closer to the bed, flipping through the paper chart that had been clipped to the end.

With the computer system down, everything was handwritten: notes from Al-Hashimi, medication times, the CT report scribbled across the page.

She read it carefully before setting it aside.

Her eyes drifted to you.

Even with the bruising and the gauze around your nose, the resemblance was obvious.

The same dark hair. The same shape of your jaw.

It almost made her smile.

You looked peaceful now, your breathing slow and steady beneath the blanket.

It was hard to imagine the chaos that occurred earlier.

Her gaze softened slightly.

She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like when you were younger, growing up with seizures that medication could control but never completely erase.

Her thoughts drifted for a moment.

Jack hadn’t mentioned you.

Not during their date.

But the realization didn’t sting the way she might have expected.

If anything, it made sense.

You were clearly the most important part of his life.

And with everything you’d already gone through, losing your mother, dealing with epilepsy, it wasn’t surprising that Jack might protect that part of his life carefully.

Especially with someone he’d only just started seeing.

The rolling stool squeaked softly as Samira pulled it over to the bedside.

She sat down beside you and gently rested her hand over yours.

It wasn’t medical.

It was simply human.

You were resting now, and that was the most important thing.

────୨ৎ────

Outside, the energy in the ED had shifted.

More ambulances had begun arriving from the water park collapse.

Patients filled hallway beds. Nurses hurried past carrying charts and supplies.

Without the computer system, nearly everything was being done on paper, which only made the chaos feel heavier.

But even in the middle of it all, one set of footsteps cut through the noise.

Firm. Direct. Controlled.

Jack Abbot pushed through the automatic doors.

From the outside he looked calm: his posture straight, his expression steady.

But inside his mind, a thousand fears were racing at once.

He stopped just inside the entrance, scanning the department.

He had left barely two hours ago.

Now everything looked different.

“Jack!”

Dana’s voice carried across the room as she moved quickly away from the hub.

Jack didn’t answer.

He simply looked at her.

The worry in his eyes was unmistakable, the kind Dana had only ever seen when it came to you.

She tried to offer a reassuring smile, even though she knew it wouldn’t help much.

She opened her mouth to tell him where your room was—

“Brother!”

Robby’s voice cut across the ED.

He had just stepped out of one of the trauma rooms and was already moving quickly toward Jack.

Jack froze.

The concern, and the fear he had been trying so hard to contain, remained written clearly across his face.

“Where is she?” Jack asked.

His voice was low, tight like the words were catching on the anxiety lodged in his chest.

Robby didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped closer and placed a hand firmly on Jack’s shoulder, holding his gaze for a second. It was the kind of look meant to say she’s okay without actually saying the words.

Then he turned and guided him down the hallway.

“She’s right here.”

The room wasn’t far. Just a few doors down.

Still, the walk felt longer than it was.

They stopped outside the door.

Jack let out a breath, slow and shaky. Robby couldn’t tell if it was relief or the kind of breath someone takes before walking into something they’re afraid to see.

Robby started to speak.

“Look, she’s—”

But Jack didn’t wait.

He pushed past him and stepped quickly into the room.

His eyes found you immediately.

Samira was still sitting beside the bed, but Jack didn’t even register that she was there at first. His focus locked entirely on you.

You looked peaceful.

Your breathing was steady. The monitor beside the bed beeped in a slow, regular rhythm.

But the gauze wrapped around your nose and the bruises beginning to darken along your arms told the rest of the story.

Jack stopped at the edge of the bed.

This was the thing he had always dreaded.

The helplessness.

There was no surgery that could fix this. No procedure that could make it disappear.

Only medication. Monitoring. Waiting.

All he had ever wanted was to shield you from this kind of pain.

But epilepsy didn’t care about promises or protection.

And that was the worst part.

Jack stood there frozen, staring down at you as his vision began to blur with tears.

“She’s stable.”

Samira’s voice was gentle.

Her hand was still resting lightly over yours as she looked up at him.

Jack only nodded.

His eyes never left your face.

It felt unreal like some kind of nightmare he had stepped into.

He was supposed to keep you safe.

That had been the promise he made to your mother before she died.

And standing here now, watching you lying in a hospital bed, it felt like he had failed.

Logically, he knew there was nothing he could have done.

But logic didn’t mean much against the voice in the back of his mind telling him otherwise.

He shouldn’t have gone with the SWAT team this morning.

He should have stayed home with you before his shift.

He shouldn’t have let you go to the water park.

“Jack?”

Samira spoke softly.

“Why don’t you sit with her?”

Jack nodded again, not trusting his voice.

Samira stood, sliding the rolling stool back slightly so he could take her place.

Jack lowered himself onto it slowly, sitting beside the bed.

Samira rested a hand briefly on his shoulder, offering what comfort she could.

Then she stepped away, understanding that he needed the space.

She moved quietly toward the door, careful not to make any noise.

Behind her, she heard Jack draw in a sharp breath like he was trying to hold something back.

She didn’t turn around.

The door closed softly behind her, leaving just the two of you in the room.

Jack reached for your hand.

He held it gently, bringing it up to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles before wrapping both of his hands around it.

He stared at your face, his thumb brushing lightly against your fingers.

And under his breath, barely louder than the monitor beside you, he began whispering to himself.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

────୨ৎ────

Jack’s shift was supposed to start in an hour, but it was clear there was no chance he would be working tonight.

He hadn’t left your room once since returning to PTMC.

The quiet inside the room was both comforting and terrifying to him. The steady beep of the heart monitor and the slow rhythm of your breathing were the only sounds filling the space.

You had been full of life from the moment you were born: loud, stubborn, energetic.

Seeing you this still felt wrong.

Jack knew people had been coming by the room, stopping briefly outside the glass door to check on you and on him. Normally, he would have been annoyed by the lack of privacy.

Tonight he didn’t have the energy to care.

He knew it came from a place of concern.

Especially from Robby.

From where Robby stood outside the room, he could see both of you clearly.

Jack sat on the stool beside the bed, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at your face. He had barely moved since coming in, only once to adjust the blanket over you and once to brush a piece of hair away from your forehead.

Robby watched quietly.

He couldn’t tell what Jack was thinking, but he had a pretty good guess.

Jack was blaming himself.

Truthfully, Robby was doing the same thing.

He had known you since the day you were born, just a tiny baby wrapped in a hospital blanket. To you, he had always been Uncle Robby.

And you had always been one of the biggest reasons he stayed.

The idea of leaving for his sabbatical suddenly felt impossibly far away.

Walking away while you were lying here, hurt, unconscious, and while Jack carried all the blame on his own, felt almost selfish.

Robby’s mind drifted through memories.

The times he had watched you when Jack was stuck working late shifts.

The random pictures you sent him whenever you and Jack went somewhere new: museums, little restaurants, street markets.

Half the time the pictures were blurry selfies or food photos, but he always saved them anyway.

He kept staring into the room until he felt someone step beside him.

Turning slightly, he saw Al-Hashimi standing next to him, her eyes focused on the same scene.

“Must be hard,” she said quietly.

She couldn’t imagine what it would feel like to watch your child go through something like this.

“She was diagnosed a couple months after she was born,” Robby replied softly.

They both continued watching through the glass.

Inside, Jack had leaned a little closer to you, his head lowered as if he was speaking quietly, even though you were still unconscious.

Al-Hashimi nodded thoughtfully.

“She should be waking up soon,” she said. “Once she does, we’ll need to run some tests: monitor brain activity, make sure everything looks okay.”

She paused before adding,

“I should probably talk to Abbot before she wakes up. She’ll likely be overwhelmed.”

Robby nodded.

He stepped forward and tapped gently on the glass door.

Inside the room, Jack lifted his head.

His eyes shifted from your face to the door where Robby stood, motioning for him to step outside.

Jack didn’t respond verbally.

He slowly stood up, looking down at you for another moment before leaning over and placing a soft kiss against your forehead.

Then he stepped out into the hallway.

He stopped in front of Robby and Al-Hashimi, crossing his arms over his chest as he waited.

The two doctors exchanged a quick look.

Robby gave a small nod toward Al-Hashimi, silently encouraging her to go ahead.

“Y/N should be waking up soon,” she began gently. “Once she does, we’ll need to run a few tests. An EEG, possibly an MRI, some blood work, and a neurological exam.”

Jack stood completely still while she spoke.

Then he said quietly,

“She’s usually confused after seizures.”

His voice was calm but strained.

“You might want to wait a bit.”

Both doctors nodded in understanding.

Jack took a slow breath before continuing, his voice cracking slightly.

“I know she’s going to have to stay here for a while.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I brought some stuff for her, but… I left it in my truck. And I’m not leaving her alone.”

Robby and Al-Hashimi both nodded immediately.

“We can have someone grab it for you,” Al-Hashimi said kindly. “If that’s okay.”

Jack nodded, pulling his keys out of his pocket as she waved Trinity over.

“Trinity,” Al-Hashimi said, “could you run out to Dr. Abbot’s car and grab Y/N’s bag?”

“Of course,” Trinity answered without hesitation, even though her charting was already piling up.

Jack handed her the keys.

“It’s in the backseat,” he said quietly. “Behind the passenger side. Black and white polka dots… with a Hello Kitty keychain.”

For a brief second, the memory warmed his chest.

The two of you had packed that hospital bag together months ago, hoping you’d never actually need it.

You had insisted on the bag because, in your words, it was “aesthetic.”

Trinity nodded and headed toward the parking garage.

Jack lowered his head again, letting out a long sigh as he closed his eyes for a moment.

Robby stepped a little closer.

“You want to grab a coffee?” he asked gently. “Maybe something to eat?”

Jack was already shaking his head.

“No.”

His answer came immediately.

“I’m not leaving her again.”

There was no room for argument in his voice.

Without another word, he pushed the door open and walked back into your room, returning to the stool beside your bed.

Robby watched from the hallway as Jack sat down again and reached for your hand.

He wished there was something more he could do.

Inside the room, Jack had started talking to you again.

Your eyes were still closed, your breathing slow and steady beneath the thin hospital blanket, but he kept speaking anyway. The quiet rhythm of the heart monitor filled the space between his words, the soft beeping the only proof he had that you were still here with him.

He leaned forward on the stool beside your bed, elbows resting on his knees, your hand still held gently between both of his.

He told you stories.

Stories from when you were little.

Stories about himself when he was in high school, about the stupid things he and Robby had done when they were barely surviving medical school together.

Stories about your mom.

Anything that might fill the silence.

Anything that might keep the fear clawing at his chest from swallowing him whole.

“The first time I tried to do your hair you hated it,” Jack said quietly, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against the back of your hand.

“You said I wasn’t using the right hair ties.”

A faint, tired smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as the memory resurfaced.

“Then you decided I didn’t know how to do pigtails either.”

He shook his head slightly, glancing at your face as if expecting you to react.

“I think eventually you made me take them out and redo the whole thing.”

His voice softened.

“You made me do those little space buns. Remember? The ones with the pink bows.”

His throat tightened.

“You were very specific about the bows.”

You didn’t move.

Your chest rose and fell gently, completely unaware of the way your father’s world had nearly shattered just hours earlier.

Jack continued anyway.

Part of him hoped, irrationally, that maybe somewhere inside your mind you could still hear him.

But mostly he knew he was doing it for himself.

Because the alternative, sitting in silence with his thoughts, felt unbearable.

“The first day of kindergarten,” he murmured after a moment.

“You wouldn’t let go of me.”

His gaze dropped to the floor for a second before lifting back to you.

“You wouldn’t even let your mom hold you. You just buried your face in my neck and refused to move.”

He let out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“I’m pretty sure the teacher had to pry you off me.”

His voice faltered slightly at the memory.

He had promised you then that he would always be there when you needed him.

Always.

Jack swallowed hard, forcing the thought away before it could spiral any further.

He was about to continue when there was a soft knock on the door.

Jack turned slightly in his chair.

Trinity stood in the doorway, holding up the black-and-white polka dot bag with a small smile.

Jack nodded silently, gesturing for her to come in.

“She definitely has good taste,” Trinity said quietly as she stepped inside the room.

She placed the bag carefully on the chair against the wall.

Jack glanced at it and let out a faint breath through his nose.

“Yeah,” he said. “That definitely didn’t come from me.”

His lips twitched slightly.

“She makes fun of my clothes all the time.”

Trinity smiled, relieved to see even the smallest hint of normal conversation return to the room.

She opened her mouth to say something else—

But suddenly the heart monitor began to beep faster.

Jack’s head snapped toward the sound.

Then his gaze immediately shifted back to you.

Your eyelids fluttered weakly.

Your eyebrows pulled together as if the dimmed light hurt your eyes, your face twisting slightly in confusion as consciousness slowly returned.

A small groan slipped from your throat.

Jack surged forward in his chair.

“Hey—hey,” he said quickly, his voice soft but urgent.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trinity quietly step out of the room, likely going to grab Al-Hashimi or Robby.

But Jack barely registered it.

His entire focus was on you.

He lifted his hand and gently cupped your cheek, brushing his thumb across your skin.

Your eyes finally focused.

And then they landed on him.

“Dad?” you whispered.

The single word nearly broke him.

“Hey, Bear,” Jack said softly, leaning closer.

“It’s me.”

You blinked slowly, your gaze drifting around the unfamiliar room.

Your hands lifted slightly, weak and shaky, noticing the IV in your arm. Your eyes caught the bruises forming across your skin.

Understanding began creeping in piece by piece.

Your breathing hitched.

Tears started to well in your eyes.

“I had an episode… didn’t I?” you asked quietly.

You looked back at him, your voice small and fragile.

Jack nodded slowly.

His face softened, but the sadness in his eyes didn’t fade.

Before he could say anything else, the tears spilled over.

Your quiet crying turned into sobbing within seconds.

Jack leaned forward immediately.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured quickly. “It’s okay. It’s over now.”

But the reassurance didn’t reach you.

Your shoulders shook as the sobs tore through your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I’m sorry.”

The words felt like a punch straight to his heart.

“Bear, don’t apologize,” Jack said quickly. “It’s not your fault.”

You shook your head violently, clearly not believing him.

“I took my meds, I swear, Dad,” you said desperately, your voice cracking. “You have to believe me. I promise I did.”

You pushed yourself upright while you spoke, your movements frantic and disoriented.

The heart monitor began beeping faster again as your breathing grew uneven.

“I swear I took them,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I don’t know what happened—please—”

“Hey, Bear, hey—”

But you weren’t listening.

“No! Dad, you have to believe me, okay?” you cried. “I promise I took them! I didn’t forget! I don’t know what happened—please—”

“Hey!”

Jack raised his voice just enough to break through the panic.

His hands moved quickly, gently holding your face between them.

Your eyes snapped back to him.

“I believe you,” he said firmly.

His voice was steady, even though his chest felt like it was being crushed.

“You hear me?”

His thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek.

“I believe you.”

His voice softened again.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

You stared at him desperately, searching his face for even the smallest hint of doubt.

But there wasn’t any.

There never had been.

When you realized that, the tears came even harder.

Your body collapsed forward, and you buried your face into his neck.

Jack wrapped his arms around you instantly, holding you tightly against him.

You were shaking.

Crying so hard it made his chest ache.

He didn’t try to stop you.

He just held you.

One hand cradled the back of your head while the other wrapped securely around your back, careful of the bruises and the IV line.

He rocked slightly in the chair, slow and gentle.

“Shh,” he murmured quietly against your hair. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

And he kept holding you, even as your tears soaked into the collar of his shirt, even as your breathing came out in broken gasps.

Because if there was one thing Jack Abbot would never let you face alone—

It was this.

next

The land below your airplane slowly morphed from grassy green to ocean blue and back to green again. There's no way back now. If your parents allowed you to choose a country on your continent you could still run away and back to your extended family and pretend you were attending a foreign school. But America? Over that big pond? How could you run away from there?

You couldn't, that's how. And that's also why your suitcase was 50% full of the most normal, nerdy looking clothes. It's only for a year and you can't afford your new temporary family see you as a weirdo. The other 50% of your packed wardrobe was reserved for the nights you planned to sneak out and be yourself. Truly yourself. Not that your book-loving, straight A nerdy girl facade wasn't your true self, it was one half of you. Divided just like your suitcase.

The music you were blasting through your headphones suddenly stopped and the loud mechanical humming of airplane woke you up from your little nap. You checked your mp3 player. Low battery. How else.

You rolled your eyes and put your little black box away. Only 30 more minutes and you'll land. It would be pretty pointless to stand up and jump over two utter stranges just to get to your backpack and fish out your plan B: a disman with your favourite burned CDs. So you just sat back and hypnotized the land below, imagining how your new family will look like. Both parents? Single parent? Will they have children? Hopefully no toddlers you'd have to babysit. Oh how you hope they have a pet. A dog? Good. A cat? Good as well. A reptile? You'd pull out adoption papers on the spot.

And with your hopes and daydreams you watched as the tiny land below got bigger and bigger and your plane gently kissed the ground.

*

It was the third time in the last twenty minutes that Mrs. Heffley combed through her youngest's hair. And it was the fourth time little Manny messed it up thinking he was playing some sort of a new game with his mom.

"Greg, could you hold him for a bit?" She picked up her little three year old and gave him to her twelve year old. Neither of them were happy.

"But mom, why are we doing all of this anyways?"

"We need to give out a nice first impression don't we?" She said and attempted to tame the little one's hair for the fourth and hopefully final time.

"Why bother," her eldest came down the stairs yawning as if he just rolled out of bed, which he most likely did. Messy mop of black hair sticking to every possible direction and a crumpled black shirt only supported his mom's theory. "The little nerd will have to live here for the rest of the year and I'm more than sure none of us can keep this up for that long," he gestured at the rest of his family standing neatly in their sunday church clothes his mom ironed to damn near perfection last night.

"Why did you have to volunteer to take him in anyways?" Greg asked.

"Yeah, three boys isn't enough?" Rodrick teased.

"Because," Mrs. Heffley said as she made her way to the top of the stairs to where Rodrick stood, "someone from another country can teach us quite a lot. Maybe he can even teach you two," she glanced down at Greg still holding his squirming brother whose hair is messed up again, "to get along. I read people from Europe have better relationships with their siblings."

"So in other words you want him to colonize us?"

"Stop it Rodrick," she took his arm and lead him back to his attic turned bedroom, "no joking like that once he arrives! Now come along. Let's make you look decent before your dad comes back with him."

*

If only you could've had your phone on you instead on the bottom of your backpack. As soon as you walked out to the hall you saw a man no older than your dad holding a carboard with a name of your classmate written on it in big bold letters. The poor man's confused face was comedy gold once you walked up to him with the most polite smile you could muster and explained the situation.

Right now you sat comfortably in a car right next to Mr. Heffley, or Frank as he told you to call him. You could sense he wasn't very talkative, neither were you and you liked silence. But for some reason Mr. Heffley kept on trying to make smalltalk with you and couldn't take a hint even after your millionth one word answer.

His car came to a stop in a small neighbourhood you recognised from old American movies you watched back home. Not this specific neighboorhood, rather the layout. Road for cars. Sidewalks. Lawns without fences. Two-story houses eerily similair to one another.

As a true father he helped you with your bags, even offered to take your backpack from your shoulders but you didnxt want to look like you were taking advantage of him in front of his family.

"So, here we are," he announced once the two of you made it across the lawn to the front door. "Your new home. For the next year at least."

"It looks... nice."

"Yeah, from the outside, but I have to warn you," he leaned in to whisper in your ear, "some of the inhabitants can be a bit... well... you'll see. Me and my wife instructed them to be nice but they tend to get a bit wild."

"It's okay Mr. Heffley, I'm sure I've dealt with worse," you reassured him. Honestly his words intrigued you more than scare you. Maybe the polite 50% could stay in your bags for your entire stay.

"It's Frank, please," he said as he reached for the handle, "and who knows, maybe they'll be on their best-" he opened the door and sounds of utter chaos reached both of you, "-behaviour."

A toddler sat on the bottom of a staircase ruffling his hair as if it was a sport and he desperately wanted to win. A woman's voice was calling out for two boys to stop fighting. Said two boys were chasing eachother, the younger running away from the older one who had a box of what looked like hair gel in his hand yelling at the top of his lungs "WHEN I HAVE TO LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT SO WILL YOU!" The older one, whose hair had so much gel he looked like a wet rat, finally caught his younger brother and smeared a handful of the clear goo into his hair much to the young boy's protest. He desperately tried to twist himself out of the bigger one's grasp but could only mess up his white shirt. You swore you could hear a tear of the fabric.

"HEY!" Mr. Heffley yelled and the whole house went still. The poor man rubbed the bridge of his nose as he stepped infront of you, as if hiding his family members could erase the awkwardness of the situation.

"Honey, you're back already?" The woman asked with an awkward laugh.

"Yes, the plane arrived earlier."

"Well," her voice got a bit louder indicating she stepped closer to you. You also heard some shuffling, maybe she shooed her two sons away to clean up before meeting you. "Let's meet the new guy. Hopefully we didn't scare him away," another awkward giggle.

"Yeah," Mr. Heffley said in defeat as he stepped aside revealing you, "I hope so too."

The woman blinked behind her glasses, confusion very much evident in her eyes despite the polite smile she put on. "Oh. Hello dear."

You nodded and politely folded your arms. "Hello Mrs. Heffley. I'm sorry for the confusion. My classmate and me switched countries last minute."

"That explains a lot," she smiled and picked up the little boy from the ground. "We also need to apologize for the way you met us. We wanted to give you the best first impression of us but," she glanced behind herself, "we had some issues with hygiene. You know how two teen boys can be."

You nodded.

"Mom, stop telling everyone I'm a teenager," the older guy apeared again, this time his black hair truly wet from washing the gel out and his dress shirt exchanged for a black t-shirt with a medusa on it. You bit your lips to not smile. No doubt this guy was emo. You bet his hair is fluffy and soft when soft and how how hot would his black eyes look with dark eyeliner. "I'll be turning 18 this month, remember?"

"Of course," his mother nodded. She looked back to you. "I guess introductions are in order. This little angel is Manny," the emo snorted at the word angel and Manny just waved at you, "this is my oldest Rodrick," you looked up at him and he finally noticed your existence. He eyed you from head to toe and took in every detail. From neatly braided hair, to no make up face, to a white t-shirt beneath your denim jacket, to your pink skirt and finally to your white sneakers. The longer he looked at you the more your cheeks heated up.

The he scoffed. "So they sent us a barbie doll instead? How wonderful."

"Rodrick!"

"What? I bet you're the bookish type. Straight As, follows curfew to a T. Am I wrong?"

Your cheeks heat up even more but from embarassment. You shook your head.

Rodrick turned to his mom with a triumphant smile. "See? It isn't mean since it's true. Right egghead?"

"My name's y/n."

"Egghead it is."

You glower.

"And this is Greg," Mrs. Heffley finally finished introducing her family once the middleschooler, Greg, emerged from the bathroom as well, water drippin from his short dark hair. "You two look roughly the same age, right?"

"Aaw, do you hear it little bro?" Rodrick hooked his arm around Greg's neck and leaned down to him, "you can finally get yourself a girlfriend!" He patted him and then stared up at his mom. "I won't have to babysit her as well, do I?"

You smirked. Oh how wonderful will his next expression be. "I'm older than you."

His head snapped back to you and yup, his expression was even funnier then his parents'. "What did you say kid?"

"I should be the one calling you a kid," you smirked and held your chin up high, "I celebrated my 18th birthday couple weeks before I left home."

Both boys gaped at you while their mother hugged you. "Oh sweetheart, happy birthday! But wow, you look like way younger than your real age! You could pass for a middle schooler."

"Must be the chubby cheeks," Rodrick mumbled and folded his arms while looking away.

With all your might you resisted the urge to glare his way and thanked Mrs. Heffley for her wishes.

The rest of the day was a blur. Rodrick thankfully disappeared somewhere upstairs, Manny played with some disgusting looking blue fabric while munching on a cookie bigger than his head and the two Heffley adults showed you to your new room while Greg talked your ear off about being way more mature than his older brother. It was evident Rodrick was slowly going on everyone's nerves. Even though once you found out he's in a band you were concidering starting anew with him, even try to bond with him through bands. But then you actually heard them practice in garage and you quickly understood why the Heffley family isn't very fond of Rodrick's hobby. You never heard such a void of rhythm and good lyricism. You and your band back home could never.

"Thank you, you're really kind but I think I can unpack on my own."

"Nonsense dear, you must be exhausted after such a trip," Mrs. Heffley insisted as she put one of your suitcases on top of the freshly made bed and tried to unzip it.

You quickly stopped her from seeing your rebellious 50%. "Really, it's fine. I'm not even that tired. I slept through most of the flight anyways."

"Okay then, we'll give you some space. Greg," Mrs. Heffley called out after the young boy who gave you his best toothy smile and both of them disappeared behind closed doors.

With a sigh you dropped your body like a dead weight into your new bed. The covers smelled freshly washed and you couldn't help yourself from burrying your nose in them to take a good deep sniff. You kicked the bag Mrs. Heffley wanted to unzip down and hid it underneath the bed. With how much they wish their oldest was different you didn't see a point in provoking them with your own weirdness. The rest of your "normal" clothes quickly found their way into your new wardrobe right across the room. Your backpack also got emptied and the table in the corner was now hidden beneath your laptop, notebooks, novels, mp3 player, discman and at least 20 burned CDs.

With all of that unpacked you fell onto the bed again and stared at the white ceiling of the guest room. Mr. and Mrs. Heffley seemed nice, way nicer than most parents you've met but then again all parents are kinder to the kids that aren't theirs anyways.

Manny looked adorable but you've met enough toddlers to know they have a devilish side waiting just beneath the surface. Hopefully Mrs. Heffley won't give him to you just because you're a girl. You've had enough of babysitting others's kids on family gatherings where you were the only girl out of the older kids.

Greg also seemed cute but in that boyish I-want-to-become-adult-as-soon-as-possible-so-treat-me-as-one-please way. Though it was very obvious he was starting to crush on you and you dreaded the moment when you'll have to inevitably break his heart. For now you'll have to play the oblivious game.

And then there was Rodrick. The handsome devil himself. Looks wise he was your type. But personality wise? He repulsed you. The way he though himself better than you just because your clothes were nice and clean and you liked to read annoyed you beyond belief, not to mention how arrogant he was. And apparantly not being able to take criticism either. Even a deaf person would have more rhythm than him.

"Y/n! Dinner is ready! Come eat!"

You sighed and lifted your tired body off of the soft bed. How come you're tired even though you sat for 70% of your day? You quickly changed into some comfortable sweats and a plain shirt and walked into the kitchen. Four out kf the five Heffleys were already sat at the lomg table with two chairs empty. One for you and one for-

"Oh, so you're still here," Rodrick said from behind you and before you could turn to him and glare he quickly made his way to his seat which was, unfortunately, right across from yours.

"And she'll stay here Rodrick. Be a little nicer."

You took a seat. "Yeah, respect your elders."

He frowned at you but said nothing. Only filled his plate with rice and meat.

You followed suit and put some vegetable on your plate as well.

Mrs. Heffley smiled. "You're plating vegetables? Voluntarily?"

You glanced around the table, confused. "Ehm, yeah? Shouldn't I?"

She chuckled. "No, that's not it. I've been trying to teach these two the values of eating healthy, but..."

"Ewy," the smallest Heffley stuck out his tongue.

"You said it little man," Rodrick pointed a fingur gun at the toddler who clapped his hands in excitement.

"Well, my parents usually didn't let me leave the table without eating everything they put on my plate so I guess it stuck..." you admited with a bit of embarassment. Would they think of your family as abusive?

Instead Mrs. Heffley clasped her hands with a huge smile. "That's a good parenting technique! A bit stricter than what I'd use but apparently it worked on you."

Poor Greg stared at his mom in pure horror, no doubt fearing his mother taking inspiration from your family and with shaking hands putting small spoonful of veggies on his plate. Rodrick on the other hand glared daggers into you for giving his mom inspiration.

You gulped the nervosity down and began eating.

May 1995

The past nine months had flown by, too fast if anyone asked you. It was a whirlwind of moving, painting white walls a delicate shade of pink, building furniture, buying diapers and clothes. It felt like just yesterday you were taking five pregnancy tests in your best friend, Robin’s, bathroom after throwing up your lunch into her toilet. 

You weren’t nervous like you thought you would be. In fact, your husband was anxious enough for both of you, to no one’s surprise. Steve had four hospital bags packed when you were seven months along, which you tried to convince him to condense down to one. You compromised on two. 

When your water broke, you had shrugged it off, then took your time getting ready to leave for the hospital, almost sending Steve into a spiral. Even now, as you lay in your hospital bed, eight centimeters dialated, epidural keeping you numb, snacking on ice chips, Steve paced around the room. His hair was messier than usual from running his fingers through it so many times. Despite his nerves, he had been as attentive as he always is, maybe a little more if that was possible. He had held your hand during every stick and poke of a needle, had gotten you socks and extra blankets when the room felt colder, kept your cups filled with ice and water. He hardly left your side, and would only briefly do so if your mother, Dustin, or Robin had been in the room with you. 

You watched him check the bag again for the outfits you had packed for your little girl, mumbling off a checklist quietly to himself as he did. It warmed your heart to watch Steve be so caring over every little thing. Your little girl was already so loved by him, you were ready for here to be here and meet the best dad in the entire world. 

“Steve.” You call softly. The room was dim, the only sounds that could be heard were the beeping of monitors and the dull roar of the fetal monitor. His head perked up and he stopped what he was doing as he turned to look over at you. You lift a hand out to him and he’s immediately setting the clothes back into the bag and crossing the room to you. He takes his hand in yours as he takes a seat in the chair next to the bed. 

“Hey baby. How are you feeling?” He asks softly, brushing some hair away from your face with his free hand. You lean into his touch as you reply.

“Tired, but I’m not hurting. Just feel pressure. I’m ready for her to be here.” Steve nods, squeezing your hand.

“Me too. She’ll be here soon. I’m nervous.” His voice is soft and delicate as he moves his hand from your hair down to rest on the curve of your belly. 

“You’re such an amazing dad already, honey. We have one lucky little girl.” You say, cupping his cheek. Steve’s eyes look up at you, glimmering in the dim light. 

“You’re right. We do.” He says with a soft smile. 

There’s a knock at the door and it opens, revealing your doctor with a couple of nurses in tow.

“Hi mom and dad! We’re gonna check the progress.” Your doctor says as she flips the lights on and grabs some gloves. She sits at the end of the bed and does her examine.

“Alright, we’re at ten centimeters! Who’s ready to meet Baby Harrington?”

-

The labor was intense and hard. Definitely not all sunshine and rainbows like some of those pregnancy books you read made it seem. But after an hour of pushing- and almost breaking Steve’s hand- your baby girl was here. Happy and healthy and wrapped up in a swaddle on your chest. Steve sat next to you on the bed, arm around your shoulders, eyes glued to the baby. Both of you were absolutely enamoured by her. It was mesmerizing, really. 

“She looks like you.” Steve whispers.

“She has your eyes. And your hair” You tease softly. 

There was a soft knock on the door before it cracks open enough for the boy you had sent a nurse to grab from the waiting room to stick his head of curly hair in. You look up and smile when you see your brother.

“Dustin, come meet your niece.” You say softly. Dustin steps into the room and shuts the door quietly behind him. He slowly approaches the bed, grinning widely at the sight of you and Steve sitting there as new parents. It was a good look for you, he thought.

“Oh my god, she’s so tiny.” He gasps as he looks over your shouler. You look up at your brother and smile. 

“Do you wanna hold her, Uncle Dustin?” Dustin eagerly nods. You knew he had been waiting for this moment for a long time. It was all he could talk about since you told him that day after dinner. 

“Just make sure you’re keeping her head supported.” You say, watching as Steve transfers the baby from your arms to Dustin’s, who now sat in the chair. Dustin holds her close to his chest, staring down at her with a wide smile.

“She’s perfect.” He says, not looking up.

“She is. Got all ten fingers and toes. And she’s got collar bones, so I think the Harrington genes are stronger than the Henderson ones.” Steve jokes softly, never missing an opportunity to tease his brother. Dustin snaps his gaze up briefly enough to send a playful glare to Steve and mumbling a quiet “asshole” before looking back down at his niece.

“Hey, watch it. There is a child present. I’d rather her not adapt the mouth of a sailor by age ten like you did.” You tell your brother, and he sends you a smile. 

“What’s her name?” He asks, holding his finger over the baby’s face, trying to entice her to grab it.

“Dustina.”

“Really?” Dustin gasps, looking at Steve who stares back at him with a straight face. “No.” 

You roll your eyes at the two men. Some things never change, you think to yourself.

“We were thinking Charlotte.” You say softly and Dustin grins.

“Charlotte. That fits her nicely.” He says. The baby finally reaches up and grabs ahold of his finger and his grin widens. He begins talking quietly to his niece, soft promises of how much she is going to loved and spoiled. It was safe to say your brother was in love.

Steve takes his seat back next to you on the bed, wrapping his arms around you. You lean against your husband while you watch Dustin and the baby.

“I never thought my heart could feel so full.” Steve murmurs as he rests his head ontop of yours.

It was fairytale-worthy at first. A romance that rivaled the epic tales of princesses being swept off their feet. Michael had that charm to him, that smile and way with his words that made you kick your feet. He brought you flowers weekly, took you out for dinners whenever your busy schedules aligned. Every kiss felt like he was trying to memorize what you felt like, every hug trying to imprint a piece of his heart to you. It was a beautiful relationship, one your friends were jealous of at every brunch.

But all fairytales have an ending.

And not every fairytale has a happily ever after.

It was half a year of a perfect relationship. The honeymoon phase at first, the giggly happiness that comes with something new, shiny, filled with possibilities. Then, months of a perfect relationship. Every disagreement, barely even a fight, resolved with a hug and a conversation. You fell harder and harder, slowly giving everything to Michael.

But after 6 months, the cracks began to show. Although your relationship might have felt pristine, Michael was far from a perfect person. His years, really decades, of emotional suppression and apathy began to show. Just the little things, not talking to you after a tough shift, leaving disagreements unresolved in uncomfortable silence. The biggest hit came from an offhand comment you made one day.

"Look at this!" You said, smile on your face as you tipped your phone screen to him. A cute video of a new mom and dad together, taking care of a small, rosy baby. Michael was having a tough day, not that you'd been able to tell; one of the days he read every one of your gestures as having underlying meaning, even when they contained none.

He looks over from the email on his own phone, glancing at the looping video. He takes a moment to process, spiraling into thought. What if you wanted babies? What if you wanted him to be a dad? What if he was stuck into the last thing he wanted with his busy, but successful career?

"Is this your fucking way of telling me you want kids?" He snaps harshly. "If I haven't told you before, I don't fucking want one of those small balls of flesh with too many needs." He storms off, leaving your apartment, leaving you taken aback.

That was the day you found out, in no uncertain terms, that Michael did not want kids.

You'd been indifferent. Kids if the right time came along, you'd always liked holding your younger cousin when she was a baby. But, hearing Michael say what he did, you decided it was fine. Kids weren't even a certainty in your plan for the future. You loved Michael to the bone, deeply flawed as he is.

You're finally working day shifts after being on nights for a month straight. It separated you from Michael, somehow made your interactions at the start of your shift and the tail end of his even more strained. Your relationship was on the brink, you had a feeling, but you tried so hard to keep it together. Staying silent when Michael was in a bad mood. Holding his hand and smiling and not bringing up any issues you had. It seemed like Michael was almost constantly in a state of frustration now, yelling at the medical students and snapping at any resident who asked him a question.

You were granted reprieve from his wrath while he was embroiled in a trauma, yelling at the nurses for medication and blood while he inserted a chest tube. You were sitting at the nurses station, observing the chaos with Samira. She'd been the only one you'd confided in about your relationship troubles, the distance between you and Michael making most of the ER think you weren't dating. She'd been supportive, comforting you and only dropping subtle hints that you should cut your losses and leave him.

"I think he's just had a hard week, haven't we all." You said to her, trying to change the subject. "Anyways, I'm pretty sure I'm due to start my period today too, so we can be moody together." You laugh.

"Remember when we thought our periods synced on day shift a few months ago?" Samira reminisces. "Maybe we're not so off."

"You're about to start, too?" You say.

"Already started a few days ago." She says. "It's been a rough one, feels like my uterus is trying to exorcise itself out of my body."

"Damn, I'm sorry." You sympathize. "I guess I've been getting lucky. I've been so stressed that I literally skipped my period last month—those stupid night shifts took everything out of me, I don't know how Dr. Abbot does it." You ramble on, thinking back to your nights in the ED, not noticing Samira's sceptical face.

"I don't know about you, but I'm dreading being back on them next month." You say. "I always get so tired and can't get anything in my stomach."

"What do you mean?" Samira asks.

"Oh, I just mean staying up that late into the night made me so nauseous. I'm pretty sure I even threw up a few times, too. I think I survived solely off of the most bland protein bars I could find." Samira looks at you.

"Girl, are you hearing what you're saying?" You look at her, confused. "No period last month, no period so far this month, nausea? I don't know about all your med school classes, but you're describing half of the pregnancy symptoms in the textbook."

"Samira, are you serious? That's a bit of a stretch." You say. "Night shifts just fucked me up, that's it."

"I'm just suggesting it based on what you're saying." She says. "But it could just be nights, you're right. Only a test would tell you otherwise."

"Fine." You say confidently. "I'll take a test, just to prove you wrong."

Twenty minutes later, and you're, in fact, proved wrong.

You're sat on the floor of the women's bathroom, sobbing into Samira's arms, a positive pregnancy test clutched in your hand.

You'd taken the test absentmindedly, humming to a tune stuck in your head, thinking about the list of patients on the board to treat next. You'd set the test onto the countertop, scrolling your phone while you waited for the timer to go off. When you'd flipped the test over, staring at two parallel lines, you'd frozen. One page to Dr. Mohan later, you were finally able to cry.

You'd always imagined this moment differently. In a universe where you were happily married, crying happy tears in your husband's arms on the floor of your home. It wasn't supposed to be like this, in a tumultuous relationship, sobbing into the arms of a friend, on the floor of a public hospital bathroom.

Samira held you. She'd had a feeling, one from her years of medical training and the intuition of a friend. She'd made sure your absences wouldn't be missed in the ED. She let you cry until you became numb enough to let the tears stop.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do with this, Mira?" You sniffle. "Michael is going to be furious if I tell him."

"I'm sure he'll come around, hon." She says.

"I don't think he will." You say, a fresh wave of tears flooding from your eyes. "We were so careful, used condoms every single time. He was so fucking mad when I showed him a baby video a while ago. It was a video. He's not going to react very well if I tell him he has a real fucking one of them on the way."

"I know you're panicking right now, and I know this is so scary, but don't start spiraling." Samira says. "First, we can sneak you to an ultrasound. If it's below the 10 week mark, I'll prescribe you mifepristone. If not, we can discuss your options, or you can process. I can help you tell Robby, if you want."

The ultrasound confirms your fears. It's past the cutoff. You cry again, muffling your ragged sobs, careful to not alert anyone to your worst nightmare happening behind the curtain.

"I never thought it would be like this, Mira." You say, wiping ultrasound gel off your stomach. She pulls you into a hug.

"I know. You're being so strong."

You head home early, letting Dana know as you leave through the ambulance doors, telling her you're coming down with a cold. At your apartment, you sob into a pillow that still smells like the man that you can't bear to face. Shame, gut-wrenching guilt, settle deep like lead into your stomach. By the dead of the night, you haven't slept. You're sitting on the floor, staring out onto Pittsburg. You feel like your head is floating above your body, numb. You pull up Michael's contact, thumb hovering over the call button. You put it away, take it out again, what feels like a million times. You never press call. It's too late, he's probably already asleep, won't be very happy if you wake him up out of precious sleep.

Minutes tick by as if they're hours. You look up parenting websites, try to process the fact you'll be a mom in less than a year. You should be excited. You should be rushing out to buy cute baby clothes and comparing car seats. You should be telling the person you'd hoped would be ecstatic at becoming the second part to your child's life. But you can't.

Every second that passes by, it feels harder to do make it through. The monumental task of becoming the person a small human relies on for everything. The idea of doing it alone, which seems more and more likely the more you imagine how Michael will react. Your chest is seized up, tight in anxiety.

Samira worried about you for the remainder of the shift. Thinking about the best ways to support you, knowing, from what you've told her that you'll probably be a single mom soon. She gets her patients handed off right at shift change, wastes no time in putting on her jacket and taking the elevator up to the roof, knowing her attending always lingers for a bit after his shift is over.

The wind chill is frigid, whipping the lose strands of her hair around. She makes her way over to the railing that separates people from the the edge of the roof, life from death.

"Dr. Robby."

"Ah, Dr. Mohan, come to have a moment of introspection?" He says sarcastically, not taking his eyes off of the setting sun.

"Actually, no, I'm here to talk to you about your girlfriend." He turns his head to face her, his expression dark.

"Dr. Mohan, that's an incredibly fucking inappropriate thing to say to your attending." He says angrily.

"I don't give a fuck about protocol when you're being an absolute dickhead to your girlfriend, my friend." Samira says, her fiercely protective nature emerging. "I'm tired of picking up the pieces of the mess you've made of your girlfriend with your immaturity and inability to act like a proper communicating adult."

"If you're here to be a bitch, Mohan, get the fuck off my roof and don't speak to me like that again. My girlfriend, who is perfectly happy, is none of your business." He says.

Samira isn't a fan of confrontation. She doesn't like fighting, conflict. But when someone is calling her a bitch and hurting her best friend, her claws come out. When she's heated, unfortunately, she forgets her strategy, plays her cards too fast and forgets which ones to hide.

"Dr. Robinavitch, I find it pretty telling you're calling me a bitch. Clearly you have no sense of decorum when it comes to treating women right. Your girlfriend was sobbing into my arms, terrified to confide in the person who should be unconditionally loving her." Before Michael can respond, before Samira can think about what she's saying, she looks him in the eyes.

"Think long and hard how you're going to fix things with the mother of your child."

She spins on her heel and leaves, Michael's jaw dropped in her wake. When the doors shut on the elevator, she can finally process what she said. Oh shit. In her anger, she's unintentionally spilled your secret to the man who you least want to know. She feels terrible, she knows she'll need to apologize. She's okay with that, hoping her beratement of Michael is enough to get him to come to his senses. She'll talk to you in the morning, apologize and ask for your forgiveness.

Michael is left standing in the wind. Samira's empassioned beratement, harsh as it was, has awakened him from the apathetic haze he's been in for weeks. If he's being honest with himself, it's been months. Now hearing something he never thought he'd hear, you're pregnant with his baby, he's realizing how bad of a boyfriend he's been. He's been far too harsh, he's been treating you all kinds of wrong. For fucks sake, he yelled at you for just showing him a video. He could've saved the conversation of children for later, brought it up when you both were calm and able to have mature conversation. Now you think he's going to be furious at the thought of you pregnant.

If he's being honest with himself, if you told him now, he wouldn't be mad. Sure he'd be caught off guard, surprised and needing a bit to process. But he'd hold you, go to the therapist Jack has been urging him to visit, put a huge ring on your finger, be the best father he could be. Michael heads toward the elevator, realizing how much he's fucked up.

One text to Jack later, and Michael is sitting at a barstool sipping on a beer. Jack walks in, hopping onto the seat beside his.

"You said it was an emergency, brother. What's up?"

"Fuck, man, I've fucked up so bad." Michael says, rubbing his temple with his fingers. "I've been such a shitty partner for months, didn't realize until Samira came up to the roof to yell some sense into me. I've been so snappy, I've been so horrible to her."

"So you've realized." Jack says. "Seriously, I'm glad you're seeing it now. What's the big problem, man? Forgiveness can happen. She hasn't broken up with you has she?"

"No, she hasn't. But Samira said she was pregnant. And she felt like she couldn't tell me. She should've been with me when she found out, but she was with Samira." Michael says, distressed.

"Pregnant?" Jack says. "Damn, man. How are you feeling? Have you talked to her?"

"I don't know how to feel. You know what I've always said, no kids. But she was terrified of telling me, and I feel so shitty now that she couldn't say anything to her." He says. "And, no, I haven't talked to her. I feel like she won't want to talk to me tonight."

"Well," Jack says, "I'll be brutally honest with you. You fucked up. You should probably talk to a shrink. But from what I've seen of her, she loves you, even when you're treating her like shit. Apologise, work on yourself, work on your relationship, and the trust will return."

"You're right, Jack." Michael says. "I'll call her first thing in the morning."

The clock hits five in the morning. Every hour that's gone by, you spiral farther. The possibilities, the worst possible scenarios. Michael leaving you, becoming a single mom with just Samira by your side. Samira slowly leaving, not wanting to be friends with a twenty-something mom bouncing a wailing baby on her hip. Slowly losing every person you love, being kicked out of your residency by Michael. Becoming the so-called horror story sex-ed teachers tell to wary teenagers.

The more you think, the less you think you can do this. The less happy, the less—feeling—you feel about the fetus residing in your body. The more your brain drifts back to the dark and consuming thought patterns you thought you left in therapy in high school. The less you want to be here, to cope with the hardship you're bound to face in the coming months. The thought of going through each day feels impossible. You don't want to be here to face it.

It's a small voice in the back of your mind, an evil resident reawakened from a decade of dormancy. It starts small, echoing through to the good thoughts of the people and love you have. It's held down by the light, until it breaks through, growing bigger by the second. It becomes consuming. All reasoning desperately fighting against the growing echo leaves your psyche. The clock hits five forty five. That's when you decide.

It's easy. You've made the plan too many sickening times before. A sleeping pill from the beside table to numb the edges. The kitchen knife, pulled from the cabinet. You sit on the floor, the walls of your bedroom the only witness. Four years of med school have given all the anatomy knowledge you need.

Six in the morning. One shaky breath, the sun only beginning to shine across Pittsburg. You've never felt darker. Your heart feels like its made of lead, thumping painfully in your chest. You draft the text to Samira: I love you. Thank you for being there. I just couldn't do it. You don't send it.

Six ten in the morning. Gripping the knife, you look at it. You didn't think you'd ever get to this point. Emotions feel like whispers now. Nothing matters.

Six twelve. The knife goes in, searing pain spreading across your body. It's covered in the crimson of your blood. It goes in again, and everything goes dark.

Michael hasn't slept. After his talk with Jack, he's spent the rest of the night contemplating. Looking out at Pittsburg. He doesn't know how to navigate any of this. But he knows now, you're worth it to figure it out. Every minute that passes by, he comes around more and more to the idea of a baby. He's even the tiniest bit charmed by the idea of a cooing newborn, with his doe eyes and tufts of hair that look identical to yours.

At six fifteen in the morning, he calls you.

He knows you're on shift with him today. You'll be up by now, scrubs on as you put the purple claw clip in your hair that you said was your favourite. Maybe you won't answer, he knows it's a distinct possibility. But at least you'll see that he cares.

You don't answer. He shoots a quick text off to Samira: I know I fucked up. I'll apologize to you properly when we're in the Pitt. I can't reach her, though, please tell her that I want to talk.

Samira responds in seconds with a call.

"Dr. Mohan, I'm sorry—"

"I can't reach her either." Samira says. "I think she's probably just processing, but I'm stuck in traffic, so if you could stop by her apartment and see if she's coming to work that would be great. You don't even have to say anything about her situation, just tell her that I'm here if she needs anything." Michael agrees, grabbing his black coffee cup and heading out the door. He walks to your apartment, on the way to PTMC.

He knocks, to no answer. He hears nothing but the telltale noise of your alarm going off from inside your apartment. When he calls your phone, he can hear the ringtone go off. But no person rushing to answer, or decline the call. He's confused, slowly becoming a little worried. The relationship was far enough to exchange spare keys, for the "just in case" hypotheticals. He uses the key, still hanging from his lanyard, and the door swings open.

The living room is empty. Your work bag is still on the hanger. Your coffee cup, unmistakably glittery, still on the drying rack. The smell of coffee is starkly absent. He walks further in, worry beginning to creep up in his chest. He heads toward the sound of your phone, swinging the bedroom door open.

He screams. Michael has never been phased by blood. He's elbow deep in it on the daily. But the sight of you, sprawled across the hardwood, in a pool of your own blood; it makes him want to vomit.

He freezes for a split second. But the practiced, practitioner side of him kicks in. He calls 9-1-1, talking rapidly to the dispatcher, telling them he's a doctor. He's kneeled beside you, pulling the stethoscope from around his neck to press it to your chest.

You're alive, barely, shallow breaths barely inflating your chest.

Time slows down. Michael has never been as prepared as Jack, but he works with what he has. Tears blur his eyes as he presses his navy jacket to the knife sticking out of your lower stomach. The ambulance comes fast, the paramedics quickly taking over. Michael, in his haze manages to hitch a ride; they're going to PTMC, where he'll be needed, anyways. He's not much help, only being able to update them on your medical history.

He sprints through the ambulance bay beside the gurney with you on it, shouting at Dana for help.

It's the last thing Samira sees before fainting.